Pyotr Petrovich, who for some reason had cashed several five percent bank notes that morning, sat at the table and counted through the bundles of hills and series. Andrei Semyonovich, who almost never had any money, was pacing the room, pretending to himself that he looked upon all those bundles with indifference, and even with contempt. Pyotr Petrovich would in no way have believed, for example, that Andrei Semyonovich could indeed look upon so much money with indifference; and Andrei Semyonovich, in his turn, reflected bitterly that Pyotr Petrovich was indeed capable of having such thoughts about him, and, furthermore, was perhaps glad of the chance to prod and tease his young friend with the laid-out bundles of bills, reminding him of his nonentity and all the difference supposedly existing between the two of them.

He found him, this time, unprecedentedly irritable and inattentive, even though he, Andrei Semyonovich, had begun to develop for him his favorite theme about the establishment of a new, special “commune.” The brief objections and remarks that escaped Pyotr Petrovich in the intervals between the clicking of beads on the abacus, breathed the most obvious and deliberately impolite mockery. But the “humane” Andrei Semyonovich ascribed Pyotr Petrovich's state of mind to the impression of yesterday's break with Dunechka, and was burning with the desire to take up the subject at once: he had something progressive and propagandizing to say on that account, which would comfort his honorable friend and “undoubtedly” be useful in his further development.

“What is this memorial meal that this...widow is arranging?” Pyotr Petrovich asked suddenly, interrupting Andrei Semyonovich at the most interesting point.

“As if you didn't know; I spoke with you on the subject just yesterday, and developed my thought about all these rites...But she invited you, too, I heard it. You spoke with her yourself yesterday . . .”

“I never expected the destitute fool would dump on this one meal all the money she got from that other fool... Raskolnikov. I was even amazed as I passed by just now; the preparations, the wines! ... A number of people have been invited—devil knows what's going on!” Pyotr Petrovich continued, inquiring and driving at the conversation as if with some purpose. “What? You say I was invited, too?” he suddenly added, raising his head. “When was that? I don't remember it, sir. I won't go, however. Why should I? I just talked with her yesterday, in passing, about the possibility of her receiving a year's salary in a lump sum, as the destitute widow of an official. Maybe that's why she invited me? Heh, heh!”

“I don't intend to go either,” said Lebezyatnikov.

“Surely not! You gave her a thrashing with your own hands. Naturally, you're ashamed, heh, heh, heh!”

“Who gave a thrashing? To whom?” Lebezyatnikov became all flustered, and even blushed.

“Why, you did; you thrashed Katerina Ivanovna, about a month ago, didn't you? I heard it yesterday, sir...So much for your convictions! ... And it leaves the woman question a bit lame. Heh, heh, heh!”

And, as if feeling better, Pyotr Petrovich began clicking his abacus again.

“That is all nonsense and slander!” Lebezyatnikov flared up, always fearful of being reminded of this story. “It wasn't like that at all! It was different... You heard it wrong; it's gossip! I merely defended myself then. She attacked me first with her claws...She plucked out one whole side of my whiskers...Every human being, I hope, is allowed to defend his own person. Besides, I will not allow anyone to use violence against me...On principle. Because it amounts to despotism. What was I to do: just stand there? I only pushed her away.”

“Heh, heh, heh!” Luzhin went on chuckling maliciously.

“You're picking at me because you're angry and irritated yourself...But it's nonsense, and has nothing to do with the woman question at all, not at all! You don't understand it rightly; I even thought that if it's so well accepted that woman is the equal of man in everything, even in strength (as has already been affirmed), then there ought to be equality here as well. Of course, I reasoned later that essentially there should be no such question, because there also should be no fighting, and that instances of fighting are unthinkable in the future society...and it's strange, of course, to look for equality in fighting. I'm not that stupid...although fighting, by the way, is...that is, later there won't be any, but now there's still...pah! the devil! You throw a man off! I won't go to the memorial meal, but it's not on account of that trouble; I won't go on principle, so as not to participate in the vile prejudice of such a meal, that's why! However, it would even be possible to go, just like that, to laugh...A pity there won't be any priests. Otherwise, I'd certainly go.”

“You mean, to sit at someone else's table and immediately spit upon it, as well as upon those who invited you. Is that it?”

“Not at all to spit, but to protest. With a useful purpose. I might contribute indirectly to development and propaganda. It's the duty of every man to develop and propagandize, and the sharper the better, perhaps. I might sow an idea, a seed...From this seed a fact will grow. How am I offending them? They'll be offended at first, but then they'll see for themselves that I've been useful. Didn't they accuse Terebyeva at first (the one who is now in a commune) because, when she walked out on her family and...gave herself, she wrote to her mother and father that she did not want to live among prejudices and was entering into a civil marriage, and it was supposedly all too rude—towards fathers, that is—and she could have spared them and written more gently? That's all nonsense, in my opinion, and it shouldn't have been any gentler; on the contrary, on the contrary, it's here that one needs to protest. Take Varents, now; she lived for seven years with her husband, abandoned her two children, snapped out at once in a letter to the husband: 'I realized that I could not be happy with you. I will never forgive you for deceiving me, by concealing from me the existence of a different social order, by means of communes. I recently learned all about it from a magnanimous man to whom I have given myself, and together we are setting up a commune. I say it directly, because I consider it dishonest to deceive you. Remain as you choose. Do not hope to bring me back, you are too late. I wish you happiness.' That's how such letters are written!”

“And is this the same Terebyeva you told me about, the one who is now in her third civil marriage?”

“Only the second, if you're really counting! But even if it were the fourth, or the fifteenth, it's all nonsense! And if ever I've regretted that my father and mother are dead, it's certainly now. I've even dreamed several times of how I'd smack them with a protest, if only they were alive! I'd set it all up on purpose...A 'severed member' and all that—pah! who cares! I'd show them! They'd get a surprise! Really, it's too bad I haven't got anybody!”

“To surprise, you mean? Heh, heh! Well, be that as you like,” Pyotr Petrovich interrupted, “but tell me something: you do know this dead man's daughter, the frail one? Is it completely true what they say about her, eh?”

“What if it is? In my opinion—I mean, according to my personal conviction—that is the most normal condition for a woman. And why not? I mean, distinguons.^[108] In today's society it is, of course, not quite normal, because it's forced, but in the future it will be perfectly normal, because free. But now, too, she had the right: she was suffering, and this was her reserve, her capital, so to speak, which she had every right to dispose of. Naturally, there will be no need of reserves in the future society; but her role will be designated by a different significance, it will be conditioned harmoniously and rationally. As far as Sofya Semyonovna personally is concerned, at present I look upon her actions as an energetic and embodied protest against the social order, and I deeply respect her for it. I even rejoice to look at her!”