But it was clear to me that she hadn’t said anything to her mother. Yet I was afraid. During that whole time I was horribly afraid that she would talk. Finally, one day her mother told me, before leaving us alone, that the girl was in bed with a fever. I sat down in my room and, without stirring, watched the bed in the darkness of the other room.
An hour later she moved. She came out of the darkness, emaciated in her nightgown, came to the door of my room, and there, tossing her head, shook her frail little fist at me. Then she fled. I heard her run along the inner balcony. I got up and saw her disappear into a nook where wood was kept. I knew what she was going to do. But I sat down again and forced myself to wait twenty minutes. [Someone was singing in the courtyard; a fly was buzzing near me.
I caught it, held it in my hand a moment, and then let it go.] I recall that on a geranium near me a tiny red spider was walking slowly. When the twenty minutes were up, I forced myself to wait a quarter of an hour more. Then, as I left, I looked into the nook through a crack. Matriocha had hanged herself. I left and spent the evening playing cards, with the feeling that a weight had been lifted from me.
TIHON: A weight lifted from you?
STAVROGIN (with a change in manner): Yes. But at the same time I knew that the feeling was based on a horrible cowardice and that never again, never again, could I feel noble in this life, or in another life, never. . . .
TIHON: Is that why you acted so strangely here? STAVROGIN: Yes. I should have liked to kill myself. But I didn’t have the courage. So I ruined my life in the stupidest way possible. I led an ironic life. It occurred to me that it would be a good idea— quite stupid, really—to marry a crazy woman, a cripple, and so I did. I even accepted a duel and kept from shooting in the hope of being killed foolishly. Finally I accepted the heaviest responsibilities, without believing in them. But all that was in vain! And now I live between two dreams. In one of them there are happy islands surrounded by a sundrenched sea where men wake up and go to bed innocent, and in the other I see an emaciated Matriocha tossing her head and shaking her little fist at me. . . . Her little fist . . *: I should like to erase a deed from my life, and I cannot. (He hides his head in his hands. Then, after a silence, he straightens up.)
TIHON: Are you really going to publish this story? STAVROGIN: Yes. Yes!
TIHON: Your intention is noble. The spirit of penitence can go no further. It would be an admirable action to punish oneself this way if only . . . STAVROGIN: If?
TIHON: If only it were a true penance. STAVROGIN: What do you mean?
TIHON: You express directly in your narrative the need felt by a heart mortally wounded. This is why you wanted to be spat upon, to be slapped, and to be shamed. But at the same time there is pride and defiance in your confession. [Sensuality and idleness have made you insensitive, incapable of loving, and you seem to be proud of that insensitivity. You are proud of what is shameful.] That is despicable.
STAVROGIN: I thank you. TIHON: Why?
STAVROGIN: Because, although you are annoyed with me, you don’t seem to feel any disgust and you talk to me as to an equal.
TIHON: I was disgusted. But you have so much pride that you didn’t notice it. Yet your words «You talk to me as to an equal» are beautiful words. They show that your heart is great and your strength tremendous. But that great useless strength in you frightens me because it seeks to express itself only in foul deeds. You have negated everything, you no longer love anything, and a punishment pursues all those who break away from their native soil, from the truth belonging to their own people and their own time. STAVROGIN: I don’t fear that punishment, or any other.
TIHON: One must fear, on the contrary. Or else there is no punishment but only delight. Listen. If someone, someone you didn’t know, whom you would never see again, read that confession and forgave you silently in his heart, would that bring you peace?
STAVROGIN: That would bring me peace. (In a whisper) If you forgave me, that would do me great good. (He stares at him and then breaks out in violent passion.) No! I want to win my own forgiveness! That is my principal and sole aim. Only then will the vision disappear! That is why I long for an exceptional suffering; that is why I seek it myself! Don’t discourage me or I shall burst with rage!
TIHON (rising): If you believe that you can forgive yourself, and that you will achieve your forgiveness in this world through suffering, if you seek solely to obtain that forgiveness—oh, then you have complete faith! God will forgive you [your absence of faith, for you venerate the Holy Ghost without knowing it.]
STAVROGIN: There can be no forgiveness for me. It is written in your books that there is no greater crime than to offend one of these little ones. TIHON: If you forgive yourself, Christ will forgive you likewise.
STAVROGIN: No. No. Not he. Not he. There can be no forgiveness! Never again, never again . . .
STAVROGIN takes his hat and strides toward the door like a madman. But he turns back toward TIHON and resumes his ceremonious manner. Me seems exhausted.) I shall return. We shall talk of all this again. I assure you that I’m very happy to have met you. I appreciate your welcome and your understanding.
TIHON: Are you leaving already? I wanted to ask you a favor. . . . But I fear . . .
STAVROGIN: Please do. (He negligently picks up a little crucifix from the table.)
TIHON: Don’t publish that story.
STAVROGIN: I warned you that nothing will stop me. I shall make it known to the whole world! TIHON: I understand. But I propose to you an even greater sacrifice. Give up your intention and in this way you will overcome your pride, you will crush your demon, and you will achieve liberty. (He clasps his hands.)
STAVROGIN: You take all this too much to heart. If I listened to you, I’d just settle down, have children, become a member of a club, and come to the monastery on holy days.
TIHON: No. I am suggesting a different penance. In this monastery there is an ascetic, an old man of such Christian wisdom that neither I nor even you can imagine it. Go to him, submit to his authority for five or seven years, and you will obtain, I promise you, everything for which you thirst.
STAVROGIN (in a bantering tone of voice): Enter the monastery? Why not? After all, I am convinced that I could live like a monk, although I am gifted with a bestial sensuality, (TIHON cries out, with his hands stretched in front of him.) What’s the matter?
TIHON: I see, I see clearly that you have never been closer to committing another crime even more heinous than the one you have just related. STAVROGIN: Calm yourself. I can promise you not to publish this story immediately.
TIHON: NO. NO. There will come a day, an hour, before that great sacrifice, when you will look for a way out in a new crime, and you will commit it only to avoid publication of these pages! (STAVROGIN stares at him fixedly, breaks the crucifix, and drops the pieces on the tabled)
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THIRD PART
vinced that I could live like a monk, although I am gifted with a bestial sensuality, (TIHON cries out, with his hands stretched in front of him.) What’s the matter?
TIHON: I see, I see clearly that you have never been closer to committing another crime even more heinous than the one you have just related. STAVROGIN: Calm yourself. I can promise you not to publish this story immediately.
TIHON: No. No. There will come a day, an hour, before that great sacrifice, when you will look for a way out in a new crime, and you will commit it only to avoid publication of these pages! (STAVROGIN stares at him fixedly, breaks the crucifix, and drops the pieces on the table.)
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THIRD PART
SCENE 15
At Varvara Stavrogiris. STAVROGIN comes in, his face distorted, hesitates, wheels around, and then disappears through the door upstage, GRIGORIEV and STEPAN TROFIMOVICH come in, greatly excited.
STEPAN: But, after all, what does she want of me? GRIGORIEV: I don’t know. She asked you to come at once.
STEPAN: It must be the house search. She heard of it. She will never forgive me.
GRIGORIEV: But who came to search you? STEPAN: I don’t know, une espece d’Allemand, who directed everything. I was excited. He talked. No, I was the one who talked. I told him my whole life—from the political point of view, I mean. I was excited but dignified, I assure you. Yet … I fear I may have wept.
GRIGORIEV: But you should have demanded his search warrant. You should have shown a little arrogance.
STEPAN: Listen, Anton, don’t criticize me. When you are unhappy, there is nothing
