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Demons
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Текст книги "Demons"


Автор книги: Федор Достоевский



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Текущая страница: 28 (всего у книги 56 страниц)

"Yes, she does have something of that fougue," Andrei Antonovich muttered, not without pleasure, at the same time regretting terribly that this ignoramus should dare to express himself quite so freely about Yulia Mikhailovna. But Pyotr Stepanovich probably thought it was still too little, and that he must put on more steam so as to flatter and completely subdue "Lembka."

"Fougue, precisely," he agreed. "Granted she may be a genius, a literary woman, but—she'll scare the sparrows away. She couldn't hold out for six hours, much less six days. Ehh, Andrei Antonovich, don't ever lay a six-day term on a woman! You will acknowledge that I do have some experience, in these matters, I mean; I do know a thing or two, and you yourself know that I'm capable of knowing a thing or two. I'm asking you for six days not to play around, but for serious business."

"I've heard..." Lembke hesitated to voice his thought, "I've heard that on your return from abroad you expressed something like repentance ... in the proper quarters?"

"Well, or whatever it was."

"And I, naturally, have no wish to go into... but I kept thinking that up to now you've talked in quite a different style here, about the Christian faith, for example, about social structures, and, finally, about the government..."

"I've said all kinds of things. I say the same things now, too, only these ideas shouldn't be pursued the way those fools do it, that's the point. What's this biting the shoulder? You agreed with me yourself, only you were saying it was too early."

"I was not, in fact, speaking about that when I agreed but said it was too early."

"You just hang every word on a hook, though—heh, heh!—you cautious man!" Pyotr Stepanovich suddenly remarked gaily. "Listen, dear heart, I did have to get acquainted with you, after all, that's why I've been speaking to you in this style of mine. It's not only you, I make many acquaintances this way. Maybe I had to figure out your character."

"And what would you need my character for?"

"Well, how should I know what for?" (he laughed again). "You see, my dear and much respected Andrei Antonovich, you are cunning, but it hasn't come to thatyet, and most likely it won't, understand? You understand, perhaps? Though I did give explanations in the proper quarters on my return from abroad, and I really don't see why a person of certain convictions shouldn't act for the benefit of his genuine convictions... but no one therehas ordered your character yet, and I have not yet taken upon myself any such orders from there.Try to realize: it was quite possible for me not to disclose these two names to you first, but to shoot straight over there—I mean, where I gave my original explanations; and if I were exerting myself on account of finances, or for some profit, then, of course, it would be a miscalculation on my part, because now they'll be grateful to you and not to me.

It's solely for the sake of Shatov," Pyotr Stepanovich added, with a noble air, "for Shatov alone, out of past friendship ... well, and maybe when you take up your pen to write there,well, you can praise me, if you wish ... I won't object, heh, heh! Adieu,however, I've stayed too long and babbled more than I should have!" he added, not without affability, and got up from the sofa.

"On the contrary, I'm very glad things are beginning to take shape, so to speak," von Lembke got up, too, also with an affable air, apparently influenced by the last words. "I accept your services with gratitude, and, rest assured, everything, for my part, concerning references to your zeal ..."

"Six days, that's the main thing, give me six days, and make no move for those six days, that's what I need!"

"Very well."

"Naturally, I'm not tying your hands, and wouldn't dare to. You can't really not keep an eye out; only don't frighten the nest ahead of time, this is where I'm counting on your intelligence and experience. And I bet you must have all sorts of hounds and bloodhounds of your own ready, heh, heh!" Pyotr Stepanovich blurted out gaily and thoughtlessly (like a young man).

"Not quite," Lembke dodged affably. "It's a prejudice of youth that there's so much ready... But, incidentally, allow me one word: if this Kirillov was Stavrogin's second, then Mr. Stavrogin, too, in that case..."

"What about Stavrogin?"

"I mean, if they're such friends?"

"Ah, no, no, no! You're way off the mark, though you are cunning. And you even surprise me. I thought you were not uninformed with regard to that. . . Hm, Stavrogin is something totally the opposite—I mean, totally... Avis au lecteur. [xcvi] "

"Indeed! But, can it be?" Lembke uttered mistrustfully. "Yulia Mikhailovna told me that, according to her information from Petersburg, he is a man with certain, so to speak, instructions..."

"I know nothing, nothing, nothing at all. Adieu. Avis au lecteur!"Pyotr Stepanovich suddenly and obviously dodged.

He flew to the door.

"Allow me, Pyotr Stepanovich, allow me," cried Lembke, "one other tiny matter—I won't keep you."

He pulled an envelope from his desk drawer.

"Here's one little specimen of the same category, and with this I prove that I trust you in the highest degree. Here, sir, what is your opinion?"

There was a letter in the envelope—a strange letter, anonymous, addressed to Lembke, and received only the day before. To his great vexation, Pyotr Stepanovich read the following:

Your Excellency, For by rank you are so. I herewith announce an attempt on the life of the persons of generals and the fatherland; for it leads straight to that. I myself have constantly been spreading them for a multitude of years. And godlessness, too. A rebellion is in preparation, there being several thousand tracts, and a hundred men will run after each one with their tongues hanging out, if not taken away by the authorities beforehand, for a multitude is promised as a reward, and the simple people are stupid, and also vodka. People considering the culprit are destroying one and another, and, fearing both sides, I repented of what I did not participate in, for such are my circumstances. If you want a denunciation to save the fatherland, and also the churches and icons, I alone can. But, with that, a pardon by telegraph from the Third Department, [133]immediately, to me alone out of all of them, and the rest to be held responsible. As a signal, every evening at seven o'clock put a candle in the doorkeeper's window. Seeing it, I will believe and come to kiss the merciful hand from the capital, but, with that, a pension, otherwise what will I live on? And you will not regret it, because you will get a star. It has to be on the quiet, or else there will be a neck wrung.

Your Excellency's desperate man.

At your feet falls the repentant freethinker,

Incognito

Von Lembke explained that the letter had turned up a day ago in the doorkeeper's room, while no one was there.

"So what do you think?" Pyotr Stepanovich asked almost rudely.

"I should suppose that this is an anonymous lampoon, a mockery."

"Most likely that's what it is. You're not to be hoodwinked."

"Mainly because it's so stupid."

"And have you received other lampoons here?"

"I have, twice, anonymously."

"Well, naturally they're not going to sign them. In different styles? Different hands?"

"Different styles and different hands."

"And clownish, like this one?"

"Yes, clownish, and you know... extremely vile."

"Well, since there have been some already, it's probably the same now."

"And mainly because it's so stupid. Because those people are educated and probably wouldn't write so stupidly."

"Ah, yes, yes."

"But what if someone indeed wants to make a denunciation?"

"Impossible," Pyotr Stepanovich cut off dryly. "What's this telegram from the Third Department? And the pension? An obvious lampoon."

"Yes, yes," Lembke felt ashamed.

"You know what, why don't you let me keep it. I'll find out definitely for you. Even before I find out the others."

"Take it," von Lembke agreed, though with a certain hesitation.

"Have you shown it to anyone?"

"No, how would I, not to anyone."

"I mean, to Yulia Mikhailovna?"

"Ah, God forbid, and for God's sake don't you show it to her!" Lembke cried out in fright. "She'll be so shocked ... and terribly angry with me."

"Yes, you'll be the first to catch it, she'll say you had it coming, if they write to you like that. We know women's logic. Well, good-bye. I may even present this writer to you within three days. Above all, our agreement!"


IV

Pyotr Stepanovich was perhaps not a stupid man, but Fedka the Convict rightly said of him that he "invents a man and then lives with him." He went away from von Lembke quite certain that he had set him at ease for at least six days, and he needed the time badly. But this notion was a false one, and it all rested on his having invented Andrei Antonovich as a perfect simpleton, from the very start, once and for all.

Like every morbidly insecure man, Andrei Antonovich, each time he emerged from uncertainty, was for the first moment extremely and joyfully trustful. The new turn of affairs presented itself to him at first in a rather agreeable way, despite certain newly emerging, troublesome complications. The old doubts, at least, were reduced to dust. Besides, he had grown so tired in the last few days, felt himself so worn out and helpless, that his soul involuntarily longed for peace. But, alas, once again he was not at peace. Long life in Petersburg had left indelible traces on his soul. He was rather well informed of the official and even the secret history of the "new generation"—he was a curious man and collected tracts—but he never understood the first word of it. And now he was as if in a forest: all his instincts told him that there was something utterly incongruous in Pyotr Stepanovich's words, something outside all forms and conventions—"though devil knows what may go on in this 'new generation,' and devil knows how things are done among them!" he pondered, losing himself in reflections.

And here, as if by design, Blum again stuck his head into the room. Throughout Pyotr Stepanovich's visit, he had bided his time not far away. This Blum was even a relation of Andrei Antonovich's, but a distant one, carefully and timorously concealed all his life. I ask the reader's pardon for granting at least a few words here to this insignificant person. Blum belonged to the strange breed of "unfortunate" Germans—not at all owing to his extreme giftlessness, but precisely for no known reason. "Unfortunate" Germans are not a myth, they really exist, even in Russia, and have their own type. All his life Andrei Antonovich had nursed a most touching sympathy for him, and wherever he could, as he himself succeeded in the service, kept promoting him to subordinate positions within his jurisdiction, but the man had no luck anywhere. Either the position would be abolished, or the superior would be replaced, or else he was once almost put on trial along with some others. He was precise, but somehow excessively, needlessly, and to his own detriment, gloomy; red-haired, tall, stooping, doleful, even sentimental, yet, for all his downtroddenness, stubborn and persistent as an ox, though always at the wrong time. He and his wife, with their numerous children, nursed a long-standing and reverential affection for Andrei Antonovich. Except for Andrei Antonovich, no one had ever loved him. Yulia Mikhailovna discarded him at once, but proved unable to overcome her husband's tenacity. This was their first family quarrel, and it took place just after their wedding, in the very first honey days, when Blum suddenly came to light, after having been carefully hidden from her, along with the offensive secret of his being her relation. Andrei Antonovich entreated her with clasped hands, recounted feelingly the whole story of Blum and of their friendship from very childhood, but Yulia Mikhailovna considered herself disgraced forever and even resorted to swooning. Von Lembke did not yield an inch to her and declared that he would not abandon Blum for anything in the world, nor distance him from himself, so that she was finally surprised and was forced to permit Blum. Only it was decided that their relation must be concealed still more carefully than before, if that were possible, and that Blum's name and patronymic would be changed, because for some reason he, too, was named Andrei Antonovich. Among us Blum made no acquaintances, except with the German pharmacist, paid no calls, and, as was his wont, lived his niggardly and solitary life. He had long known, too, about Andrei Antonovich's literary peccadilloes. He was mainly summoned to listen to his novels in secret, intimate readings, would sit it out like a post for six hours on end; sweated, exerted all his strength to smile and not fall asleep; on coming home would lament, together with his long-legged and lean-fleshed wife, over their benefactor's unfortunate weakness for Russian literature.

Andrei Antonovich looked with suffering at the entering Blum.

"Leave me alone, Blum, I beg you," he began in an alarmed patter, obviously wishing to deflect any renewal of their previous conversation, interrupted by Pyotr Stepanovich's arrival.

"And yet it could be arranged in the most delicate way, quite privately; you do have full authority," Blum respectfully but stubbornly insisted on something, hunching his shoulders and approaching Andrei Antonovich more and more closely on small steps.

"Blum, you are devoted to me and obliging to such a degree that I get beside myself with fear each time I look at you."

"You always say sharp things and sleep peacefully feeling pleased with what you've said, but you do yourself harm that way."

"Blum, I've just become convinced that it's not that, not that at all."

"Is it from the words of this false, depraved young man whom you yourself suspect? He won you over by his flattering praise of your talent for literature."

"Blum, you understand nothing; your project is an absurdity, I tell you. We won't find anything, and there will be a terrible outcry, then laughter, and then Yulia Mikhailovna..."

"We will unquestionably find everything we are looking for," Blum took a firm step towards him, placing his right hand on his heart. "We will make the inspection suddenly, early in the morning, observing all delicacy regarding the person, and all the prescribed strictness of legal form. The young men, Lyamshin and Telyatnikov, insist all too much that we will find everything we want. They have visited there many times. No one is attentively disposed towards Mr. Verkhovensky. The general's widow Stavrogin has clearly denied him her patronage, and every honest man, if there be such in this rude town, is convinced that there has always been concealed there a source of disbelief and social teaching. He keeps all the forbidden books, Ryleev's Ponderings, [134] all of Herzen's works ... I have an approximate catalogue just in case..."

"Oh, God, everyone has those books; how simple you are, my poor Blum!"

"And many tracts," Blum went on without heeding the reproof. "We will certainly finish by finding the trail of actual local tracts. This young Verkhovensky I find quite, quite suspicious."

"But you're mixing up the father and the son. They're not on good terms; the son laughs openly at the father."

"That is just a mask."

"Blum, you're sworn to be the death of me! Think, he's a notable person here, after all. He used to be a professor, he's a well-known man, he'll make an outcry, and there will be jeering all over town, and the whole thing will go amiss... and think what will happen with Yulia Mikhailovna!"

Blum barged ahead without listening.

"He was just an assistant professor, just only an assistant professor, and is only a mere retired collegiate assessor in rank," [135]he kept beating his breast, "he has no distinctions, he was fired from his post on suspicion of plotting against the government. He was under secret surveillance, and no doubt still is. And in view of the newly discovered disorders, your duty no doubt obliges you. And yet you, on the contrary, are letting your distinction slip, by conniving with the real culprit."

"Yulia Mikhailovna! Get ou-u-ut, Blum!" von Lembke suddenly cried, hearing his spouse's voice in the next room.

Blum gave a start, but did not yield.

"Permit me, do permit me," he edged forward, pressing both hands still more tightly to his breast.

"Get ou-u-ut!" Andrei Antonovich gnashed. "Do what you like... later... Oh, my God!"

The portière was raised, and Yulia Mikhailovna appeared. She stopped majestically on seeing Blum, looked him over haughtily and offendedly, as if the man's very presence there were an insult to her. Blum silently and respectfully made her a low bow and, stooping with respect, went to the door on tiptoe, his hands spread slightly.

Whether he indeed took Andrei Antonovich's last hysterical exclamation as direct permission to act as he had requested, or whether he played it false in this case for the direct good of his benefactor, being only too certain that the end would crown the affair—in any case, as we shall see below, this conversation between the superior and his subordinate produced a most unexpected result, which made many laugh, became publicly known, aroused the bitter wrath of Yulia Mikhailovna, and with all that left Andrei Antonovich finally bewildered, having thrown him, at the hottest moment, into the most lamentable indecision.


V

For Pyotr Stepanovich the day proved a bustling one. From von Lembke he quickly ran over to Bogoyavlensky Street, but going down Bykov Street, past the house where Karmazinov was lodging, he suddenly halted, grinned, and went into the house. "You are expected, sir," he was told, which highly intrigued him, because he had given no notice of his coming.

But the great writer was indeed expecting him, and had been even yesterday, and the day before. Three days earlier he had handed him the manuscript of his Merci(which he wanted to read at the literary matinée on the day of Yulia Mikhailovna's fête), and had done so as a favor, quite certain that he would pleasantly flatter the man's vanity by letting him acquaint himself with the great work beforehand. Pyotr Stepanovich had long ago noticed that this gentleman, conceited, spoiled, and insultingly unapproachable for the non-elect, this "all but statesmanly mind," was quite simply fawning on him, even eagerly so. I believe the young man finally realized that the older one considered him, if not the ringleader of everything covertly revolutionary in the whole of Russia, at least one of those most deeply initiated into the secrets of the Russian revolution and with an unquestionable influence on the young. The state of mind of "the most intelligent man in Russia" interested Pyotr Stepanovich, but up to now, for certain reasons, he had avoided any explanations.

The great writer lodged in the house of his sister, a court chamberlain's wife and a landowner; the two of them, husband and wife, stood in awe of their famous relation, but, to their great regret, during his present visit they were both in Moscow, so that the honor of receiving him went to a little old lady, a very distant and poor relation of the chamberlain's, who lived in their house and had long looked after all the housekeeping. With the arrival of Mr. Karmazinov, the household all began to go around on tiptoe. The little old lady notified Moscow almost daily of how he had reposed and upon what he had been pleased to dine, and once sent a telegram with the news that he had been obliged, after a formal dinner at the mayor's, to take a spoonful of a certain medication. She rarely ventured into his room, though he treated her politely, if dryly, and spoke with her only if there was some need. When Pyotr Stepanovich entered, he was eating his little morning cutlet with half a glass of red wine. Pyotr Stepanovich had visited him before and always found him over this little morning cutlet, which he went on eating in his presence without ever offering him anything. After the little cutlet, a small cup of coffee was served. The valet who brought the food wore a tailcoat, soft inaudible boots, and gloves.

"Ahh!" Karmazinov rose from the sofa, wiping his mouth with a napkin, and with an air of the purest joy came at him with his kisses—a habit characteristic of Russians if they are indeed so famous. But Pyotr Stepanovich recalled from previous experience that while he would come at you with his kisses, he would then let you have his cheek, and so this time he did the same; the two cheeks met. [136]Karmazinov, without showing that he had noticed it, sat down on the sofa and affably pointed Pyotr Stepanovich to the armchair facing him, in which the latter proceeded to sprawl.

"You wouldn't... Would you care for some lunch?" the host asked, abandoning his habit this time, but, of course, with an air that clearly prompted a polite refusal. Pyotr Stepanovich at once did care to have lunch. A shadow of hurt amazement darkened his host's face, but only for a moment; he nervously rang for the servant and, in spite of all his good breeding, raised his voice squeamishly as he ordered a second lunch to be served.

"What will you have, a cutlet or coffee?" he inquired once more.

"A cutlet and coffee, and have them bring more wine, I'm hungry," Pyotr Stepanovich replied, studying his host's attire with calm attention. Mr. Karmazinov was wearing a little quilted jerkin, a sort of jacket, with little mother-of-pearl buttons, but much too short, and which was not at all becoming to his rather well fed tummy and the solidly rounded beginnings of his legs; but tastes vary. The checkered woolen plaid on his knees unfolded to the floor, though the room was warm.

"Are you sick or something?" Pyotr Stepanovich remarked.

"No, not sick, but afraid of becoming sick in this climate," the writer replied in his sharp voice, though with a pleasantly aristocratic lisp, lovingly scanning each word. "I expected you yesterday."

"But why? I didn't promise."

"No, but you do have my manuscript. Have you... read it?"

"Manuscript? What manuscript?"

Karmazinov was terribly surprised.

"But, anyhow, you did bring it with you?" he suddenly grew so alarmed that he even left off eating and looked at Pyotr Stepanovich with frightened eyes.

"Ah, this Bonjouryou mean ..."

"Merci.”

"Well, all right. I completely forgot, and I haven't read it, I have no time. I don't know, really, it's not in my pockets... must be on my desk. Don't worry, it'll turn up."

"No, better if I send to your place for it now. It may disappear, or get stolen, finally."

"But, who needs it! And why are you so frightened? Yulia Mikhailovna says you always have several copies stashed away, one abroad with a notary, another in Petersburg, a third in Moscow, then you send one to the bank, or whatever."

"But Moscow can also burn down, and my manuscript with it. No, I'd better send right now."

"Wait, here it is!" Pyotr Stepanovich took a bundle of writing paper from his back pocket. "It got a bit crumpled. Imagine, it's been there in my back pocket all this time, along with my handkerchief, just as I took it from you then; I forgot."

Karmazinov greedily snatched the manuscript, carefully looked it over, counted the pages, and placed it respectfully beside him for the time being, on a special little table, but so as to keep it in view at all times.

"It seems you don't read so much," he hissed, unable to restrain himself.

"No, not so much."

"And in the line of Russian belles lettres—nothing?"

"In the line of Russian belles lettres? Let me see, I did read something ... On the Way... or Make Way...or By the Wayside, [137] possibly—I don't remember. I read it long ago, five years or so. I have no time."

Some silence ensued.

"I assured them all, as soon as I arrived, that you are a great mind, and now it seems they've all lost their minds over you."

"Thank you," Pyotr Stepanovich replied calmly.

Lunch was brought. Pyotr Stepanovich fell upon the little cutlet with great appetite, ate it instantly, drank the wine, and gulped down the coffee.

"This ignoramus," Karmazinov studied him pensively out of the corner of his eye as he finished the last little morsel and drank the last little sip, "this ignoramus probably understood all the sharpness of my phrase just now... and he certainly read the manuscript eagerly and is just lying with something in mind. Yet it may also be that he's not lying, but is quite genuinely stupid. I like it when a man of genius is somewhat stupid. Isn't he really some sort of genius hereabouts? Devil take him, anyway."

He got up from the sofa and began pacing the room slowly, from corner to corner, for exercise—something he performed every day after lunch.

"Leaving soon?" Pyotr Stepanovich asked from the armchair, having lighted a cigarette.

"I came to sell my estate, actually, and am now entirely dependent on my manager."

"But it seems you came because an epidemic was expected there after the war?"

"N-no, it wasn't quite that," Mr. Karmazinov continued, scanning his words benignly, and kicking his right leg out briskly, though only slightly, each time he turned back from a corner. "Indeed," he grinned, not without venom, "I intend to live as long as possible. There is something in the Russian gentry that very quickly wears out, in all respects. But I want to wear out as late as possible, and am now moving abroad for good; the climate is better there, and they build in stone, and everything is stronger. Europe will last my lifetime, I think. What do you think?"

"How should I know?"

"Hm. If their Babylon is indeed going to collapse, and great will be its fall [138](in which I fully agree with you, though I do think it will last my lifetime), here in Russia there is nothing to collapse, comparatively speaking. We won't have stones tumbling down, everything will dissolve into mud. Holy Russia is least capable in all the world of resisting anything. Simple people still hang on somehow by the Russian God; but the Russian God, according to the latest reports, is rather unreliable and even barely managed to withstand the peasant reform; anyway he tottered badly. And what with the railroads, and what with your... no, I don't believe in the Russian God at all."

"And in the European one?"

"I don't believe in any. I've been slandered to the Russian youth. I've always sympathized with every movement of theirs. I was shown these local tracts. They're regarded with perplexity because everyone is frightened by the form, but everyone is nonetheless certain of their power, though they may not be aware of it. Everyone has long been falling, and everyone has long known that there is nothing to cling to. I'm convinced of the success of this mysterious propaganda even owing to this alone, that Russia now is preeminently the place in the whole world where anything you like can happen without the least resistance. I understand only too well why the moneyed Russians have all been pouring abroad, more and more of them every year. It's simple instinct. If a ship is about to sink, the rats are the first to leave it. Holy Russia is a wooden country, a beggarly and... dangerous one, a country of vainglorious beggars in its upper strata, while the vast majority live in huts on chicken legs. [139]She'll be glad of any way out, once it has been explained to her. The government alone still wants to resist, but it brandishes its cudgel in the dark and strikes its own. Everything is doomed and sentenced here. Russia as she is has no future. I've become a German and count it an honor."

"No, but you began about the tracts; tell me everything, how do you look at them?"

"Everyone is afraid of them, which means they're powerful. They openly expose deceit and prove that we have nothing to cling to and nothing to lean on. They speak out, while everyone is silent. The most winning thing about them (despite the form) is this hitherto unheard-of boldness in looking truth straight in the face. This ability to look truth straight in the face belongs only to the Russian generation. No, in Europe they are still not so bold: theirs is a kingdom of stone, they still have something to lean on. As far as I can see and am able to judge, the whole essence of the Russian revolutionary idea consists in a denial of honor. I like the way it is so boldly and fearlessly expressed. No, in Europe they still won't understand it, but here it is precisely what they will fall upon. For the Russian, honor is simply a superfluous burden. And it has always been a burden, throughout his history. He can be all the sooner carried away by an open 'right to dishonor." [140]I am of the old generation and, I confess, still stand for honor, but only from habit. I simply like the old forms, say it's from faintheartedness; I do have to live my life out somehow."

He suddenly paused.

"I talk and talk, however," he thought, "and he says nothing and keeps an eye on me. He came so that I'd ask him a direct question. And I will ask it."

"Yulia Mikhailovna asked me to trick you somehow into telling what this surprise is that you're preparing for the ball the day after tomorrow," Pyotr Stepanovich said suddenly.

"Yes, it will indeed be a surprise, and I will indeed amaze..." Karmazinov assumed a dignified air, "but I won't tell you what the secret is."

Pyotr Stepanovich did not insist.

"There's some Shatov here," the great writer inquired, "and, imagine, I haven't seen him."

"A very nice person. So?"

"That's all. He's talking about something. Was he the one who slapped Stavrogin in the face?"

"Yes."

"And what do you think of Stavrogin?"

"I don't know—some sort of philanderer."

Karmazinov had come to hate Stavrogin, because he made a habit of taking no notice of him.

"This philanderer," he said, tittering, "will probably be the first to be hung from a limb, if what's preached in those tracts ever gets carried out."

"Maybe even sooner," Pyotr Stepanovich said suddenly.


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