Текст книги "The Eternal Husband and Other Stories"

Автор книги: Федор Достоевский

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

“Ah, you sprat!” Velchaninov whispered.

“In any case, my dear sir,” Pavel Pavlovich corrected himself with dignity, “I still do not find the reasons you have presented—improper and quite dubious reasons—sufficient for the dispute over them to be continued, sir. I see this is all a childish and empty matter; tomorrow I will make inquiries of the most esteemed Fedosei Semyonovich, but now I beg you to spare me, sir.”

“See how the man is!” the youth cried out at once, unable to sustain the tone, hotly addressing Velchaninov. “It’s not enough that he’s chased away from there and they stick their tongues out at him—he also wants to denounce us tomorrow to the old man! Don’t you prove by that, you obstinate man, that you want to take the girl by force, buying her from people who have lost their minds, but, owing to social barbarism, have kept their power over her? She has shown well enough, it seems, that she despises you; wasn’t today’s indecent gift—your bracelet—returned to you? What more do you want?”

“No one returned any bracelet to me, and that cannot be,” Pavel Pavlovich gave a start.

“Cannot be? Didn’t Mr. Velchaninov give it to you?”

“Ah, devil take you!” thought Velchaninov.

“Indeed,” he said, frowning, “Nadezhda Fedoseevna entrusted me earlier with giving this case to you, Pavel Pavlovich. I didn’t want to take it, but she—insisted… here it is… quite annoying…”

He took out the case and, in embarrassment, placed it in front of the petrified Pavel Pavlovich.

“Why hadn’t you given it to him?” the young man sternly addressed Velchaninov.

“I hadn’t found time, one might think,” the latter frowned.

“That’s odd.”

“Wha-a-at?”

“It’s odd, to say the least, you must agree. However, I agree to allow that it was a misunderstanding.”

Velchaninov would have liked terribly to get up right then and box the boy’s ears, but he could not contain himself and suddenly snorted with laughter; the boy at once laughed himself. Not so Pavel Pavlovich; if Velchaninov could have noticed the terrible look he gave him when he burst out laughing at Lobov—he would have understood that at that moment the man was crossing a certain fatal line… But, though he did not see his look, Velchaninov understood that he had to support Pavel Pavlovich.

“Listen, Mr. Lobov,” he began in a friendly tone, “without going into a consideration of other reasons, which I do not wish to touch upon, I would merely like to point out to you that Pavel Pavlovich, after all, in proposing to Nadezhda Fedoseevna, is bringing to this respectable family—first, full information about himself; second, his excellent and respectable position; and finally, his fortune; and, consequently, he is of course surprised to see a rival such as you—a man of great merits, perhaps, but one still so young that he simply cannot take you as a serious rival… and is therefore right in asking you to finish.”

“What do you mean ‘so young’? I turned nineteen a month ago. Legally, I’ve been able to marry for a long time. There you have it.”

“But what father would venture to give his daughter to you now—though you may be a big future millionaire or some sort of future benefactor of mankind? At the age of nineteen a man can’t even answer for his own self, and you venture to take upon your conscience someone else’s future—that is, the future of a child like yourself! That’s also not entirely noble, do you think? I’ve allowed myself to speak out, because you addressed me earlier as a mediator between yourself and Pavel Pavlovich.”

“Ah, yes, incidentally, his name is Pavel Pavlovich!” the youth remarked. “Why did I keep imagining it was Vassily Petrovich? The thing is this, sir,” he turned to Velchaninov, “you haven’t surprised me in the least; I knew you were all the same! Strange, however, that I was told you were even something of a new man. Anyway, it’s all trifles, and the point is that there is nothing here that is not noble on my part, as you allowed yourself to put it, but even quite the contrary, which I hope to explain to you: we have, first of all, pledged ourselves to each other, and, besides that, I promised her directly, in front of two witnesses, that if she ever falls in love with another, or simply thinks better of having married me, and wants to divorce me, I will immediately give her a certificate of my own adultery—thus supporting, therewith, where necessary, her application for divorce. Moreover, in the event I should go back on my word later and refuse to give her this certificate, then, for her security, on the very day of our wedding I will give her a promissory note for a hundred thousand roubles in my name, so that, in the event I persist in refusing the certificate, she can immediately turn in my promissory note and have me double-trumped! In this way everything is provided for, and I’m not putting anyone’s future at risk. Well, sir, that’s the first thing.”

“I bet it was that one—what’s his name—Predposylov who thought it up for you?” cried Velchaninov.

“Hee, hee, hee!” Pavel Pavlovich tittered venomously.

“Why is this gentleman tittering? You’ve guessed right—it’s Predposylov’s thought; and you must agree it’s clever. The absurd law is completely paralyzed. Naturally, I intend to love her always, and she laughs terribly—but even so it’s adroit, and you must agree that it’s noble, that not everyone would venture on such a thing?”

“In my opinion, it is not only not noble, but even vile.”

The young man heaved his shoulders.

“Once again you don’t surprise me,” he observed after some silence, “all this stopped surprising me long ago. Predposylov would snap out directly that this failure of yours to understand the most natural things comes from the perversion of your most ordinary feelings and notions, first, by a long life of absurdity, and second, by long idleness. However, maybe we still don’t understand each other; after all, you were well spoken of to me… You’re already about fifty, though?”

“Get on with your business, please.”

“Excuse the indiscretion and don’t be annoyed; I didn’t mean anything. To continue: I’m not at all a future big millionaire, as you were pleased to put it (and what an idea to come up with!), I’m all here, as you see me, but of my future I’m absolutely certain. I won’t be a hero or anybody’s benefactor, but I’ll provide for myself and my wife. Of course, right now I have nothing, I was even brought up in their house, ever since childhood…”

“How’s that?”

“It’s because I’m the son of a distant relative of this Zakhlebinin’s wife, and when all my people died and left me at the age of eight, the old man took me into his house and then sent me to school. He’s even a kind man, if you wish to know…”

“I know that, sir…”

“Yes, but much too antiquated a head. Kind, though. Now, of course, I’ve long since left his custody, wishing to earn my own living and be owing only to myself.”

“And when did you leave it?” Velchaninov was curious.

“That would be about four months ago.”

“Ah, well, it’s all clear now: friends from childhood! Do you have a job or something?”

“Yes, a private one, in a notary’s office, twenty-five roubles a month. Of course, that’s only for the time being, but when I made my proposal I didn’t even have that. I was working for the railroad then, for ten roubles, but this is all only for the time being.”

“So you even made a proposal?”

“A formal proposal, long ago, three weeks or more.”

“Well, and what then?”

“The old man laughed a lot, but then got very angry, and she was locked upstairs in the attic. But Nadya endured it heroically. Anyway, it was all a failure, because the old man had his back up against me before then for leaving the office job he’d gotten me four months earlier, before the railroad. He’s a nice old man, I repeat again, simple and merry at home, but the moment he’s in the office, you can’t even imagine! It’s some sort of Jupiter sitting there! I naturally let him know that his manners were no longer to my liking, but the main thing here came out because of the assistant section chief: this gentleman decided to peach on me for supposedly ‘being rude’ to him, though I only told him he was undeveloped. I dropped them all and am now with the notary.”

“And were you paid much at the office?”

“Eh, I was a supernumerary! The old man supported me himself—I told you he’s kind; but even so we won’t yield. Of course, twenty-five roubles is no great prosperity, but I soon hope to take part in managing the disordered estates of Count Zavileisky, and then I’ll go straight up to three thousand; or else I’ll become a lawyer. They’re looking for people now… Hah! what thunder, there’ll be a storm, it’s a good thing I managed before the storm; I came from there on foot, running most of the way.”

“But, excuse me, in that case when did you manage to talk with Nadezhda Fedoseevna—if, on top of that, you’re not received there?”

“Ah, but that can be done over the fence! You did notice the little redhead today?” he laughed. “Well, she took care of it, and so did Marya Nikitishna; only this Marya Nikitishna is a serpent!… why did you wince? You’re not afraid of thunder?”

“No, I’m unwell, very unwell…” Velchaninov was indeed suffering from his unexpected pain in the chest, got up from his chair, and tried to pace the room.

“Ah, then naturally I’m bothering you—don’t worry, I’ll leave at once!” and the youth jumped up from his place.

“You’re not bothering me, it’s nothing,” said the delicate Velchaninov.

“How is it nothing, when ‘Kobylnikov has a stomachache’—remember in Shchedrin? ¹⁴Do you like Shchedrin?”

“Yes…”

“So do I. Well, Vassily… no, what’s your name, Pavel Pavlovich, let’s finish, sir!” he addressed Pavel Pavlovich, almost laughing. “I’ll formulate the question once more for your understanding: do you agree to renounce tomorrow, officially, in front of the old folks and in my presence, all your claims regarding Nadezhda Fedoseevna?”

“I don’t agree at all, sir,” Pavel Pavlovich also rose with an impatient and embittered look, “and with that I ask you once more to spare me, sir… because all this is childish and silly, sir.”

“Watch out!” the youth shook his finger at him with a haughty smile, “don’t make a mistake in your calculations! Do you know what such a mistake may lead to? And I warn you that in nine months, when you’ve spent everything there, worn yourself out, and come back—you’ll be forced to renounce Nadezhda Fedoseevna here, and if you don’t renounce her—so much the worse for you; that’s what you’ll bring things to! I must warn you that you are now like the dog in the manger—excuse me, it’s just a comparison—none for yourself, none for anyone else. I repeat out of humaneness: reflect, force yourself to reflect well for at least once in your life.”

“I beg you to spare me your morals,” Pavel Pavlovich shouted fiercely, “and as for your nasty hints, I’ll take my measures tomorrow—severe measures, sir!”

“Nasty hints? What are you referring to? You’re nasty yourself, if that’s what’s in your head. However, I agree to wait until tomorrow, but if… Ah, again this thunder! Goodbye, very glad to have met you,” he nodded to Velchaninov and ran, evidently hurrying to keep ahead of the thunderstorm and not get caught in the rain.

XV

ACCOUNTS ARE SQUARED

“Did you see? Did you see, sir?” Pavel Pavlovich sprang over to Velchaninov as soon as the youth went out.

“Yes, you have no luck!” Velchaninov let slip inadvertently. He would not have said these words if he were not so tormented and angered by this increasing pain in his chest. Pavel Pavlovich gave a start, as if burnt.

“Well, and you, sir—it must have been from pity for me that you didn’t return the bracelet—ha?”

“I had no chance…”

“From heartfelt pity, as a true friend pities a true friend?”

“Well, yes, I pitied you.” Velchaninov became angry.

He did, nevertheless, tell him briefly how he had gotten the bracelet back earlier and how Nadezhda Fedoseevna had nearly forced him to take part…

“You understand, I wouldn’t have taken it for anything; I have enough troubles without that!”

“You got carried away and took it!” Pavel Pavlovich tittered.

“That’s stupid on your part; however, you must be forgiven. You saw yourself just now that the main one in the matter is not I but others!”

“Even so you got carried away, sir.”

Pavel Pavlovich sat down and filled his glass.

“Do you suppose I’m going to yield to this youngster, sir? I’ll tie him in a knot, that’s what, sir! Tomorrow I’ll go and tie everything up! We’ll smoke this spirit out of the nursery, sir…”

He drank his glass almost in one gulp and poured more; in general he began to behave with a hitherto unusual casualness.

“See, Nadenka and Sashenka, dear little children—hee, hee, hee!”

He was beside himself with spite. There came another loud clap of thunder; lightning flashed blindingly, and the rain poured down in buckets. Pavel Pavlovich got up and closed the open window.

“And him asking you: ‘You’re not afraid of thunder?’—hee, hee! Velchaninov afraid of thunder! Kobylnikov has a—how is it—Kobylnikov has… And about being fifty years old—eh? Remember, sir?” Pavel Pavlovich went on sarcastically.

“You, incidentally, have settled in nicely here,” Velchaninov observed, barely able to utter the words from pain. “I’ll lie down… you do as you like.”

“One wouldn’t put a dog out in such weather!” Pavel Pavlovich picked up touchily, though almost glad that he had the right to be touchy.

“Well, so sit, drink… spend the night even!” Velchaninov mumbled, stretched out on the sofa, and groaned slightly.

“Spend the night, sir? Aren’t you… afraid, sir?”

“Of what?” Velchaninov suddenly raised his head.

“Never mind, sir, just so. Last time you were as if afraid, or else I only imagined it…”

“You’re stupid!” Velchaninov burst out and turned angrily to the wall.

“Never mind, sir,” Pavel Pavlovich responded.

The sick man somehow suddenly fell asleep, a moment after lying down. All the unnatural tension of this day, not to mention the great disorder of his health recently, somehow suddenly snapped, and he became as strengthless as a child. But the pain got its own back and overcame weariness and sleep; an hour later he awoke and with suffering got up from the sofa. The thunderstorm had abated; the room was filled with smoke, the bottle stood empty, and Pavel Pavlovich was sleeping on the other sofa. He was lying on his back, his head on a sofa pillow, fully dressed, with his boots on. His lorgnette, having slipped from his pocket, hung on its string almost to the floor. His hat lay near him, also on the floor. Velchaninov looked at him sullenly and decided not to wake him up. Bending over and pacing the room, because he was no longer able to lie down, he moaned and reflected on his pain.

He feared this pain in his chest not without reason. He had begun having these attacks long ago, but they visited him very rarely—once in a year or two. He knew it was from his liver. It began as if with a still dull, not strong, but bothersome pressure gathering at some point in his chest, in the pit of his stomach or higher up. Growing constantly, sometimes over the course of ten hours, the pain would finally reach such intensity, the pressure would become so unbearable, that the sick man would begin imagining death. During the last attack, which had come a year before, when the pain finally subsided after the tenth hour, he suddenly felt so strengthless that he could barely move his hand as he lay in bed, and for the whole day the doctor allowed him only a few teaspoons of weak tea and a little pinch of bread soaked in bouillon, like a nursing infant. This pain appeared on different occasions, but always with upset nerves to begin with. It would also pass strangely: sometimes, when caught at the very beginning, in the first half hour, everything would go away at once with simple poultices; but sometimes, as during the last attack, nothing would help, and the pain would subside only after a repeated and progressive taking of emetics. The doctor confessed afterward that he had been convinced it was poisoning. Now it was still a long time till morning, he did not want to send for a doctor during the night, and besides he did not like doctors. Finally, he could not help himself and started moaning loudly. The moans awakened Pavel Pavlovich: he sat up on the sofa and listened with fear for some time, his perplexed eyes following Velchaninov, who was nearly running all around the two rooms. The bottle he had drunk also affected him strongly, not in the usual way, and for a long time he could not collect himself; finally he understood and rushed to Velchaninov; the latter mumbled something in response.

“It’s from your liver, sir, I know this!” Pavel Pavlovich suddenly became terribly animated. “Pyotr Kuzmich had it, Polosukhin, he had it in exactly the same way, from the liver, sir. It’s a case for poultices, sir. Pyotr Kuzmich always used poultices… You can die of it, sir! I’ll run and fetch Mavra—eh?”

“No need, no need,” Velchaninov waved him away vexedly, “no need for anything.”

But Pavel Pavlovich, God knows why, was almost beside himself, as if it were a matter of saving his own son. He would not listen, he insisted as hard as he could on the necessity for poultices and, on top of that, two or three cups of weak tea, drunk all at once—“not simply hot, sir, but boiling hot!” He did run to Mavra, without waiting for permission, made a fire with her in the kitchen, which had always stood empty, started the samovar; meanwhile he managed to put the sick man to bed, took his street clothes off, wrapped him in a blanket, and in no more than twenty minutes had cooked up some tea and the first poultice.

“It’s heated plates, sir, burning hot!” he said almost in ecstasy, placing the heated plate wrapped in a towel on Velchaninov’s pained chest. “There aren’t any other poultices, sir, and it would take too long to get them, and plates, I swear on my honor, sir, will even be best of all; it’s been tested on Pyotr Kuzmich, sir, with my own eyes and hands. You can die of it, sir. Drink the tea, swallow it—never mind if it burns you; life’s dearer… than foppery, sir…”

He got the half-asleep Mavra to bustle about; the plates were changed every three or four minutes. After the third plate and the second cup of boiling hot tea drunk at one gulp, Velchaninov suddenly felt relief.

“Once you’ve dislodged the pain, thank God for that, sir, it’s a good sign!” Pavel Pavlovich cried out and ran to fetch a fresh plate and fresh tea.

“Only to break the pain! If we can only turn the pain back!” he kept saying every moment.

After half an hour, the pain was quite weakened, but the patient was so worn out that, however Pavel Pavlovich begged, he would not agree to endure “one more little plate, sir.” His eyes were closing from weakness.

“Sleep, sleep,” he repeated in a weak voice.

“Right you are!” Pavel Pavlovich agreed.

“You spend the night… what time is it?”

“A quarter to two, sir.”

“Spend the night.”

“I will, I will.”

A minute later the sick man called Pavel Pavlovich again.

“You, you,” he murmured when the man came running and bent over him, “you—are better than I! I understand everything, everything… thank you.”

“Sleep, sleep,” Pavel Pavlovich whispered, and hastened on tiptoe back to his sofa.

As he was falling asleep, the sick man could still hear Pavel Pavlovich quietly and hurriedly making his bed, taking off his clothes, and, finally, putting out the candle and, barely breathing, so as not to make any noise, stretching himself out on the sofa.

Undoubtedly Velchaninov did sleep and fell asleep very soon after the candles were put out; he clearly recalled it afterward. But all the while he slept, till the very moment he woke up, he dreamed that he was not asleep and that it was as if he was quite unable to fall asleep, despite his weakness. Finally, he dreamed he was having a sort of waking delirium and was quite unable to scatter the visions crowding around him, despite the full awareness that it was only delirium and not reality. The visions were all familiar ones; his room was as if filled with people, and the door to the front hall stood open; crowds of people poured in and thronged the stairs. At the table, moved out into the middle of the room, sat a man—exactly as the other time, in the identical dream he had had a month earlier. Just as then, this man sat with his elbow on the table and refused to speak; but now he was wearing a round hat with crape. “What? Could it have been Pavel Pavlovich then, too?” Velchaninov thought—but, peeking into the silent man’s face, he convinced himself that it was someone else entirely. “Why the crape, then?” Velchaninov puzzled. The noise, talk, and clamor of people crowding around the table were terrible. It seemed these people had still greater malice toward Velchaninov than in the other dream; they threatened him with their fists and shouted at him about something with all their might, but precisely what—he was quite unable to make out. “But this is a delirium, I know it!” the thought came to him. “I know that I couldn’t fall asleep and have now gotten up, because I couldn’t stay in bed from anguish!…” However, the shouting and the people, and their gestures, and all—were so vivid, so real, that he sometimes had doubts: “Can it really be a delirium? What do these people want from me, my God! But if it’s not a delirium, then is it possible that such a clamor has not awakened Pavel Pavlovich yet? That he’s here asleep, right here on the sofa?” Finally, something suddenly happened, again as in that other dream; everyone rushed to the stairs and got terribly jammed in the doorway, because a new crowd was pouring into the room from the stairs. These people were carrying something with them, something big and heavy; one could hear the heavy steps of the carriers resounding on the treads of the stairs and their puffing voices hurriedly calling to each other. Everyone in the room cried out: “They’re bringing it, they’re bringing it!” All eyes flashed and turned to Velchaninov; threatening and triumphant, everyone pointed to the stairs. No longer doubting in the least that it was all not delirium but the truth, he stood on tiptoe to see quickly, over people’s heads, what it was that they were bringing. His heart was pounding, pounding, pounding, and suddenly—exactly as then, in that other dream—there came three loud strokes of the doorbell. And once again this was so clear, so tangibly real a ringing, that, of course, such ringing could not have been merely dreamed in a dream!… He cried out and woke up.

But he did not, as then, go racing for the door. What thought guided his first movement and did he even have any sort of thought at that moment?—no, it was as if someone prompted him to what had to be done: he snatched himself from bed and rushed with outstretched arms, as if defending himself and warding off an attack, straight toward where Pavel Pavlovich lay sleeping. His arms at once met other arms already stretched out over him, and he seized them fast; someone therefore already stood bending over him. The curtains were drawn, but it was not totally dark, because a weak light was coming from the other room, where there were no such curtains. Suddenly something cut the palm and fingers of his left hand terribly painfully, and he instantly understood that he had seized the blade of a knife or razor and gripped it tightly in his hand… At the same moment something fell with a single weighty thump to the floor.

Velchaninov was perhaps three times stronger than Pavel Pavlovich, but their struggle continued for a long time, some three full minutes. He soon bent him down to the floor and twisted his arms behind his back, but for some reason he absolutely wanted to bind those twisted arms. With his right hand—his wounded left hand holding the murderer—he began to grope for the curtain cord, could not find it for a long time, but got hold of it at last and tore it from the window. He himself marveled later at the unnatural strength required for that. In all these three minutes neither of them said a word; one could hear only their heavy breathing and the muffled sounds of the struggle. Finally, having twisted and bound Pavel Pavlovich’s arms behind his back, Velchaninov left him on the floor, stood up, opened the window curtain, and raised the blind. It was already light in the solitary street. Opening the window, he stood for a few moments taking deep breaths of air. It was just past four. Closing the window, he walked unhurriedly to the cupboard, took out a clean towel, and wound it very tightly around his left hand to stop the blood flowing from it. Under his feet he found the open razor case, forgotten that morning on the little table just next to the sofa on which Pavel Pavlovich had slept, and locked this case in his bureau with a key. Only after doing all that did he go over to Pavel Pavlovich and begin studying him.

The man had meanwhile managed with effort to get up from the rug and sit in an armchair. He was not dressed, only in his underwear, even without boots. The back and sleeves of his shirt were wet with blood; the blood was not his, but from Velchaninov’s cut hand. Of course, this was Pavel Pavlovich, but it would almost have been possible not to recognize him in the first moment, if one had met him like that by chance—so much had his physiognomy changed. He sat awkwardly straight in the armchair because of his bound arms, his distorted and worn-out face gone green, and shivered from time to time. Intently, but with some dark look, as if not yet distinguishing everything, he gazed at Velchaninov. Suddenly he smiled dully and, nodding at the carafe of water that stood on the table, said in a short half whisper:

“Some water, sir.”

Velchaninov poured some and held the glass for him to drink. Pavel Pavlovich greedily fell upon the water; having taken three gulps, he raised his head, looked very intently into the face of Velchaninov, who was standing before him with the glass in his hand, but said nothing and went on drinking. After finishing the water, he gave a deep sigh. Velchaninov took his pillow, picked up his clothes, and went to the other room, locking Pavel Pavlovich in the first room.

His earlier pain had gone away completely, but he felt a new and extreme weakness after the momentary strain just now of that strength which had come to him from God knows where. He tried to sort the incident out, but his thoughts still connected poorly; the shock had been too strong. His eyes would now close, sometimes even for ten minutes, now he would suddenly give a start, wake up, remember everything, raise his aching hand wrapped in the blood-soaked towel, and start thinking greedily and feverishly. He decided only one thing clearly: that Pavel Pavlovich had really wanted to kill him, but that maybe a quarter of an hour before then he had not known he would kill him. The razor case had maybe only flitted past his eyes during the evening without provoking any thought, and had merely stayed in his memory. (As for the razors, they were always kept in his bureau under lock and key, and it was only the previous morning that Velchaninov had taken them out to shave off some superfluous hairs around his mustache and side-whiskers—something he used to do occasionally.)

“If he had long been planning to kill me, he would have made sure to prepare a knife or a pistol beforehand, and not have counted on my razors, which he had never seen until yesterday evening”—came to his head, among other things.

It finally struck six. Velchaninov collected himself, got dressed, and went to Pavel Pavlovich. Unlocking the door, he could not understand what he had locked Pavel Pavlovich in for and why he had not let him out of the house then and there. To his surprise, the arrested man was already fully dressed; he must have found some opportunity for disentangling himself. He was sitting in the armchair, but got up at once, as soon as Velchaninov entered. The hat was already in his hand. His anxious eyes said, as if hurrying:

“Don’t start talking; there’s no point in starting; there’s no reason to talk…”

“Go!” said Velchaninov. “Take your case,” he added behind him.

Pavel Pavlovich came back from the door, took the case with the bracelet from the table, put it in his pocket, and walked out to the stairs. Velchaninov stood in the doorway to lock up after him. Their eyes met for the last time. Pavel Pavlovich suddenly stopped, the two gazed into each other’s eyes for some five seconds—as if hesitating; finally, Velchaninov waved his arm weakly at him.

“Well, go!” he said in a half voice, closed the door, and locked it.

XVI

ANALYSIS

A feeling of extraordinary, immense joy came over him; something was finished, unbound; some terrible anguish loosened and dispersed altogether. So it seemed to him. It had lasted five weeks. He kept raising his hand, looking at the blood-soaked towel, and muttering to himself: “No, now it’s all completely finished!” And all that morning, for the first time in those three weeks, he almost did not think of Liza—as if this blood from his cut fingers could “square accounts” even with that anguish.

He was clearly conscious that he had escaped terrible danger. “These people,” went through his mind, “it’s these very people who, even a minute before, don’t know if they’re going to stab you, but once they take the knife in their trembling hands and feel the first spurt of hot blood on their fingers, they won’t just stab you—they’ll cut your head ‘clean off,’ as convicts say. It’s quite so.”

He could not stay home and went out convinced that it was necessary to do something right away, or else right away something was sure to be done to him of itself; he walked the streets and waited. He wanted terribly to meet someone, to talk with someone, even a stranger, and only that, finally, suggested to him the thought of a doctor and that his hand probably ought to be properly bandaged. The doctor, an old acquaintance, after examining the wound, asked curiously: “How could this have happened?” Velchaninov laughed him off, joked, and almost told all, but restrained himself. The doctor was obliged to take his pulse and, on learning of the previous night’s attack, talked him there and then into taking a calmative he had on hand. He also calmed him down regarding the cut: “There can be no especially bad consequences.” Velchaninov laughed loudly and started assuring him that there had already been excellent consequences. The irrepressible desire to tell allrepeated itself with him two more times that day—once even with a total stranger with whom he himself started a conversation in a pastry shop. Up to then he had hated starting conversations with strangers in public places.