“Moreover, it was also a mistake not to give them any money at all,” he was thinking, as he sadly made his way back to Lebezyatnikov's closet. “Devil take it, why did I turn into such a Jew? There wasn't even any calculation in it! I thought I'd keep them on a short tether for a bit, and get them to see me as their Providence, and now look! ... Pah! ... No, if I'd handed them, say, fifteen hundred meanwhile, for the trousseau, and for presents, for all sorts of little boxes, toilet cases, trinkets, fabrics, and all that trash from Knop's, and from the English store,^[106] things would be better now...and firmer! They wouldn't have refused me so easily! They're of such mold that they'd be sure to regard it as their duty, in case of refusal, to return the gifts and the money; and to return them would be a bit difficult, and a pity! And conscience would prick them: how can you suddenly chase a man out like this, when all along he's been so generous and rather delicate?...Hm! I missed that one!” And snarling once more, Pyotr Petrovich told himself then and there—but only himself, naturally—that he was a fool.

Having come to this conclusion, he returned home twice as angry and irritated as when he had left. The preparations for the memorial meal in Katerina Ivanovna's room partly drew his curiosity. He had already heard something about this memorial meal yesterday; he even had some memory of having been invited himself; but, busy with his own troubles, he had passed over all these other things without notice. Hastening to inquire of Mrs. Lippewechsel, who in Katerina Ivanovna's absence (she was at the cemetery) was bustling about the table that was being laid, he learned that the memorial meal was to be a grand affair, that nearly all the tenants had been invited, among them even those unknown to the deceased, that even Andrei Semyonovich Lebezyatnikov had been invited, in spite of his past quarrel with Katerina Ivanovna, and finally that he himself, Pyotr Petrovich, not only was invited but was even expected with great impatience, since he was perhaps the most important guest among all the tenants. Amalia Ivanovna herself had been invited with great honors, in spite of all past unpleasantnesses, and was therefore now hustling and bustling about, almost taking a delight in it; moreover, she was quite dressed up, in mourning but all of it new, silk, frills and fancies, and she was proud of it. All these facts and details gave Pyotr Petrovich a certain idea, and he went to his room—that is, to Andrei Semyonovich Lebezyatnikov's room—somewhat thoughtful. The thing was that, as he had learned, Raskolnikov was also among the invited guests.

Andrei Semyonovich, for some reason, had stayed at home that whole morning. Between this gentleman and Pyotr Petrovich a certain strange, though somewhat natural, relationship had come about: Pyotr Petrovich despised and hated him, even beyond measure, and had done so almost from the very day he came to stay with him; yet at the same time he was as if a bit wary of him. He was staying with him during his visit to Petersburg not just from miserly economy alone; though this was almost the main reason, there was also another reason here. While still in the provinces, he had heard of Andrei Semyonovich, his former ward, as one of the foremost young progressivists, who was even playing an important role in certain curious and fabled circles. Pyotr Petrovich was struck by this. These powerful, all-knowing, all-despising, and all-exposing circles had long frightened Pyotr Petrovich, with some peculiar, though perfectly undefined, fear. Of course, on his own, and living in the provinces besides, he was unable to form, even approximately, an exact notion of anything of that sort. He had heard, as everyone had, that there existed, especially in Petersburg, certain progressivists, nihilists, exposers, and so on and so forth, but, like many others, he exaggerated and distorted the meaning and significance of these names to the point of absurdity. What he had feared most of all, for several years now, was exposure, and this was the chief ground for his permanent, exaggerated uneasiness, especially when he dreamed of transferring his activities to Petersburg. In this respect he was scared, as they say, the way little children are sometimes scared. Some years ago, in the provinces, when he was just embarking on his career, he had met with two cases in which rather important personages of the province, whom he had latched on to and who until then had been his patrons, were cruelly exposed. One case ended somehow especially scandalously for the exposed personage, and the other even all but ended in real trouble. This was why Pyotr Petrovich decided, upon arriving in Petersburg, to find out at once how matters stood, and, if need be, to head things off just in case and curry favor with “our young generations.” To this end he put his hopes in Andrei Semyonovich, and in any case, as during his visit to Raskolnikov, for example, he already knew how to round off certain phrases he had borrowed somewhere . . .

Of course, he soon managed to discern in Andrei Semyonovich an extremely trite and simple little man. But this did not in the least reassure or encourage Pyotr Petrovich. Even if he were convinced that all progressivists were the same sort of little fools, it would still not have allayed his uneasiness. Properly speaking, these teachings, ideas, systems (with which Andrei Semyonovich simply pounced upon him), were none of his affair. He had his own object. He needed only to find out at once and quickly what went on here, and how. Did these people have any power, or did they not have any power? Was there anything for him to fear personally, or was there not? Would they expose him if he undertook this or that, or would they not expose him? And if they would expose him, then what for, and what exactly was it that one got exposed for nowadays? Furthermore, could he not somehow get in good with them and at the same time hoodwink them a bit, if they were indeed so powerful? Was it the thing to do, or not? Could he not, for instance, bolster his career a bit precisely by means of them? In short, he was faced with hundreds of questions.

This Andrei Semyonovich was a thin-blooded and scrofulous little man, small of stature, who worked as an official somewhere, was strangely towheaded, and had side-whiskers shaped like mutton-chops, which were his great pride. What's more, his eyes were almost constantly ailing. His heart was rather soft, but his speech was quite self-confident and on occasion extremely presumptuous—which, compared with his little figure, almost always came out funny. Amalia Ivanovna, however, counted him among her most honored tenants, meaning that he did not drink and that he paid his rent regularly. In spite of all these qualities, Andrei Semyonovich was indeed a bit stupid.

He subscribed himself to progress and “our young generations” out of passion. He was one of that numerous and diverse legion of vulgarians, feeble miscreates, half-taught petty tyrants who make a point of instantly latching on to the most fashionable current idea, only to vulgarize it at once, to make an instant caricature of everything they themselves serve, sometimes quite sincerely.

However, though he was a very kind little man, Lebezyatnikov was also beginning to find his cohabitant and former guardian, Pyotr Petrovich, partly unbearable. It came about somehow mutually and inadvertently on both sides. Simple as Andrei Semyonovich was, he nevertheless began gradually to realize that Pyotr Petrovich was hoodwinking him and secretly despised him, and that “he was not the right sort of man at all.” He had tried expounding Fourier's system and Darwin's theory to him, but Pyotr Petrovich, especially of late, had begun listening somehow too sarcastically, and most recently had even become abusive. The thing was that he had begun to perceive, by instinct, that Lebezyatnikov was not only a trite and silly little man, but perhaps also a bit of a liar; that he had no connections of any importance even in his own circle, but had only heard things third hand; moreover, he perhaps did not even know his own propaganda business properly, because he got too confused; and so it was not for the likes of him to be an exposer! Incidentally, let us note in passing that Pyotr Petrovich, during this week and a half, had willingly accepted (especially at the beginning) some rather peculiar praise from Andrei Semyonovich; that is, he did not object, for example, but remained silent, when Andrei Semyonovich ascribed to him a readiness to contribute to the future and imminent establishing of a new “commune” somewhere in Meshchanskaya Street, or not to hinder Dunechka, for example, if in the very first month of marriage she should decide to take a lover, or not to have his future children baptized, and so on and so forth—all in the same vein.^[107] Pyotr Petrovich, as was his custom, did not object to such qualities being ascribed to him, and allowed himself to be praised even in such a way—so pleasant did he find every sort of praise.