I will make a nota bene. Two months later, Lyamshin confessed that he had cleared Stavrogin on purpose then, hoping for his protection and that he would solicit for him a two-degree alleviation from Petersburg and supply him with money and letters of recommendation in exile.^[208] From this confession one can see that he indeed had a greatly exaggerated notion of Nikolai Stavrogin.

That same day, of course, Virginsky was also arrested, and, in the heat of the moment, his whole household as well. (Arina Prokhorovna, her sister, aunt, and even the girl student, have long been free; they even say that Shigalyov, too, is supposedly sure to be released in the nearest future, since he does not fit into any category of the accused; however, this is still just talk.) Virginsky admitted his guilt at once and in everything; he was sick in bed with a fever when he was arrested. They say he was almost glad: "A weight fell from my heart," he is supposed to have said. One hears of him that he is now giving evidence frankly, yet even with a certain dignity, and has not surrendered any of his "bright hopes," though at the same time he curses the political path (as opposed to the social one) onto which he had been so accidentally and light-mindedly drawn "by a whirlwind of concurrent circumstances."^[209] His behavior during the committing of the murder is explained in a mitigating way for him, and it seems that he, too, may count on a certain mitigation of his lot. So at least it is asserted among us.

But an alleviation of Erkel's fate will hardly be possible. This one, since his arrest, has either kept silent or distorted the truth as far as possible. Not one word of repentance has been obtained from him so far. And yet he has aroused a certain sympathy for himself even in the sternest judges—by his youth, by his defenselessness, by obvious indications that he was simply the fanatical victim of a political seducer; and most of all by what has been discovered about his behavior towards his mother, to whom he used to send almost half of his insignificant pay. His mother is now with us; she is a weak and ailing woman, grown old before her time; she weeps and literally grovels at their feet, pleading for her son. Come what may, there are many among us who feel sorry for Erkel.

Liputin was arrested in Petersburg, where he had already been living for two whole weeks. An almost incredible thing occurred with him, which is even difficult to explain. They say he had a passport in another name and every opportunity for successfully slipping abroad, and quite a considerable amount of money with him, and yet he stayed in Petersburg and did not go anywhere. He spent some time looking for Stavrogin and Pyotr Stepanovich, and then suddenly went on a binge and got into debauchery beyond all measure, like a man who has utterly lost all common sense and understanding of his position. And so he was arrested in Petersburg, in a house of ill fame somewhere, and none too sober. Rumor has it that he has by no means lost heart now, is lying in his testimony, and is preparing himself for the forthcoming trial with a certain solemnity and hope (?). He even intends to have some say at his trial. Tolkachenko, arrested somewhere in the district capital ten days after his flight, behaves with incomparably more politeness, does not lie, does not dodge, tells all he knows, does not justify himself, acknowledges his guilt in all modesty, but is also inclined to loquacity; he speaks much and willingly, and when it comes to a knowledge of the people and its revolutionary (?) elements, he even postures and desires to produce an effect. One hears that he, too, intends to have his say at the trial. Generally, he and Liputin are not very frightened, which is even strange.

I repeat, the affair is not yet over. Now, three months later, our society has rested, relaxed, recovered, acquired its own opinion, so much so that some even regard Pyotr Stepanovich himself almost as a genius, at least as having "abilities of genius." "Organization, sir!" they say in the club, raising a finger aloft. However, all this is quite innocent, and, besides, those who say it are not many. Others, on the contrary, do not deny him acuteness of abilities, but couple it with a total ignorance of reality, a terrible abstractedness, a dull and deformed one-sidedness of development, and, proceeding from all that, an extraordinary light-mindedness. Concerning his moral aspects everyone agrees; here there is no argument.

I really do not know who else to mention, so as not to forget anyone. Mavriky Nikolaevich has gone away somewhere altogether. The old Drozdov woman has lapsed into second childhood ... However, there remains one more very grim story to tell. I will confine myself to facts alone.

On her arrival, Varvara Petrovna stayed at her town house. All the accumulated news poured in on her at once and shook her terribly. She shut herself up alone. It was evening; everyone was tired and went to bed early.

In the morning the maid, with a mysterious air, handed Darya Pavlovna a letter. This letter, by her account, had come the day before, but late, when everyone had already retired, so that she dared not wake her up. It had come not in the mail, but through an unknown person, to Alexei Yegorych in Skvoreshniki. And Alexei Yegorych had at once delivered it himself, yesterday evening, into her hands, and had at once gone back to Skvoreshniki.

Darya Pavlovna, her heart pounding, looked at the letter for a long time without daring to open it. She knew who it was from: it had been written by Nikolai Stavrogin. She read the inscription on the envelope: "To Alexei Yegorych, to be given to Darya Pavlovna, in secret."

Here is this letter, word for word, without correcting the least mistake in style of a young Russian squire who never fully learned Russian grammar, in spite of all his European education:

My good Darya Pavlovna, You once wanted to be my "nurse" and made me promise to send for you when needed. I am going away in two days and will not come back. Want to go with me?

Last year, like Herzen, I registered as a citizen of canton Uri,^[210]and no one knows it. I have already bought a small house there. I have twelve thousand roubles left; we'll go and live there eternally. I don't want to move anywhere ever.

The place is very dull, a ravine; the mountains cramp sight and thought. Very grim. It was because there was a small house for sale. If you don't like it, I'll sell it and buy another in another place.

I'm not well, but I hope with the local air I'll get rid of my hallucinations. Physically, that is; and morally you know all; only is it all?

I've told you a lot of my life. But not all. Even to you—not all! Incidentally, I confirm that in my conscience I am guilty of my wife's death. I have not seen you since then and so I'm confirming it. I am also guilty before Lizaveta Nikolaevna; but here you do know; here you predicted almost everything.

Better don't come. The fact that I'm calling you to me is a terrible baseness. And why should you bury your life with me? You are dear to me, and when I was in anguish I felt good near you: only in your presence could I speak of myself aloud. Nothing follows from that. You yourself defined it as "nursing"—it's your expression; why sacrifice so much? Realize, also, that I do not pity you, since I'm calling you, and do not respect you, since I'm waiting for you to come. And yet I call and wait. In any case, I need your answer, because I must leave very soon. In such case, I'll go alone.

I have no hope from Uri; I'm simply going. I did not choose a gloomy place on purpose. Nothing binds me to Russia—everything in it is as foreign to me as everywhere else. True, I disliked living in it more than elsewhere; but even in it I was unable to come to hate anything!