Demons

10: Filibusters. A Fatal Morning

I

The event that occurred on our way was also of a surprising sort. But I must tell everything in order. An hour before Stepan Trofimovich and I went out, a crowd of people, workers from the Shpigulin factory, about seventy of them, maybe more, moved through town and was noticed with curiosity by many. They moved decorously, almost silently, in purposeful order. It was afterwards asserted that these seventy were delegates chosen from all the factory workers, of whom the Shpigulins had up to nine hundred, to go to the governor and, in view of the owners' absence, seek justice from him against the owners' manager, who, while closing down the factory and dismissing the workers, had brazenly cheated them all—a fact no longer open to any doubt. Others among us deny to this day that they were delegates, insisting that seventy people would be too many for a delegation, and that the crowd simply consisted of the most resentful ones, who came to plead only for themselves, so that there never had been any general factory "riot" such as later caused so much clamor. A third group passionately affirms that these seventy men were not simple rioters, but decidedly political ones—that is, that being some of the most violent ones to begin with, they had been further aroused by none other than the anonymous leaflets. In short, whether or not there was any influence or instigation is still not known precisely. My personal opinion is that the workers had not read any anonymous leaflets, and that even if they had, they would not have understood a word of them, for the sole reason that those who write them, for all the baldness of their style, write extremely obscurely. But since the factory men really were in bad straits—and the police, to whom they had appealed, did not want to enter into their grievance—what could be more natural than their idea of going in a crowd "to the general himself," if possible, even with a petition on their head, lining up decorously in front of his porch, and, the moment he appeared, all falling on their knees and crying out as if to providence itself? To my mind there is no need here either for a riot, or even for delegates, because this is an old, historical method; from time immemorial the Russian people have loved having a talk with "the general himself," for the sheer pleasure of it, in fact, and even regardless of what the end of such a talk might be.

And that is why I am fully convinced that although Pyotr Stepanovich, Liputin, perhaps someone else as well, perhaps even Fedka, had been shuttling among the factory workers earlier (since there exist quite firm indications of this circumstance) and had talked with them, it was certainly with no more than two or three, or say five, only as a trial, and that nothing came of this talk. As regards rioting, even if the factory workers did understand anything of their propaganda, they must certainly have stopped listening at once, seeing it was a stupid matter and altogether unsuitable. Fedka was another matter: it seems he had far better luck than Pyotr Stepanovich. In the town fire that followed three days later, as has now been indisputably revealed, two factory workers did indeed take part along with Fedka, and afterwards, a month later, three more former factory workers in our district were seized, also for robbery and arson. But if Fedka had actually managed to lure them over to direct, immediate action, it was again only these five, because nothing of the sort was heard about any of the others.

Be that as it may, the whole crowd of workers finally arrived at the little square in front of the governor's house, and lined up decorously and silently. Then they gaped at the porch and started waiting. I was told that as soon as they installed themselves, they immediately took off their hats, that is, perhaps half an hour before the arrival of the master of the province, who, as if by design, happened to be away from home at the moment. The police made their appearance at once, first as isolated phenomena, then in the fullest possible complement; they began threateningly, of course, with an order to disperse. But the workers stood there like a flock of sheep at a fence, and answered laconically that they wanted "the general hisself"; firm resolve was evident. The unnatural shouting ceased; it quickly yielded to pondering, mysteriously whispered instructions, and a stern, worried preoccupation that furrowed the official brow. The police chief preferred to wait for the arrival of von Lembke himself. It is nonsense that he came flying at full speed with a troika and supposedly started fighting before he got out of his droshky. Our governor did indeed fly and liked to fly around in his droshky with its yellow back, and as his "outrunners driven to debauchery" got wilder and wilder, to the delight of all the merchants in the shopping arcade, he would stand up in his droshky, rise to his full height, holding on to a special strap attached to the side, and, stretching his right arm into space like a monument, would thus survey the town. But in the present case he did not start fighting, and though he really could not do without strong language as he came flying off his droshky, he did it solely so as not to lose popularity. It is still greater nonsense that soldiers with bayonets were brought in, and that a message was sent somewhere by telegraph about dispatching artillery and Cossacks: these are tales that their inventors themselves no longer believe. It is also nonsense that barrels of water were brought from the firehouse and used to drench the people. Quite simply, Ilya Ilyich shouted hot-headedly that no one would escape without getting his feet wet; this must have been turned into barrels, which thus made their way into the reports of the metropolitan newspapers. The most correct version, one must suppose, was that the crowd was first surrounded by all the policemen who happened to be on hand, and a messenger was then sent to Lembke, an officer from the first precinct, who proceeded to fly down the road to Skvoreshniki in the police chief's droshky, knowing that von Lembke had set out for there half an hour earlier in his carriage...

But, I confess, an unresolved question still remains for me: how did it come about that a mere, that is, an ordinary crowd of petitioners— seventy men, it's true—should be turned, right from the first go, from the first step, into a riot that threatened to shake the foundations? Why did Lembke himself seize on this idea when he arrived twenty minutes later, following the messenger? I would suppose (but again this is a personal opinion) that Ilya Ilyich, who was chummy with the manager, even found it profitable to present the crowd to von Lembke in this light, precisely so as not to bring on a real investigation into the matter; and it was Lembke himself who had given him this idea. Over the past two days he had had two mysterious and exceptional talks with him—quite confused talks, incidentally—from which Ilya Ilyich had nevertheless made out that the front office was firmly set on the idea of the tracts, and of the Shpigulin workers being incited by someone to social rioting, and set on it to such a degree that they themselves might regret it if this inciting turned out to be nonsense. "He wants to distinguish himself somehow in Petersburg," thought our cunning Ilya Ilyich as he was leaving von Lembke. "Well, that plays right into my hands."

But I am convinced that poor Andrei Antonovich would not have wished for a riot even for the sake of distinguishing himself. He was an extremely responsible official, who until his marriage had dwelt in innocence. And was it his fault if, instead of innocent government firewood and a likewise innocent Minchen, a forty-year-old princess had raised him to herself? I know almost positively that it was after this same fatal morning that the first traces became manifest of the condition which is said to have sent poor Andrei Antonovich to a certain special institution in Switzerland, where he is now supposed to be gathering new strength. But if one can merely allow that, precisely after that morning, the manifest facts of anything became apparent, then it is possible, in my opinion, to allow that manifestations of similar facts could already have occurred the day before as well, though not so manifestly. It is known to me from rumors of a most intimate sort (well, suppose that later on Yulia Mikhailovna, no longer triumphant, but almost repentant—for a woman is never wholly repentant—told me a particle of this story herself)—it is known to me that Andrei Antonovich came to his wife on the eve of that day, late at night, past two o'clock, woke her up, and demanded that she listen to "his ultimatum." The demand was so insistent that she was obliged to get up from her bed of rest, in indignation and in curlers, and, sitting on the couch, had to listen, albeit with sarcastic disdain. Only then did she realize for the first time how far gone her Andrei Antonovich was, and she was inwardly horrified. She ought finally to have come to her senses and relented, but she concealed her horror and insisted even more persistently than before. She had (as every wife seems to have) her special way with Andrei Antonovich, already tested not a few times, and which more than once had driven him to frenzy. Yulia Mikhailovna's way consisted of scornful silence, for an hour, for two hours, for a day, for nearly three days—silence at whatever cost, whatever he might say, whatever he might do, even if he climbed out the window to throw himself from the third floor—a way intolerable for a sensitive man! Whether Yulia Mikhailovna was punishing her husband for his recent blunders and his jealous envy, as governor, of her administrative abilities; or was indignant at his criticizing her behavior with the young people and our whole society, without understanding her subtle and farsighted political goals; or was angry at his dumb and senseless jealousy of Pyotr Stepanovich—in any case, she decided not to relent even now, despite the hour of the clock and the unprecedented agitation of Andrei Antonovich. Pacing, beside himself, up and down and in all directions over the carpets of her boudoir, he laid before her everything, everything, quite disconnectedly, it's true, but still everything that was seething inside him, for—"it has gone beyond all limits." He began by saying that everyone was laughing at him and "leading him by the nose." "I spit on the phrase," he shrieked at once, catching her smile, "let it be 'by the nose,' but it's true! ... No, madam, the moment has come; let me tell you that this is no time for laughter and women's coquetries. We are not in a mincing lady's boudoir; we are, as it were, two abstract beings in a balloon, who have met in order to speak out the truth." (He was muddled, of course, and unable to find the right forms for his—incidentally correct—thoughts.) "It is you, madam, who took me out of my former state, I accepted this post only for you, for your ambition... You smile sarcastically? Don't be triumphant, don't be hasty. Let me tell you, madam, let me tell you that I could, that I would be able to manage this post, and not just this one post but ten such posts, because I do have the ability; but with you, madam, in your presence—it's impossible for me to manage; because in your presence I do not have the ability. Two centers cannot exist, and you have set up two—one is mine, the other is in your boudoir— two centers of power, madam, but I will not allow it, I will not!! In the service, as in marriage, there is one center, and two are impossible... How have you repaid me?" he proceeded to exclaim. "Our marriage has consisted of nothing but you proving to me all the time, every hour, that I am worthless, stupid, and even mean, and I have been obliged, every hour and humiliatingly, to prove to you that I am not worthless, not at all stupid, and that I astound everyone with my nobility—now, is that not humiliating on both sides?" Here he began quickly and rapidly stamping the carpet with both feet, so that Yulia Mikhailovna was obliged to rise with stern dignity. He soon calmed down, but then passed over to sentimentality and started sobbing (yes, sobbing), beating himself on the breast for almost a whole five minutes, getting more and more beside himself from Yulia Mikhailovna's most profound silence. Finally, he committed the ultimate blunder and let slip that he was jealous of Pyotr Stepanovich. Realizing that this was foolish beyond all measure, he became ferociously furious and shouted that "he would not allow the denial of God"; that he would break up her "shameless salon of faithlessness"; that the burgomaster was even obliged to believe in God, "and so his wife is, too"; that he would not suffer any young men; that "you, madam, you, from your own dignity, ought to have cared for your husband and to have stood up for his intelligence, even if he was a man of poor abilities (and I am by no means of poor abilities!), whereas you are the reason why everyone here despises me, it is you who have put them up to it! ..." He shouted that he would abolish the woman question, that he would smoke out that little spirit, that he would forbid this absurd subscription fête for the governesses (devil take them!) and break it up first thing tomorrow; that first thing tomorrow he would chase any governess he met out of the province "with a Cossack, ma'am!" "On purpose, on purpose!" he kept shrieking. "Do you know, do you know," he shouted, "that it is your scoundrels who are inciting the men at the factory, and that I am informed of it? Do you know that tracts are being distributed on purpose, on pur-pose, ma'am! Do you know that I am informed of the names of four of these scoundrels, and that I am losing my mind, losing it finally, finally!!! ..." But here Yulia Mikhailovna suddenly broke her silence and sternly declared that she had long known about criminal designs, and that it was all foolishness, he was taking it too seriously, and with regard to pranksters, she knew not only those four, but all of them (she lied); and that she had no intention of losing her mind from all that, but, on the contrary, trusted in her mind more than ever, and hoped to lead everything to a harmonious ending: to encourage the youth, to bring them to reason, to prove to them suddenly and unexpectedly that their designs were known, and then show them to new goals for a reasonable and brighter activity. Oh, what came over Andrei Antonovich in that moment! On learning that Pyotr Stepanovich had hoodwinked him again and made fun of him so crudely, that he had revealed much more and much earlier to her than to him, and, finally, that Pyotr Stepanovich was himself perhaps the chief instigator of all the criminal designs—he flew into a frenzy. "Know, witless but venomous woman," he exclaimed, suddenly bursting all bonds, "know that I shall arrest your unworthy lover at once, put him in fetters, and dispatch him to the fortress, or—or I myself, right now, in your eyes, will jump out the window!" At this tirade, Yulia Mikhailovna, green with spite, immediately burst into laughter, long, resounding, with little peals and gales, exactly as in the French theater when a Parisian actress, invited for a hundred thousand to play coquettes, laughs in her husband's face for daring to be jealous of her. Von Lembke rushed for the window, but suddenly stopped as if rooted to the spot, folded his arms across his chest, and, pale as a corpse, gave the laughing woman an ominous look. "Do you know, do you know, Yulia..." he said in a suffocating, imploring voice, "do you know that I, too, can do something?" But at the new, still stronger outburst of laughter that followed his last words, he clenched his teeth, moaned, and suddenly rushed—not for the window—but at his spouse, raising his fist over her! He did not bring it down—no, three times no; but instead he perished right there on the spot. Not feeling the legs under him, he ran to his study, threw himself just as he was, fully clothed, facedown on the prepared bed, wrapped himself convulsively, head and all, in the sheet, and lay that way for about two hours—not sleeping, not thinking, with a lead weight on his heart, and dull, unmoving despair in his soul. Every once in a while he shuddered all over with a tormenting, feverish shiver. All sorts of unconnected things recalled themselves to him, which did not go with anything: now he thought, for example, of an old wall clock he had had in Petersburg about fifteen years ago, which had lost its minute hand; now of the jolly official Millebois and of how the two of them had once caught a sparrow in Alexandrovsky Park, and only then recalled, laughing for the whole park to hear, that one of them was already a collegiate assessor. I think he fell asleep at around seven in the morning, not realizing it himself, and slept delightedly, with lovely dreams. Awakening at ten o'clock, he suddenly jumped wildly out of bed, remembered everything all at once, and gave himself a hearty smack on the head with his palm: no breakfast, no Blum, no police chief, no official come to remind him that the members of the ——--- committee were expecting his chairmanship that morning—he received none of them, he listened to nothing, nor did he wish to understand, but raced like a lunatic to Yulia Mikhailovna's half. There Sofia Antropovna, a little old lady of gentle birth who had long been living with Yulia Mikhailovna, explained to him that his wife had set out at ten o'clock, with a large company, in three carriages, for Varvara Petrovna Stavrogin's, at Skvoreshniki, to look over the site for the future fête, the second one, planned for two weeks later, and that this had already been arranged three days ago with Varvara Petrovna herself. Stunned by the news, Andrei Antonovich went back to his study and impetuously ordered horses. He was even hardly able to wait. His soul yearned after Yulia Mikhailovna—only to look at her, to be near her for five minutes; perhaps she would look at him, notice him, smile as she used to, forgive—ohh! "But what's with those horses?" Mechanically, he opened a thick book that was lying on the table (he sometimes did divinations this way, by a book, opening it at random and reading on the right-hand page, three lines from the top). It came out: "Tout est pour le mieux dans le meilleur des mondes possibles"^[cxxxvii]—Voltaire, Candide. ' He spat and ran to get into the carriage: "To Skvoreshniki!" The coachman told afterwards how the master kept urging him on all the way, but as soon as they began to approach the main house, he suddenly gave the order to turn around and drive back to town: "Faster, please, faster." Before they reached the walls of the town, "he ordered me to stop again, got out of the carriage, and went across the road into a field; from some sort of weakness, I thought; but he stopped and began examining little flowers, and stood that way for some while, really strangely, so as I felt thoroughly doubtful." Thus the coachman testified. I recall the weather that morning: it was a cold, clear, but windy September day; spread before Andrei Antonovich, who had left the road, lay a stern landscape of bare fields from which the bread had been harvested long before; the howling wind swayed some pitiful remnants of dying yellow flowers... Did he wish to compare himself and his lot with stunted flowers beaten down by autumn and the frost? I don't think so. I even think it was certainly not so, and that he did not remember anything at all about the little flowers, despite the testimony of the coachman and the officer from the first precinct, who drove up at that moment in the police chief's droshky, and later affirmed that he had indeed found the front office with a bunch of yellow flowers in his hand. This police officer—an ecstatically administrative person, Vassily Ivanovich Filibusterov—was still a newcomer to our town, but had already distinguished himself and been noised abroad for his boundless zeal, a certain swoop in all his ways along the executive line, and an innate unsobriety. Leaping from the droshky, and not hesitating in the least at the sight of the front office's occupation, looking crazy but convinced, he fired off the report that "there's unrest in town."

"Eh? What?" Andrei Antonovich turned to him with a stern face, but without the least surprise or any recollection of the carriage or the coachman, as if he were in his own study.

"Officer of the first precinct Filibusterov, Your Excellency. There's a riot in town."

"Filibusters?" Andrei Antonovich repeated ponderingly.

"That's right, Your Excellency. The Shpigulin men are rioting."

"The Shpigulin men! ..."

Something came back to him, as it were, at the mention of "the Shpigulin men." He even gave a start and raised his finger to his forehead: "The Shpigulin men!" Silent, but still pondering, he went unhurriedly to the carriage, got in, and gave orders for town. The officer in the droshky followed after.

I imagine that on his way he vaguely pictured many quite interesting things, on many themes, but he hardly had any firm idea or any definite intention on entering the square in front of the governor's house. But the moment he caught sight of the lined-up and firmly standing crowd of "rioters," the row of policemen, the powerless (and perhaps intentionally powerless) police chief, and the general expectation directed at him, all the blood rushed to his heart. Pale, he stepped from the carriage.

"Hats off!" he said, breathlessly and barely audibly. "On your knees!" he shrieked unexpectedly—unexpectedly for himself, and it was in this unexpectedness that the whole ensuing denouement of the affair perhaps consisted. It was like coasting down a hill at the winter carnival; can a sled that is already going down stop in the middle of the hillside? As ill luck would have it, Andrei Antonovich had been distinguished all his life by the serenity of his character and had never shouted or stamped his feet at anyone; and such men are far more dangerous if it once happens that their sled for some reason shoots off downhill. Everything went whirling around in front of him.

"Filibusters!" he screamed, in an even more shrill and absurd way, and his voice cracked. He stood, still not knowing what he was going to do, but knowing and sensing with his whole being that he was now certainly going to do something.

"Lord!" came from the crowd. Some fellow began to cross himself; three or four men indeed made as if to kneel, but the rest moved in a mass about three steps forward, and suddenly they all began to squawk at once: "Your Excellency... the deal was for forty... the manager ... don't you go telling us," etc., etc. Nothing could be made of it.

Alas! Andrei Antonovich was unable to make anything out: the flowers were still in his hand. The riot was as evident to him as the kibitkas had been earlier to Stepan Trofimovich. And amid the crowd of "rioters" who stood goggling at him, Pyotr Stepanovich kept darting about in front of him, "agitating" them—he who had not left him for a moment since the day before, Pyotr Stepanovich, the detested Pyotr Stepanovich...

"Birch rods!" he cried, still more unexpectedly.

A dead silence ensued.

This was how it went at the very beginning, judging by the most precise information and my own conjectures. But on what followed the information becomes less precise, as do my conjectures. There are, however, certain facts.

First, the birch rods appeared somehow all too hastily; they had apparently been readied in advance by the quick-witted police chief.

However, only two men were punished in all, I think, not even three; I insist on that. That all the men, or at least half of them, were punished, is sheer invention. It is also nonsense that some poor but noble lady was supposedly seized as she was passing by and promptly thrashed for some reason; and yet I later read about this lady myself in a report in one of the Petersburg newspapers. Many people here were talking about a woman from the cemetery almshouse, a certain Avdotya Petrovna Tarapygin, who, as she was crossing the square on her way back to the almshouse, supposedly pushed her way through the spectators, out of natural curiosity, and on seeing what was happening, exclaimed: "Shame on 'em!"—and spat. For this she was supposedly picked up and also "attended to." Not only was this case printed, but a subscription for her benefit was set up here in town on the spur of the moment. I myself donated twenty kopecks. And what then? It turns out that there never was any such almshouse Tarapygin woman in our town at all! I went myself to inquire at the almshouse by the cemetery: they had never even heard of any Tarapygin woman; moreover, they got quite offended when I told them the rumor. In fact, I mention this nonexistent Avdotya Petrovna only because the same thing that happened with her (if she had existed in reality) almost happened with Stepan Trofimovich; it may even be on account of him that this whole absurd rumor about Tarapygin got started—that is, the gossip in its further development simply went and turned him into some Tarapygin woman. First of all, I do not understand how he gave me the slip as soon as we came to the square. Having a presentiment of something none too good, I wanted to take him around the square right to the governor's porch, but I became curious myself and stopped just for a moment to question some first passer-by, when suddenly I saw that Stepan Trofimovich was no longer beside me. Following my instinct, I rushed at once to look for him in the most dangerous place; for some reason I had a presentiment that his sled had also shot off downhill. And indeed I found him already at the very center of the event. I remember seizing him by the arm; but he calmly and proudly gave me a look of boundless authority:

"Cher,” he pronounced, in a voice in which some strained string vibrated. "If all of them here, in the square, in front of our eyes, are ordering people around so unceremoniously, what then are we to expect, say, from this one ... if he should happen to act independently."

And, trembling with indignation and with a boundless wish for defiance, he transferred his threatening, exposing finger to Filibusterov, who was standing two steps away goggling his eyes at us.

"This one!" he exclaimed, and everything went dark before his eyes. "Which this one? And who are you?" he stepped closer, clenching his fists. "Who are you?" he bellowed furiously, morbidly, and desperately (I will note that he knew Stepan Trofimovich's face perfectly well). Another moment and he would surely have grabbed him by the scruff of the neck; but, fortunately, Lembke turned his head at the shout. Perplexed, he nevertheless looked intently at Stepan Trofimovich, as if trying to figure something out, and suddenly waved his hand impatiently. Filibusterov was cut short. I dragged Stepan Trofimovich out of the crowd. It may be, however, that by then he himself wished to retreat.

"Home, home," I insisted, "if we weren't beaten, it's certainly thanks to Lembke."

"Go, my friend, I am to blame for subjecting you. You have a future and a career of some sort, while I—mon heure a sonné. "^[cxxxviii]

He firmly mounted the steps to the governor's house. The doorkeeper knew me; I announced that we had both come to see Yulia Mikhailovna. In the reception room we sat down and began to wait. I did not want to abandon my friend, but I found it unnecessary to say anything more to him. He had the look of a man who has doomed himself to something like a certain death for the fatherland. We seated ourselves not next to each other but in different corners—I nearer the entrance, he on the far side opposite, his head pensively inclined, leaning lightly with both hands on his cane. He held his wide-brimmed hat in his left hand. We sat like that for about ten minutes.

II

Lembke suddenly came in with quick steps, accompanied by the police chief, glanced at us distractedly and, paying no attention, turned right to go to his study, but Stepan Trofimovich stood in front of him and blocked his way. The tall figure of Stepan Trofimovich, quite unlike any other, produced its impression; Lembke stopped.

"Who is this?" he muttered in perplexity, as if asking the police chief, not turning his head towards him in the least, however, but continuing to examine Stepan Trofimovich.

"Retired collegiate assessor Stepan Trofimovich Verkhovensky, Your Excellency," Stepan Trofimovich replied, augustly inclining his head. His Excellency continued to peer at him, though with a quite dumb look.

"What about?" And with the laconism of authority he squeamishly and impatiently turned his ear to Stepan Trofimovich, taking him finally for an ordinary petitioner with some written request.

"I was subjected today to a house search by an official acting on Your Excellency's behalf; therefore I wish..."

"Name? Name?" Lembke asked impatiently, as if suddenly realizing something. Stepan Trofimovich repeated his name still more augustly.

"Ahh! It's... it's that hotbed... My dear sir, you have presented yourself from such an angle... You're a professor? A professor?"

"I once had the honor of delivering several lectures to the youth of ——--- University."

"Yo-o-outh!" Lembke seemed to jump, though I wager he still had little understanding of what it was about, and even, perhaps, of whom he was talking with. "That, my very dear sir, I will not allow," he suddenly became terribly angry. "I do not allow youth. It's all these tracts. It's a swoop upon society, my dear sir, a seafaring swoop, filibusterism... What is your request, if you please?"

"On the contrary, your wife has requested of me that I read tomorrow at her fête. I myself have no requests, but have come seeking my rights ..."

"At the fête? There will be no fête. I will not allow your fête, sir! Lectures? Lectures?" he cried furiously.

"I wish very much that you would speak more politely with me, Your Excellency, and not stamp your feet or shout at me as at a boy."

"You understand, perhaps, with whom you are talking?" Lembke flushed.

"Perfectly well, Your Excellency."

"I shield society with myself, while you destroy it. Destroy it! You ... I remember about you, however: was it you who were tutor in the house of General Stavrogin's widow?"

"Yes, I was ... tutor ... in the house of General Stavrogin's widow."

"And in the course of twenty years you have been a hotbed of all that has now accumulated ... all the fruit ... I believe I saw you in the square just now. Beware, however, my dear sir, beware: the direction of your thinking is known. You may be sure I have it in mind. Your lectures, my dear sir, I cannot allow, I cannot, sir. Address no such requests to me."

He again made as if to pass by.

"I repeat, you are mistaken, Your Excellency: it is your wife who has requested that I read—not a lecture, but something literary, at tomorrow's fête. But I myself decline to read now. My humble request is that you explain to me, if possible, how, why, and wherefore I was subjected to today's search? Some books, papers, private letters quite dear to me, were taken from me and carted through town in a wheelbarrow..."

"Who did the search?" Lembke fluttered up, coming fully to his senses, and suddenly blushed all over. He turned quickly to the police chief. At that same moment the stooping, long, gawky figure of Blum appeared in the doorway.

"This very same official," Stepan Trofimovich pointed to him. Blum stepped forward with a guilty but by no means capitulating look.

"Vous ne faites que des bêtises,"^[cxxxix] Lembke hurled at him with vexation and spite, and was suddenly transformed, as it were, and all at once regained his consciousness. "Excuse me..." he babbled in extreme confusion and blushing for all he was worth, "this was all. . . this was probably all just simply a blunder, a misunderstanding... just simply a misunderstanding."

"Your Excellency," Stepan Trofimovich observed, "in my youth I witnessed a certain characteristic incident. Once, in a theater, in the corridor, a man quickly went up to another and, in front of the whole public, gave him a resounding slap. Perceiving immediately that the victim was not at all the person for whom the slap was intended, but someone completely different who merely resembled him slightly, the man said angrily and hurriedly, like one who cannot waste precious time, exactly what Your Excellency just said: 'I made a mistake... excuse me, it was a misunderstanding, nothing but a misunderstanding.' And when the offended man nevertheless went on shouting and feeling offended, he observed to him in extreme vexation: 'But I tell you it was a misunderstanding, why are you still shouting!’“

"That... that is, of course, very funny..." Lembke smiled crookedly, "but... but don't you see how unhappy I am myself?"

He almost cried out and... and, it seemed, wanted to hide his face in his hands.

This unexpected, painful outcry, almost a sob, was unbearable. It was probably his first moment since the previous day of full and vivid awareness of all that had been happening—and then at once of despair, full, humiliating, surrendering; who knows, another minute and he might have begun sobbing for the whole room to hear. Stepan Trofimovich first gazed wildly at him, then suddenly inclined his head and in a deeply moved voice said:

"Your Excellency, trouble yourself no more over my peevish complaint, and simply order my books and letters returned..."

He was interrupted. At that very moment, Yulia Mikhailovna and her whole attendant company noisily came in. But this I would like to describe in as much detail as possible.

III

First of all, everyone from all three carriages came crowding into the reception room at once. There was a separate entrance to Yulia Mikhailovna's rooms, straight from the porch to the left; but this time everyone made their way through the reception room—precisely, I suspect, because Stepan Trofimovich was there, and because everything that had happened to him, as well as everything to do with the Shpigulin men, had been announced to Yulia Mikhailovna as she drove back to town. Lyamshin, who had been left behind for some offense and had not taken part in the excursion, had thus learned everything before anyone else and was able to announce it to her. With malicious glee he raced down the road to Skvoreshniki on a hired Cossack nag to meet the returning cavalcade with the merry news. I suppose Yulia Mikhailovna, in spite of all her lofty resolution, was still a bit embarrassed on hearing such a surprising report; though probably only for a moment. The political side of the question, for instance, could not worry her: Pyotr Stepanovich had already impressed it upon her at least four times that the Shpigulin ruffians all ought to be flogged, and Pyotr Stepanovich had indeed some time since become a great authority for her. "But ... all the same I'll make him pay for it," she must have thought to herself, and the him referred, of course, to her husband. I will note in passing that this time, as if by design, Pyotr Stepanovich also did not take part in the general excursion, and no one had seen him anywhere since that morning. I will also mention, incidentally, that Varvara Petrovna, after receiving her visitors, returned with them to town (in the same carriage with Yulia Mikhailovna), in order to take part without fail in the final meeting of the committee for the next day's fête. She, too, must of course have been interested in the news conveyed by Lyamshin about Stepan Trofimovich, and may even have become worried.

The reckoning with Andrei Antonovich began at once. Alas, he felt it from the first glance at his lovely spouse. With a candid air, with a bewitching smile, she quickly approached Stepan Trofimovich, offered him her charmingly begloved hand, and showered him with the most flattering greetings-—as if her only care that whole morning had been to hasten to rush up and shower kindnesses upon Stepan Trofimovich for seeing him at last in her house. Not a single hint at the morning search; just as though she still knew nothing. Not a single word to her husband, not a single glance in his direction—as though he were not even in the room. Moreover, she at once imperiously confiscated Stepan Trofimovich and led him off to the drawing room—just as if he had not been discussing anything with Lembke, or, if he had been, it was not worth continuing. Again I repeat: it seems to me that despite all her high tone, Yulia Mikhailovna here again made a great blunder. In this she was helped especially by Karmazinov (who had taken part in the excursion at Yulia Mikhailovna's special request, and who thus, albeit indirectly, did finally pay a visit to Varvara Petrovna, by which she, in her faintheartedness, was perfectly delighted). While still in the doorway (he came in later than the others), he cried out on seeing Stepan Trofimovich and made for him with his embraces, even getting in the way of Yulia Mikhailovna.

"It's been ages, ages! At last... Excellent ami.”

He set about kissing and, of course, offered his cheek. The flustered Stepan Trofimovich was obliged to plant a kiss on it.

"Cher," he said to me that evening, recalling everything from the past day, "at that moment I thought: which of us is the meaner? He who is embracing me so as to humiliate me right there, or I who despise him and his cheek and yet kiss it right there, though I could turn away... pah!"

"So, tell me, tell me everything," Karmazinov mumbled and lisped, as though it were possible just to up and tell him one's whole life over twenty-five years. But this silly frivolity was in "high" tone.

"Remember, you and I last saw each other in Moscow, at a dinner in honor of Granovsky,^[161] and twenty-four years have passed since then..." Stepan Trofimovich began, quite reasonably (and therefore not at all in high tone).

"Ce cher homme," Karmazinov interrupted shrilly and familiarly, squeezing his shoulder much too amiably with his hand, "but do take us quickly to your rooms, Yulia Mikhailovna, he'll sit down there and tell us everything."

"And yet I've never been on close terms with that irritable old woman," Stepan Trofimovich went on complaining the same evening, shaking with anger. "We were still almost boys, and even then I was beginning to hate him... and he me, of course..."^[162]

Yulia Mikhailovna's salon filled up quickly. Varvara Petrovna was in an especially excited state, though she tried to appear indifferent; two or three times I caught her glancing hatefully at Karmazinov or wrathfully at Stepan Trofimovich—wrathful beforehand, wrathful out of jealousy, out of love: if Stepan Trofimovich were somehow to muff it this time and allow Karmazinov to cut him down in front of everyone, it seemed to me she would jump up at once and give him a thrashing. I forgot to mention that Liza was also there, and I had never seen her more joyful, carelessly gay, and happy. Of course, Mavriky Nikolaevich was there, too. Then, in the crowd of young ladies and half-licentious young men who constituted Yulia Mikhailovna's usual retinue, among whom this licentiousness was taken for gaiety and a pennyworth cynicism for intelligence, I noticed two or three new faces: some visiting and much mincing Pole; some German doctor, a hale old fellow who kept laughing loudly and with pleasure at his own witzes;^[163] and, finally, some very young princeling from Petersburg, a mechanical figure, with the bearing of a statesman and a terribly long collar. But one could see that Yulia Mikhailovna greatly valued this visitor and was even anxious for her salon...

"Cher monsieur Karmazinoff," Stepan Trofimovich began to speak, sitting himself down picturesquely on the sofa, and suddenly beginning to lisp no worse than Karmazinov, "cher monsieur Karmazinoff, the life of a man of our former time and of certain convictions, even over a span of twenty-five years, must appear monotonous ..."

The German burst into a loud and abrupt guffaw, like a whinny, apparently thinking that Stepan Trofimovich had said something terribly funny. The latter looked at him with affected amazement, which failed, however, to produce any effect. The prince also looked, turning with all his collar towards the German and aiming his pince-nez at him, though without the least curiosity.

". . . Must appear monotonous," Stepan Trofimovich deliberately repeated, drawing each word out as lengthily and unceremoniously as possible. "Such, too, has my life been for this whole quarter of a century, et comme on trouve partout plus de moines que de raison,^[cxl] and since I fully agree with that,^[164] the result is that for this whole quarter of a century I..."

"C'est charmant, les moines,"^[cxli] Yulia Mikhailovna whispered, turning to Varvara Petrovna, who was sitting next to her.

Varvara Petrovna responded with a proud look. But Karmazinov could not bear the success of the French phrase, and quickly and shrilly interrupted Stepan Trofimovich.

"As for me, I am at ease in that regard, and it's seven years now that I've been sitting in Karlsruhe. And when the city council decided last year to install a new drainpipe, I felt in my heart that this Karlsruhian drainpipe question was dearer and fonder to me than all the questions of my dear fatherland ... during all the time of these so-called reforms here."

"I am forced to sympathize, though it is counter to my heart," Stepan Trofimovich sighed, inclining his head significantly.

Yulia Mikhailovna was triumphant: the conversation was acquiring both profundity and direction.

"You mean a sewer pipe?" the doctor inquired loudly.

"A drainpipe, doctor, a drainpipe, and I even helped them to draw up the plan."

The doctor gave a splitting guffaw. Many followed him, but this time in the doctor's face, who did not notice it and was terribly pleased that everyone was laughing.

"Allow me to disagree with you, Karmazinov," Yulia Mikhailovna hastened to put in. "Karlsruhe is one thing, but you love to be mystifying, and this time we shall not believe you. Who among Russians, among writers, has put forth so many of the most modern types, divined so many of the most modern questions, indicated precisely those modern points of which the type of the modern activist is composed? You, you alone, and no one else. Just try and convince us after that of your indifference to your motherland and your terrible interest in the Karlsruhian drainpipe! Ha, ha!"

"Yes, of course," Karmazinov lisped, "I did put forth in the type of Pogozhev all the flaws of the Slavophils, and in the type of Nikodimov all the flaws of the Westerners..."

"All, indeed," Lyamshin whispered softly.

"But I do it offhand, just to kill ineluctable time somehow and ... to satisfy all these ineluctable demands of my compatriots."

"It is probably known to you, Stepan Trofimovich," Yulia Mikhailovna went on rapturously, "that tomorrow we shall have the delight of hearing the charming lines... one of Semyon Yegorovich's very latest, most gracious artistic inspirations, it is entitled Merci. In this piece he announces that he will write no more, not for anything in the world, even if an angel from heaven, or, better to say, all of high society should beg him to alter his decision. In short, he lays down his pen for the rest of his life, and this graceful Merci is addressed to the public in gratitude for the constant rapture with which it has accompanied for so many years his constant service to honest Russian thought..."

Yulia Mikhailovna was at the height of bliss.

"Yes, it will be my farewell; I'll say my Merci and leave, and there ... in Karlsruhe ... I shall close my eyes," Karmazinov gradually started going to pieces.

Like many of our great writers (and we have very many great writers), he could not resist praise, and would begin to go soft at once, despite his wit. But I think this is pardonable. They say one of our Shakespeares blurted right out in private conversation that "for us great men it is impossible to do otherwise," etc., and, what's more, did not even notice it.

"There, in Karlsruhe, I shall close my eyes. For us great men, all that's left once our work is done is to hasten to close our eyes, without seeking a reward. I shall do the same."

"Give me the address, and I'll come to visit your grave in Karlsruhe," the German guffawed boundlessly.

"Nowadays they even send dead people by train," one of the insignificant young men said unexpectedly.

Lyamshin simply squealed with delight. Yulia Mikhailovna frowned. Nikolai Stavrogin entered.

"And I was told you'd been taken to the police station," he said loudly, addressing Stepan Trofimovich first of all.

"No, just my stationery, " Stepan Trofimovich punned.

"But I hope it will not have the slightest influence upon my request," Yulia Mikhailovna picked up again, "I hope that, notwithstanding this unfortunate annoyance, of which I still have no idea, you will not disappoint our best expectations and deprive us of the delight of hearing your reading at the literary matinée."

"I don't know, I... now..."

"Really, I'm so unfortunate, Varvara Petrovna... and imagine, precisely when I so desired to quickly make the personal acquaintance of one of the most remarkable and independent Russian minds, and now Stepan Trofimovich suddenly expresses his intention of withdrawing from us."

"Your compliment was spoken so loudly that I, of course, ought to turn a deaf ear to it," Stepan Trofimovich rapped out, "but I do not believe that my poor person was so necessary for your fête tomorrow. However, I..."

"No, you're going to spoil him!" Pyotr Stepanovich cried, running quickly into the room. "I've just taken him in hand, and suddenly, in one morning—a search, an arrest, a policeman grabs him by the scruff of the neck, and now the ladies are cooing over him in the burgomaster's salon! Every little bone in him is aching with delight now; he's never dreamed of such a gala performance. Wait and see how he starts denouncing the socialists now!"

"That cannot be, Pyotr Stepanovich. Socialism is too great an idea for Stepan Trofimovich not to be aware of it," Yulia Mikhailovna interceded energetically.

"The idea is great, but those who profess it are not always giants, et brisons-là, mon cher,”^[cxlii] Stepan Trofimovich concluded, addressing his son and rising handsomely from his place.

But here a most unexpected circumstance occurred. Von Lembke had already been in the salon for some time, but had gone as if unnoticed by anyone, though everyone had seen him come in. Yulia Mikhailovna, still set on her former idea, continued to ignore him. He placed himself by the door and, with a stern look, gloomily listened to the conversation. On hearing the morning's events alluded to, he began looking around somehow uneasily, fixing his stare first on the prince, apparently struck by the thrust of his heavily starched collar; then he suddenly seemed to give a start, hearing the voice of Pyotr Stepanovich and seeing him run in, and, as soon as Stepan Trofimovich managed to utter his maxim about the socialists, he suddenly went up to him, knocking on the way into Lyamshin, who jumped aside at once with an exaggerated gesture of surprise, rubbing his shoulder and pretending he had been badly hurt.

"Enough!" said von Lembke, energetically grabbing the frightened Stepan Trofimovich's hand and squeezing it as hard as he could in his own. "Enough, the filibusters of our time are ascertained. Not a word more. Measures have been taken..."

He uttered it loudly, for the whole room to hear, concluding energetically. The impression produced was painful. Everyone sensed that something was not well. I saw Yulia Mikhailovna turn pale. The effect was crowned by a silly accident. After announcing that measures had been taken, Lembke turned around sharply and started quickly out of the room, but after two steps he tripped on the rug, lurched nose downwards, and nearly fell. He stopped for a moment, looked at the place where he had tripped, and, having said aloud, "Change it," walked out the door. Yulia Mikhailovna ran after him. Her exit was followed by an uproar in which it was difficult to make anything out. Some said he was "deranged," others that he was "susceptible." A third group pointed their fingers to their foreheads; Lyamshin, in the corner, put two fingers above his forehead. There were hints at some domestic events, all in a whisper, of course. None of them took their hats, but all were waiting. I do not know what Yulia Mikhailovna managed to do, but she came back in about five minutes trying as hard as she could to appear calm. She answered evasively that Andrei Antonovich was slightly agitated, but that it was nothing, that he had had it since childhood, that she knew "far better," and that tomorrow's fête would certainly cheer him up. There followed a few flattering words to Stepan Trofimovich, but solely for the sake of decency, and a loud invitation to the committee members to open the meeting right then, at once. Only now did those not participating in the committee start preparing to go home; but the painful adventures of that fatal day were not yet over...

At the very moment when Nikolai Vsevolodovich entered, I noticed that Liza looked quickly and intently at him, and for a long time afterwards did not take her eyes off him—so long that in the end it aroused attention. I saw that Mavriky Nikolaevich bent over her from behind and, it seemed, wanted to whisper something to her, but evidently changed his intention and quickly straightened up, looking around at everyone like a guilty man. Nikolai Vsevolodovich, too, aroused curiosity: his face was paler than usual, and his gaze uncommonly distracted. After tossing his question at Stepan Trofimovich on entering, it was as if he forgot about him at once, and indeed, it seems to me, he even forgot to approach the hostess. He never once glanced at Liza—not because he did not want to, but, I maintain, because he did not notice her at all either. And suddenly, after some silence following Yulia Mikhailovna's invitation to open the last meeting without further delay—suddenly there came Liza's ringing, deliberately loud voice. She called to Nikolai Stavrogin.

"Nikolai Vsevolodovich, some captain who calls himself your relation, your wife's brother, a man by the name of Lebyadkin, keeps writing indecent letters to me, complaining in them about you, offering to reveal to me certain secrets concerning you. If he really is your relation, do forbid him to offend me and rid me of this unpleasantness."

A terrible challenge could be heard in these words, everyone understood that. The accusation was obvious, though perhaps unexpected even for her. She was like someone closing her eyes and throwing herself off a roof.

But Nikolai Stavrogin's answer was even more astounding.

First of all, it was strange enough that he was in no way surprised and listened to Liza with the most calm attention. His face reflected neither embarrassment nor wrath. Simply, firmly, even with an air of complete readiness, he answered the fatal question:

"Yes, I have the misfortune to be this man's relation. I am the husband of his sister, née Lebyadkin, soon now it will be for five years. Rest assured that I will convey your demands to him in the nearest future, and I will answer for his not troubling you anymore."

I will never forget the horror that was expressed on Varvara Petrovna's face. With an insane look she rose from her chair, holding her right hand up in front of her as if to defend herself. Nikolai Vsevolodovich looked at her, at Liza, at the spectators, and suddenly smiled with boundless haughtiness; unhurriedly, he walked out of the room. Everyone saw how Liza jumped up from the sofa as soon as Nikolai Vsevolodovich turned to leave and made an obvious move to run after him, but caught hold of herself and did not run but walked out quietly, also without saying a word to anyone or looking at anyone, accompanied, of course, by Mavriky Nikolaevich, who rushed after her...

Of the uproar and talk in town that evening I will not even make mention. Varvara Petrovna locked herself in her town house, and Nikolai Vsevolodovich, it was said, drove straight to Skvoreshniki without seeing his mother. Stepan Trofimovich sent me to "cette chère amie" in the evening to beg permission for him to come to her, but I was not received. He was terribly struck; he wept. "Such a marriage!

Such a marriage! Such horror in the family," he repeated all the time. However, he also kept recalling Karmazinov and abused him terribly. He was preparing energetically for the next day's reading and—the artistic nature!—preparing in front of the mirror, recalling all his witticisms and little puns over the course of his life, specially written down in a notebook, so as to introduce them into the next day's reading.

"My friend, this is for the sake of a great idea," he said to me, apparently justifying himself. "Cher ami, I have moved from my place of twenty-five years and suddenly set out—where, I do not know, but I have set out..."