his hands. He felt insufferably ashamed, and his boyish sensitiveness, unaccustomed to such nastiness, was wounded beyond endurance. It seemed to him as though something extraordinary had happened, which had shattered everything, and that he was almost the cause of it by the very fact of having read it aloud.
But everyone seemed to be feeling something of the same sort.
The girls felt very awkward and ashamed. Lizaveta Prokofyevna was struggling with violent anger. She, too, perhaps, was bitterly regretting that she had meddled. Now she was silent. Myshkin felt as over-sensitive people often do in such cases; he was so much ashamed of the conduct of others, he felt such shame for his visitors, that for the first moment he was ashamed to look at them. Ptitsyn, Varya, Ganya, even Lebedyev — all had rather an embarrassed air. The strangest thing was that Ippolit and “the son of Pavlishtchev” both seemed surprised. Lebedyev’s nephew, too, was obviously displeased. The boxer was the only one who sat quite serene, twisting his moustache, with a dignified air and eyes cast down, not from embarrassment, but apparently from modest pride and unmistakable triumph. It was clear that he was delighted with the article.
“This is beyond anything,” General Epanchin muttered in an undertone, “as though fifty lackeys had met together and composed it.”
“Allow me to ask you, my dear sir, how dare you make such insulting suppositions?” cried Ippolit, trembling all over.
“This, this, this for an honourable man . . . you must admit yourself, general, that if it’s an honourable man, it’s insulting!” muttered the boxer, who also seemed suddenly roused, twisting his moustache and twitching his shoulders and body.
“In the first place, I am not ‘your dear sir,’ and in the second place, I have no intention of giving you any explanation,” Ivan Fyodorovitch answered harshly. He was awfully annoyed; he got up from his seat and without saying a word went to the entrance of the verandah and stood on the top step with his back to the party — in violent indignation with his wife,
who even now did not think fit to move.
“Friends, friends, allow me to speak at last,” Myshkin exclaimed in distress and agitation, “and I beg you, let us talk so that we may understand one another. I say nothing about the article, gentlemen, let it alone; only one thing, friends, it’s all untrue, what is said in the article; I say so, because you know that yourselves; it’s shameful, in fact, so that I should be greatly surprised if anyone of you has written it.”
“I knew nothing about the article till this moment,” Ippolit announced. “I don’t approve of the article.”
“Though I knew it was written, I … I too wouldn’t have advised its being published, because it’s premature,” added Lebedyev’s nephew.
“I knew, but I have the right. . . I. . ,” muttered “the son of Pavlishtchev.”
“What! Did you make all that up yourself?” asked Myshkin, looking with curiosity at Burdovsky. “But it’s impossible!”
“We may refuse to recognise your right to ask such questions!” Lebedyev’s nephew put in.
“I only wondered that Mr. Burdovsky could bring himself … but … I mean to say, since you have qiven publicity to the case, why were you so offended just now at my talking about it before my friends?”
“At last!” muttered Lizaveta Prokofyevna indignantly.
“And, prince, you are pleased even to forget,” Lebedyev, unable to restrain himself, threaded his way between the chairs, almost in a fever. “\bu are pleased to forget that it was only through your kindness, and the infinite goodness of your heart, you received them and listened to them, and that they have no right to demand anything, especially as you have already put the matter into the hands of Gavril Ardalionovitch, and that, too, you did through your excessive kindness. And now, most illustrious prince, in the midst of your chosen friends, you cannot sacrifice such a company to these gentlemen, and you might, so to speak, turn all these gentlemen out at once into the street, and I, as master of the house, would with the greatest pleasure …”
“Perfectly right!” General Ivolgin thundered suddenly from the back of the room.
“Enough, Lebedyev, enough, enough,” Myshkin was beginning, but his words were lost in a perfect explosion of indignation.
“No, excuse me, prince, excuse me, that’s not enough now,” bawled Lebedyev’s nephew, shouting above every one. “Now we must put the case on a firm and clear basis, for it is evidently not understood. There is some legal quibble involved, and on account of that quibble, they threaten to turn us into the street! But is it possible, prince, you can think us such fools as not to understand that we have no legal claim whatever, and that if the case is analysed from a legal point of view, we have no right to ask for a single rouble? But we thoroughly grasp that, though there is no legal claim, there is a human, natural claim, the claim of common sense and the voice of conscience. And though that claim may not be written in any rotten human code, yet a generous and honest man, in other words, a man of common sense, is bound to remain generous and honest even on points that are not written in the codes. That’s why we’ve come here without any fear of being turned out into the street (as you’ve threatened just now) because we don’t beg but demand, and because of the impropriety of our visit at such a late hour (though we didn’t come at a late hour, but you kept us waiting in the servants’ room). We came, I say, without fear, because we assumed you to be a man of common sense, that is, of honour and conscience. “Vfes, it’s true we came in not humbly, not as beggars or cadgers, but with our heads erect, like free men, not a bit with a petition, but with a free and proud request (you hear, not with a petition, but with a request, take that in) we put the question to you directly and with dignity: do you consider yourself right or wrong in Burdovsky’s case? Do you admit that you were benefited and perhaps saved from death by Pavlishtchev? If you admit it (and it’s evident), do you, after receiving millions, intend or think it just to compensate Pavlishtchev’s son in his poverty, even though he does bear the name of Burdovsky? “Vfes or no? If yes, that is, in other words, if you have what you call in your language honour and conscience, and what we more exactly describe by the term common sense, then satisfy us, and the matter is finished. Satisfy us without entreaties or gratitude on our part; don’t expect them of us, for you are doing it not for our sake, but for the sake of iustice. If vou are unwillinq to satisfy us, that is,
answer no, we go away at once and the case is over and we tell you to your face before all your witnesses, that you are a man of coarse intelligence and low development; that for the future you dare not call yourself a man of honour and conscience, and have no right to do so, that you are trying to buy that right too cheap. I’ve finished. I have put the question. Turn us into the street now, if you dare. “Vbu can do it, you have the power. But remember all the same that we demand and we don’t beg. We demand, we do not beg!”
Lebedyev’s nephew stopped, much excited.
“We demand, we demand, we demand, we don’t beg,” Burdovsky gabbled thickly and turned red as a crab.
After the speech made by Lebedyev’s nephew, there was a general movement and even a murmur of protest, though every one in the party was evidently anxious to avoid meddling, except perhaps Lebedyev, who seemed in a perfect fever (strange to say, Lebedyev, though evidently on Myshkin’s side, seemed to feel a glow of family pride at the speech of his nephew; anyway, he looked at the company present with a certain peculiar air of satisfaction).
“In my opinion,” Myshkin began in rather a low voice, “in my opinion, Mr. Doktorenko, in half of what you said just now, you are quite right and in the greater half, in fact. And I should agree with you entirely if you hadn’t left something out in your speech. I can’t tell you what you’ve left out exactly, I am not capable, but to make your speech quite just, something more is wanted. But we had better turn to the case, gentlemen; tell me, what made you publish that article? There isn’t a word in it that isn’t slander; so that to my thinking, gentlemen, you’ve done something mean.”
“Excuse me!”
“My dear sir!”
“This . . . this . . . this” was heard at the same time from the excited visitors.
“As for the article,” Ippolit put in, shrilly, “as for that article, I have told you already that I and the rest don’t approve of it! It was written by him here” (he pointed to the boxer, who was sitting beside him); “it’s written disgracefully, I admit, it’s written illiterately, and in the jargon used by retired army men like him. He is stupid, and, besides that, is a mercenary fellow, I
agree. I tell him so to his face every day, but yet in half of it he was right. Publicity is the legal right of all, and therefore of Burdovsky. He must answer himself for his absurdities. As for my protesting