“Vfet he was beginning to have a passionate faith in the Russian soul. Oh, in those six months he had passed through a great deal — a great deal that had been quite new to him, unguessed, unknown and unexpected! But the soul of another is a dark place, and the Russian soul is a dark place — for many it is a dark place. He had long been friends with Rogozhin, for instance, they had been intimate, they had been like brothers; but did he know Rogozhin? And what chaos one found here sometimes in all this! What a muddle, what hideousness! And what a repulsive and self-satisfied pimple that nephew of Lebedyev’s was! “What am I saying, though?” (Myshkin went on dreaming.) “Did he kill those creatures, those six people? I seem to be mixing it up.. .. How strange it is! I am rather giddy. . . . And what a charming, what a sweet face Lebedyev’s eldest daughter had — the one standing up with the baby! What an innocent, what an almost childish expression! What an almost childish laugh!” Strange that he had nearly forgotten that face and now he could think of nothing else.
Lebedyev, who stamped his feet at them, probably adored them all. But what was certain as that twice two make four was that Lebedyev adored his nephew too!
But how could he venture to criticise them so positively, he who had only come that day? How could he pass such judgments? Why, Lebedyev had been a riddle to him that day. Had he expected a Lebedyev like that? Had he known a Lebedyev like that before? Lebedyev and Du Barry — heavens! If Rogozhin did commit murder, though, at last, it would not be such a senseless murder. There would not be the same chaos. A weapon made to a special pattern and the murder of six people perpetrated in complete delirium. . . . Had Rogozhin a weapon made to a special pattern? Had he .. . But.. . was it certain that Rogozhin would commit murder? Myshkin suddenly started. “Isn’t it criminal, isn’t it base on my part to make such a supposition with cynical openness!” he cried, and a flush of shame instantly overspread his face. He was astounded; he stood still, as though struck dumb in the road. He remembered all at once the Pavlovsk station that afternoon and the station at which he had arrived that morning, and Rogozhin’s question asked to his face about the eyes; and Rogozhin’s cross, which he was wearing now; and the blessing of his mother, to whom Rogozhin had taken him himself; and that last convulsive embrace, that last renunciation of Rogozhin’s on the stairs — and after all that, to catch himself incessantly looking about him for something, and that shop and that object. . . . What baseness! And, after all that, he was going now with a “special purpose,” with a “special sudden idea”! His whole soul was overwhelmed with despair and suffering. Myshkin wanted to turn back at once and go home to the hotel. He even turned and walked that way, but a minute later he stood still, reflected, and went back again to where he had been going.
“Vfes, he was already on the Petersburg Side; he was near the house. It was not with that same purpose he was going there now; it was not with that special idea! And how could it be? “Vfes, his illness was coming back, there was no doubt of that; perhaps he would even have the fit that day. All this darkness was owing to that; “the idea,” too, was owing to that! Now the darkness was dispelled, the demon had been driven awav, doubt did not exist,
there was joy in his heart! And — it was so long since he had seen her, he wanted to see her, and . . . Yes, he would have liked to meet Rogozhin now; he would have taken him by the hand and they would have gone together. His heart was pure; he was not Rogozhin’s rival! The next day he would go himself and tell Rogozhin that he had seen her. Why, he had flown here, as Rogozhin said, that afternoon simply to see her! Perhaps he would find her! It was not certain after all that she was at Pavlovsk.
Yes, all this must be made clear now, that all might see clearly into each other’s hearts, that there might be no more such gloomy and passionate renunciations as Rogozhin’s that day; and all this must be done in freedom and . . . light. Surely Rogozhin too could walk in the light. He said he did not love her like that; that he had no compassion for her, no “sort of pity.” It is true he had added afterwards that “your pity perhaps is stronger than my love”; but he had been unjust to himself. Hm! . . . Rogozhin reading — was not that “pity”? The beginning of “pity”? Did not the very presence of that book prove that he was fully conscious of his attitude to her? And all he had told him that morning? “Vfes, that was deeper than mere passion. And does her face inspire no more than passion? Can that face indeed inspire passion now? It excites grief, it clutches the whole soul, it . . . and a poignant, agonising memory suddenly passed through Myshkin’s heart.
“Vfes, agonising. He remembered how he had suffered not long ago when first he had noticed in her symptoms of insanity. Then he had been almost in despair. And how could he have left her when she ran away from him to Rogozhin? He ought to have run after her himself without waiting for news of her. But. . . was it possible Rogozhin had not yet noticed insanity in her? Hm! Rogozhin sees other causes for everything, passions! And what insane jealousy! What did he mean by his supposition that morning? (Myshkin suddenly flushed and there was a sort of shudder at his heart.)
But what use was it to think of that? There was insanity on both sides. And for him, Myshkin, to love that woman with passion was almost unthinkable, would have been almost cruelty, inhumanity. Yes, yes! No, Rogozhin was unfair to himself; he had a great heart which could suffer and be compassionate. When he knew all the truth, when he realised what a piteous creature that broken, insane woman was, wouldn’t he forgive her all the past, all his agonies? Wouldn’t he become her servant, her brother, her friend, her Providence? Compassion would teach even Rogozhin and awaken his mind. Compassion was the chief and perhaps only law of all human existence. Ah, how unpardonably and dishonourably he had wronged Rogozhin! No, it was not that “the Russian soul was a dark place,” but that in his own soul there was darkness, since he could imagine such horrors! Because of a few warm words from the heart in Moscow Rogozhin had called him his brother; while he . . . But that was sickness and delirium. That would all come right! . . . How gloomily Rogozhin had said that morning that he was “losing his faith”! That man must be suffering terribly! He had said that “he liked looking at that picture”; it was not that he liked it, but that he felt drawn to it. Rogozhin was not merely a passionate soul; he was a fighter, anyway: he wanted by force to get back his lost faith. He had an agonising need of it now. . . . Yes, to believe in something! To believe in some one! How strange that picture of Holbein’s was, though! . .. Ah, here is the street! And here must be that house. “Vfes, it was it, No. 16, “the house of Madame Filisov.” It was here! Myshkin rang and asked for Nastasya Filippovna.
The mistress of the house herself answered him that Nastasya Filippovna had gone to Pavlovsk that morning to stay with Darya Alexeyevna, “and it may be that she will stay there some days.” Madame Filisov was a little, keen-eyed, sharp-faced woman about forty, with a sly and watchful expression. She asked his name, and there was an apparently intentional air of mystery in the question. Myshkin was at first unwilling to answer, but immediately turned back and asked her emphatically to give his name to Nastasya Filippovna. Madame Filisov received this emphatic request with great attention and an extraordinary air of secrecy, by which she evidently meant to suggest, “Set your mind at rest; I understand.” Myshkin’s name obviously made a very great impression on her. He looked absent-mindedly at her, turned,
