Complete Works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky

by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

  Stavrogin moved towards him but turned back to Liza at the third step.

  “If you hear anything directly, Liza, let me tell you I am to blame for it!”

  She started and looked at him in dismay; but he hurriedly went out.

  II

  The room from which Pyotr Stepanovitch had peeped in was a large oval vestibule. Alexey Yegorytch had been sitting there before Pyotr Stepanovitch came in, but the latter sent him away. Stavrogin closed the door after him and stood expectant. Pyotr Stepanovitch looked rapidly and searchingly at him.”

  “Well?”

  “If you know already,” said Pyotr Stepanovitch hurriedly, his eyes looking as though they would dive into Stavrogin’s soul, “then, of course, we are none of us to blame, above all not you, for it’s such a concatenation . . . such a coincidence of events ... in brief, you can’t be legally implicated and I’ve rushed here to tell you so beforehand.”

  “Have they been burnt? murdered?”

  “Murdered but not burnt, that’s the trouble, but I give you my word of honour that it’s not been my fault, however much you may suspect me, eh? Do you want the whole truth: you see the idea really did cross my mind — you hinted it yourself, not seriously, but teasing me (for, of course, you would not hint it seriously), but I couldn’t bring myself to it, and wouldn’t bring myself to it for anything, not for a hundred roubles — and what was there to be gained by it, I mean for me, for me. . . .” (He was in desperate haste and his talk was like the clacking of a rattle.) “But what a coincidence of circumstances: I gave that drunken fool Lebyadkin two hundred and thirty roubles of my own money (do you hear, my own money, there wasn’t a rouble of yours and, what’s more, you know it yourself) the day before yesterday, in the evening — do you hear, not yesterday after the matinee, but the day before yesterday, make a note of it: it’s a very important coincidence for I did not know for certain at that time whether Lizaveta Nikolaevna would come to you or not; I gave my own money simply because you distinguished yourself by taking it into your head to betray your secret to every one. Well, I won’t go into that . . . that’s your affair . . . your chivalry . but I must own I was amazed, it was a knock-down blow. And forasmuch as I was exceeding weary of these tragic stories — and let me tell you, I talk seriously though I do use Biblical language — as it was all upsetting my plans in fact, I made up my mind at any cost, and without your knowledge, to pack the Lebyadkins off to Petersburg, especially as he was set on going himself. I made one mistake: I gave the money in your name; — was it a mistake or not? Perhaps it wasn’t a mistake, eh? Listen now, listen how it has all turned out. . . .”

  In the heat of his talk he went close up to Stavrogin and took hold of the revers of his coat (really, it may have been on purpose). With a violent movement Stavrogin struck him on the arm.

  “Come, what is it ... give over . . . you’ll break my arm, . . what matters is the way things have turned out,” he rattled on, not in the least surprised at the blow. “I forked out the money in the evening on condition that his sister and he should set off early next morning; I trusted that rascal Liputin with the job of getting them into the train and seeing them off. But that beast Liputin wanted to play his schoolboy pranks on the public — perhaps you heard? At the matinee? Listen, listen: they both got drunk, made up verses of which half are Liputin’s; he rigged Lebyadkin out in a dress-coat, assuring me meanwhile that he had packed him off that morning, but he kept him shut somewhere in a back room, till he thrust him on the platform at the matinee. But Lebyadkin got drunk quickly and unexpectedly. Then came the scandalous scene you know of, and then they got him home more dead than alive, and Liputin niched away the two hundred roubles, leaving him only small change. But it appears unluckily that already that morning Lebyadkin had taken that two hundred roubles out of his pocket, boasted of it and shown it in undesirable quarters. And as that was just what Fedka was expecting, and as he had heard something at Kirillov’s (do you remember, your hint?) he made up his mind to take advantage of it. That’s the whole truth. I am glad, anyway, that Fedka did not find the money, the rascal was reckoning on a thousand, you know! He was in a hurry and seems to have been frightened by the fire himself. . . . Would you believe it, that fire came as a thunderbolt for me. Devil only knows what to make of it! It is taking things into their own hands. . . . You see, as I expect so much of you I will hide nothing from you: I’ve long been hatching this idea of a fire because it suits the national and popular taste; but I was keeping it for a critical moment, for that precious time when we should all rise up and . . . And they suddenly took it into their heads to do it, on their own initiative, without orders, now at the very moment when we ought to be lying low and keeping quiet! Such presumption! . . . The fact is, I’ve not got to the bottom of it yet, they talk about two Shpigulin men . but if there are any of our fellows in it, if any one of them has had a hand in it — so much the worse for him! You see what comes of letting people get ever so little out of hand! No, this democratic rabble, with its quintets, is a poor foundation; what we want is one magnificent, despotic will, like an idol, resting on something fundamental and external. . . . Then the quintets will cringe into obedience and be obsequiously ready on occasion. But, anyway, though, they are all crying out now that Stavrogin wanted his wife to be burnt and that that’s what caused the fire in the town, but ...”

  “Why, are they all saying that?”

  “Well, not yet, and I must confess I have heard nothing of the sort, but what one can do with people, especially when they’ve been burnt out! Vox populi vox Dei. A stupid rumour is soon set going. But you really have nothing to be afraid of. From the legal point of view you are all right, and with your conscience also. For you didn’t want it done, did you? There’s no clue, nothing but the coincidence. . . . The only thing is Fedka may remember what you said that night at Kirillov’s (and what made you say it?) but that proves nothing and we shall stop Fedka’s mouth. I shall stop it to-day. ...”

  “And weren’t the bodies burnt at all?”

  “Not a bit; that ruffian could not manage anything properly. But I am glad, anyway, that you are so calm . . . for though you are not in any way to blame, even in thought, but all the same. . . . And you must admit that all this settles your difficulties capitally: you are suddenly free and a widower and can marry a charming girl this minute with a lot of money, who is already yours, into the bargain. See what can be done by crude, simple coincidence — eh?”

  “Are you threatening me, you fool?”

  “Come, leave off, leave off! Here you .are, calling me a fool, and what a tone to use! You ought to be glad, yet you ... I rushed here on purpose to let you know in good time. . . . Besides, how could I threaten you? As if I cared for what I could get by threats! I want you to help from goodwill and not from fear. You are the light and the sun. . . . It’s I who am terribly afraid of you, not you of me! I am not Mavriky Nikolaevitch. . . . And only fancy, as I flew here in a racing droshky I saw Mavriky Nikolaevitch by the fence at the farthest corner of your garden ... in his greatcoat, drenched through, he must have been sitting there all night! Queer goings on! How mad people can be!”

  “Mavriky Nikolaevitch? Is that true?”

  “Yes, yes. He is sitting by the garden fence. About three hundred paces from here, I think. I made haste to pass him, but he saw me. Didn’t you know? In that case I am glad I didn’t forget to tell you. A man like that is more dangerous than anyone if he happens to have a revolver about him, and then the night, the sleet, or natural irritability — for after all he is in a nice position, ha ha! What do you think V Why is he sitting there?”

  “He is waiting for Lizaveta Nikolaevna, of course.”

  “Well! Why should she go out to him? And ... in such rain too . . . what a fool!”

  “She is just going out to him!”

  “Eh! That’s a piece of news! So then . . . But listen, her position is completely changed now. What does she want with Mavriky now? You are free, a widow
er, and can marry her to-morrow? She doesn’t know yet — leave it to me and I’ll arrange it all for you. Where is she? We must relieve her mind too.”

  “Relieve her mind?”

  “Rather! Let’s go.”

  “And do you suppose she won’t guess what those dead bodies mean?” said Stavrogin, screwing up his eyes in a peculiar way.

  “Of course she won’t,” said Pyotr Stepanovitch with all the confidence of a perfect simpleton, “for legally . . . Ech, what a man you are! What if she did guess? Women are so clever at shutting their eyes to such things, you don’t understand women! Apart from it’s being altogether to her interest to marry you now, because there’s no denying she’s disgraced herself; apart from that, I talked to her of ‘the boat’ and I saw that one could affect her by it, so that shows you what the girl is made of. Don’t be uneasy, she will step over those dead bodies without turning a hair — especially as you are not to blame for them; not in the least, are you? She will only keep them in reserve to use them against you when you’ve been married two or three years. Every woman saves up something of the sort out of her husband’s past when she gets married, but by that time . . . what may not happen in a year? Ha ha!”

  “If you’ve come in a racing droshky, take her to Mavriky Nikolaevitch now. She said just now that she could not endure me and would leave me, and she certainly will not accept my carriage.”

  “What! Can she really be leaving? How can this have come about?” said Pyotr Stepanovitch, staring stupidly at him.

  “She’s guessed somehow during this night that I don’t love her . . . which she knew all along, indeed.”

  “But don’t you love her?” said Pyotr Stepanovitch, with an expression of extreme surprise. “If so, why did you keep her when she came to you yesterday, instead of telling her plainly like an honourable man that you didn’t care for her? That was horribly shabby on your part; and how mean you make me look in her eyes!”

  Stavrogin suddenly laughed.”

  “I am laughing at my monkey,” he explained at once.

  “Ah! You saw that I was putting it on!” cried Pyotr Stepanovitch, laughing too, with great enjoyment. “I did it to amuse you! Only fancy, as soon as you came out to me I guessed from your face that you’d been ‘unlucky.’ A complete fiasco, perhaps. Eh? There! I’ll bet anything,” he cried, almost gasping with delight, “that you’ve been sitting side by side in the drawing-room all night wasting your precious time discussing something lofty and elevated . . . There, forgive me, forgive me; it’s not my business. I felt sure yesterday that it would all end in foolishness. I brought her to you simply to amuse you, and to show you that you wouldn’t have a dull time with me. I shall be of use to you a hundred times in that way. I always like pleasing people. If you don’t want her now, which was what I was reckoning on when I came, then . . .”

  “So you brought her simply for my amusement?”

  “Why, what else?”

  “Not to make me kill my wife?”

  “Come. You’ve not killed her? What a tragic fellow you are!

  “It’s just the same; you killed her.”

  “I didn’t kill her! I tell you I had no hand in it. ... You are beginning to make me uneasy, though. . . .”

  “Go on. You said, ‘if you don’t want her now, then . . . ‘“

  “Then, leave it to me, of course. I can quite easily marry her off to Mavriky Nikolaevitch, though I didn’t make him sit down by the fence. Don’t take that notion into your head. I am afraid of him, now. You talk about my droshky, but I simply dashed by. . . . What if he has a revolver? It’s a good thing I brought mine. Here it is.” He brought a revolver out of his pocket, showed it, and hid it again at once. “I took it as I was coming such a long way. . . . But I’ll arrange all that for you in a twinkling: her little heart is aching at this moment for Mavriky; it should be, anyway. . . . And, do you know, I am really rather sorry for her? If I take her to Mavriky she will begin about you directly; she will praise you to him and abuse him to his face. You know the heart of woman! There you are, laughing again! I am awfully glad that you are so cheerful now. Come, let’s go. I’ll begin with Mavriky right away, and about them . . . those who’ve been murdered . . . hadn’t we better keep quiet now? She’ll hear later on, anyway.”

  “What will she hear? Who’s been murdered? What were you saying about Mavriky Nikolaevitch?” said Liza, suddenly opening the door.

  “Ah! You’ve been listening?”

  “What were you saying just now about Mavriky Nikolaevitch? Has he been murdered?”

  “Ah! Then you didn’t hear? Don’t distress yourself, Mavriky Nikolaevitch is alive and well, and you can satisfy yourself of it in an instant, for he is here by the wayside, by the garden fence . . . and I believe he’s been sitting there all night. He is drenched through in his greatcoat! He saw me as I drove past.”

  “That’s not true. You said ‘murdered.’ . . . Who’s been murdered?” she insisted with agonising mistrust.

  “The only people who have been murdered are my wife, her brother Lebyadkin, and their servant,” Stavrogin brought out firmly.

  Liza trembled and turned terribly pale.

  “A strange brutal outrage, Lizaveta Nikolaevna. A simple case of robbery,” Pyotr Stepanovitch rattled off at once “Simply robbery, under cover of the fire. The crime was committed by Fedka the convict, and it was all that fool Lebyadkin’s fault for showing every one his money. ... I rushed here with the news ... it fell on me like a thunderbolt. Stavrogin could hardly stand when I told him. We were deliberating here whether to tell you at once or not?”

  “Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch, is he telling the truth?” Liza articulated faintly.

  “No; it’s false.”

  “False?” said Pyotr Stepanovitch, starting. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Heavens! I-shall go mad!” cried Liza.

  “Do you understand, anyway, that he is mad now!” Pyotr Stepanovitch cried at the top of his voice. “After all, his wife has just been murdered. You see how white he is. ... Why, he has been with you the whole night. He hasn’t left your side a minute. How can you suspect him?”

  “Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch, tell me, as before God, are you guilty or not, and I swear I’ll believe your word as though it were God’s, and I’ll follow you to the end of the earth. Yes, I will. I’ll follow you like a dog.”

  “Why are you tormenting her, you fantastic creature?” cried Pyotr Stepanovitch in exasperation. “Lizaveta Nikolaevna, upon my oath, you can crush me into powder, but he is not guilty. On the contrary, it has crushed him, and he is raving, you see that. He is not to blame in any way, not in any way, not even in thought! . . . It’s all the work of robbers who will probably be found within a week and flogged. . . . It’s all the work of Fedka the convict, and some Shpigulin men, all the town is agog with it. That’s why I say so too.”

  “Is that right? Is that right?” Liza waited trembling for her final sentence.

  “I did not kill them, and I was against it, but I knew they were going to be killed and I did not stop the murderers. Leave me, Liza,” Stavrogin brought out, and he walked into the drawing-room.

  Liza hid her face in her hands and walked out of the house. Pyotr Stepanovitch was rushing after her, but at once ‘hurried back and went into the drawing-room.

  “So that’s your line? That’s your line? So there’s nothing you are afraid of?” He flew at Stavrogin in an absolute fury, muttering incoherently, scarcely able to find words and foaming at the mouth.

  Stavrogin stood in the middle of the room and did not answer a word. He clutched a lock of his hair in his left hand and smiled helplessly. Pyotr Stepanovitch pulled him violently by the sleeve.

  “Is it all over with you? So that’s the line you are taking? You’ll inform against all of us, and go to a monastery yourself, or to the devil. . . . But I’ll do for you, though you are not afraid of me!”

  “Ah! That’s you chattering!” said Stavrogin, noticing him
at last. “Run,” he said, coming to himself suddenly, “run after her, order the carriage, don’t leave her. . . . Run, run! Take her home so that no one may know . . . and that she mayn’t go there ... to the bodies ... to the bodies. . . . Force her to get into the carriage . . . Alexey Yegorytch! Alexey Yegorytch!”

  “Stay, don’t shout! By now she is in Mavriky’s arms. . . . Mavriky won’t put her into your carriage. . . . Stay! There’s something more important than the carriage!”

  He seized his revolver again. Stavrogin looked at him gravely.

  “Very well, kill me,” he said softly, almost conciliatorily.

  “Foo. Damn it! What a maze of false sentiment a man can get into!” said Pyotr Stepanovitch, shaking with rage. “Yes, really, you ought to be killed! She ought simply to spit at you! Fine sort of ‘magic boat,’ you are; you are a broken-down, leaky old hulk! . . . You ought to pull yourself together if only from spite! Ech! Why, what difference would it make to you since you ask for a bullet through your brains yourself?”

  Stavrogin smiled strangely.

  “If you were not such a buffoon I might perhaps have said yes now. ... If you had only a grain of sense . . .”

  “I am a buffoon, but I don’t want you, my better half, to be one! Do you understand me?”, .

  Stavrogin did understand, though perhaps no one else did. Shatov, for instance, was astonished when Stavrogin told him that Pyotr Stepanovitch had enthusiasm.

  “Go to the devil now, and to-morrow perhaps I may wring something out of myself. Come to-morrow.”

  “Yes? Yes?”

  “How can I tell! ... Go to hell. Go to hell.” And he walked out of the room.

  “Perhaps, after all, it may be for the best,” Pyotr Stepanovitch muttered to himself as he hid the revolver.