Demons

3: A Finished Romance

I

From the big reception room at Skvoreshniki (the same one in which the last meeting between Varvara Petrovna and Stepan Trofimovich had taken place), the fire was in full view. At dawn, towards six o'clock, Liza was standing at the last window on the right, looking intently at the dying glow. She was alone in the room. The dress she was wearing was the festive one from the day before, in which she had appeared at the reading—light green, magnificent, all lace, but rumpled now, hastily and carelessly put on. Suddenly noticing that the front of the dress was not tightly fastened, she blushed, hastily put it right, snatched from the armchair a red shawl left there the day before when she came in, and threw it around her neck. Her fluffy hair fell in disorderly curls onto her right shoulder from under the shawl. Her face was tired, preoccupied, but her eyes were burning from under her frowning brows. She went up to the window again and leaned her hot forehead against the cold glass. The door opened and Nikolai Vsevolodovich came in.

"I've sent a messenger on horseback," he said, "in ten minutes we'll learn everything, but meanwhile the servants are saying that part of Zarechye has burned down, nearer the embankment, to the right from the bridge. It started burning before twelve; it's going out now."

He did not go to the window, but stopped three steps behind her, yet she did not turn to him.

"By the calendar it ought to have been light an hour ago, and it's still like night," she said with vexation.

"Every calendar doth lie,"^[185] he remarked with an obliging grin, but, ashamed, hastened to add: "It's boring to live by the calendar, Liza."

And he fell silent finally, vexed at the new platitude he had uttered; Liza smiled crookedly.

"You're in such a sad mood that you can't even find words with me. But don't worry, you put it appropriately: I always live by the calendar, my every step is reckoned by the calendar. Are you surprised?"

She quickly turned away from the window and sat down in an armchair.

"You sit down, too, please. We won't be together long, and I want to say whatever I like... Why shouldn't you, too, say whatever you like?"

Nikolai Vsevolodovich sat down beside her and gently, almost timorously, took her hand.

"What does this language mean, Liza? Where does it come from so suddenly? What is the meaning of 'we won't be together long'? This is the second mysterious phrase since you woke up half an hour ago."

"You've started counting my mysterious phrases?" she laughed. "And do you remember how yesterday, as I came in, I introduced myself as a dead person? You found it necessary to forget that. To forget or not to notice."

"I don't remember, Liza. Why a dead person? One must live..."

"And you stop short. You've quite lost your eloquence. I've lived my hour in the world, and enough. Do you remember Khristofor Ivanovich?"

"No, I don't," he frowned.

"Khristofor Ivanovich, in Lausanne? You got terribly sick of him. He'd open the door and always say, 'I've just come for a minute,' and he'd sit for the whole day. I don't want to be like Khristofor Ivanovich and sit for the whole day."

A pained impression came to his face.

"Liza, this broken language grieves me. This grimacing must cost you dearly. What is it for? Why?"

His eyes lit up.

"Liza," he exclaimed, "I swear I love you more now than yesterday when you came to me!"

"What a strange confession! Why this yesterday and today, these two measures?"

"You won't abandon me," he went on, almost with despair, "we'll leave together, this very day, right? Right?"

"Aie, don't squeeze my hand so painfully! Where are we going to go together this very day? To 'resurrect' somewhere again? No, enough trying... and it's too slow for me; and I'm not able; it's too high for me. If we're to go, it should be to Moscow, to pay calls there and receive people—that's my ideal, you know; even in Switzerland I didn't conceal from you how I am. Since it's not possible for us to go to Moscow and pay calls, because you're married, there's no point in talking about it."

"Liza! What was it yesterday, then?"

"It was what it was."

"That's impossible! That's cruel!"

"So what if it's cruel; just endure it, if it's cruel."

"You're taking revenge on me for yesterday's fantasy..." he muttered, grinning spitefully. Liza flushed.

"What a base thought!"

"Then why did you give me ... 'so much happiness'? Do I have the right to know?"

"No, try doing without rights somehow; don't crown the baseness of your suggestion with foolishness. You're not doing well today. Incidentally, are you not perchance afraid of the world's opinion, and that you'll be condemned for this 'so much happiness'? Oh, if you are, for God's sake don't worry. You didn't cause anything, and you're not answerable to anyone. When I was opening your door yesterday, you didn't even know who was coming in. Here it was precisely my fantasy alone, as you just put it, and nothing more. You can look everyone boldly and triumphantly in the eye."

"Your words, this laughter, for an hour already they've been sending a chill of horror over me. This 'happiness' you're now talking about so frenziedly has cost me... everything. How can I lose you now? I swear I loved you less yesterday. Why then do you take everything from me today? Do you know how much it cost me, this new hope? I paid for it with life."

"Your own or someone else's?"

He got up quickly.

"What does that mean?" he said, looking at her motionlessly.

"Paid with your own life or with mine, that is what I wanted to ask. Or have you now lost all understanding entirely?" Liza flushed. "Why did you jump up so suddenly? Why are you looking at me that way? You scare me. Why are you afraid all the time? I noticed a while ago that you're afraid, precisely now, precisely at this moment... Lord, you're turning so pale!"

"If you know anything, Liza, I swear that I do not. . . and I wasn't talking about that just now when I spoke of paying with life..."

"I don't understand you at all," she said, faltering timorously.

At last a slow, pensive grin appeared on his lips. He slowly sat down, put his elbows on his knees, and covered his face with his hands.

"A bad dream and delirium ... We were talking about two different things."

"I don't know at all what you were talking about... Did you really not know yesterday that I would leave you today, did you or did you not? Don't lie, did you know or did you not?"

"I did..." he uttered softly.

"So what do you want: you knew it, and you reserved 'the moment' for yourself. How can there be any score?"

"Tell me the whole truth," he cried out with deep suffering, "when you opened my door yesterday, did you know yourself that you were opening it for one hour only?"

She looked at him with hatred:

"Truly, the most serious man can ask the most amazing questions. And why do you worry so? Can it be out of pride that a woman left you first, and not you her? You know, Nikolai Vsevolodovich, since I've been here I've become convinced, among other things, that you are being terribly magnanimous towards me, and that is precisely what I cannot endure in you."

He got up from his place and walked several steps about the room.

"Very well, suppose it has to end this way... But how could it all have happened?"

"Who cares! And the main thing is that you yourself can tell it off on your own fingers and understand it better than anyone in the world and were counting on it. I am a young lady, my heart was brought up in the opera, it started there, that's the whole answer."

"No."

"There's nothing here that can gall your pride, and it's all perfectly true. It began with a beautiful moment which I could not endure. Two days ago when I 'offended' you before all the world, and you gave me such a chivalrous reply, I came home and guessed at once that you were running away from me because you were married, and not at all out of contempt for me—which is what I, being a young lady of fashion, was most afraid of. I understood that it was me, a reckless girl, that you were protecting by running away. You see how I value your magnanimity. Then Pyotr Stepanovich jumped up to me and explained it all at once. He revealed to me that you were being shaken by a great idea, before which he and I were utterly nothing, but that I still stood in your way. He included himself in it; he absolutely wanted it to be the three of us together, and said the most fantastic things about a bark and maple oars from some Russian song. I praised him, said he was a poet, and he took it for pure gold. And since I'd known for a long time, even without that, that I'd never last more than a moment, I just up and decided. So that's all, and enough, and, please, no more explanations. Otherwise we might quarrel. Don't be afraid of anyone, I take it all upon myself. I'm bad, I'm capricious, I got tempted by an operatic bark, I'm a young lady ... But, you know, I still thought you loved me terribly. Don't despise a foolish girl or laugh at this little tear that just fell. I like terribly much to cry and 'pity myself.' Well, enough, enough. I'm not capable of anything, you're not capable of anything; two flicks, one on each side, and let that be a comfort to us. At least our pride doesn't suffer."

"Dream and delirium!" Nikolai Vsevolodovich cried out, wringing his hands and pacing the room. "Liza, poor Liza, what have you done to yourself?"

"Burned myself in a candle, that's all. Are you crying, too? Be more decent, more unfeeling..."

"Why, why did you come to me?"

"But don't you understand, finally, what a comical position you put yourself in before worldly opinion by asking such questions?"

"Why did you ruin yourself in such an ugly and stupid way, and what is to be done now?"

"And this is Stavrogin, the 'bloodsucker Stavrogin,' as one lady here who is in love with you calls you! Listen, I already told you: I've traded my life for a single hour, and I'm at peace. Trade yours the same way... though you've got no reason to; you'll still have so many different 'hours' and 'moments.’”

"As many as you have; I give you my great word, not an hour more than you have!"

He kept pacing and did not see her quick, piercing look which suddenly seemed to light up with hope. But the ray of light went out at the same moment.

"If you knew the price of my present impossible sincerity, Liza, if only I could reveal it to you..."

"Reveal? You want to reveal something to me? God save me from your revelations!" she interrupted, almost fearfully.

He stopped and waited uneasily.

"I must confess to you, ever since Switzerland the thought has settled in me that there is something horrible, dirty, and bloody on your soul, and ... at the same time something that makes you look terribly ridiculous. Beware of revealing it to me, if it's true: I'll ridicule you. I'll laugh at you all your life... Aie, you're turning pale again? I won't, I won't, I'll leave at once," she jumped up from the chair with a squeamish and scornful gesture.

"Torment me, punish me, vent your spite on me," he cried out in despair. "You have every right! I knew I didn't love you, and I ruined you. Yes, 'I reserved the moment for myself; I had a hope ... for a long time ... a last hope ... I couldn't resist the light that shone in my heart when you came to me yesterday, yourself, alone, first. I suddenly believed... maybe I believe even now."

"For such noble sincerity I shall repay you in kind. I do not want to be your tenderhearted nurse. Suppose I do indeed become a sick-nurse, unless I incidentally manage to die this very day; still, if I do, it won't be to you, though of course you're worth anyone legless or armless. It has always seemed to me that you would bring me to some place where there lives a huge, evil spider, as big as a man, and we would spend our whole life there looking at him and being afraid.

That's how our mutual love would pass. Address yourself to Dashenka; she'll go with you wherever you like."

"And even now you can't help recalling her?"

"Poor puppy! Give her my regards. Does she know you intend her for your old age in Switzerland? What consideration! What foresight! Aie, who's there?"

At the far end of the room the door opened a tiny bit; someone's head stuck itself in and quickly hid.

"Is that you, Alexei Yegorych?" Stavrogin asked.

"No, it's only me," Pyotr Stepanovich again stuck in the upper half of himself. "Hello, Lizaveta Nikolaevna; or, anyhow, good morning. I just knew I'd find you both in this room. Absolutely for just one moment, Nikolai Vsevolodovich—I hurried here at all costs for a couple of words... most necessary words ... a couple, no more!"

Stavrogin started to go, but after three steps he returned to Liza.

"If you hear anything now, Liza, know this: I am guilty."

She gave a start and looked at him timorously; but he hurriedly went out.

II

The room Pyotr Stepanovich had peeked out from was a big oval anteroom. Before he came, Alexei Yegorych had been sitting there, but he sent him away. Nikolai Vsevolodovich closed the door to the reception room behind himself and stopped in expectation. Pyotr Stepanovich looked him over quickly and inquisitively.

"Well?"

"I mean, if you already know," Pyotr Stepanovich hurried on, wishing, it seemed, to jump into the man's soul with his eyes, "then, of course, none of us is guilty of anything, and you first of all, because it's such a conjunction ... a coincidence of events ... in short, legally it cannot involve you, and I flew here to forewarn you."

"They're burned? Killed?"

"Killed but not burned, and that's the bad thing, but I give you my word of honor that I'm not guilty there either, however much you suspect me—because maybe you do suspect me, eh? Want the whole truth? You see, the thought did indeed occur to me—you prompted me to it yourself, not seriously, teasing me (because you wouldn't really prompt me seriously), but I didn't dare, and I wouldn't have dared for anything, not even for a hundred roubles—and there isn't any profit in it, I mean for me, for me..." (He hurried terribly and spoke like a rattle.) "But look what a coincidence of circumstances: I gave that drunken fool Lebyadkin two hundred and thirty roubles of my own (of my own, you hear, of my own, not a rouble of it was yours, and, moreover, you know that yourself), two days ago, already that evening—you hear, two days ago, not yesterday after the 'reading,' note that: it's a rather important coincidence, because I didn't know anything for certain then about Lizaveta Nikolaevna's going to you or not; and I gave my own money solely because two days ago you distinguished yourself by deciding to announce your secret to everyone. Well, I'm not getting into... it's your business... this chivalry... but, I confess, it surprised me, like a clout on the head. But since I am exceeding weary of all these tragedies—and note that I'm speaking seriously, though I'm using antiquated expressions—since it's all finally harmful to my plans, I swore to myself I'd pack the Lebyadkins off to Petersburg at all costs and without your knowledge, the more so since he was anxious to go there himself. One mistake: I gave him the money on your behalf; was it a mistake, or not? Maybe not, eh? Now listen, listen to how it all turned out..." In the fever of talking he moved up very close to Stavrogin and went to grab him by the lapel of his jacket (maybe on purpose, by God). Stavrogin, with a strong movement, hit him on the arm.

"What's this now ... come on ... you'll break my arm ... the main thing here is how it turned out," he rattled on, not even the least surprised at being hit. "I hand him the money in the evening, so that he and his dear sister can set out the next day at dawn; I charge the scoundrel Liputin with that little business, putting them on the train and seeing them off himself. But the blackguard Liputin felt the need to pull a prank on the public—maybe you heard? At the 'reading'? So listen, listen: the two of them drink, compose verses, half belonging to Liputin; he dresses him up in a tailcoat, assures me he sent him off in the morning, all the while keeping him somewhere in a back closet, in order to push him out onto the platform. But he quickly and unexpectedly gets drunk. Then the notorious scandal, then he's brought home more dead than alive, and Liputin takes the two hundred roubles from him on the sly, leaving him some change. But, unfortunately, it turns out that he had already taken the two hundred out of his pocket in the morning, boasting and showing it where he shouldn't have. And since Fedka was just waiting for that, and had heard something at Kirillov's (remember your hint?), he decided to make use of it. That's the whole truth. I'm glad at least that Fedka didn't find the money— and he was counting on getting a thousand, the scoundrel! He was in a hurry and, it seems, was frightened by the fire himself... Would you believe it, that fire was a real whack on the head for me. No, it's the devil knows what! It's such high-handedness... Look, I won't conceal anything, since I expect so much from you: so, yes, I've had this little idea of a fire ripening in me for a long time, since it's so national and popular; but I was keeping it for a critical hour, for that precious moment when we all rise up and... And they suddenly decided it high-handedly and without any orders, now, precisely when they should have laid low and held their breath! No, it's such highhandedness! ... in short, I still don't know anything, they're talking here about two Shpigulin men... but if ours were in it as well, if any one of them warmed his hands at it—woe to him! You see what it means to slacken even a little! No, this democratic scum with its fivesomes is a poor support; what we need is one splendid, monumental, despotic will, supported by something external and not accidental... Then the fivesomes will also put their tails of obedience between their legs, and their obsequiousness will occasionally come in handy. Anyhow, though it's being shouted in all trumpets that Stavrogin needed to burn his wife, and that's why the town got burned down, still ..."

"They're already shouting in all trumpets?"

"I mean, not at all so far, and, I confess, I've heard nothing whatsoever, but what can you do with people, especially when they've been burned out: Vox populi vox dei.^[186] How long does it take to blow the stupidest rumor to the four winds?... But as a matter of fact you have nothing whatsoever to fear. Legally, you're completely in the right, and morally, too—because you didn't want it, eh? Did you? There's no evidence, just a coincidence ... Unless Fedka happens to recall your imprudent words that time at Kirillov's (and why did you say that then?), but that proves nothing at all, and we will cancel Fedka. I'm canceling him today..."

"And the bodies didn't burn at all?"

"Not a bit; that rascal couldn't arrange anything properly. But I'm glad at least that you're so calm... because though you're not guilty in any way, not even in thought, still, all the same. And, besides, you must agree that all this gives an excellent turn to your affairs: suddenly you're a free widower and at this very moment can marry a wonderful girl with enormous money, who, on top of that, is already in your hands. That's what a simple, crude coincidence of circumstances can do—eh?"

"Are you threatening me, foolish head?"

"Eh, enough, enough, right away I'm a foolish head! And what's this tone? Instead of being glad, you ... I came flying especially to forewarn you sooner ... And how am I going to threaten you? As if I need you under threat! I need your good will, and not out of fear. You are the light, the sun... It's I who am afraid of you with all my might, not you of me! I'm not Mavriky Nikolaevich... And, imagine, I'm flying here in a racing droshky, and there's Mavriky Nikolaevich by the garden fence, at the back corner of the garden ... in his greatcoat, soaked through, must have been sitting there all night! Wonders! How people can lose their minds!"

"Mavriky Nikolaevich? Is it true?"

"True, true. Sitting by the garden fence. From here—about three hundred steps from here, I suppose. I hurried to get past him, but he saw me. You didn't know? In that case I'm very glad I didn't forget to tell you. His kind is most dangerous if he happens to have a revolver, and, finally, the night, the slush, the natural irritation—because look what situation he's in now, ha, ha! Why do you think he's sitting there?"

"Waiting for Lizaveta Nikolaevna, of course."

"Ah-ha! But why should she go out to him? And ... in such rain... what a fool!"

"She will go out to him presently."

"Ehh! That's news! So then ... But listen, her affairs are completely changed now: what need does she have for Mavriky now? When you're a free widower and can marry her tomorrow? She doesn't know yet—leave it to me, I'll take care of it right away. Where is she, I must make her happy with the news."

"Happy?"

"What else! Let's go."

"And you think she won't guess about those corpses?" Stavrogin narrowed his eyes somehow peculiarly.

"Of course she won't," Pyotr Stepanovich picked up like a decided little fool, "because legally... Eh, you! But even if she does guess! With women it all gets so excellently shaded in—you still don't know women! Besides, it's entirely to her profit to marry you now, because she's made a scandal of herself, after all, and, besides, I told her a pile of stuff about the 'bark': I precisely thought one could affect her with the 'bark,' so that's the caliber of the girl. Don't worry, she'll step over those little corpses all right, and la-di-da!—the more so as you're perfectly, perfectly innocent, isn't that so? She'll just stash those little corpses away so as to needle you later on, say in the second year of your marriage. Every woman on her way to the altar keeps something like that stored up from her husband's old days, but then ... what will it be like in a year? Ha, ha, ha!"

"If you came in a racing droshky, take her now to Mavriky Nikolaevich. She said just now that she couldn't stand me and was going to leave me, and she certainly won't accept my carriage."

"Ah-ha! She's really leaving? What might have brought that about?" Pyotr Stepanovich gave a silly look.

"She guessed somehow during the night that I don't love her at all... which, of course, she's always known."

"But don't you love her?" Pyotr Stepanovich picked up, with a look of boundless amazement. "But in that case why did you keep her here when she came yesterday, and not inform her directly, like a noble man, that you didn't love her? That is terribly mean on your part; and what a mean position you put me in before her!"

Stavrogin suddenly laughed.

"I'm laughing at my ape," he clarified at once.

"Ah! You guessed I was clowning," Pyotr Stepanovich also burst into terribly gay laughter. "It was to make you laugh! Imagine, as soon as you came out to me, I guessed at once from your face that you'd had a 'misfortune.' Maybe even a complete fiasco, eh? Now, I'll bet," he cried, almost choking with delight, "that you spent the whole night side by side on chairs in the drawing room, and argued about some most lofty nobility the whole precious time ... Excuse me, excuse me; what do I care: I already knew for sure yesterday that it would end with foolishness between you. I brought her to you solely to amuse you, and to prove that with me you won't be bored; I'll be useful in that line three hundred times; I generally like being pleasant with people. And if you don't need her now, which is what I was figuring on, what I came for, then..."

"So you brought her here only for my amusement?"

"What else?" "And not to make me kill my wife?"

"Ah-ha, but did you kill her, really? What a tragic man!"

"It makes no difference. You killed her."

"Did I, really? I'm telling you, I didn't have a drop to do with it. However, you're beginning to worry me..."

"Go on. You said: 'If you don't need her now, then...’”

"Permit me, of course! I'll get her excellently married to Mavriky Nikolaevich, whom, incidentally, I did not plant there in your garden, don't take that into your head as well. In fact, I'm afraid of him now. In the racing droshky, you say; but I really just snicked by him... what if he does indeed have a revolver?... It's a good thing I brought mine along. Here it is" (he took a revolver from his pocket, showed it, and immediately put it back again). "I brought it along on account of the far distance ... Anyhow, I'll fix it up for you in a second: her little heart is precisely aching for Mavriky now ... at least it should be... and you know—by God, I'm even slightly sorry for her now! I'll put her together with Mavriky, and she'll immediately start remembering you—praising you to him and abusing him to his face—a woman's heart! Well, so you're laughing again? I'm terribly glad you've cheered up so much. Well, then, let's go. I'll start straight off with Mavriky, and those... the murdered ones... you know, why don't we just not mention them for now? She'll find out later anyway."

"Find out what? Who has been murdered? What did you say about Mavriky Nikolaevich?" Liza suddenly opened the door.

"Ah! you've been eavesdropping?"

"What did you just say about Mavriky Nikolaevich? Has he been murdered?"

"Ah! so you didn't quite hear! Calm yourself, Mavriky Nikolaevich is alive and well, which you can instantly ascertain for yourself, because he's here on the roadside, by the garden fence... and spent the whole night there, it seems; he's soaked through, in his greatcoat ... I drove by, he saw me."

"That isn't true. You said 'murdered'... Who has been murdered?" she insisted, with painful mistrust.

"Only my wife, her brother Lebyadkin, and their housekeeper have been murdered," Stavrogin declared firmly.

Liza gave a start and turned terribly pale.

"A brutal case, a strange case, Lizaveta Nikolaevna, a most stupid case of robbery," Pyotr Stepanovich began rattling at once, "just robbery, taking advantage of the fire; it's the doing of the brigand Fedka the Convict, and that fool Lebyadkin, who was showing everyone his money ... I came flying to tell you... like a smack on the head. Stavrogin could barely keep his feet when I told him. We were discussing whether to tell you now or not."

"Nikolai Vsevolodovich, is he telling the truth?" Liza barely uttered.

"No, it's not the truth."

"How, not the truth!" Pyotr Stepanovich jumped. "What's this now!"

"Lord, I'm losing my mind!" Liza cried out.

"But understand, at least, that right now he is the mad one!" Pyotr Stepanovich shouted with all his might. "After all, his wife has been murdered. See how pale he is ... Wasn't he with you all night, without leaving you for a moment, how can you suspect him?"

"Nikolai Vsevolodovich, tell me, as before God, are you guilty or not, and I swear I'll believe your word as if it were God's own, and follow you to the ends of the earth, oh, I will! I'll go like a little dog..."

"Why are you tormenting her, you fantastic head?" Pyotr Stepanovich flew into a frenzy. "Lizaveta Nikolaevna, grind me in a mortar, by gosh, but he's innocent, on the contrary, he's crushed and raving, you can see that. He's not guilty of anything, not of anything, not even of the thought! ... It's all the doing of brigands alone, who will certainly be found within a week and punished with flogging... Fedka the Convict and the Shpigulin men are the ones, the whole town's rattling about it, which is why I am, too."

"Is that right? Is that right?" Liza waited, all trembling, for her final sentence.

"I didn't kill them and was against it, but I knew they would be killed, and I didn't stop the killers. Leave me, Liza," Stavrogin uttered, and he turned and went into the drawing room.

Liza covered her face with her hands, turned, and went out. Pyotr Stepanovich first dashed after her, but immediately came back to the drawing room.

"So that's how you are? So that's how you are? So you're not afraid of anything?" he fell upon Stavrogin in a perfect fury, muttering incoherently, almost at a loss for words, foaming at the mouth.

Stavrogin stood in the middle of the room without answering a word. He lightly grasped a tuft of his hair with his left hand and smiled forlornly. Pyotr Stepanovich pulled him hard by the sleeve.

"Are you all there, or what? So this is what you're doing now? You'll denounce everybody and take yourself to a monastery, or to the devil... But I'll bump you off all the same, even if you're not afraid of me!"

"Ah, it's you rattling!" Stavrogin finally made him out. "Run," he suddenly came to his senses, "run after her, order the carriage, don't abandon her ... Run, run! Take her home, so that no one knows, and so that she doesn't go there ... at the bodies ... at the bodies... force her to get into the carriage. Alexei Yegorych! Alexei Yegorych!"

"Stop, don't shout! She's in Mavriky's arms by now... Mavriky is not going to get into your carriage... Stop! This is more precious than the carriage!"

He snatched out the revolver again; Stavrogin gave him a serious look.

"Go ahead, kill me," he said softly, almost peaceably.

"Pah, the devil, what lies a man heaps on himself!" Pyotr Stepanovich was simply shaking. "By God, you ought to be killed! Truly, she should have spat on you! What sort of 'bark' are you; you're an old, leaky timber barge, fit to be broken up! ... Can't you come to your senses now, at least out of spite, at least out of spite! Ehh! Does it make any difference to you, since you're asking for a bullet in the head?"

Stavrogin grinned strangely.

"If you weren't such a clown, perhaps I'd say yes now ... If you were just a drop smarter..."

"I am a clown, but I don't want you, my main half, to be a clown! Do you understand me?"

Stavrogin did understand, and he alone, perhaps. For Shatov was amazed when Stavrogin told him there was enthusiasm in Pyotr Stepanovich.

"Leave me now, go to the devil, and by tomorrow I'll wring something out of myself. Come tomorrow."

"Yes? Yes?"

"How do I know! ... To the devil, to the devil!"

And he left the room.

"Maybe it's all still for the better," Pyotr Stepanovich muttered to himself, putting the revolver away.

III

He rushed to catch up with Lizaveta Nikolaevna. She had not gone very far yet, only a few steps from the house. She had been detained for a while by Alexei Yegorovich, who was still following her, a step behind, in a tailcoat, reverently inclined and hatless. He begged her persistently to wait for the carriage; the old man was frightened and almost weeping.

"Go, the master's asking for tea, there's no one to serve him," Pyotr Stepanovich pushed him away and at once took Lizaveta Nikolaevna's arm.

She did not pull her arm free, but seemed not to have quite recovered her reason, not to have come to her senses yet.

"First of all, you're not going the right way," Pyotr Stepanovich began to prattle, "we must go that way, not past the garden; and, second, in any case it's not possible on foot, it's a good two miles, and you're not dressed for it. If you'd wait a bit. I came in a droshky, the horse is here in the yard, I'll bring it in a moment, put you in, and deliver you so that no one will see."

"You're so kind..." Liza said tenderly.

"For pity's sake, on such an occasion any humane person in my place would also..."

Liza looked at him and was surprised.

"Ah, my God, and I thought that old man was still here!"

"Listen, I'm terribly glad you're taking it this way, because it's all a terrible prejudice, and since that's the way it is, why don't I order this old man to take care of the carriage, it's just ten minutes, and we'll go back and wait under the porch, eh?"

"I first want... where are those murdered people?"

"Ah, what a fancy! Just what I was afraid of... No, we'd better leave that trash alone; and there's nothing there to look at."

"I know where they are, I know that house."

"So what if you do know! The rain, the fog, for pity's sake (what a sacred duty I've heaped on myself, though!)... Listen, Lizaveta Nikolaevna, it's one of two things: either you come with me in the droshky, in which case stop and don't go a step farther, because another twenty steps and Mavriky Nikolaevich will certainly notice us."

"Mavriky Nikolaevich! Where? Where?"

"Well, and if you want to go with him, then perhaps I'll take you a little farther and show you where he's sitting, and then—I'm your humble servant. I don't want to get near him right now."

"He's waiting for me, oh, God!" she suddenly stopped, and color spread over her face.

"But, for pity's sake, if he's a man without prejudices! You know, Lizaveta Nikolaevna, it's all none of my business; I'm completely outside of it, and you know that yourself; but still, I do wish you well ... If our 'bark' has failed, if it has turned out to be just an old, rotten barge, only fit to be broken up..."

"Ah, wonderful!" Liza cried out.

"Wonderful, and with tears pouring down. One needs courage here. One mustn't yield to a man in anything. In our day and age, when a woman... pah, the devil!" (Pyotr Stepanovich nearly spat). "And, mainly, there's nothing to be sorry for: maybe it will all turn out excellently. Mavriky Nikolaevich is a ... in a word, he's a sensitive man, though not very talkative, which, however, is also good, on condition, of course, if he's without prejudices..."

"Wonderful, wonderful!" Liza burst into hysterical laughter.

"Ah, well, the devil... Lizaveta Nikolaevna," Pyotr Stepanovich was suddenly piqued, "as a matter of fact, it's for you that I... what is it to me ... I did you a service yesterday when you yourself wanted it, but today... Well, from here you can see Mavriky Nikolaevich, there he sits, he doesn't see us. I wonder, Lizaveta Nikolaevna, have you ever read Polinka Sachs?"^[187]

"What is it?"

"There's this novella, Polinka Sachs. I read it when I was still a student... In it some official, Sachs, with a big fortune, arrests his wife at their summer house for infidelity... Ah, well, the devil, spit on it! You'll see, Mavriky Nikolaevich will propose to you even before you get home. He still hasn't seen us."

"Ah, he mustn't see us!" Liza cried out suddenly, as if insane. "Let's go away, go away! To the forest, to the fields!"

And she started running back.

"Lizaveta Nikolaevna, this is real faintheartedness!" Pyotr Stepanovich ran after her. "Why don't you want him to see you? On the contrary, look him proudly and directly in the eye ... If it's something about that... maidenly... it's such a prejudice, such backwardness... But where are you going, where? Ehh, she's running! Let's better go back to Stavrogin, get my droshky... But where are you going? That's a field... hah, she fell! ..."

He stopped. Liza was flying like a bird, not knowing where, and Pyotr Stepanovich already lagged fifty steps behind her. She stumbled over a mound and fell. At the same moment, from in back, to one side, came a terrible cry, the cry of Mavriky Nikolaevich, who had seen her run and fall, and was running to her across the field. Pyotr Stepanovich instantly retreated through the gates of Stavrogin's house, to get quickly into his droshky.

And Mavriky Nikolaevich, terribly frightened, was already standing by Liza, who had gotten to her feet, was bending over her and holding her hand in his. The whole incredible situation of this encounter shook his reason, and tears streamed down his face. He had seen her, before whom he stood in awe, madly running across the field, at such an hour, in such weather, wearing only a dress, yesterday's magnificent dress, crumpled now, dirty from her fall... Unable to say a word, he took off his greatcoat and, with trembling hands, began to cover her shoulders. Suddenly he gave a cry, feeling her touch his hand with her lips.

"Liza!" he cried, "I'm no good for anything, but don't drive me away from you!"

"Oh, yes, let's leave here quickly, don't abandon me!" and taking him by the hand, she drew him after her. "Mavriky Nikolaevich," she suddenly lowered her voice fearfully, "I kept pretending I was brave in there, but here I'm afraid of death. I'll die, I'll die very soon, but I'm afraid, afraid to die..." she whispered, squeezing his hand hard.

"Oh, if only someone," he kept looking around in despair, "if only someone would pass by! Your feet will get wet, you'll... lose your reason!"

"Never mind, never mind," she reassured him, "like that, I'm less afraid with you, hold my hand, lead me ... Where are we going now, home? No, I want to see the murdered ones first. I've heard they murdered his wife, and he says he murdered her himself; but it's not true, it's not true, is it? I myself want to see the ones who were murdered ... for me... because of them he stopped loving me last night. . . I'll see and I'll know everything. Hurry, hurry, I know that house... there's fire there... Mavriky Nikolaevich, my friend, don't forgive me, dishonorable as I am! Why forgive me? What are you crying for? Slap me in the face and kill me here in the field, like a dog!"

"No one can be your judge now," Mavriky Nikolaevich said firmly, "God forgive you, and least of all will I be your judge!"

But it would be strange to describe their conversation. And meanwhile the two were walking arm in arm, quickly, hurrying, as if half crazed. They were making straight for the fire. Mavriky Nikolaevich had still not lost hope of meeting some cart at least, but no one came along. A fine drizzle pervaded all the surroundings, absorbing every sheen and every shade, and turning everything into one smoky, leaden, indifferent mass. It had long been day, yet it seemed that dawn had still not come. Then suddenly, out of this cold, smoky haze, a figure materialized, strange and absurd, walking towards them. Picturing it now, I think I would not have believed my eyes, even if I had been in Lizaveta Nikolaevna's place; and yet she cried out joyfully and recognized the approaching man at once. It was Stepan Trofimovich. How he had left, in what way the insane, cerebral notion of his flight could have been carried out—of that later. I will only mention that he was already in a fever that morning, but even illness did not stop him: he strode firmly over the wet ground; one could see that he had thought the enterprise over as best he could, alone with all his bookish inexperience. He was dressed in "traveling fashion"—that is, in a greatcoat with sleeves and a wide patent-leather belt with a buckle, as well as high new boots with his trousers tucked into them. Probably he had long pictured a traveling man in this way, and several days earlier had provided himself with the belt and the high boots with their gleaming hussar tops, in which he did not know how to walk. A wide-brimmed hat, a worsted scarf wrapped tightly around his neck, a stick in his right hand, and in his left an extremely small but exceedingly tightly packed valise, completed the outfit. There was, besides, an open umbrella in that same right hand. These three objects—the umbrella, the stick, and the valise—had been very awkward to carry for the first half mile, and simply heavy for the second.

"Can it really be you?" Liza cried out, looking him over in sorrowful surprise, which replaced her first impulse of unconscious joy.

"Lise!" Stepan Trofimovich also cried out, rushing to her also almost in delirium. "Chère, chère, can it be that you, too ... in such fog? Do you see: a glow! Vous êtes malheureuse, n 'est-ce pas?^[cliii] I see, I see, don't tell, but don't question me either. Nous sommes tous malheureux, mais il faut les pardonner tous. Pardonnons, Lise,^[cliv] and be free forever. To settle accounts with the world and be fully free—il faut pardonner, pardonner, et pardonner!"

"But why are you kneeling down?"

"Because, as I am bidding the world farewell, I want to bid farewell, in your image, to the whole of my past!" He began to weep and brought both her hands to his weeping eyes. "I kneel before all that was beautiful in my life, I kiss and give thanks! I've now broken myself in two: there—a madman who dreamed of soaring up into the sky, vingt-deux ans!^[clv] Here—a crushed and chilled old tutor... chez ce marchand, s'il existe pourtant ce marchand^[clvi] ... But how soaked you are, Lise!" he cried, jumping to his feet, feeling that his knees, too, had become soaked on the sodden ground, "and how is this possible, you, in this dress?... and on foot, and in this field... You're crying? Vous êtes malheureuse? Hah, I heard something... But where are you coming from now?" he quickened his questions, with a timorous look, glancing in deep perplexity at Mavriky Nikolaevich, "mais savez-vous l'heure qu'il est!"^[clvii]

"Stepan Trofimovich, did you hear anything there about murdered people ... Is it true? Is it?"

"Those people! I saw the glow of their deeds all night. They couldn't have ended otherwise..." (His eyes began to flash again.) "I'm running from a delirium, from a feverish dream, running to seek Russia, existe-t-elle la Russie? Bah, c'est vous, cher capitaine!^[clviii] I never doubted but that I'd meet you somewhere at some lofty deed... But do take my umbrella and—why must you go on foot? For God's sake, at least take my umbrella, and I'll hire a carriage somewhere anyway. I'm on foot only because Stasie (that is, Nastasya) would have started shouting for the whole street to hear, if she'd found out I was leaving; so I slipped away as incognito as possible. I don't know, in the Voice they're writing about robberies everywhere, but it can't be, I thought, that the moment I get out on the road, there will be a robber? Chère Lise, it seems you said someone murdered someone? O, mon Dieu, you're not well!"

"Let's go, let's go!" Liza cried out as if in hysterics, again drawing Mavriky Nikolaevich after her. "Wait, Stepan Trofimovich," she suddenly went back to him, "wait, poor dear, let me make a cross over you. It might be better to tie you up, but I'd better make a cross over you. You, too, pray for 'poor' Liza—just so, a little, don't trouble yourself too much. Mavriky Nikolaevich, give this child back his umbrella, you must give it back. There... Let's go now! Let's go!"

Their arrival at the fatal house occurred precisely at the moment when the thick crowd thronging in front of the house had heard a good deal about Stavrogin and how it was profitable for him to kill his wife. But still, I repeat, the great majority went on listening silently and motionlessly. Only bawling drunkards and "breaking-loose" people like that arm-waving tradesman lost control of themselves. Everyone knew him as even a quiet man, but it was as if he would suddenly break loose and fly off somewhere if something suddenly struck him in a certain way. I did not see Liza and Mavriky Nikolaevich arrive. I first noticed Liza, to my stupefied amazement, when she was already far away from me in the crowd, and in the beginning I did not even make out Mavriky Nikolaevich. It seems there was a moment when he lagged a couple of steps behind her because of the crowd, or else he was forced aside. Liza, who was tearing through the crowd without seeing or noticing anything around her, like someone in a fever, like someone escaped from a hospital, of course drew attention to herself all too quickly: there was loud talk and suddenly shouting. Then someone yelled: "That's Stavrogin's woman!" And from the other side: "They don't just kill, they also come and look!" Suddenly I saw someone's hand, above her head, from behind, raised and lowered; Liza fell. There came a terrible cry from Mavriky Nikolaevich, who tore to her aid and struck the man who was between him and Liza with all his strength. But at the same moment that tradesman seized him from behind with both arms. For some time it was impossible to make anything out in the ensuing scuffle. It seems Liza got up, but fell again from another blow. Suddenly the crowd parted and a small empty circle formed around the prostrate Liza, with the bloody, crazed Mavriky Nikolaevich standing over her, shouting, weeping, and wringing his hands. I do not remember with complete precision how things went after that; I only remember that Liza was suddenly being carried away. I ran after her; she was still alive, and perhaps still conscious. From among the crowd, the tradesman and another three men were seized. These three up to now have denied any participation in the evil-doing, stubbornly insisting that they were seized by mistake; perhaps they are right. The tradesman, though clearly exposed, being a witless man, has been unable up to now to explain coherently what happened. I, too, had to give my evidence at the investigation, as a witness, though a distant one: I declared that everything had happened to the highest degree by chance, through people who, though perhaps of a certain inclination, had very little awareness, were drunk, and had already lost the thread. I am still of that opinion.