Lebedeff clasped his hands in supplication.
‘What help do you want from me? You may be certain that I am most anxious to understand you, Lebedeff.’
‘I felt sure of that, or I should not have come to you. We might manage it with the help of Nina Alexandrovna, so that he might be closely watched in his own house. Un-fortunately I am not on terms … otherwise … but Nicolai Ardalionovitch, who adores you with all his youthful soul, might help, too.’
‘No, no! Heaven forbid that we should bring Nina Alex-androvna into this business! Or Colia, either. But perhaps I have not yet quite understood you, Lebedeff?’
Lebedeff made an impatient movement.
‘But there is nothing to understand! Sympathy and ten-derness, that is all—that is all our poor invalid requires! You will permit me to consider him an invalid?’
‘Yes, it shows delicacy and intelligence on your part.’
‘I will explain my idea by a practical example, to make it clearer. You know the sort of man he is. At present his only failing is that he is crazy about that captain’s widow, and
he cannot go to her without money, and I mean to catch him at her house today—for his own good; but supposing it was not only the widow, but that he had committed a real crime, or at least some very dishonourable action (of which he is, of course, incapable), I repeat that even in that case, if he were treated with what I may call generous tenderness, one could get at the whole truth, for he is very soft-hearted! Believe me, he would betray himself before five days were out; he would burst into tears, and make a clean breast of the matter; especially if managed with tact, and if you and his family watched his every step, so to speak. Oh, my dear prince,’ Lebedeff added most emphatically, ‘I do not posi-tively assert that he has … I am ready, as the saying is, to shed my last drop of blood for him this instant; but you will admit that debauchery, drunkenness, and the captain’s widow, all these together may lead him very far.’
‘I am, of course, quite ready to add my efforts to yours in such a case,’ said the prince, rising; ‘but I confess, Lebedeff, that I am terribly perplexed. Tell me, do you still think … plainly, you say yourself that you suspect Mr. Ferdishen-ko?’
Lebedeff clasped his hands once more.
‘Why, who else could I possibly suspect? Who else, most outspoken prince?’ he replied, with an unctuous smile.
Muishkin frowned, and rose from his seat.
‘You see, Lebedeff, a mistake here would be a dreadful thing. This Ferdishenko, I would not say a word against him, of course; but, who knows? Perhaps it really was he? I mean he really does seem to be a more likely man than… than any
other.’
Lebedeff strained his eyes and ears to take in what the prince was saying. The latter was frowning more and more, and walking excitedly up and down, trying not to look at Lebedeff.
‘You see,’ he said, ‘I was given to understand that Ferdish-enko was that sort of man,—that one can’t say everything before him. One has to take care not to say too much, you understand? I say this to prove that he really is, so to speak, more likely to have done this than anyone else, eh? You un-derstand? The important thing is, not to make a mistake.’
‘And who told you this about Ferdishenko?’
‘Oh, I was told. Of course I don’t altogether believe it. I am very sorry that I should have had to say this, because I assure you I don’t believe it myself; it is all nonsense, of course. It was stupid of me to say anything about it.’
‘You see, it is very important, it is most important to know where you got this report from,’ said Lebedeff, excit-edly. He had risen from his seat, and was trying to keep step with the prince, running after him, up and down. ‘Because look here, prince, I don’t mind telling you now that as we were going along to Wilkin’s this morning, after telling me what you know about the fire, and saving the count and all that, the general was pleased to drop certain hints to the same effect about Ferdishenko, but so vaguely and clumsily that I thought better to put a few questions to him on the matter, with the result that I found the whole thing was an invention of his excellency’s own mind. Of course, he only lies with the best intentions; still, he lies. But, such being the
case, where could you have heard the same report? It was the inspiration of the moment with him, you understand, so who could have told YOU? It is an important question, you see!’
‘It was Colia told me, and his father told HIM at about six this morning. They met at the threshold, when Colia was leaving the room for something or other.’ The prince told Lebedeff all that Colia had made known to himself, in de-tail.
‘There now, that’s what we may call SCENT!’ said Leb-edeff, rubbing his hands and laughing silently. ‘I thought it must be so, you see. The general interrupted his innocent slumbers, at six o’clock, in order to go and wake his beloved son, and warn him of the dreadful danger of companionship with Ferdishenko. Dear me! what a dreadfully dangerous man Ferdishenko must be, and what touching paternal so-licitude, on the part of his excellency, ha! ha! ha!’
‘Listen, Lebedeff,’ began the prince, quite overwhelmed; ‘DO act quietly—don’t make a scandal, Lebedeff, I ask you— I entreat you! No one must know—NO ONE, mind! In that
case only, I will help you.’
‘Be assured, most honourable, most worthy of princ-es—be assured that the whole matter shall be buried within my heart!’ cried Lebedeff, in a paroxysm of exaltation. ‘I’d give every drop of my blood… Illustrious prince, I am a poor wretch in soul and spirit, but ask the veriest scoundrel whether he would prefer to deal with one like himself, or with a noble-hearted man like you, and there is no doubt as to his choice! He’ll answer that he prefers the noble-hearted
man—and there you have the triumph of virtue! Au revoir, honoured prince! You and I together—softly! softly!’
X
THE prince understood at last why he shivered with dread every time he thought of the three letters in his pocket,
and why he had put off reading them until the evening. When he fell into a heavy sleep on the sofa on the veran-
dah, without having had the courage to open a single one of the three envelopes, he again dreamed a painful dream, and once more that poor, ‘sinful’ woman appeared to him. Again she gazed at him with tears sparkling on her long lashes, and beckoned him after her; and again he awoke, as before, with the picture of her face haunting him.
He longed to get up and go to her at once—but he COULD NOT. At length, almost in despair, he unfolded the letters, and began to read them.
These letters, too, were like a dream. We sometimes have strange, impossible dreams, contrary to all the laws of na-ture. When we awake we remember them and wonder at their strangeness. You remember, perhaps, that you were in full possession of your reason during this succession of fantastic images; even that you acted with extraordinary logic and cunning while surrounded by murderers who hid their intentions and made great demonstrations of friend-ship, while waiting for an opportunity to cut your throat. You remember how you escaped them by some ingenious stratagem; then you doubted if they were really deceived,
or whether they were only pretending not to know your hiding-place; then you thought of another plan and hood-winked them once again. You remember all this quite clearly, but how is it that your reason calmly accepted all the manifest absurdities and impossibilities that crowded into your dream? One of the murderers suddenly changed into a woman before your very eyes; then the woman was transformed into a hideous, cunning little dwarf; and you believed it, and accepted it all almost as a matter of course— while at the same time your intelligence seemed unusually keen, and accomplished miracles of cunning, sagacity, and logic! Why is it that when you awake to the world of reali-ties you nearly always feel, sometimes very vividly, that the vanished dream has carried with it some enigma which you have failed to solve? You smile at the extravagance of your dream, and yet you feel that this tissue of absurdity con-tained some real idea, something that belongs to your true life,—something that exists, and has always existed, in your heart. You search your dream for some prophecy that you were expecting. It has left a deep impression upon you, joy-ful or cruel, but what it means, or what has been predicted to you in it, you can neither understand nor remember.
The reading of these letters produced some such ef-fect upon the prince. He felt, before he even opened the envelopes, that the very fact of their existence was like a nightmare. How could she ever have made up her mind to write to her? he asked himself. How could she write about that at all? And how could such a wild idea have entered her head? And yet, the strangest part of the matter was, that
while he read the letters, he himself almost believed in the possibility, and even in the justification, of the idea he
