I’m not yours yet. I may kick you out for all you know I haven’t taken your money yet; there it all is on the table. Here, give me over that packet! Is there a hundred thousand roubles in that one packet? Pfu! what abominable stuff it looks! Oh! nonsense, Daria Alexeyevna; you surely did not expect me to ruin him? Fancy him nursing me! Why, he needs a nurse himself! The general, there, will be his nurse now, you’ll see. Here, prince, look here! Your bride is accepting money. What a disreputable woman she must be! And you wished to marry her! What are you crying about? Is it a bitter dose? Never mind, you shall laugh yet. Trust to time. It’s far better to think twice of it now than afterwards. Oh! you mustn’t cry like that! There’s Katia crying, too. What is it, Katia, dear? I shall leave you and Pasha a lot of things, I’ve laid them out for you already; but good-bye, now. I made an honest girl like you serve a low woman like myself. It’s better so, prince, it is indeed. You’d begin to despise me afterwards—we should never be happy. Oh! you needn’t swear, prince, I shan’t believe you, you know. How foolish it would be, too! No, no; we’d better say good-bye and part friends. I am a bit of a dreamer myself, and I used to dream of you once. Very often during those five years down at his estate I used to dream and think, and I always imagined just such a good, honest, foolish fellow as you, one who should come and say to me: ‘You are an innocent woman, Nastasia Philipovna, and I adore you.’ I dreamt of you often. I used to think so much down there that I nearly went mad; and then this fellow here would come down. He would stay a couple of months out of the twelve, and disgrace and insult and deprave me, and then go; so that I longed to drown myself in the pond a thousand times over; but I did not dare do it. I hadn’t the heart, and now—well, are you ready, Rogojin?


Ready—keep your distance, all of you!


We’re all ready. The troikas are at the door, bells and all.


Gania, I have an idea. I wish to recompense you—why should you lose all? Rogojin, would he crawl for three roubles as far as the Vassiliostrof?


Oh, wouldn’t he just!


Well, look here, Gania. I wish to look into your heart once more, for the last time. You’ve worried me for the last three months—now it’s my turn. Do you see this packet? It contains a hundred thousand roubles. Now, I’m going to throw it into the fire, here—before all these witnesses. As soon as the fire catches hold of it, you put your hands into the fire and pick it out—without gloves, you know. You must have bare hands, and you must turn your sleeves up. Pull it out, I say, and it’s all yours. You may burn your fingers a little, of course; but then it’s a hundred thousand roubles, remember—it won’t take you long to lay hold of it and snatch it out. I shall so much admire you if you put your hands into the fire for my money. All here present may be witnesses that the whole packet of money is yours if you get it out. If you don’t get it out, it shall burn. I will let no one else come; away—get away, all of you—it’s my money! Rogojin has bought me with it. Is it my money, Rogojin?


Yes, my queen; it’s your own money, my joy.


Get away then, all of you. I shall do as I like with my own—don’t meddle! Ferdishenko, make up the fire, quick!


Nastasia Philipovna, I can’t; my hands won’t obey me,


Nonsense. She’s mad—she’s mad!


Oughtn’t-oughtn’t we to secure her? or shall we send for the authorities? Why, she’s mad, isn’t she—isn’t she, eh?


N-no, I hardly think she is actually mad,


She’s mad surely, isn’t she?


I told you she wasn’t an ordinary woman,


Oh, but, positively, you know—a hundred thousand roubles!


My lady! my sovereign! it’s a hundred thousand roubles, it is indeed, I packed it up myself, I saw the money! My queen, let me get into the fire after it—say the word—I’ll put my whole grey head into the fire for it! I have a poor lame wife and thirteen children. My father died of starvation last week. Nastasia Philipovna, Nastasia Philipovna!


Away, out of the way! Make room, all of you! Gania, what are you standing there for? Don’t stand on ceremony. Put in your hand! There’s your whole happiness smouldering away, look! Quick!


Hey! look at it, it’ll burn in another minute or two! You’ll hang yourself afterwards, you know, if it does! I’m not joking.


Nastasia Philipovna!


Burning for nothing,


Katia-Pasha! Bring him some water! It’s all his—the whole packet is for him, do you hear—all of you? He restrained himself, and didn’t go after it; so his self-respect is greater than his thirst for money. All right—he’ll come to directly—he must have the packet or he’ll cut his throat afterwards. There! He’s coming to himself. General, Totski, all of you, did you hear me? The money is all Gania’s. I give it to him, fully conscious of my action, as recompense for—well, for anything he thinks best. Tell him so. Let it lie here beside him. Off we go, Rogojin! Goodbye, prince. I have seen a man for the first time in my life. Goodbye, Afanasy Ivanovitch—and thanks! Are you really throwing us all over, little mother? Where, where are you going to? And on your birthday, too! I am going out into the world, Katia; perhaps I shall be a laundress. I don’t know. No more of Afanasy Ivanovitch, anyhow. Give him my respects. Don’t think badly of me, girls.


Prince, prince! recollect yourself! Drop her, prince! You see what sort of a woman she is. I am speaking to you like a father.


I’m sorry, really sorry. She’s a ruined woman. Mad! mad! However, the prince is not for Nastasia Philipovna now,—perhaps it’s as well.


Do you know, Totski, this is all very like what they say goes on among the Japanese? The offended party there, they say, marches off to his insulter and says to him, ‘You insulted me, so I have come to rip myself open before your eyes;’ and with these words he does actually rip his stomach open before his enemy, and considers, doubtless, that he is having all possible and necessary satisfaction and revenge. There are strange characters in the world, sir!


H’m! and you think there was something of this sort here, do you? Dear me—a very remarkable comparison, you know! But you must have observed, my dear Ptitsin, that I did all I possibly could. I could do no more than I did. And you must admit that there are some rare qualities in this woman. I felt I could not speak in that Bedlam, or I should have been tempted to cry out, when she reproached me, that she herself was my best justification. Such a woman could make anyone forget all reason—everything! Even that moujik, Rogojin, you saw, brought her a hundred thousand roubles! Of course, all that happened tonight was ephemeral, fantastic, unseemly—yet it lacked neither colour nor originality. My God! What might not have been made of such a character combined with such beauty! Yet in spite of all efforts—in spite of all education, even—all those gifts are wasted! She is an uncut diamond.... I have often said so.


cruelly mistaken in the prince! it was an unalterable characteristic of hers to be mistaken in people. We have had enough of mistakes. I shall be more careful in future!


that queer young prince.


being mistaken in people


ready to cross herself with both hands


Such a fortune! and such a good, easy-going fellow! Oh, well, he’s lost to us for good, now.


unbounded trust in the nobility of the human heart. Trust in anyone after this! Have the least confidence in man or woman!


mishap,


pull his ears,


was candid and no flatterer


was a tyrant, he would never set foot in her house again. had orders to deliver it to her privately.


Once you did me the honour of giving me your confidence. Perhaps you have quite forgotten me now! How is it that I am writing to you? I do not know; but I am conscious of an irresistible desire to remind you of my existence, especially you. How many times I have needed all three of you; but only you have dwelt always in my mind’s eye. I need you—I need you very much. I will not write about myself. I have nothing to tell you. But I long for you to be happy. Are you happy? That is all I wished to say to you—Your brother, Pr. L. Muishkin.


Shall I show it to anyone?


DEAR COLIA,—Please be so kind as to give the enclosed sealed letter to Aglaya Ivanovna. Keep well—Ever your loving, Pr. L. Muishkin.


It seems absurd to trust a little pepper-box like you,


He is in there,


Pardon to show respect!... he-he!


You are quite wrong...


He has gone to get his coat,


How annoying! I thought... Tell me, is he...


You think he is drunk? Not in the least. He’s only had three or four small glasses, perhaps five; but what is that? The usual thing!


He never drinks much in the morning; if you have come to talk business with him, do it now. It is the best time. He sometimes comes back drunk in the evening; but just now he passes the greater part of the evening in tears, and reads passages of Holy Scripture aloud, because our mother died five weeks ago.


I bet he is trying to cheat you, and is thinking how best to do it.


Five weeks!


But why wear a coat in holes, when your new one is hanging behind the door? Did you not see it?


Hold your tongue, dragon-fly!


Are you trying to frighten me? I am not Tania, you know, and I don’t intend to run away. Look, you are waking Lubotchka, and she will have convulsions again. Why do you shout like that?


Well, well! I won’t again. God bless her! God bless her! This little creature is my daughter Luboff. My wife, Helena, died—at her birth; and this is my big daughter Vera, in mourning, as you see; and this, this, oh, this,


Well, go on! never mind me!


Excellency! Have you read that account of the murder of the Zemarin family, in the newspaper?


Yes,


Well, that is the murderer! It is he—in fact—


What do you mean?


I am speaking allegorically, of course; but he will be the murderer of a Zemarin family in the future. He is getting ready. ... He is a traitor! a conspirator! A monster! a slanderer! Ought I to treat him as a nephew, the son of my sister Anisia?


Oh! do be quiet! You must be drunk! He has taken it into his head to play the lawyer, prince, and he practices speechifying, and is always repeating his eloquent pleadings to his children. And who do you think was his last client? An old woman who had been robbed of five hundred roubles, her all, by some rogue of a usurer, besought him to take up her case, instead of which he defended the usurer himself, a Jew named Zeidler, because this Jew promised to give him fifty roubles....


It was to be fifty if I won the case, only five if I lost,


Most learned judge! picture this unhappy man, crippled by age and infirmities, who gains his living by honourable toil—picture him, I repeat, robbed of his all, of his last mouthful; remember, I entreat you, the words of that learned legislator, “Let mercy and justice alike rule the courts of law.” Colia tells me you are the cleverest man he has ever known....


The cleverest in the world,


I do not pay much attention to that opinion. Colia is very fond of you, but he, is flattering you. I can assure you I have no intention of flattering you, or anyone else, but at least you have some common-sense. Well, will you judge between us? Shall we ask the prince to act as arbitrator?


I am so glad you chanced to come here, prince. I agree,


What is it all about?


I will tell you all the story. I am his nephew; he did speak the truth there, although he is generally telling lies. I am at the University, and have not yet finished my course. I mean to do so, and I shall, for I have a determined character. I must, however, find something to do for the present, and therefore I have got employment on the railway at twenty-four roubles a month. I admit that my uncle has helped me once or twice before. Well, I had twenty roubles in my pocket, and I gambled them away. Can you believe that I should be so low, so base, as to lose money in that way?


And the man who won it is a rogue, a rogue whom you ought not to have paid!


Yes, he is a rogue, but I was obliged to pay him. As to his being a rogue, he is assuredly that, and I am not saying it because he beat you. He is an ex-lieutenant, prince, dismissed from the service, a teacher of boxing, and one of Rogojin’s followers. They are all lounging about the pavements now that Rogojin has turned them off. Of course, the worst of it is that, knowing he was a rascal, and a card-sharper, I none the less played palki with him, and risked my last rouble. To tell the truth, I thought to myself, ‘If I lose, I will go to my uncle, and I am sure he will not refuse to help me.’ Now that was base—cowardly and base!


cowardly and base.


He is delighted! I came to him here and told him everything: I acted honourably, for I did not excuse myself. I spoke most severely of my conduct, as everyone here can witness. But I must smarten myself up before I take up my new post, for I am really like a tramp. Just look at my boots! I cannot possibly appear like this, and if I am not at the bureau at the time appointed, the job will be given to someone else; and I shall have to try for another. Now I only beg for fifteen roubles, and I give my word that I will never ask him for anything again. I am also ready to promise to repay my debt in three months’ time, and I will keep my word, even if I have to live on bread and water. My salary will amount to seventy-five roubles in three months. The sum I now ask, added to what I have borrowed already, will make a total of about thirty-five roubles, so you see I shall have enough to pay him and confound him! if he wants interest, he shall have that, too! Haven’t I always paid back the money he lent me before? Why should he be so mean now? He grudges my having paid that lieutenant; there can be no other reason! That’s the kind he is—a dog in the manger!


And he won’t go away!


I have told you already, that I will not go away until I have got what I ask. Why are you smiling, prince? You look as if you disapproved of me.


I am not smiling, but I really think you are in the wrong, somewhat,


Don’t shuffle! Say plainly that you think that I am quite wrong, without any ‘somewhat’! Why ‘somewhat’?


I will say you are quite wrong, if you wish.


If I wish! That’s good, I must say! Do you think I am deceived as to the flagrant impropriety of my conduct? I am quite aware that his money is his own, and that my action—is much like an attempt at extortion. But you-you don’t know what life is! If people don’t learn by experience, they never understand. They must be taught. My intentions are perfectly honest; on my conscience he will lose nothing, and I will pay back the money with interest. Added to which he has had the moral satisfaction of seeing me disgraced. What does he want more? and what is he good for if he never helps anyone? Look what he does himself! just ask him about his dealings with others, how he deceives people! How did he manage to buy this house? You may cut off my head if he has not let you in for something—and if he is not trying to cheat you again. You are smiling. You don’t believe me?


It seems to me that all this has nothing to do with your affairs,


I have lain here now for three days, and I have seen a lot! Fancy! he suspects his daughter, that angel, that orphan, my cousin—he suspects her, and every evening he searches her room, to see if she has a lover hidden in it! He comes here too on tiptoe, creeping softly—oh, so softly—and looks under the sofa—my bed, you know. He is mad with suspicion, and sees a thief in every corner. He runs about all night long; he was up at least seven times last night, to satisfy himself that the windows and doors were barred, and to peep into the oven. That man who appears in court for scoundrels, rushes in here in the night and prays, lying prostrate, banging his head on the ground by the half-hour—and for whom do you think he prays? Who are the sinners figuring in his drunken petitions? I have heard him with my own ears praying for the repose of the soul of the Countess du Barry! Colia heard it too. He is as mad as a March hare!


You hear how he slanders me, prince. I may be a drunkard, an evil-doer, a thief, but at least I can say one thing for myself. He does not know—how should he, mocker that he is?—that when he came into the world it was I who washed him, and dressed him in his swathing-bands, for my sister Anisia had lost her husband, and was in great poverty. I was very little better off than she, but I sat up night after night with her, and nursed both mother and child; I used to go downstairs and steal wood for them from the house-porter. How often did I sing him to sleep when I was half dead with hunger! In short, I was more than a father to him, and now—now he jeers at me! Even if I did cross myself, and pray for the repose of the soul of the Comtesse du Barry, what does it matter? Three days ago, for the first time in my life, I read her biography in an historical dictionary. Do you know who she was? You there! Speak! do you know?


Of course no one knows anything about her but you,


She was a Countess who rose from shame to reign like a Queen. An Empress wrote to her, with her own hand, as ‘Ma chère cousine.’ At a lever-du-roi one morning (do you know what a lever-du-roi was?)—a Cardinal, a Papal legate, offered to put on her stockings; a high and holy person like that looked on it as an honour! Did you know this? I see by your expression that you did not! Well, how did she die? Answer!


Oh! do stop—you are too absurd!


This is how she died. After all this honour and glory, after having been almost a Queen, she was guillotined by that butcher, Samson. She was quite innocent, but it had to be done, for the satisfaction of the fishwives of Paris. She was so terrified, that she did not understand what was happening. But when Samson seized her head, and pushed her under the knife with his foot, she cried out: ‘Wait a moment! wait a moment, monsieur!’ Well, because of that moment of bitter suffering, perhaps the Saviour will pardon her other faults, for one cannot imagine a greater agony. As I read the story my heart bled for her. And what does it matter to you, little worm, if I implored the Divine mercy for her, great sinner as she was, as I said my evening prayer? I might have done it because I doubted if anyone had ever crossed himself for her sake before. It may be that in the other world she will rejoice to think that a sinner like herself has cried to heaven for the salvation of her soul. Why are you laughing? You believe nothing, atheist! And your story was not even correct! If you had listened to what I was saying, you would have heard that I did not only pray for the Comtesse du Barry. I said, ‘Oh Lord! give rest to the soul of that great sinner, the Comtesse du Barry, and to all unhappy ones like her.’ You see that is quite a different thing, for how many sinners there are, how many women, who have passed through the trials of this life, are now suffering and groaning in purgatory! I prayed for you, too, in spite of your insolence and impudence, also for your fellows, as it seems that you claim to know how I pray...


Oh! that’s enough in all conscience! Pray for whom you choose, and the devil take them and you! We have a scholar here; you did not know that, prince?


He reads all sorts of books and memoirs now.


At any rate, your uncle has a kind heart,


Oh, now you are going to praise him! He will be set up! He puts his hand on his heart, and he is delighted! I never said he was a man without heart, but he is a rascal—that’s the pity of it. And then, he is addicted to drink, and his mind is unhinged, like that of most people who have taken more than is good for them for years. He loves his children—oh, I know that well enough! He respected my aunt, his late wife... and he even has a sort of affection for me. He has remembered me in his will.


I shall leave you nothing!


Listen to me, Lebedeff. I know by experience that when you choose, you can be business-like... I have very little time to spare, and if you... By the way—excuse me—what is your Christian name? I have forgotten it.


Ti-Ti-Timofey.


And?


Lukianovitch.


He is telling lies!


Even now he cannot speak the truth. He is not called Timofey Lukianovitch, prince, but Lukian Timofeyovitch. Now do tell us why you must needs lie about it? Lukian or Timofey, it is all the same to you, and what difference can it make to the prince? He tells lies without the least necessity, simply by force of habit, I assure you.


Is that true?


My name really is Lukian Timofeyovitch. To humble myself,


What on earth do you mean? Oh I if only I knew where Colia was at this moment!


Oh! no, no!


Colia spent the night here, and this morning went after his father, whom you let out of prison by paying his debts—Heaven only knows why! Yesterday the general promised to come and lodge here, but he did not appear. Most probably he slept at the hotel close by. No doubt Colia is there, unless he has gone to Pavlofsk to see the Epanchins. He had a little money, and was intending to go there yesterday. He must be either at the hotel or at Pavlofsk.


At Pavlofsk! He is at Pavlofsk, undoubtedly! But come—let us go into the garden—we will have coffee there....


I knew nothing about your home before,


Poor orphans,


Well! Ah! yes! You know why I came, Lebedeff. Your letter brought me. Speak! Tell me all about it. I think I understand, Lukian Timofeyovitch: you were not sure that I should come. You did not think I should start at the first word from you, and you merely wrote to relieve your conscience. However, you see now that I have come, and I have had enough of trickery. Give up serving, or trying to serve, two masters. Rogojin has been here these three weeks. Have you managed to sell her to him as you did before? Tell me the truth.


He discovered everything, the monster... himself......


Don’t abuse him; though I dare say you have something to complain of....


He beat me, he thrashed me unmercifully! He set a dog on me in Moscow, a bloodhound, a terrible beast that chased me all down the street.


You seem to take me for a child, Lebedeff. Tell me, is it a fact that she left him while they were in Moscow?


Yes, it is a fact, and this time, let me tell you, on the very eve of their marriage! It was a question of minutes when she slipped off to Petersburg. She came to me directly she arrived—‘Save me, Lukian! find me some refuge, and say nothing to the prince!’ She is afraid of you, even more than she is of him, and in that she shows her wisdom!


And now it is you who have brought them together again?


Excellency, how could I, how could I prevent it?


That will do. I can find out for myself. Only tell me, where is she now? At his house? With him?


Oh no! Certainly not! ‘I am free,’ she says; you know how she insists on that point. ‘I am entirely free.’ She repeats it over and over again. She is living in Petersburgskaia, with my sister-in-law, as I told you in my letter.


She is there at this moment?


Yes, unless she has gone to Pavlofsk: the fine weather may have tempted her, perhaps, into the country, with Daria Alexeyevna. ‘I am quite free,’ she says. Only yesterday she boasted of her freedom to Nicolai Ardalionovitch—a bad sign,


Colia goes to see her often, does he not?


He is a strange boy, thoughtless, and inclined to be indiscreet.


Is it long since you saw her?


I go to see her every day, every day.


Then you were there yesterday?


N-no: I have not been these three last days.


It is a pity you have taken too much wine, Lebedeff I want to ask you something... but...


All right! all right! I am not drunk,


Tell me, how was she when you left her?


She is a woman who is seeking...


Seeking?


She seems always to be searching about, as if she had lost something. The mere idea of her coming marriage disgusts her; she looks on it as an insult. She cares as much for him as for a piece of orange-peel—not more. Yet I am much mistaken if she does not look on him with fear and trembling. She forbids his name to be mentioned before her, and they only meet when unavoidable. He understands, well enough! But it must be gone through. She is restless, mocking, deceitful, violent....


Deceitful and violent?


Yes, violent. I can give you a proof of it. A few days ago she tried to pull my hair because I said something that annoyed her. I tried to soothe her by reading the Apocalypse aloud.


What?


By reading the Apocalypse. The lady has a restless imagination, he-he! She has a liking for conversation on serious subjects, of any kind; in fact they please her so much, that it flatters her to discuss them. Now for fifteen years at least I have studied the Apocalypse, and she agrees with me in thinking that the present is the epoch represented by the third horse, the black one whose rider holds a measure in his hand. It seems to me that everything is ruled by measure in our century; all men are clamouring for their rights; ‘a measure of wheat for a penny, and three measures of barley for a penny.’ But, added to this, men desire freedom of mind and body, a pure heart, a healthy life, and all God’s good gifts. Now by pleading their rights alone, they will never attain all this, so the white horse, with his rider Death, comes next, and is followed by Hell. We talked about this matter when we met, and it impressed her very much.


Do you believe all this?


I both believe it and explain it. I am but a poor creature, a beggar, an atom in the scale of humanity. Who has the least respect for Lebedeff? He is a target for all the world, the butt of any fool who chooses to kick him. But in interpreting revelation I am the equal of anyone, great as he may be! Such is the power of the mind and the spirit. I have made a lordly personage tremble, as he sat in his armchair... only by talking to him of things concerning the spirit. Two years ago, on Easter Eve, His Excellency Nil Alexeyovitch, whose subordinate I was then, wished to hear what I had to say, and sent a message by Peter Zakkaritch to ask me to go to his private room. ‘They tell me you expound the prophecies relating to Antichrist,’ said he, when we were alone. ‘Is that so?’ ‘Yes,’ I answered unhesitatingly, and I began to give some comments on the Apostle’s allegorical vision. At first he smiled, but when we reached the numerical computations and correspondences, he trembled, and turned pale. Then he begged me to close the book, and sent me away, promising to put my name on the reward list. That took place as I said on the eve of Easter, and eight days later his soul returned to God.


It is the truth. One evening after dinner he stumbled as he stepped out of his carriage. He fell, and struck his head on the curb, and died immediately. He was seventy-three years of age, and had a red face, and white hair; he deluged himself with scent, and was always smiling like a child. Peter Zakkaritch recalled my interview with him, and said, ‘you foretold his death.’ You are not interested?


I am not very well, and my head aches. Doubtless the effect of the journey,


You should go into the country. You see, I am going into the country myself in three days, with my children and belongings. The little one is delicate; she needs change of air; and during our absence this house will be done up. I am going to Pavlofsk.


You are going to Pavlofsk too? Everybody seems to be going there. Have you a house in that neighbourhood?


I don’t know of many people going to Pavlofsk, and as for the house, Ivan Ptitsin has let me one of his villas rather cheaply. It is a pleasant place, lying on a hill surrounded by trees, and one can live there for a mere song. There is good music to be heard, so no wonder it is popular. I shall stay in the lodge. As to the villa itself...


Have you let it?


N-no—not exactly.


Let it to me,


I will think it over. You shall lose nothing!


But if you... I could... if... if you please, prince, tell you something on the subject which would interest you, I am sure.


Daria Alexeyevna also has a villa at Pavlofsk.


Well? A certain person is very friendly with her, and intends to visit her pretty often. Aglaya Ivanovna...


Oh stop, Lebedeff! That... that has nothing to do with me. I should like to know when you are going to start. The sooner the better as far as I am concerned, for I am at an hotel.


Well, leave your hotel at once and come here; then we can all go together to Pavlofsk the day after tomorrow.


I will think about it,


That is the house, I’m sure of it.


House of Rogojin, hereditary and honourable citizen.


Parfen! perhaps my visit is ill-timed. I—I can go away again if you like,


No, no; it’s all right, come in,


What are you staring at me like that for? Sit down.


Parfen, tell me honestly, did you know that I was coming to Petersburg or no?


Oh, I supposed you were coming, and I was right in my supposition, you see; but how was I to know that you would come today?


And if you had known that I was coming today, why be so irritated about it?


Why did you ask me?


Because when I jumped out of the train this morning, two eyes glared at me just as yours did a moment since.


Ha! and whose eyes may they have been?


I don’t know; I thought it was a hallucination. I often have hallucinations nowadays. I feel just as I did five years ago when my fits were about to come on.


Well, perhaps it was a hallucination, I don’t know. Shall you go abroad again then? Do you remember how we came up in the train from Pskoff together? You and your cloak and leggings, eh?


Have you quite taken up your quarters here?


Yes, I’m at home. Where else should I go to?


We haven’t met for some time. Meanwhile I have heard things about you which I should not have believed to be possible.


What of that? People will say anything,


At all events, you’ve disbanded your troop—and you are living in your own house instead of being fast and loose about the place; that’s all very good. Is this house all yours, or joint property?


It is my mother’s. You get to her apartments by that passage.


Where’s your brother?


In the other wing.


Is he married?


Widower. Why do you want to know all this?


I guessed which was your house from a hundred yards off,


Why so?


I don’t quite know. Your house has the aspect of yourself and all your family; it bears the stamp of the Rogojin life; but ask me why I think so, and I can tell you nothing. It is nonsense, of course. I am nervous about this kind of thing troubling me so much. I had never before imagined what sort of a house you would live in, and yet no sooner did I set eyes on this one than I said to myself that it must be yours.


Really!


That is your father, is it not?


Yes, it is,


Was he one of the Old Believers?


No, he went to church, but to tell the truth he really preferred the old religion. This was his study and is now mine. Why did you ask if he were an Old Believer?


Are you going to be married here?


Ye-yes!


Soon?


You know yourself it does not depend on me.


Parfen, I am not your enemy, and I do not intend to oppose your intentions in any way. I repeat this to you now just as I said it to you once before on a very similar occasion. When you were arranging for your projected marriage in Moscow, I did not interfere with you—you know I did not. That first time she fled to me from you, from the very altar almost, and begged me to ‘save her from you.’ Afterwards she ran away from me again, and you found her and arranged your marriage with her once more; and now, I hear, she has run away from you and come to Petersburg. Is it true? Lebedeff wrote me to this effect, and that’s why I came here. That you had once more arranged matters with Nastasia Philipovna I only learned last night in the train from a friend of yours, Zaleshoff—if you wish to know. I confess I came here with an object. I wished to persuade Nastasia to go abroad for her health; she requires it. Both mind and body need a change badly. I did not intend to take her abroad myself. I was going to arrange for her to go without me. Now I tell you honestly, Parfen, if it is true that all is made up between you, I will not so much as set eyes upon her, and I will never even come to see you again. You know quite well that I am telling the truth, because I have always been frank with you. I have never concealed my own opinion from you. I have always told you that I consider a marriage between you and her would be ruin to her. You would also be ruined, and perhaps even more hopelessly. If this marriage were to be broken off again, I admit I should be greatly pleased; but at the same time I have not the slightest intention of trying to part you. You may be quite easy in your mind, and you need not suspect me. You know yourself whether I was ever really your rival or not, even when she ran away and came to me. There, you are laughing at me—I know why you laugh. It is perfectly true that we lived apart from one another all the time, in different towns. I told you before that I did not love her with love, but with pity! You said then that you understood me; did you really understand me or not? What hatred there is in your eyes at this moment! I came to relieve your mind, because you are dear to me also. I love you very much, Parfen; and now I shall go away and never come back again. Goodbye.


Stay a little. I haven’t seen you for a long time. When you are not with me I hate you, Lef Nicolaievitch. I have loathed you every day of these three months since I last saw you. By heaven I have! I could have poisoned you at any minute. Now, you have been with me but a quarter of an hour, and all my malice seems to have melted away, and you are as dear to me as ever. Stay here a little longer.


When I am with you you trust me; but as soon as my back is turned you suspect me,


I trust your voice, when I hear you speak. I quite understand that you and I cannot be put on a level, of course.


Why did you add that?—There! Now you are cross again,


We were not asked, you see. We were made different, with different tastes and feelings, without being consulted. You say you love her with pity. I have no pity for her. She hates me—that’s the plain truth of the matter. I dream of her every night, and always that she is laughing at me with another man. And so she does laugh at me. She thinks no more of marrying me than if she were changing her shoe. Would you believe it, I haven’t seen her for five days, and I daren’t go near her. She asks me what I come for, as if she were not content with having disgraced me—


Disgraced you! How?


Just as though you didn’t know! Why, she ran away from me, and went to you. You admitted it yourself, just now.


But surely you do not believe that she...


That she did not disgrace me at Moscow with that officer, Zemtuznikoff? I know for certain she did, after having fixed our marriage-day herself!


Impossible!


I know it for a fact. It is not like her, you say? My friend, that’s absurd. Perhaps such an act would horrify her, if she were with you, but it is quite different where I am concerned. She looks on me as vermin. Her affair with Keller was simply to make a laughing-stock of me. You don’t know what a fool she made of me in Moscow; and the money I spent over her! The money! the money!


And you can marry her now, Parfen! What will come of it all?


I haven’t been to see her for five days. I’m afraid of being turned out. She says she’s still her own mistress, and may turn me off altogether, and go abroad. She told me this herself. I think she often does it merely to frighten me. She is always laughing at me, for some reason or other; but at other times she’s angry, and won’t say a word, and that’s what I’m afraid of. I took her a shawl one day, the like of which she might never have seen, although she did live in luxury and she gave it away to her maid, Katia. Sometimes when I can keep away no longer, I steal past the house on the sly, and once I watched at the gate till dawn—I thought something was going on—and she saw me from the window. She asked me what I should do if I found she had deceived me. I said, ‘You know well enough.’


What did she know?


How was I to tell? I did my best to catch her tripping in Moscow, but did not succeed. However, I caught hold of her one day, and said: ‘You are engaged to be married into a respectable family, and do you know what sort of a woman you are? That’s the sort of woman you are,’ I said.


You told her that?


Yes.


Well, go on.


She said, ‘I wouldn’t even have you for a footman now, much less for a husband.’ ‘I shan’t leave the house,’ I said, ‘so it doesn’t matter.’ ‘Then I shall call somebody and have you kicked out,’ she cried. So then I rushed at her, and beat her till she was bruised all over.


I tell you it’s true. Then for a day and a half I neither slept, nor ate, nor drank, and would not leave her. I knelt at her feet: ‘I shall die here,’ I said, ‘if you don’t forgive me; and if you have me turned out, I shall drown myself; because, what should I be without you now?’ She was like a madwoman all that day; now she would cry; now she would threaten me with a knife; now she would abuse me. She called in Zaleshoff and Keller, and showed me to them, shamed me in their presence. ‘Let’s all go to the theatre,’ she says, ‘and leave him here if he won’t go—it’s not my business. They’ll give you some tea, Parfen Semeonovitch, while I am away, for you must be hungry.’ She came back from the theatre alone. ‘Those cowards wouldn’t come,’ she said. ‘They are afraid of you, and tried to frighten me, too. “He won’t go away as he came,” they said, “he’ll cut your throat—see if he doesn’t.” Now, I shall go to my bedroom, and I shall not even lock my door, just to show you how much I am afraid of you. You must be shown that once for all. Did you have tea?’ ‘No,’ I said, ‘and I don’t intend to.’ ‘Ha, ha! you are playing off your pride against your stomach! That sort of heroism doesn’t sit well on you,’ she said. With that she did as she had said she would; she went to bed, and did not lock her door. In the morning she came out. ‘Are you quite mad?’ she said, sharply. ‘Why, you’ll die of hunger like this.’ ‘Forgive me,’ I said. ‘No, I won’t, and I won’t marry you. I’ve said it. Surely you haven’t sat in this chair all night without sleeping?’ ‘I didn’t sleep,’ I said. ‘H’m! how sensible of you. And are you going to have no breakfast or dinner today?’ ‘I told you I wouldn’t. Forgive me!’ ‘You’ve no idea how unbecoming this sort of thing is to you,’ she said, ‘it’s like putting a saddle on a cow’s back. Do you think you are frightening me? My word, what a dreadful thing that you should sit here and eat no food! How terribly frightened I am!’ She wasn’t angry long, and didn’t seem to remember my offence at all. I was surprised, for she is a vindictive, resentful woman—but then I thought that perhaps she despised me too much to feel any resentment against me. And that’s the truth.


Do you know who the Pope of Rome is?


I’ve heard of him,


I suppose you’ve read the Universal History, Parfen Semeonovitch, haven’t you?


I’ve learned nothing at all,


Then I’ll lend it to you to read. You must know there was a Roman Pope once, and he was very angry with a certain Emperor; so the Emperor came and neither ate nor drank, but knelt before the Pope’s palace till he should be forgiven. And what sort of vows do you think that Emperor was making during all those days on his knees? Stop, I’ll read it to you! You don’t mean to say you don’t approve of the poem, Parfen Semeonovitch,


All you have read out is perfectly true,


Aha!


you admit it’s true, do you? And you are making vows to yourself that if I marry you, you will remind me of all this, and take it out of me.


I don’t know,


perhaps I was thinking like that, and perhaps I was not. I’m not thinking of anything just now.


What are your thoughts, then?


I’m thinking that when you rise from your chair and go past me, I watch you, and follow you with my eyes; if your dress does but rustle, my heart sinks; if you leave the room, I remember every little word and action, and what your voice sounded like, and what you said. I thought of nothing all last night, but sat here listening to your sleeping breath, and heard you move a little, twice.


And as for your attack upon me,


I suppose you never once thought of that?


Perhaps I did think of it, and perhaps not,


And what if I don’t either forgive you or marry, you?


I tell you I shall go and drown myself.


H’m!


I suppose you’d murder me before you drowned yourself, though!


I will marry you, Parfen Semeonovitch,


not because I’m frightened of you, but because it’s all the same to me how I ruin myself. And how can I do it better? Sit down; they’ll bring you some dinner directly. And if I do marry you, I’ll be a faithful wife to you—you need not doubt that.


At all events, you are not a flunkey; at first, I thought you were no better than a flunkey.


I’m not going to renounce you altogether, but I wish to put off the wedding a bit longer yet—just as long as I like—for I am still my own mistress; so you may wait, if you like.


What do you think of it yourself?


I’ll tell you what!


I can’t understand your yielding her to me like this; I don’t understand it. Have you given up loving her altogether? At first you suffered badly—I know it—I saw it. Besides, why did you come post-haste after us? Out of pity, eh? He, he, he!


Do you think I am deceiving you?


No! I trust you—but I can’t understand. It seems to me that your pity is greater than my love.


Your love is mingled with hatred, and therefore, when your love passes, there will be the greater misery,


I tell you this, Parfen—


What! that I’ll cut her throat, you mean?


You’ll hate her afterwards for all your present love, and for all the torment you are suffering on her account now. What seems to me the most extraordinary thing is, that she can again consent to marry you, after all that has passed between you. When I heard the news yesterday, I could hardly bring myself to believe it. Why, she has run twice from you, from the very altar rails, as it were. She must have some presentiment of evil. What can she want with you now? Your money? Nonsense! Besides, I should think you must have made a fairly large hole in your fortune already. Surely it is not because she is so very anxious to find a husband? She could find many a one besides yourself. Anyone would be better than you, because you will murder her, and I feel sure she must know that but too well by now. Is it because you love her so passionately? Indeed, that may be it. I have heard that there are women who want just that kind of love... but still...


What are you grinning at my father’s portrait again for?


I smiled because the idea came into my head that if it were not for this unhappy passion of yours you might have, and would have, become just such a man as your father, and that very quickly, too. You’d have settled down in this house of yours with some silent and obedient wife. You would have spoken rarely, trusted no one, heeded no one, and thought of nothing but making money.


Laugh away! She said exactly the same, almost word for word, when she saw my father’s portrait. It’s remarkable how entirely you and she are at one now-a-days.


What, has she been here?


Yes! She looked long at the portrait and asked all about my father. ‘You’d be just such another,’ she said at last, and laughed. ‘You have such strong passions, Parfen,’ she said, ‘that they’d have taken you to Siberia in no time if you had not, luckily, intelligence as well. For you have a good deal of intelligence.’ (She said this—believe it or not. The first time I ever heard anything of that sort from her.) ‘You’d soon have thrown up all this rowdyism that you indulge in now, and you’d have settled down to quiet, steady money-making, because you have little education; and here you’d have stayed just like your father before you. And you’d have loved your money so that you’d amass not two million, like him, but ten million; and you’d have died of hunger on your money bags to finish up with, for you carry everything to extremes.’ There, that’s exactly word for word as she said it to me. She never talked to me like that before. She always talks nonsense and laughs when she’s with me. We went all over this old house together. ‘I shall change all this,’ I said, ‘or else I’ll buy a new house for the wedding.’ ‘No, no!’ she said, ‘don’t touch anything; leave it all as it is; I shall live with your mother when I marry you.’


Give your blessing to this lady, mother, she’s going to be my wife.


She must have suffered terribly, hasn’t she?


What! have you begun to read Russian history?


That’s good,


you go on like that, reading books. I’ll make you a list myself of the books you ought to read first—shall I?


I’m very, very glad to hear of this, Parfen,


Who knows? Maybe God will yet bring you near to one another.


Never, never!


Look here, Parfen; if you love her so much, surely you must be anxious to earn her respect? And if you do so wish, surely you may hope to? I said just now that I considered it extraordinary that she could still be ready to marry you. Well, though I cannot yet understand it, I feel sure she must have some good reason, or she wouldn’t do it. She is sure of your love; but besides that, she must attribute something else to you—some good qualities, otherwise the thing would not be. What you have just said confirms my words. You say yourself that she found it possible to speak to you quite differently from her usual manner. You are suspicious, you know, and jealous, therefore when anything annoying happens to you, you exaggerate its significance. Of course, of course, she does not think so ill of you as you say. Why, if she did, she would simply be walking to death by drowning or by the knife, with her eyes wide open, when she married you. It is impossible! As if anybody would go to their death deliberately!


How dreadfully you look at me, Parfen!


Water or the knife?


Ha, ha—that’s exactly why she is going to marry me, because she knows for certain that the knife awaits her. Prince, can it be that you don’t even yet see what’s at the root of it all?


I don’t understand you.


Perhaps he really doesn’t understand me! They do say that you are a—you know what! She loves another—there, you can understand that much! Just as I love her, exactly so she loves another man. And that other man is—do you know who? It’s you. There—you didn’t know that, eh?


I?


You, you! She has loved you ever since that day, her birthday! Only she thinks she cannot marry you, because it would be the ruin of you. ‘Everybody knows what sort of a woman I am,’ she says. She told me all this herself, to my very face! She’s afraid of disgracing and ruining you, she says, but it doesn’t matter about me. She can marry me all right! Notice how much consideration she shows for me!


But why did she run away to me, and then again from me to—


From you to me? Ha, ha! that’s nothing! Why, she always acts as though she were in a delirium now-a-days! Either she says, ‘Come on, I’ll marry you! Let’s have the wedding quickly!’ and fixes the day, and seems in a hurry for it, and when it begins to come near she feels frightened; or else some other idea gets into her head—goodness knows! you’ve seen her—you know how she goes on—laughing and crying and raving! There’s nothing extraordinary about her having run away from you! She ran away because she found out how dearly she loved you. She could not bear to be near you. You said just now that I had found her at Moscow, when she ran away from you. I didn’t do anything of the sort; she came to me herself, straight from you. ‘Name the day—I’m ready!’ she said. ‘Let’s have some champagne, and go and hear the gipsies sing!’ I tell you she’d have thrown herself into the water long ago if it were not for me! She doesn’t do it because I am, perhaps, even more dreadful to her than the water! She’s marrying me out of spite; if she marries me, I tell you, it will be for spite!


But how do you, how can you—


Why don’t you finish your sentence? Shall I tell you what you were thinking to yourself just then? You were thinking, ‘How can she marry him after this? How can it possibly be permitted?’ Oh, I know what you were thinking about!


I didn’t come here for that purpose, Parfen. That was not in my mind—


That may be! Perhaps you didn’t come with the idea, but the idea is certainly there now! Ha, ha! well, that’s enough! What are you upset about? Didn’t you really know it all before? You astonish me!


All this is mere jealousy—it is some malady of yours, Parfen! You exaggerate everything,


What are you doing?


Let go of it!


I seemed to know it—I felt it, when I was coming back to Petersburg,


I did not want to come, I wished to forget all this, to uproot it from my memory altogether! Well, good-bye—what is the matter?


Do you cut your pages with it, or what?


Yes.


It’s a garden knife, isn’t it?


Yes. Can’t one cut pages with a garden knife?


It’s quite new.


Well, what of that? Can’t I buy a new knife if I like?


Why, what an idea!


I didn’t mean to ask you any of these questions; I was thinking of something quite different! But my head is heavy, and I seem so absent-minded nowadays! Well, good-bye—I can’t remember what I wanted to say—good-bye!


Not that way,


There, I’ve forgotten that too!


This way—come along—I’ll show you.


My father picked up all these pictures very cheap at auctions, and so on,


they are all rubbish, except the one over the door, and that is valuable. A man offered five hundred roubles for it last week.


Yes—that’s a copy of a Holbein,


and a good copy, too, so far as I am able to judge. I saw the picture abroad, and could not forget it—what’s the matter?


Lef Nicolaievitch,


I have long wished to ask you, do you believe in God?


How strangely you speak, and how odd you look!


I like looking at that picture,


That picture! That picture!


Why, a man’s faith might be ruined by looking at that picture!


So it is!


Good-bye!


Good-bye,


As to faith,


God forgive me, for Christ’s sake!


Oh, I like that! That beats anything! One is an absolute unbeliever; the other is such a thorough-going believer that he murders his friend to the tune of a prayer! Oh, prince, prince, that’s too good for anything! You can’t have invented it. It’s the best thing I’ve heard!


Next morning I went out for a stroll through the town,


Buy my silver cross, sir! You shall have it for fourpence—it’s real silver.


I will wait awhile before I condemn this Judas. Only God knows what may be hidden in the hearts of drunkards. What is it, my good woman?


Exactly as is a mother’s joy when her baby smiles for the first time into her eyes, so is God’s joy when one of His children turns and prays to Him for the first time, with all his heart!


Listen, Parfen; you put a question to me just now. This is my reply. The essence of religious feeling has nothing to do with reason, or atheism, or crime, or acts of any kind—it has nothing to do with these things—and never had. There is something besides all this, something which the arguments of the atheists can never touch. But the principal thing, and the conclusion of my argument, is that this is most clearly seen in the heart of a Russian. This is a conviction which I have gained while I have been in this Russia of ours. Yes, Parfen! there is work to be done; there is work to be done in this Russian world! Remember what talks we used to have in Moscow! And I never wished to come here at all; and I never thought to meet you like this, Parfen! Well, well—good-bye—good-bye! God be with you!


Lef Nicolaievitch! Have you got that cross you bought from the soldier with you?


Yes, I have,


Show it me, will you? Give it to me,


Why? do you—


I’ll wear it; and you shall have mine. I’ll take it off at once.


You wish to exchange crosses? Very well, Parfen, if that’s the case, I’m glad enough—that makes us brothers, you know.


Come!


Mother, here is my great friend, Prince Muishkin; we have exchanged crosses; he was like a real brother to me at Moscow at one time, and did a great deal for me. Bless him, mother, as you would bless your own son. Wait a moment, let me arrange your hands for you. There, come along, Lef Nicolaievitch; that’s all I brought you here for. She understood nothing of what I said to her, and did not know what I wanted her to do, and yet she blessed you; that shows she wished to do so herself. Well, goodbye; it’s time you went, and I must go too.


Well, let me at least embrace you and say goodbye, you strange fellow!


Don’t be afraid, though I have taken your cross, I shall not murder you for your watch. Well, take her! It’s Fate! She’s yours. I surrender her.... Remember Rogojin!


I am not to blame for all this,


These moments, short as they are, when I feel such extreme consciousness of myself, and consequently more of life than at other times, are due only to the disease—to the sudden rupture of normal conditions. Therefore they are not really a higher kind of life, but a lower. What matter though it be only disease, an abnormal tension of the brain, if when I recall and analyze the moment, it seems to have been one of harmony and beauty in the highest degree—an instant of deepest sensation, overflowing with unbounded joy and rapture, ecstatic devotion, and completest life?


I would give my whole life for this one instant,


I feel then. I feel then as if I understood those amazing words—‘There shall be no more time.’ There shall be no more time. No doubt the epileptic Mahomet refers to that same moment when he says that he visited all the dwellings of Allah, in less time than was needed to empty his pitcher of water. He told me I had been a brother to him. He said so today, for the first time.


However, it was something to move on and know where he was going.


God knows what he may really be; in a country with which one is unfamiliar it is difficult to understand the people one meets. But what am I thinking. Can he really have committed that crime? Did he kill those six persons? I seem to be confusing things... how strange it all is.... My head goes round... And Lebedeff’s daughter—how sympathetic and charming her face was as she held the child in her arms! What an innocent look and child-like laugh she had! It is curious that I had forgotten her until now. I expect Lebedeff adores her—and I really believe, when I think of it, that as sure as two and two make four, he is fond of that nephew, too!


It is a crime on my part to imagine anything so base, with such cynical frankness.


your pity is greater than my love,


You need not be afraid, I quite understand.


Well, whose eyes were they?


Whose eyes are they?


Rogojin has been spying upon you and watching you all the morning in a frenzy of desperation. When he finds you have not gone to Pavlofsk—a terrible discovery for him—he will surely go at once to that house in Petersburg Side, and watch for you there, although only this morning you gave your word of honour not to see her, and swore that you had not come to Petersburg for that purpose.


Speak if you dare, and tell me, what is the presentiment? Put it into words, speak out clearly and distinctly. Oh, miserable coward that I am! How shall I ever look this man in the face again? My God, what a day! And what a nightmare, what a nightmare! What a regular old woman I am today. I believe in every foolish presentiment that comes into my head. I am a coward, a wretched coward. Why should not Rogojin have as many knives on his table as he chooses? What could it have to do with me?


In a minute or two I shall know all,


Parfen! I won’t believe it.


They will lose all respect if they are allowed to be so free and easy; besides it is not proper for them,


Why on earth not? Really, you know, you are making yourself a nuisance, by keeping guard over me like this. I get bored all by myself; I have told you so over and over again, and you get on my nerves more than ever by waving your hands and creeping in and out in the mysterious way you do.


Do you think yourself my master, that you try to keep me under lock and key like this? In the country, at least, I intend to be free, and you may make up your mind that I mean to see whom I like, and go where I please.


Why, of course,


Well, Lukian Timofeyovitch, have you brought the little cupboard that you had at the head of your bed with you here?


No, I left it where it was.


Impossible!


It cannot be moved; you would have to pull the wall down, it is so firmly fixed.


Perhaps you have one like it here?


I have one that is even better, much better; that is really why I bought this house.


Ah! What visitor did you turn away from my door, about an hour ago?


The-the general. I would not let him in; there is no need for him to visit you, prince... I have the deepest esteem for him, he is a—a great man. You don’t believe it? Well, you will see, and yet, most excellent prince, you had much better not receive him.


May I ask why? and also why you walk about on tiptoe and always seem as if you were going to whisper a secret in my ear whenever you come near me?


I am vile, vile; I know it! But will not the general be too hospitable for you?


Too hospitable?


Yes. First, he proposes to come and live in my house. Well and good; but he sticks at nothing; he immediately makes himself one of the family. We have talked over our respective relations several times, and discovered that we are connected by marriage. It seems also that you are a sort of nephew on his mother’s side; he was explaining it to me again only yesterday. If you are his nephew, it follows that I must also be a relation of yours, most excellent prince. Never mind about that, it is only a foible; but just now he assured me that all his life, from the day he was made an ensign to the 11th of last June, he has entertained at least two hundred guests at his table every day. Finally, he went so far as to say that they never rose from the table; they dined, supped, and had tea, for fifteen hours at a stretch. This went on for thirty years without a break; there was barely time to change the table-cloth; directly one person left, another took his place. On feast-days he entertained as many as three hundred guests, and they numbered seven hundred on the thousandth anniversary of the foundation of the Russian Empire. It amounts to a passion with him; it makes one uneasy to hear of it. It is terrible to have to entertain people who do things on such a scale. That is why I wonder whether such a man is not too hospitable for you and me.


But you seem to be on the best of terms with him?


Quite fraternal—I look upon it as a joke. Let us be brothers-in-law, it is all the same to me,—rather an honour than not. But in spite of the two hundred guests and the thousandth anniversary of the Russian Empire, I can see that he is a very remarkable man. I am quite sincere. You said just now that I always looked as if I was going to tell you a secret; you are right. I have a secret to tell you: a certain person has just let me know that she is very anxious for a secret interview with you.


Why should it be secret? Not at all; I will call on her myself tomorrow.


No, oh no! if she is afraid, it is not for the reason you think. By the way, do you know that the monster comes every day to inquire after your health?


You call him a monster so often that it makes me suspicious.


You must have no suspicions, none whatever. I only want you to know that the person in question is not afraid of him, but of something quite, quite different.


What on earth is she afraid of, then? Tell me plainly, without any more beating about the bush,


Ah that is the secret,


Whose secret?


Yours. You forbade me yourself to mention it before you, most excellent prince. She is afraid of Aglaya Ivanovna.


Really, Lebedeff, I must leave your house. Where are Gavrila Ardalionovitch and the Ptitsins? Are they here? Have you chased them away, too?


They are coming, they are coming; and the general as well. I will open all the doors; I will call all my daughters, all of them, this very minute. Shall I call the Ptitsins, and Gavrila Ardalionovitch? Shall I let the general in?


Why not? Let in anyone who wants to see me. I assure you, Lebedeff, you have misunderstood my position from the very first; you have been wrong all along. I have not the slightest reason to hide myself from anyone,


Mamma is cross because the prince hasn’t turned up,


it was not his fault.


He idles about here the whole day long, one can’t get rid of him; and then when he is wanted he does not come. He might have sent a line if he did not wish to inconvenience himself.


Very well then, stay at home, and a good thing too, for Evgenie Pavlovitch is coming down and there will be no one at home to receive him.


Just wait a while, my boy! don’t be too certain of your triumph. I must admit, prince, I was a little put out to see you up and about like this—I expected to find you in bed; but I give you my word, I was only annoyed for an instant, before I collected my thoughts properly. I am always wiser on second thoughts, and I dare say you are the same. I assure you I am as glad to see you well as though you were my own son,—yes, and more; and if you don’t believe me the more shame to you, and it’s not my fault. But that spiteful boy delights in playing all sorts of tricks. You are his patron, it seems. Well, I warn you that one fine morning I shall deprive myself of the pleasure of his further acquaintance.


What have I done wrong now? What was the good of telling you that the prince was nearly well again? You would not have believed me; it was so much more interesting to picture him on his death-bed.


How long do you remain here, prince?


All the summer, and perhaps longer.


You are alone, aren’t you,—not married?


No, I’m not married!


Oh, you needn’t laugh! These things do happen, you know! Now then—why didn’t you come to us? We have a wing quite empty. But just as you like, of course. Do you lease it from him?—this fellow, I mean. And why does he always wriggle so? Is he mad?


No, he...


Perhaps he is drunk? Your company is rather peculiar. But what a pretty girl! Who is she?


That is Lebedeff’s daughter—Vera Lukianovna.


Indeed? She looks very sweet. I should like to make her acquaintance.


Orphans, poor orphans! The child she carries is an orphan, too. She is Vera’s sister, my daughter Luboff. The day this babe was born, six weeks ago, my wife died, by the will of God Almighty.... Yes... Vera takes her mother’s place, though she is but her sister... nothing more... nothing more...


And you! You are nothing more than a fool, if you’ll excuse me! Well! well! you know that yourself, I expect,


It is the truth,


Oh, Mr. Lebedeff, I am told you lecture on the Apocalypse. Is it true?


Yes, that is so... for the last fifteen years.


I have heard of you, and I think read of you in the newspapers.


No, that was another commentator, whom the papers named. He is dead, however, and I have taken his place,


We are neighbours, so will you be so kind as to come over one day and explain the Apocalypse to me? I do not understand it in the least.


Allow me to warn you, that he is the greatest charlatan on earth. No doubt there are pleasures and amusements peculiar to the country, and to listen to a pretended student holding forth on the book of the Revelations may be as good as any other. It may even be original. But... you seem to be looking at me with some surprise—may I introduce myself—General Ivolgin—I carried you in my arms as a baby—


Delighted, I’m sure. I am acquainted with Varvara Ardalionovna and Nina Alexandrovna.


You are deviating from the truth, sir, as usual! you never carried her in your life!


You have forgotten, mother. He really did carry me about,—in Tver, you know. I was six years old, I remember. He made me a bow and arrow, and I shot a pigeon. Don’t you remember shooting a pigeon, you and I, one day?


Yes, and he made me a cardboard helmet, and a little wooden sword—I remember!


Yes, I remember too! You quarrelled about the wounded pigeon, and Adelaida was put in the corner, and stood there with her helmet and sword and all.


I remember—I remember it all! I was captain then. You were such a lovely little thing—Nina Alexandrovna!—Gania, listen! I was received then by General Epanchin.


Yes, and look what you have come to now! However, I see you have not quite drunk your better feelings away. But you’ve broken your wife’s heart, sir—and instead of looking after your children, you have spent your time in public-houses and debtors’ prisons! Go away, my friend, stand in some corner and weep, and bemoan your fallen dignity, and perhaps God will forgive you yet! Go, go! I’m serious! There’s nothing so favourable for repentance as to think of the past with feelings of remorse! Ardalion Alexandrovitch, wait a moment, we are all sinners! When you feel that your conscience reproaches you a little less, come over to me and we’ll have a talk about the past! I dare say I am fifty times more of a sinner than you are! And now go, go, good-bye, you had better not stay here!


Don’t go after him just now, Colia, or he’ll be vexed, and the benefit of this moment will be lost!


Quite true! Much better to go in half an hour or so


That’s what comes of telling the truth for once in one’s life! It reduced him to tears.


Come, come! the less you say about it the better—to judge from all I have heard about you!


That was Gavrila Ardalionovitch, who just went out, wasn’t it?


Yes, it was,


I hardly knew him; he is much changed, and for the better!


I am very glad,


He has been very ill,


How has he changed for the better? I don’t see any change for the better! What’s better in him? Where did you get that idea from? what’s better?


There’s nothing better than the ‘poor knight’!


I quite agree with you there!


So do I,


What poor knight? What nonsense you are all talking! What do you mean by poor knight?


It’s not the first time this urchin, your favourite, has shown his impudence by twisting other people’s words,


He’s always twisting round what one says. A month ago you were turning over the pages of your Don Quixote, and suddenly called out ‘there is nothing better than the poor knight.’ I don’t know whom you were referring to, of course, whether to Don Quixote, or Evgenie Pavlovitch, or someone else, but you certainly said these words, and afterwards there was a long conversation...


You are inclined to go a little too far, my good boy, with your guesses,


But it’s not I alone. They all talked about it, and they do still. Why, just now Prince S. and Adelaida Ivanovna declared that they upheld ‘the poor knight’; so evidently there does exist a ‘poor knight’; and if it were not for Adelaida Ivanovna, we should have known long ago who the ‘poor knight’ was.


Why, how am I to blame?


You wouldn’t draw his portrait for us, that’s why you are to blame! Aglaya Ivanovna asked you to draw his portrait, and gave you the whole subject of the picture. She invented it herself; and you wouldn’t.


What was I to draw? According to the lines she quoted: From his face he never lifted That eternal mask of steel.


What sort of a face was I to draw? I couldn’t draw a mask.


I don’t know what you are driving at; what mask do you mean? Well, have you finished your silly joke? and am I to be told what this ‘poor knight’ means, or is it a solemn secret which cannot be approached lightly?


It’s simply that there is a Russian poem, a strange thing, without beginning or end, and all about a ‘poor knight.’ A month or so ago, we were all talking and laughing, and looking up a subject for one of Adelaida’s pictures—you know it is the principal business of this family to find subjects for Adelaida’s pictures. Well, we happened upon this ‘poor knight.’ I don’t remember who thought of it first—


Aglaya Ivanovna did,


Very likely—I don’t recollect. Some of us laughed at the subject; some liked it; but she declared that, in order to make a picture of the gentleman, she must first see his face. We then began to think over all our friends’ faces to see if any of them would do, and none suited us, and so the matter stood; that’s all. I don’t know why Nicolai Ardalionovitch has brought up the joke now. What was appropriate and funny then, has quite lost all interest by this time.


Probably there’s some new silliness about it,


There is no silliness about it at all—only the profoundest respect,


‘Profoundest respect!’ What nonsense! First, insane giggling, and then, all of a sudden, a display of ‘profoundest respect.’ Why respect? Tell me at once, why have you suddenly developed this ‘profound respect,’ eh?


Because, in the poem the knight is described as a man capable of living up to an ideal all his life. That sort of thing is not to be found every day among the men of our times. In the poem it is not stated exactly what the ideal was, but it was evidently some vision, some revelation of pure Beauty, and the knight wore round his neck, instead of a scarf, a rosary. A device—A. N. B.—the meaning of which is not explained, was inscribed on his shield—


No, A. N. D.


I say A. N. B., and so it shall be! Anyway, the ‘poor knight’ did not care what his lady was, or what she did. He had chosen his ideal, and he was bound to serve her, and break lances for her, and acknowledge her as the ideal of pure Beauty, whatever she might say or do afterwards. If she had taken to stealing, he would have championed her just the same. I think the poet desired to embody in this one picture the whole spirit of medieval chivalry and the platonic love of a pure and high-souled knight. Of course it’s all an ideal, and in the ‘poor knight’ that spirit reached the utmost limit of asceticism. He is a Don Quixote, only serious and not comical. I used not to understand him, and laughed at him, but now I love the ‘poor knight,’ and respect his actions.


Pooh! he was a fool, and his actions were the actions of a fool, and as for you, young woman, you ought to know better. At all events, you are not to talk like that again. What poem is it? Recite it! I want to hear this poem! I have hated poetry all my life. Prince, you must excuse this nonsense. We neither of us like this sort of thing! Be patient!


Once there came a vision glorious, Mystic, dreadful, wondrous fair; Burned itself into his spirit, And abode for ever there! Never more—from that sweet moment— Gazéd he on womankind; He was dumb to love and wooing And to all their graces blind. Full of love for that sweet vision, Brave and pure he took the field; With his blood he stained the letters N. P. B. upon his shield. ‘Lumen caeli, sancta Rosa!’ Shouting on the foe he fell, And like thunder rang his war-cry O’er the cowering infidel. Then within his distant castle, Home returned, he dreamed his days— Silent, sad,—and when death took him He was mad, the legend says.


How beautiful that is! Whose is it?


Pushkin’s, mama, of course! Don’t disgrace us all by showing your ignorance,


As soon as we reach home give it to me to read.


I don’t think we have a copy of Pushkin in the house. There are a couple of torn volumes somewhere; they have been lying about from time immemorial,


Send Feodor or Alexey up by the very first train to buy a copy, then.—Aglaya, come here—kiss me, dear, you recited beautifully! but, if you were sincere I am sorry for you. If it was a joke, I do not approve of the feelings which prompted you to do it, and in any case you would have done far better not to recite it at all. Do you understand?—Now come along, young woman; we’ve sat here too long. I’ll speak to you about this another time.


I caught him up on the way to your house. He had heard that we were all here.


Yes, and I heard that you were here, too, and since I had long promised myself the pleasure of seeking not only your acquaintance but your friendship, I did not wish to waste time, but came straight on. I am sorry to hear that you are unwell.


Oh, but I’m quite well now, thank you, and very glad to make your acquaintance. Prince S. has often spoken to me about you,


He has astonished me. I nearly fell down with surprise. I could hardly believe my eyes when I met him in Petersburg just now. Why this haste? That’s what I want to know. He has always said himself that there is no need to break windows.


I have only retired for a time. For a few months; at most for a year.


But there is no necessity for you to retire at all, as far as I know.


I want to go and look after my country estates. You advised me to do that yourself. And then I wish to go abroad.


There must be more in it than appears,


I see the ‘poor knight’ has come on the scene again,


But not now! It is too late to send to town for a Pushkin now. It is much too late, I say! I have told you so at least a hundred times.


Yes, it is really much too late to send to town now. I am sure the shops are shut in Petersburg; it is past eight o’clock,


We have done without him so far. Surely we can wait until to-morrow.


Besides, it is quite unusual, almost improper, for people in our position to take any interest in literature. Ask Evgenie Pavlovitch if I am not right. It is much more fashionable to drive a waggonette with red wheels.


You got that from some magazine, Colia,


He gets most of his conversation in that way. He borrows whole phrases from the reviews. I have long had the pleasure of knowing both Nicholai Ardalionovitch and his conversational methods, but this time he was not repeating something he had read; he was alluding, no doubt, to my yellow waggonette, which has, or had, red wheels. But I have exchanged it, so you are rather behind the times, Colia.


What is it? Papa told me to offer it to you.


What? Impossible!


Not as a present, not as a present! I should not have taken the liberty. It is our own Pushkin, our family copy, Annenkoff’s edition; it could not be bought now. I beg to suggest, with great respect, that your excellency should buy it, and thus quench the noble literary thirst which is consuming you at this moment,


Oh! if you will sell it, very good—and thank you. You shall not be a loser! But for goodness’ sake, don’t twist about like that, sir! I have heard of you; they tell me you are a very learned person. We must have a talk one of these days. You will bring me the books yourself?


With the greatest respect... and... and veneration,


Well, bring them, with or without respect, provided always you do not drop them on the way; but on the condition, that you do not cross my threshold. I do not intend to receive you today. You may send your daughter Vera at once, if you like. I am much pleased with her.


Why don’t you tell him about them? They will come in, whether you announce them or not, and they are beginning to make a row. Lef Nicolaievitch, four men are here asking for you. They have waited some time, and are beginning to make a fuss, and papa will not bring them in.


Who are these people?


They say that they have come on business, and they are the kind of men, who, if you do not see them here, will follow you about the street. It would be better to receive them, and then you will get rid of them. Gavrila Ardalionovitch and Ptitsin are both there, trying to make them hear reason.


Pavlicheff’s son! It is not worth while! There is no necessity to see them, and it would be most unpleasant for your excellency. They do not deserve...


What? Pavlicheff’s son! I know... I know—but I entrusted this matter to Gavrila Ardalionovitch. He told me...


This is most interesting!


It will be well, if you put an end to this affair yourself at once: but you must allow us to be your witnesses. They want to throw mud at you, prince, and you must be triumphantly vindicated. I give you joy beforehand!


And I also wish for justice to be done, once for all, about this impudent claim. Deal with them promptly, prince, and don’t spare them! I am sick of hearing about the affair, and many a quarrel I have had in your cause. But I confess I am anxious to see what happens, so do make them come out here, and we will remain. You have heard people talking about it, no doubt?


Of course. I have heard it spoken about at your house, and I am anxious to see these young men! They are Nihilists, are they not? No, they are not Nihilists,


This is another lot—a special group. According to my nephew they are more advanced even than the Nihilists. You are quite wrong, excellency, if you think that your presence will intimidate them; nothing intimidates them. Educated men, learned men even, are to be found among Nihilists; these go further, in that they are men of action. The movement is, properly speaking, a derivative from Nihilism—though they are only known indirectly, and by hearsay, for they never advertise their doings in the papers. They go straight to the point. For them, it is not a question of showing that Pushkin is stupid, or that Russia must be torn in pieces. No; but if they have a great desire for anything, they believe they have a right to get it even at the cost of the lives, say, of eight persons. They are checked by no obstacles. In fact, prince, I should not advise you...


You are slandering them, Lebedeff. You are always thinking about your nephew’s conduct. Don’t believe him, Lizabetha Prokofievna. I can assure you Gorsky and Daniloff are exceptions—and that these are only... mistaken. However, I do not care about receiving them here, in public. Excuse me, Lizabetha Prokofievna. They are coming, and you can see them, and then I will take them away. Please come in, gentlemen!


He is for me, undoubtedly!


I did not expect you, gentlemen. I have been ill until to-day. A month ago. I put your business into Gavrila Ardalionovitch Ivolgin’s hands, as I told you then. I do not in the least object to having a personal interview... but you will agree with me that this is hardly the time... I propose that we go into another room, if you will not keep me long... As you see, I have friends here, and believe me...


allow me to tell you that you might have treated us rather more politely, and not have kept us waiting at least two hours...


No doubt... and I... is that acting like a prince? And you... you may be a general! But I... I am not your valet! And I... I...


It was a princely action!


If anyone had treated me so. I mean to say that if I had been in Burdovsky’s place...I...


Gentlemen, I did not know you were there; I have only just been informed, I assure you,


We are not afraid of your friends, prince, for we are within our rights.


What right have you... by what right do you demand us to submit this matter, about Burdovsky... to the judgment of your friends? We know only too well what the judgment of your friends will be!...


If you, if you prefer not to speak here, I offer again to go into another room with you... and as to your waiting to see me, I repeat that I only this instant heard...


Well, you have no right, you have no right, no right at all!... Your friends indeed!...


Lef Nicolaievitch! read this at once, this very moment! It is about this business.


Would it not be better to peruse it alone... later,


No, no, read it—read it at once directly, and aloud, aloud! Read it aloud, so that everyone may hear it!


Oh, I don’t know what this means


Let him go on reading at all costs!


Prince, if the reading is stopped, you and I will quarrel.


But while our young millionaire dwelt as it were in the Empyrean, something new occurred. One fine morning a man called upon him, calm and severe of aspect, distinguished, but plainly dressed. Politely, but in dignified terms, as befitted his errand, he briefly explained the motive for his visit. He was a lawyer of enlightened views; his client was a young man who had consulted him in confidence. This young man was no other than the son of P——, though he bears another name. In his youth P——, the sensualist, had seduced a young girl, poor but respectable. She was a serf, but had received a European education. Finding that a child was expected, he hastened her marriage with a man of noble character who had loved her for a long time. He helped the young couple for a time, but he was soon obliged to give up, for the high-minded husband refused to accept anything from him. Soon the careless nobleman forgot all about his former mistress and the child she had borne him; then, as we know, he died intestate. P——’s son, born after his mother’s marriage, found a true father in the generous man whose name he bore. But when he also died, the orphan was left to provide for himself, his mother now being an invalid who had lost the use of her limbs. Leaving her in a distant province, he came to the capital in search of pupils. By dint of daily toil he earned enough to enable him to follow the college courses, and at last to enter the university. But what can one earn by teaching the children of Russian merchants at ten copecks a lesson, especially with an invalid mother to keep? Even her death did not much diminish the hardships of the young man’s struggle for existence. Now this is the question: how, in the name of justice, should our scion have argued the case? Our readers will think, no doubt, that he would say to himself: ‘P—— showered benefits upon me all my life; he spent tens of thousands of roubles to educate me, to provide me with governesses, and to keep me under treatment in Switzerland. Now I am a millionaire, and P——’s son, a noble young man who is not responsible for the faults of his careless and forgetful father, is wearing himself out giving ill-paid lessons. According to justice, all that was done for me ought to have been done for him. The enormous sums spent upon me were not really mine; they came to me by an error of blind Fortune, when they ought to have gone to P——’s son. They should have gone to benefit him, not me, in whom P—— interested himself by a mere caprice, instead of doing his duty as a father. If I wished to behave nobly, justly, and with delicacy, I ought to bestow half my fortune upon the son of my benefactor; but as economy is my favourite virtue, and I know this is not a case in which the law can intervene, I will not give up half my millions. But it would be too openly vile, too flagrantly infamous, if I did not at least restore to P——’s son the tens of thousands of roubles spent in curing my idiocy. This is simply a case of conscience and of strict justice. Whatever would have become of me if P—— had not looked after my education, and had taken care of his own son instead of me?’


No, gentlemen, our scions of the nobility do not reason thus. The lawyer, who had taken up the matter purely out of friendship to the young man, and almost against his will, invoked every consideration of justice, delicacy, honour, and even plain figures; in vain, the ex-patient of the Swiss lunatic asylum was inflexible. All this might pass, but the sequel is absolutely unpardonable, and not to be excused by any interesting malady. This millionaire, having but just discarded the old gaiters of his professor, could not even understand that the noble young man slaving away at his lessons was not asking for charitable help, but for his rightful due, though the debt was not a legal one; that, correctly speaking, he was not asking for anything, but it was merely his friends who had thought fit to bestir themselves on his behalf. With the cool insolence of a bloated capitalist, secure in his millions, he majestically drew a banknote for fifty roubles from his pocket-book and sent it to the noble young man as a humiliating piece of charity. You can hardly believe it, gentlemen! You are scandalized and disgusted; you cry out in indignation! But that is what he did! Needless to say, the money was returned, or rather flung back in his face. The case is not within the province of the law, it must be referred to the tribunal of public opinion; this is what we now do, guaranteeing the truth of all the details which we have related.


The devil knows what it means,


May I ask your reason for such an insulting supposition, sir?


You will admit yourself, general, that for an honourable man, if the author is an honourable man, that is an—an insult,


In the first place, it is not for you to address me as ‘sir,’ and, in the second place, I refuse to give you any explanation,


Gentlemen, gentlemen, let me speak at last,


Please let us understand one another. I say nothing about the article, gentlemen, except that every word is false; I say this because you know it as well as I do. It is shameful. I should be surprised if any one of you could have written it.


I did not know of its existence till this moment. I do not approve of it.


I knew it had been written, but I would not have advised its publication, because it is premature.


I knew it, but I have a right. I... I...


What! Did you write all that yourself? Is it possible?


One might dispute your right to ask such questions,


I was only surprised that Mr. Burdovsky should have—however, this is what I have to say. Since you had already given the matter publicity, why did you object just now, when I began to speak of it to my friends?


At last!


Prince, you are forgetting that if you consented to receive and hear them, it was only because of your kind heart which has no equal, for they had not the least right to demand it, especially as you had placed the matter in the hands of Gavrila Ardalionovitch, which was also extremely kind of you. You are also forgetting, most excellent prince, that you are with friends, a select company; you cannot sacrifice them to these gentlemen, and it is only for you to have them turned out this instant. As the master of the house I shall have great pleasure ....


Quite right!


That will do, Lebedeff, that will do—


Excuse me, prince, excuse me, but now that will not do. The matter must be clearly stated, for it is obviously not properly understood. They are calling in some legal chicanery, and upon that ground they are threatening to turn us out of the house! Really, prince, do you think we are such fools as not to be aware that this matter does not come within the law, and that legally we cannot claim a rouble from you? But we are also aware that if actual law is not on our side, human law is for us, natural law, the law of common-sense and conscience, which is no less binding upon every noble and honest man—that is, every man of sane judgment—because it is not to be found in miserable legal codes. If we come here without fear of being turned out (as was threatened just now) because of the imperative tone of our demand, and the unseemliness of such a visit at this late hour (though it was not late when we arrived, we were kept waiting in your anteroom), if, I say, we came in without fear, it is just because we expected to find you a man of sense; I mean, a man of honour and conscience. It is quite true that we did not present ourselves humbly, like your flatterers and parasites, but holding up our heads as befits independent men. We present no petition, but a proud and free demand (note it well, we do not beseech, we demand!). We ask you fairly and squarely in a dignified manner. Do you believe that in this affair of Burdovsky you have right on your side? Do you admit that Pavlicheff overwhelmed you with benefits, and perhaps saved your life? If you admit it (which we take for granted), do you intend, now that you are a millionaire, and do you not think it in conformity with justice, to indemnify Burdovsky? Yes or no? If it is yes, or, in other words, if you possess what you call honour and conscience, and we more justly call common-sense, then accede to our demand, and the matter is at an end. Give us satisfaction, without entreaties or thanks from us; do not expect thanks from us, for what you do will be done not for our sake, but for the sake of justice. If you refuse to satisfy us, that is, if your answer is no, we will go away at once, and there will be an end of the matter. But we will tell you to your face before the present company that you are a man of vulgar and undeveloped mind; we will openly deny you the right to speak in future of your honour and conscience, for you have not paid the fair price of such a right. I have no more to say—I have put the question before you. Now turn us out if you dare. You can do it; force is on your side. But remember that we do not beseech, we demand! We do not beseech, we demand!


We demand, we demand, we demand, we do not beseech,


In my opinion, Mr. Doktorenko, you are quite right in at least half of what you say. I would go further and say that you are altogether right, and that I quite agree with you, if there were not something lacking in your speech. I cannot undertake to say precisely what it is, but you have certainly omitted something, and you cannot be quite just while there is something lacking. But let us put that aside and return to the point. Tell me what induced you to publish this article. Every word of it is a calumny, and I think, gentlemen, that you have been guilty of a mean action.


Allow me—


Sir—


What? What? What?


As to the article. I have told you already that we none of us approve of it! There is the writer. I quite admit that he has written it in his old regimental manner, with an equal disregard for style and decency. I know he is a cross between a fool and an adventurer; I make no bones about telling him so to his face every day. But after all he is half justified; publicity is the lawful right of every man; consequently, Burdovsky is not excepted. Let him answer for his own blunders. As to the objection which I made just now in the name of all, to the presence of your friends, I think I ought to explain, gentlemen, that I only did so to assert our rights, though we really wished to have witnesses; we had agreed unanimously upon the point before we came in. We do not care who your witnesses may be, or whether they are your friends or not. As they cannot fail to recognize Burdovsky’s right (seeing that it is mathematically demonstrable), it is just as well that the witnesses should be your friends. The truth will only be more plainly evident.


It is quite true; we had agreed upon that point,


If that is the case, why did you begin by making such a fuss about it?


As to the article, prince, I admit that I wrote it, in spite of the severe criticism of my poor friend, in whom I always overlook many things because of his unfortunate state of health. But I wrote and published it in the form of a letter, in the paper of a friend. I showed it to no one but Burdovsky, and I did not read it all through, even to him. He immediately gave me permission to publish it, but you will admit that I might have done so without his consent. Publicity is a noble, beneficent, and universal right. I hope, prince, that you are too progressive to deny this?


I deny nothing, but you must confess that your article—


Is a bit thick, you mean? Well, in a way that is in the public interest; you will admit that yourself, and after all one cannot overlook a blatant fact. So much the worse for the guilty parties, but the public welfare must come before everything. As to certain inaccuracies and figures of speech, so to speak, you will also admit that the motive, aim, and intention, are the chief thing. It is a question, above all, of making a wholesome example; the individual case can be examined afterwards; and as to the style—well, the thing was meant to be humorous, so to speak, and, after all, everybody writes like that; you must admit it yourself! Ha, ha!


But, gentlemen, I assure you that you are quite astray. You have published this article upon the supposition that I would never consent to satisfy Mr. Burdovsky. Acting on that conviction, you have tried to intimidate me by this publication and to be revenged for my supposed refusal. But what did you know of my intentions? It may be that I have resolved to satisfy Mr. Burdovsky’s claim. I now declare openly, in the presence of these witnesses, that I will do so.


The noble and intelligent word of an intelligent and most noble man, at last!


Good God!


This is intolerable,


Allow me, gentlemen, allow me. I will explain matters to you. Five weeks ago I received a visit from Tchebaroff, your agent, Mr. Burdovsky. You have given a very flattering description of him in your article, Mr. Keller,


You have no right.... I am not simple,


You have no sort of right to suppose such things,


It is most offensive! it is an insulting suggestion, false, and most ill-timed.


I beg your pardon, gentlemen; please excuse me. I thought absolute frankness on both sides would be best, but have it your own way. I told Tchebaroff that, as I was not in Petersburg, I would commission a friend to look into the matter without delay, and that I would let you know, Mr. Burdovsky. Gentlemen, I have no hesitation in telling you that it was the fact of Tchebaroff’s intervention that made me suspect a fraud. Oh! do not take offence at my words, gentlemen, for Heaven’s sake do not be so touchy!


You are shockingly naive, prince,


Besides, though you are a prince and a millionaire, and even though you may really be simple and good-hearted, you can hardly be outside the general law,


Perhaps not; it is very possible, though I do not know what general law you allude to. I will go on—only please do not take offence without good cause. I assure you I do not mean to offend you in the least. Really, it is impossible to speak three words sincerely without your flying into a rage! At first I was amazed when Tchebaroff told me that Pavlicheff had a son, and that he was in such a miserable position. Pavlicheff was my benefactor, and my father’s friend. Oh, Mr. Keller, why does your article impute things to my father without the slightest foundation? He never squandered the funds of his company nor ill-treated his subordinates, I am absolutely certain of it; I cannot imagine how you could bring yourself to write such a calumny! But your assertions concerning Pavlicheff are absolutely intolerable! You do not scruple to make a libertine of that noble man; you call him a sensualist as coolly as if you were speaking the truth, and yet it would not be possible to find a chaster man. He was even a scholar of note, and in correspondence with several celebrated scientists, and spent large sums in the interests of science. As to his kind heart and his good actions, you were right indeed when you said that I was almost an idiot at that time, and could hardly understand anything—(I could speak and understand Russian, though),—but now I can appreciate what I remember—


Excuse me, is not this rather sentimental? You said you wished to come to the point; please remember that it is after nine o’clock.


Very well, gentlemen—very well. At first I received the news with mistrust, then I said to myself that I might be mistaken, and that Pavlicheff might possibly have had a son. But I was absolutely amazed at the readiness with which the son had revealed the secret of his birth at the expense of his mother’s honour. For Tchebaroff had already menaced me with publicity in our interview....


What nonsense!


You have no right—you have no right!


The son is not responsible for the misdeeds of his father; and the mother is not to blame,


That seems to me all the more reason for sparing her,


Prince, you are not only simple, but your simplicity is almost past the limit,


But what right had you?


None—none whatever. I admit you are right there, but it was involuntary, and I immediately said to myself that my personal feelings had nothing to do with it,—that if I thought it right to satisfy the demands of Mr. Burdovsky, out of respect for the memory of Pavlicheff, I ought to do so in any case, whether I esteemed Mr. Burdovsky or not. I only mentioned this, gentlemen, because it seemed so unnatural to me for a son to betray his mother’s secret in such a way. In short, that is what convinced me that Tchebaroff must be a rogue, and that he had induced Mr. Burdovsky to attempt this fraud.


But this is intolerable!


Gentlemen, I supposed from this that poor Mr. Burdovsky must be a simple-minded man, quite defenceless, and an easy tool in the hands of rogues. That is why I thought it my duty to try and help him as ‘Pavlicheff’s son’; in the first place by rescuing him from the influence of Tchebaroff, and secondly by making myself his friend. I have resolved to give him ten thousand roubles; that is about the sum which I calculate that Pavlicheff must have spent on me.


What, only ten thousand!


Well, prince, your arithmetic is not up to much, or else you are mighty clever at it, though you affect the air of a simpleton,


I will not accept ten thousand roubles,


Take it for the present; we can see about more later on.


Look here, Mr. Muishkin, please understand that we are not fools, nor idiots, as your guests seem to imagine; these ladies who look upon us with such scorn, and especially this fine gentleman


Really, really, gentlemen, you are misunderstanding me again. In the first place, Mr. Keller, you have greatly overestimated my fortune in your article. I am far from being a millionaire. I have barely a tenth of what you suppose. Secondly, my treatment in Switzerland was very far from costing tens of thousands of roubles. Schneider received six hundred roubles a year, and he was only paid for the first three years. As to the pretty governesses whom Pavlicheff is supposed to have brought from Paris, they only exist in Mr. Keller’s imagination; it is another calumny. According to my calculations, the sum spent on me was very considerably under ten thousand roubles, but I decided on that sum, and you must admit that in paying a debt I could not offer Mr. Burdovsky more, however kindly disposed I might be towards him; delicacy forbids it; I should seem to be offering him charity instead of rightful payment. I don’t know how you cannot see that, gentlemen! Besides, I had no intention of leaving the matter there. I meant to intervene amicably later on and help to improve poor Mr. Burdovsky’s position. It is clear that he has been deceived, or he would never have agreed to anything so vile as the scandalous revelations about his mother in Mr. Keller’s article. But, gentlemen, why are you getting angry again? Are we never to come to an understanding? Well, the event has proved me right! I have just seen with my own eyes the proof that my conjecture was correct!


What do you mean? What are you convinced of?