‘Well, good-bye,’ he said abruptly. ‘You think it is easy for me to say good-bye to you? Ha, ha!’
Feeling that his question was somewhat gauche, he smiled angrily. Then as if vexed that he could not ever express what
he really meant, he said irritably, in a loud voice: ‘Excellency, I have the honour of inviting you to my funer-
al; that is, if you will deign to honour it with your presence. I invite you all, gentlemen, as well as the general.’
He burst out laughing again, but it was the laughter of a madman. Lizabetha Prokofievna approached him anxious-ly and seized his arm. He stared at her for a moment, still laughing, but soon his face grew serious.
‘Do you know that I came here to see those trees?’ point-ing to the trees in the park. ‘It is not ridiculous, is it? Say that it is not ridiculous!’ he demanded urgently of Lizabetha Prokofievna. Then he seemed to be plunged in thought. A moment later he raised his head, and his eyes sought for someone. He was looking for Evgenie Pavlovitch, who was close by on his right as before, but he had forgotten this, and his eyes ranged over the assembled company. ‘Ah! you have not gone!’ he said, when he caught sight of him at last. ‘You kept on laughing just now, because I thought of speaking to the people from the window for a quarter of an hour. But I am not eighteen, you know; lying on that bed, and looking out of that window, I have thought of all sorts of things for such a long time that … a dead man has no age, you know. I was saying that to myself only last week, when I was awake in the night. Do you know what you fear most? You fear our sincerity more than anything, although you despise us! The idea crossed my mind that night… You thought I was mak-ing fun of you just now, Lizabetha Prokofievna? No, the idea of mockery was far from me; I only meant to praise you. Colia told me the prince called you a child—very well—but
let me see, I had something else to say…’ He covered his face with his hands and tried to collect his thoughts.
‘Ah, yes—you were going away just now, and I thought to myself: ‘I shall never see these people again-never again! This is the last time I shall see the trees, too. I shall see noth-ing after this but the red brick wall of Meyer’s house opposite my window. Tell them about it—try to tell them,’ I thought.
‘Here is a beautiful young girl—you are a dead man; make them understand that. Tell them that a dead man may say anything—and Mrs. Grundy will not be angry—ha-ha! You are not laughing?’ He looked anxiously around. ‘But you know I get so many queer ideas, lying there in bed. I have grown convinced that nature is full of mockery—you called me an atheist just now, but you know this nature … why are you laughing again? You are very cruel!’ he added suddenly, regarding them all with mournful reproach. ‘I have not cor-rupted Colia,’ he concluded in a different and very serious tone, as if remembering something again.
‘Nobody here is laughing at you. Calm yourself’ said Lizabetha Prokofievna, much moved. ‘You shall see a new doctor tomorrow; the other was mistaken; but sit down, do not stand like that! You are delirious—Oh, what shall we do with him she cried in anguish, as she made him sit down again in the arm-chair.
A tear glistened on her cheek. At the sight of it Hippolyte seemed amazed. He lifted his hand timidly and, touched the tear with his finger, smiling like a child.
‘I … you,’ he began joyfully. ‘You cannot tell how I … he always spoke so enthusiastically of you, Colia here; I liked
his enthusiasm. I was not corrupting him! But I must leave him, too— I wanted to leave them all—there was not one of them—not one! I wanted to be a man of action—I had a right to be. Oh! what a lot of things I wanted! Now I want nothing; I renounce all my wants; I swore to myself that I would want nothing; let them seek the truth without me! Yes, nature is full of mockery! Why’—he continued with sudden warmth—‘does she create the choicest beings only to mock at them? The only human being who is recognized as perfect, when nature showed him to mankind, was given the mission to say things which have caused the shedding of so much blood that it would have drowned mankind if it had all been shed at once! Oh! it is better for me to die! I should tell some dreadful lie too; nature would so contrive it! I have corrupted nobody. I wanted to live for the hap-piness of all men, to find and spread the truth. I used to look out of my window at the wall of Meyer’s house, and say to myself that if I could speak for a quarter of an hour I would convince the whole world, and now for once in my life I have come into contact with … you—if not with the others! And what is the result? Nothing! The sole result is that you despise me! Therefore I must be a fool, I am use-less, it is time I disappeared! And I shall leave not even a memory! Not a sound, not a trace, not a single deed! I have not spread a single truth! … Do not laugh at the fool! Forget him! Forget him forever! I beseech you, do not be so cruel as to remember! Do you know that if I were not consumptive, I would kill myself?’
Though he seemed to wish to say much more, he became
silent. He fell back into his chair, and, covering his face with his hands, began to sob like a little child.
‘Oh! what on earth are we to do with him?’ cried Liz-abetha Prokofievna. She hastened to him and pressed his head against her bosom, while he sobbed convulsively.
‘Come, come, come! There, you must not cry, that will do. You are a good child! God will forgive you, because you knew no better. Come now, be a man! You know presently you will be ashamed.’
Hippolyte raised his head with an effort, saying:
‘I have little brothers and sisters, over there, poor avid innocent. She will corrupt them! You are a saint! You are a child yourself—save them! Snatch them from that … she is
… it is shameful! Oh! help them! God will repay you a hun-dredfold. For the love of God, for the love of Christ!’
‘Speak, Ivan Fedorovitch! What are we to do?’ cried Liz-abetha Prokofievna, irritably. ‘Please break your majestic silence! I tell you, if you cannot come to some decision, I will stay here all night myself. You have tyrannized over me enough, you autocrat!’
She spoke angrily, and in great excitement, and expect-ed an immediate reply. But in such a case, no matter how many are present, all prefer to keep silence: no one will take the initiative, but all reserve their comments till afterwards. There were some present—Varvara Ardalionovna, for in-stance—who would have willingly sat there till morning without saying a word. Varvara had sat apart all the evening without opening her lips, but she listened to everything with the closest attention; perhaps she had her reasons for
so doing.
‘My dear,’ said the general, ‘it seems to me that a sick-nurse would be of more use here than an excitable person like you. Perhaps it would be as well to get some sober, re-liable man for the night. In any case we must consult the prince, and leave the patient to rest at once. Tomorrow we can see what can be done for him.’
‘It is nearly midnight; we are going. Will he come with us, or is he to stay here?’ Doktorenko asked crossly of the prince.
‘You can stay with him if you like,’ said Muishkin. ‘There is plenty of room here.’
Suddenly, to the astonishment of all, Keller went quickly up to the general.
‘Excellency,’ he said, impulsively, ‘if you want a reliable man for the night, I am ready to sacrifice myself for my friend—such a soul as he has! I have long thought him a great man, excellency! My article showed my lack of educa-tion, but when he criticizes he scatters pearls!’
Ivan Fedorovitch turned from the boxer with a gesture of despair.
‘I shall be delighted if he will stay; it would certainly be dificult for him to get back to Petersburg,’ said the prince, in answer to the eager questions of Lizabetha Prokofievna.
‘But you are half asleep, are you not? If you don’t want him, I will take him back to my house! Why, good gracious! He can hardly stand up himself! What is it? Are you ill?’
Not finding the prince on his death-bed, Lizabetha Pro-kofievna had been misled by his appearance to think him
much better than he was. But his recent illness, the pain-ful memories attached to it, the fatigue of this evening, the incident with ‘Pavlicheff’s son,’ and now this scene with Hippolyte, had all so worked on his oversensitive nature that he was now almost in a fever. Moreover, anew trouble, almost a fear, showed itself in his eyes; he watched Hip-polyte anxiously as if expecting something further.
Suddenly Hippolyte arose. His face, shockingly pale, was that of a man overwhelmed with shame and despair. This was shown chiefly in the look of fear and
