Текст книги "Demons"
Автор книги: Федор Достоевский
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2: Night (Continued)
I
He walked the whole length of Bogoyavlensky Street; at last the road went downhill, his feet slid in the mud, a wide, misty, as if empty space opened out suddenly—the river. Houses turned to hovels, the street vanished into a multitude of disorderly lanes. For a long time Nikolai Vsevolodovich made his way along the fences without straying from the bank, but finding his way surely and without even thinking much about it. He was occupied with something else, and looked about him in surprise when suddenly, coming out of deep thought, he found himself almost in the middle of our long, wet pontoon bridge. There was not a soul around, so that it seemed strange to him when all at once, almost at his elbow, he heard a politely familiar, incidentally rather pleasant voice, with that sweetly drawn-out intonation flaunted among us by overcivilized tradesmen or young, curly-headed sales-clerks from the shopping arcade.
"Will you allow me, dear mister, to borrow a bit of your umbrella for myself?" [97]
In fact some figure crept, or merely meant to make a pretense of creeping, under his umbrella. The tramp walked along beside him, almost elbow to elbow, as soldier boys say. Slowing his pace, Nikolai Vsevolodovich bent down to see, as well as he could in the dark: the man was not tall and looked like some little tradesman on a spree; his clothes were neither warm nor sightly; a wet flannel cap with a torn-off peak perched on his shaggy, curly head. He seemed to be very dark-haired, lean, and swarthy; his eyes were large, undoubtedly black, very shiny, and had a yellow cast, like a Gypsy's—that could be guessed even in the dark. He must have been about forty, and was not drunk.
"Do you know me?" asked Nikolai Vsevolodovich.
"Mister Stavrogin, Nikolai Vsevolodovich; you were pointed out to me at the station the moment the train stopped two Sundays ago. Besides from the fact that I heard about you before."
"From Pyotr Stepanovich? You... are you Fedka the Convict?"
"I was baptized Fyodor Fyodorovich; I've still got a natural parent here in these parts, sir, an old woman, God love her, growing right into the ground, prays to God for me daily, day and night, so as thereby not to waste her old woman's time lying on the stove."
"You're a fugitive from hard labor?"
"Changed my destiny. Handed over books and bells and everything else, because they aimed to settle my hash with that hard labor, sir, and for me it was far-r-r too long a wait."
"What are you doing here?"
"Watching the clock go round. Then, too, my uncle died here last week in prison, on account of bad money, so in his memory I threw a couple of dozen stones at the dogs—that's all my doings so far. Besides from that, Pyotr Stepanovich is kindly promising me a passport, good for all of Russia—a merchant's, for example–so I'm also waiting on his favor. Because, he says, papa lost you at cards in the Engullish club, and I, he says, find this inhumanness unjust. Maybe you could stoop to three roubles, sir, for tea, to warm up?"
"So you've been watching for me here; I don't like that. On whose orders?"
"As for orders, there was no such thing from anybody, sir, it's solely from knowing your loving-kindness, so famous to the whole world. Our income, you know yourself, is either a handful of rye or a poke in the eye. Granted, last Friday I stuffed myself with pie like nobody's business, but after that I gave up eating for a day, starved for another, and fasted for a third. There's plenty of water in the river, I'm breeding carp in my belly ... So maybe Your Honor will be generous; and, as it happens, I've got a lady friend waiting not far from here, only one had better not come to her without a rouble."
"And what has Pyotr Stepanovich promised you from me?"
"It's not that he promised anything, sir, he just said in words, sir, that I could maybe be of use to Your Honor, if such a spell comes, for example, but what it might actually be he didn't exactly explain, because Pyotr Stepanovich is testing my Cossack patience, shall we say, and doesn't feel any confidentiality towards me."
"Why's that?"
"Pyotr Stepanovich is an astrominer, and has learned all God's planids, but even he is subject to criticism. Before you, sir, it's like I'm before the True One, because I've heard a lot about you. Pyotr Stepanovich is one thing, and you, sir, are maybe something else. With him, once he says a man is a scoundrel, then except from the scoundrel he knows nothing about him. And if it's a fool, then he's got no other title for him except fool. But maybe I'm only a fool on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, and on Thursdays I'm smarter than he is. So now he knows about me that it's real bad for me without a passport—because there's no way to be in Russia without a document—so he thinks he's got my soul captive. I tell you, sir, it's very easy for Pyotr Stepanovich to live in the world, because he imagines a man and then lives with him the way he imagined him. And besides from that, he's way too stingy. He's of the opinion that apart from him I won't dare disturb you, but before you, sir, it's like I'm before the True One—it's four nights now I've been waiting for Your Honor on this bridge, which goes to show that with quiet steps I can find my own way even apart from him. Better, I'd say, bow down to a boot than to a bast shoe."
"And who told you I'd be crossing this bridge at night?"
"That, I confess, came by the way, mostly on account of Captain Lebyadkin's foolishness, because he can't keep things to himself... So, then, three roubles from Your Honor, let's say, for three days and three nights, I'd have it coming for my boredom. And as for my wet clothes, that's an offense I won't speak of."
"I go left, you go right; the bridge is ended. Listen, Fyodor, I like my words to be understood once and for all: I won't give you a kopeck, don't meet me on the bridge or anywhere else from now on, I don't and won't have any need of you, and if you refuse to obey—I'll tie you up and hand you over to the police. March!"
"Ah, well, at least throw me something for my company, it was more fun walking, sir."
"Off with you!"
"And do you know your way around here, sir? There'll be such back alleys ... I could lead you, because this town here is like the devil took and shook it from a sack."
"Hey, I'll tie you up!" Nikolai Vsevolodovich turned around threateningly.
"You might consider, sir; it's easy enough to wrong an orphan."
"Well, you certainly are sure of yourself!"
"I'm sure of you, sir, not so much of myself."
"I don't need you at all, I told you!"
"But I need you, sir, that's what. All right, then, I'll wait till you come back."
"On my word of honor, if I meet you I'll tie you up."
"And I'll prepare the belt, sir. Have a good journey, sir, anyway you warmed an orphan under your umbrella, for that alone I'll thank you till my dying day."
He dropped behind. Nikolai Vsevolodovich was preoccupied as he came to the place. This man who had fallen from the sky was fully convinced that he was necessary to him, and hastened to declare it all too insolently. Generally, he was being treated unceremoniously. But it could also be that the tramp was not altogether lying, and was offering to be of service just on his own and precisely in secret from Pyotr Stepanovich; now that was the most curious thing of all.
II
The house that Nikolai Vsevolodovich came to stood in a deserted nook between fences, beyond which stretched kitchen gardens, literally on the very edge of town. It was quite a solitary little wooden house, built only recently and not yet clapboarded. The shutters of one of the windows were purposely not closed, and a candle stood on the windowsill—evidently meant to serve as a beacon for a late visitor who was expected that night. From thirty paces away Nikolai Vsevolodovich could make out the figure of a tall man standing on the porch, probably the master of the house, who had come out impatiently to look down the road. His voice could also be heard, impatient and as if timid:
"Is it you, sir? Is it?"
"It's me," Nikolai Vsevolodovich replied, but not before he had actually come to the porch, folding his umbrella.
"At last, sir!" Captain Lebyadkin—for it was he—fussed and fidgeted. "Your umbrella, please; it's very wet, sir; I'll open it here on the floor in the corner—welcome, welcome."
The door from the entryway to a room lighted by two candles stood wide open.
"If it hadn't been for your word that you'd certainly come, I'd have stopped believing it."
"A quarter to one," Nikolai Vsevolodovich looked at his watch as he went into the room.
"And in this rain, and such an interesting distance ... I don't have a watch, and there are just kitchen gardens out the window, so... one lags behind events... but, as a matter of fact, not to murmur, for I wouldn't dare, I wouldn't dare, but solely from impatience consumed all week, in order to finally ... be released."
"How's that?"
"To hear my fate, Nikolai Vsevolodovich. Welcome."
He bent forward, indicating a place by the little table in front of the sofa.
Nikolai Vsevolodovich looked around; the room was tiny, low; the furniture was the most necessary, wooden chairs and a sofa, also of quite new manufacture, without upholstery or pillows, two limewood tables, one by the sofa and the other in the corner, covered with a tablecloth, all cluttered with things, over which a very clean napkin had been spread. The whole room was also obviously kept extremely clean. Captain Lebyadkin had not been drunk for some eight days; his face had become somehow bloated and yellow; his look was restless, curious, and obviously bewildered; it was all too noticeable that he himself did not yet know in what tone he should begin to speak or it would be most profitable for him to strike straight off.
"Here, sir," he pointed around him, "I live like Zossima. [98]Sobriety, solitude, and poverty—the vow of the knights of old."
"You think the knights of old used to make such vows?" "Maybe I've got it muddled. Alas, no development for me! I've ruined everything! Believe me, Nikolai Vsevolodovich, here for the first time I've recovered from my shameful predilections—not a glass, not a drop! I have a corner to live in, and for six days I've been feeling a well-being of conscience. Even the walls smell of resin, reminding one of nature. And what was I, who was I?
I blow about by night unhoused, By day with my tongue hanging out, in the poet's ingenious expression! [99]But... how wet you are... Wouldn't you like some tea?"
"Don't bother."
"The samovar was boiling since before eight, but... went out... like everything in this world. And the sun, they say, will go out in its turn... Still, if you want, I can come up with it. Agafya's not asleep."
"Tell me, Marya Timofeevna is..."
"Here, here," Lebyadkin at once picked up, in a whisper. "Would you like to have a look?" he pointed towards the closed door to the other room.
"Not asleep?"
"Oh, no, no, how could she be? On the contrary, she's been waiting since evening, and as soon as she learned of it today, she immediately saw to her toilette," he twisted his mouth for a moment into a playful little smile, but instantly checked himself.
"How is she, generally?" Nikolai Vsevolodovich asked, frowning.
"Generally? That, sir, you know yourself" (he shrugged regretfully), "and now... now she sits reading the cards..."
"Very well, later; first we must finish with you."
Nikolai Vsevolodovich sat down on a chair.
The captain did not dare to sit on the sofa, but at once pulled another chair over for himself and bent forward to listen in trembling expectation.
"And what is it you've got there in the corner under the cloth?" Nikolai Vsevolodovich suddenly paid attention.
"That, sir?" Lebyadkin also turned around. "That is from your own generosities, by way of housewarming, so to speak, also taking into account the further way and natural fatigue," he tittered sweetly, then rose from his seat and, tiptoeing over, reverently and carefully took the cloth from the table in the corner. Under it a light supper turned out to have been prepared: ham, veal, sardines, cheese, a small greenish carafe, and a tall bottle of Bordeaux; everything had been laid out neatly, expertly, and almost elegantly.
"Was it you who saw to that?"
"Me, sir. Since yesterday, and whatever I could do to honor ... And Marya Timofeevna, you know yourself, is indifferent in this respect. And, above all, it's from your generosity, it's yours, since you are the master here, not me, and I'm only by way of being your steward, so to speak, for all the same, all the same, Nikolai Vsevolodovich, all the same I am independent in spirit! You won't take away this last possession of mine, will you?" he ended sweetly.
"Hm! ... why don't you sit back down."
"With gra-a-atitude, gratitude and independence!" (He sat down.) "Ah, Nikolai Vsevolodovich, so much has been stewing in this heart that I couldn't wait for you to come! So you will now decide my fate, and... that unfortunate woman's, and then... then, as I used to, in the old days, I'll pour everything out to you, as four years ago! You did deign to listen to me then, you read my stanzas... And though you used to call me your Falstaff from Shakespeare, you meant so much in my fate! ... I have great fears now, and wait for counsel and light from you alone. Pyotr Stepanovich acts terribly with me!"
Nikolai Vsevolodovich listened with curiosity, studying him closely. It was obvious that Captain Lebyadkin, though he had stopped drinking, was still far from being in a harmonious state. Something incoherent, dazed, something damaged and crazy, as it were, finally settles for good into such long-term drunkards, though, by the way, they can cheat, dodge, and sham almost no worse than anyone else if need be.
"I see you haven't changed at all, Captain, in these four years," Nikolai Vsevolodovich said, as if somewhat more kindly. "It must be true that the whole second half of a man's life is most often made up only of habits accumulated during the first half."
"Lofty words! You've solved the riddle of life!" the captain cried, half shamming and half really in genuine delight, because he was a great lover of little sayings. "Of all your sayings, Nikolai Vsevolodovich, there's one I remember especially; you uttered it back in Petersburg: 'One must be a great man indeed to be able to hold out even against common sense.' There, sir!"
"Or else a fool."
"Yes, sir, or else a fool, I suppose, but you've poured out witticisms all your life, while they... Let Liputin, let Pyotr Stepanovich try uttering anything like that! Oh, how cruelly Pyotr Stepanovich acted with me! ..."
"But what about you, Captain, how did you act?"
"A drunken state, and the myriads of my enemies besides! But now all, all has gone past, and I renew myself like the serpent. Nikolai Vsevolodovich, do you know that I'm writing my will, and have already written it?"
"Curious. What is it you're leaving, and to whom?"
"To the fatherland, to mankind, and to students. Nikolai Vsevolodovich, in the newspapers I read a biography about an American. He left his whole huge fortune to factories and for the positive sciences, his skeleton to the students at the academy there, and his skin to make a drum so as to have the American national anthem drummed on it day and night. Alas, we're pygmies compared to the soaring ideas of the North American States; Russia is a freak of nature, but not of mind. If I were to try and bequeath my skin for a drum, to the Akmolinsk infantry regiment, for example, where I had the honor of beginning my service, so as to have the Russian national anthem drummed on it every day in front of the regiment, it would be regarded as liberalism, my skin would be forbidden... and so I limited myself only to students. I want to bequeath my skeleton to the academy, on condition, however, that a label be pasted to its forehead unto ages of ages, reading: 'Repentant Freethinker.' There, sir!"
The captain spoke ardently and, to be sure, already believed in the beauty of the American bequest, but he was also a knave and wanted very much to make Nikolai Vsevolodovich laugh, having for a long time been in the position of his buffoon. Yet he did not even smile, but, on the contrary, asked somehow suspiciously:
"So you intend to make your will public in your lifetime, and get rewarded for it?"
"And what if it were so, Nikolai Vsevolodovich, what if it were so?" Lebyadkin peered at him cautiously. "For just you look at my fate! I've even stopped writing poetry, and there was a time when even you were amused by my little verses, Nikolai Vsevolodovich, remember, over a bottle? But it's all finished with my pen. I've written only one poem, like Gogol's 'Last Story,' remember, how he announced to Russia then that it 'sang itself out of his breast. [100]Well, it's the same with me, I sang it and basta!"
"And what is this poem?"
“‘In Case If She Broke Her Leg'!"
"Wha-a-at?"
This was just what the captain had been waiting for. He respected and valued his poems beyond measure, but besides, through some knavish duplicity of soul, he also liked it that Nikolai Vsevolodovich had always made merry over his little poems in the past, and had sometimes roared with laughter at them, holding his sides. Thus two objects were achieved—one poetic, the other subservient; but now there was also a third, special and quite ticklish object: the captain, by bringing poetry onto the scene, hoped to justify himself on one point, about which for some reason he had great apprehensions, and in which he felt himself at fault most of all.
“‘In Case If She Broke Her Leg,' that is, in case of horseback riding. A fantasy, Nikolai Vsevolodovich, raving, but a poet's raving: I was struck once, in passing, when I encountered a girl on horseback, and asked a material question: 'What would happen then?'—that is, in such case. The answer is clear: all pretenders back out, all wooers vanish, so it goes and wipe your nose, the poet alone will be left with his heart squashed in his breast. Nikolai Vsevolodovich, even a louse, even he can be in love, even he is not forbidden by any laws. And yet the person was offended by both the letter and the poem. I hear even you got angry—is it so, sir; that's regrettable; I didn't even want to believe it. Who could I harm with just my imagination? Besides, I swear on my honor, it was Liputin: 'Send it, send it, every man deserves the right of correspondence'—so I sent it."
"I believe you proposed yourself as a fiancé?"
"Enemies, enemies, enemies!"
"Recite the poem," Nikolai Vsevolodovich sternly interrupted.
"Raving, raving, above all."
Nevertheless, he drew himself up, raised his hand, and began:
"The beauty of beauties broke her member And twice more intriguing she became, And twice more burning was love's ember In him who already felt the same."
"Well, enough," Nikolai Vsevolodovich waved his hand.
"I dream of Petersburg," Lebyadkin skipped quickly on, as if there never had been any poem, "I dream of regeneration... Benefactor! Can I count on not being denied the means for the journey? I've been waiting for you all week as for the sun."
"Ah, no, sorry, I have almost no means left, and, besides, why should I give you money?..."
It was as if Nikolai Vsevolodovich suddenly became angry. Dryly and briefly he listed all the captain's crimes: drinking, lying, spending money intended for Marya Timofeevna, taking her from the convent, insolent letters with threats to make the secret public, his conduct with Darya Pavlovna, and so on and so forth. The captain heaved, gesticulated, tried to object, but each time Nikolai Vsevolodovich imperiously stopped him.
"And, I beg your pardon," he finally observed, "but you keep writing about a 'family disgrace.' Why is it so disgraceful for you that your sister is legally married to Stavrogin?"
"But the marriage is kept covered up, Nikolai Vsevolodovich, covered up, a fatal secret. I get money from you, and suddenly I'm asked the question: What is this money for? My hands are tied, I can't answer, to the detriment of my sister, to the detriment of my family dignity."
The captain raised his tone: he loved this theme and was counting firmly on it. Alas, he in no way anticipated how dashed he was going to be. Calmly and precisely, as if it were a matter of the most ordinary household instructions, Nikolai Vsevolodovich informed him that one of those days, perhaps even the next day or the day after, he intended to make his marriage known everywhere, "to the police as well as to society," and, consequently, the question of family dignity would end of itself, and along with it the question of subsidies. The captain goggled his eyes; he did not even understand; he had to have it explained to him.
"But isn't she a... half-wit?"
"I'll make certain arrangements."
"But... what about your mother?"
"Well, that's as she likes."
"But won't you have to bring your wife into your house?"
"Perhaps so. That, however, is in the fullest sense none of your business and does not concern you at all."
"How does it not concern me!" cried the captain. "And what am I to do?"
"Well, you certainly will not enter the house."
"But am I not a relation?"
"One flees such relations. Consider for yourself, then, why should I give you any money?"
"Nikolai Vsevolodovich, Nikolai Vsevolodovich, this cannot be, perhaps you'll still consider, you don't want to lay hands on... what will the world think, what will it say?"
"Much I fear your world. Didn't I marry your sister then, when I wanted to, after a drunken dinner, on a bet for wine, and why shouldn't I now proclaim it aloud ... if it now amuses me?"
He uttered this somehow especially irritably, so that Lebyadkin, with horror, began to believe it.
"But me, what about me, I'm the main thing here! ... Perhaps you're joking, Nikolai Vsevolodovich, sir?"
"No, I am not joking."
"Be it as you will, Nikolai Vsevolodovich, but I don't believe you... I'll file a petition then."
"You are terribly stupid, Captain."
"Maybe so, but this is all I've got left!" the captain was totally muddled. "Before, we were at least given lodging for the work she did in those corners, but now what will happen if you drop me altogether?"
"But don't you want to go to Petersburg and change your career?
Incidentally, is it true what I've heard, that you intended to go and make a denunciation, hoping to obtain a pardon by naming all the others?"
The captain gaped, goggle-eyed, and did not reply.
"Listen, Captain," Stavrogin suddenly began to speak with extreme seriousness, leaning slightly across the table. Up to then he had spoken somehow ambiguously, so that Lebyadkin, experienced in the role of buffoon, remained a bit uncertain until the last moment whether his master was really angry or was only teasing, whether he really had the wild idea of announcing his marriage or was only playing. But now the unusually stern look of Nikolai Vsevolodovich was so convincing that a chill even ran down the captain's spine. "Listen and tell the truth, Lebyadkin: have you made any denunciation yet, or not? Have you managed to really do anything? Did you send some letter out of foolishness?"
"No, sir, I haven't managed... and wasn't thinking of it," the captain stared.
"Well, that you weren't thinking of it is a lie. That's why you were begging to go to Petersburg. If you haven't written, you must have blabbed something to somebody. Tell the truth, I've heard a thing or two."
"To Liputin, while drunk. Liputin is a traitor. I opened my heart to him," the poor captain whispered.
"Heart or not, there's no need to be a tomfool. If you had a notion, you should have kept it to yourself; smart people are silent nowadays, they don't talk."
"Nikolai Vsevolodovich!" the captain started to tremble. "You had no part in anything, it's not you that I..."
"Of course, you wouldn't dare denounce your milch cow."
"Nikolai Vsevolodovich, consider, consider! ..." and in despair, in tears, the captain began hurriedly telling his story over all those four years. This was a most stupid story of a fool who had been drawn into something that was not his business, and the importance of which he scarcely understood until the very last minute, being occupied with drinking and carousing. He told how, while still in Petersburg, he "firstly got carried away just out of friendship, like a loyal student, though not being a student," and, knowing nothing, "guilty of nothing," was spreading various papers in stairways, leaving them by the dozens in doorways, behind bellpulls, sticking them in instead of newspapers, bringing them to theaters, tucking them into hats, slipping them into pockets. And later he had started taking money from them, "for my means, just think of my means, sir!" He had spread "all sorts of rubbish" over the districts of two provinces. "Oh, Nikolai Vsevolodovich," he went on exclaiming, "what made me most indignant was its being completely against all civic and predominantly fatherland laws! It would suddenly be printed to go out with pitchforks, and remember that he who goes out poor in the morning may come home rich in the evening—just think, sir! I myself used to get the shudders, but I kept spreading them around. Or else suddenly, five or six lines, to the whole of Russia, out of the blue: 'Quick, lock the churches, destroy God, break up marriages, destroy the rights of inheritance, grab your knives'—that's all, and God knows what next. It was with that piece, the one with the five lines, sir, that I almost got caught; the officers of the regiment gave me a beating, but, God bless them, they let me go. And then last year they almost got me when I gave French counterfeit fifty-rouble bills to Korovaev; but, thank God, just then Korovaev drowned in the pond while drunk, and they didn't have time to expose me. Here at Virginsky's I proclaimed the freedom of the social wife. In June I again did some spreading around the – district. They say they'll make me do more of it... Pyotr Stepanovich suddenly let me know that I have to obey; he's been threatening me for a long time. And how he treated me on that Sunday, really! Nikolai Vsevolodovich, I am a slave, I am a worm, but not a god—that is my only difference from Derzhavin. [101]But my means, just think of my means!"
Nikolai Vsevolodovich listened to it all with curiosity.
"Much of that I knew nothing about," he said. "Of course, anything could happen with you... Listen," he said, after some reflection, "if you like, tell them—well, you know whom—that Liputin was lying, and that you only meant to scare me a bit with a denunciation, thinking that I, too, was compromised, so as to extract more money from me that way... Understand?"
"Nikolai Vsevolodovich, my dear, can I really be threatened with such a danger? I've been waiting only so I could ask you."
Nikolai Vsevolodovich grinned.
"You certainly won't be allowed to go to Petersburg, even if I give you money for the trip... but, anyhow, it's time I went to Marya Timofeevna," and he got up from his chair.
"And, Nikolai Vsevolodovich, what about Marya Timofeevna?" "Just as I said."
"Can that also be true?"
"You still don't believe it?" "Can it be that you'll cast me off like an old, worn-out boot?"
"We'll see," laughed Nikolai Vsevolodovich. "Well, let me go."
"Wouldn't you like to order me to stay out on the porch, sir... so as not to overhear something somehow, by chance... because the rooms are tiny."
"That's a good idea; stay out on the porch. Take the umbrella."; "Your umbrella ... am I worth it, sir?" the captain oversweetened.
"Every man is worth an umbrella."
"At one stroke you define the minimum of human rights..."
But he was now babbling mechanically; he was too overwhelmed by the news, and became totally bewildered. And yet, almost at once, as soon as he stepped out onto the porch and opened the umbrella over him, the usual soothing notion began to hatch in his frivolous and knavish head, that he was being cheated and lied to, and, if so, it was not he who should fear, but he who was feared.
"If they're lying and cheating me, what precisely is the gist of it?" buzzed in his head. The announcement of the marriage seemed absurd to him: "True, anything can happen with such a wonder-worker; he lives for people's evil. And what if he's afraid himself, after Sunday's affront, and more so than ever before? So he comes running to assure me he's going to announce it himself, for fear I'll announce it. Eh, don't miss your mark, Lebyadkin! And why then come by night, by stealth, if he wants the publicity himself? And if he's afraid, it means he's afraid now, precisely at this moment, precisely in these few days... Eh, don't slip up, Lebyadkin! ...
"He frightens me with Pyotr Stepanovich. Aie, it's scary, aie, it's scary; no, that's where it's really scary! What ever made me blab about it to Liputin! Devil knows what these devils are cooking up, I never could make it out. They've begun to stir again, like five years ago. True, whom could I denounce them to? 'You didn't write to anybody out of foolishness?' Hm. So one could write as if it was out of foolishness? Is he advising me? 'That's why you're going to Petersburg.' The rogue, I just had a dream, and he's already guessed it! As if he himself was pushing me to go. There can only be one of two things here: either he's afraid, again, because he got into some mischief, or ... or he's not afraid himself and is only prompting me so that I'll denounce them all! Oh, scary, Lebyadkin, oh, just don't let me miss my mark! ..."
He fell to thinking so deeply that he even forgot to eavesdrop. Anyhow, eavesdropping was difficult; the door was a thick, single-leafed one, and they were speaking very softly; some indistinct sounds could be heard. The captain even spat and went back out, thoughtful, to whistle on the porch.
III
Marya Timofeevna's room was twice the size of the one occupied by the captain, and furnished with the same crude furniture; but the table in front of the sofa was covered with a bright, festive tablecloth; a lamp was burning on it; a beautiful carpet was spread over the whole floor; the bed was set apart behind a green curtain that ran the whole length of the room; and there was, besides, one big, soft armchair by the table, in which, however, Marya Timofeevna never sat. In the corner, as in her former lodgings, there was an icon with an icon lamp burning in front of it, and on the table the same indispensable little things were laid out: the deck of cards, the little mirror, the Songbook, even the sweet roll. In addition to which there had also appeared two books with colored pictures, one of extracts from popular travel writings adapted for young readers, the other a collection of light didactic tales, mostly about knights, intended for Christmases and boarding schools. There was also an album of various photographs. Marya Timofeevna was, of course, expecting her visitor, as the captain had said; but when Nikolai Vsevolodovich entered her room, she was asleep, half reclining on the sofa, leaning on an embroidered pillow. The visitor closed the door inaudibly behind him and, without moving from the spot, began to study the sleeping woman.
