my bed, you know. He is mad with suspicion, and sees a thief in every corner. He runs about all night long; he was up at least seven times last night, to satisfy himself that the windows and doors were barred, and to peep into the oven. That man who appears in court for scoundrels, rushes in here in the night and prays, lying prostrate, banging his head on the ground by the half-hour—and for whom do you think he prays? Who are the sinners figuring in his drunk-en petitions? I have heard him with my own ears praying for the repose of the soul of the Countess du Barry! Colia heard it too. He is as mad as a March hare!’
‘You hear how he slanders me, prince,’ said Lebedeff, al-most beside himself with rage. ‘I may be a drunkard, an evil-doer, a thief, but at least I can say one thing for my-self. He does not know—how should he, mocker that he is?—that when he came into the world it was I who washed him, and dressed him in his swathing-bands, for my sister Anisia had lost her husband, and was in great poverty. I was very little better off than she, but I sat up night after night with her, and nursed both mother and child; I used to go downstairs and steal wood for them from the house-por-ter. How often did I sing him to sleep when I was half dead with hunger! In short, I was more than a father to him, and now—now he jeers at me! Even if I did cross myself, and pray for the repose of the soul of the Comtesse du Barry, what does it matter? Three days ago, for the first time in my life, I read her biography in an historical dictionary. Do you know who she was? You there!’ addressing his nephew.
‘Speak! do you know?’
‘Of course no one knows anything about her but you,’ muttered the young man in a would-be jeering tone.
‘She was a Countess who rose from shame to reign like a Queen. An Empress wrote to her, with her own hand, as
‘Ma chere cousine.’ At a lever-du-roi one morning (do you know what a lever-du-roi was?)—a Cardinal, a Papal leg-ate, offered to put on her stockings; a high and holy person like that looked on it as an honour! Did you know this? I see by your expression that you did not! Well, how did she die? Answer!’
‘Oh! do stop—you are too absurd!’
‘This is how she died. After all this honour and glory, after having been almost a Queen, she was guillotined by that butcher, Samson. She was quite innocent, but it had to be done, for the satisfaction of the fishwives of Paris. She was so terrified, that she did not understand what was hap-pening. But when Samson seized her head, and pushed her under the knife with his foot, she cried out: ‘Wait a moment! wait a moment, monsieur!’ Well, because of that moment of bitter suffering, perhaps the Saviour will pardon her other faults, for one cannot imagine a greater agony. As I read the story my heart bled for her. And what does it matter to you, little worm, if I implored the Divine mercy for her, great sinner as she was, as I said my evening prayer? I might have done it because I doubted if anyone had ever crossed him-self for her sake before. It may be that in the other world she will rejoice to think that a sinner like herself has cried to heaven for the salvation of her soul. Why are you laughing? You believe nothing, atheist! And your story was not even
correct! If you had listened to what I was saying, you would have heard that I did not only pray for the Comtesse du Bar-ry. I said, ‘Oh Lord! give rest to the soul of that great sinner, the Comtesse du Barry, and to all unhappy ones like her.’ You see that is quite a different thing, for how many sinners there are, how many women, who have passed through the trials of this life, are now suffering and groaning in purga-tory! I prayed for you, too, in spite of your insolence and impudence, also for your fellows, as it seems that you claim to know how I pray…’
‘Oh! that’s enough in all conscience! Pray for whom you choose, and the devil take them and you! We have a scholar here; you did not know that, prince?’ he continued, with a sneer. ‘He reads all sorts of books and memoirs now.’
‘At any rate, your uncle has a kind heart,’ remarked the prince, who really had to force himself to speak to the neph-ew, so much did he dislike him.
‘Oh, now you are going to praise him! He will be set up! He puts his hand on his heart, and he is delighted! I never said he was a man without heart, but he is a rascal—that’s the pity of it. And then, he is addicted to drink, and his mind is unhinged, like that of most people who have taken more than is good for them for years. He loves his chil-dren—oh, I know that well enough! He respected my aunt, his late wife … and he even has a sort of affection for me. He has remembered me in his will.’
‘I shall leave you nothing!’ exclaimed his uncle angrily. ‘Listen to me, Lebedeff,’ said the prince in a decided voice,
turning his back on the young man. ‘I know by experience
that when you choose, you can be business-like. . I . I have very little time to spare, and if you … By the way—excuse me—what is your Christian name? I have forgotten it.’
‘Ti-Ti-Timofey.’ ‘And?’ ‘Lukianovitch.’
Everyone in the room began to laugh.
‘He is telling lies!’ cried the nephew. ‘Even now he can-not speak the truth. He is not called Timofey Lukianovitch, prince, but Lukian Timofeyovitch. Now do tell us why you must needs lie about it? Lukian or Timofey, it is all the same to you, and what difference can it make to the prince? He tells lies without the least necessity, simply by force of habit, I assure you.’
‘Is that true?’ said the prince impatiently.
‘My name really is Lukian Timofeyovitch,’ acknowl-edged Lebedeff, lowering his eyes, and putting his hand on his heart.
‘Well, for God’s sake, what made you say the other?’ ‘To humble myself,’ murmured Lebedeff.
‘What on earth do you mean? Oh I if only I knew where Colia was at this moment!’ cried the prince, standing up, as if to go.
‘I can tell you all about Colia,’ said the young man ‘Oh! no, no!’ said Lebedeff, hurriedly.
‘Colia spent the night here, and this morning went after his father, whom you let out of prison by paying his debts— Heaven only knows why! Yesterday the general promised to come and lodge here, but he did not appear. Most probably
he slept at the hotel close by. No doubt Colia is there, unless he has gone to Pavlofsk to see the Epanchins. He had a little money, and was intending to go there yesterday. He must be either at the hotel or at Pavlofsk.’
‘At Pavlofsk! He is at Pavlofsk, undoubtedly!’ interrupted Lebedeff…. ‘But come—let us go into the garden—we will have coffee there….’ And Lebedeff seized the prince’s arm, and led him from the room. They went across the yard, and found themselves in a delightful little garden with the trees already in their summer dress of green, thanks to the un-usually fine weather. Lebedeff invited his guest to sit down on a green seat before a table of the same colour fixed in the earth, and took a seat facing him. In a few minutes the cof-fee appeared, and the prince did not refuse it. The host kept his eyes fixed on Muishkin, with an expression of passion-ate servility.
‘I knew nothing about your home before,’ said the prince absently, as if he were thinking of something else.
‘Poor orphans,’ began Lebedeff, his face assuming a mournful air, but he stopped short, for the other looked at him inattentively, as if he had already forgotten his own re-mark. They waited a few minutes in silence, while Lebedeff sat with his eyes fixed mournfully on the young man’s face.
‘Well!’ said the latter, at last rousing himself. ‘Ah! yes! You know why I came, Lebedeff. Your letter brought me. Speak! Tell me all about it.’
The clerk, rather confused, tried to say something, hesi-tated, began to speak, and again stopped. The prince looked at him gravely.
‘I think I understand, Lukian Timofeyovitch: you were not sure that I should come. You did not think I should start at the first word from you, and you merely wrote to relieve your conscience. However, you see now that I have come, and I have had enough of trickery. Give up serving, or try-ing to serve, two masters. Rogojin has been here these three weeks. Have you managed to sell her to him as you did be-fore? Tell me the truth.’
‘He discovered everything, the monster … himself ……’ ‘Don’t abuse him; though I dare say you have something
to complain of….’
‘He beat me, he thrashed me unmercifully!’ replied Lebedeff vehemently. ‘He set a dog on me in Moscow, a bloodhound, a terrible beast that chased me all down the street.’
‘You seem to take me for a child, Lebedeff. Tell me, is it a fact that she left him while they were in Moscow?’
‘Yes, it is a fact, and this time, let me
