"You're bewildered by all that nasty gossip of Liputin's today."

"My friend, you have just put your friendly finger on another sore spot. These friendly fingers are generally merciless, and sometimes muddled, pardon, but would you believe that I almost forgot about it all, I mean that nasty gossip—that is, I by no means forgot, but, in my foolishness, all the while I was at Lise's I tried to be happy and kept assuring myself that I was happy. But now... oh, now it's this woman—magnanimous, humane, patient with my mean shortcomings—that is, perhaps not quite patient, but what am I myself, with my bad, empty character! I am a whimsical child, with all the egoism of a child, but with none of the innocence. For twenty years she's been looking after me like a nurse, cette pauvre auntie, as Lise graciously calls her... And suddenly, after twenty years, the child decides to get married—get me married, get me married, in letter after letter—and she sits putting vinegar to her head and... and here I've done it, on Sunday I'll be a married man, no joking ... And why did I insist, why did I write letters? Ah, yes, I forgot: Lise idolizes Darya Pavlovna, at least she says she does. 'C'est un ange,'^[lx] she says of her, 'only a rather secretive one.' They both advised it, even Praskovya... though Praskovya didn't advise it. Oh, how much venom is locked up in that Littlebox! And, as a matter of fact, Lise did not advise it either: 'What do you need to get married for; the pleasures of learning are enough for you.' Gales of laughter. I forgave her the laughter, because she herself is sick at heart. All the same, they said, it is impossible for you to be without a woman. Infirmity is coming upon you, and she will cover you, or whatever... Ma foi, all this time I've been sitting here with you, I, too, have been thinking to myself that providence was sending her in the decline of my stormy days and that she would cover me, or whatever ... enfin, would be useful around the house. My place is a mess, look, over there, everything's scattered about, I just ordered it to be tidied up, and there's a book lying on the floor. La pauvre amie has always been angry at the mess in my place... Oh, no longer will her voice be heard here! Vingt ans!^[lxi]And—and it seems they've got anonymous letters, imagine, Nicolas has supposedly sold his estate to Lebyadkin. C'est un monstre; et enfin,^[lxii]who is this Lebyadkin? Lise listens, listens, ohh, how she listens! I forgave her the laughter, I saw the look on her face as she listened, and ce Maurice... I wouldn't want to be in his present role, brave homme tout de même, but somewhat shy; God help him though..."

He fell silent; he was tired and bewildered, and sat downcast, his tired eyes fixed on the floor. I took advantage of the pause to tell him about my visit to Filippov's house, expressing curtly and dryly my opinion that Lebyadkin's sister (whom I had not seen) might indeed have been some sort of victim of Nicolas's during the mysterious period of his life, as Liputin put it, and that it was quite possible that Lebyadkin was for some reason receiving money from Nicolas, but that was all. As for the gossip about Darya Pavlovna, it was all nonsense, it had all been stretched by the blackguard Liputin, or so at least Alexei Nilych, whom there was no reason to doubt, hotly insisted. Stepan Trofimovich listened to my assurances with a distracted look, as if it did not concern him. I also mentioned, incidentally, my conversation with Kirillov, and added that Kirillov was possibly mad.

"He's not mad, but these people have short little thoughts," he mumbled listlessly and as if unwillingly. "Ces gens-là supposent la nature et la société humaine autre que Dieu ne les a faites et qu 'elles ne sont réellement.^[lxiii]They are flirted with, but not at any rate by Stepan Verkhovensky. I saw them when I was in Petersburg, avec cette chère amie (oh, how I used to insult her then!), and I was frightened neither of their abuse—nor even of their praise. I will not be frightened now either, mais parlons d'autre chose^[lxiv]... I seem to have done some terrible things; imagine, I sent Darya Pavlovna a letter yesterday, and... how I curse myself for it!"

"What did you write about?"

"Oh, my friend, believe me, it was all done so nobly. I informed her that I had written to Nicolas five days before, also nobly."

"Now I understand!" I cried out hotly. "And what right did you have to put them together like that?"

"But, mon cher, don't crush me finally, don't yell at me; I am quite crushed as it is, like... like a cockroach, and, finally, I think it is all so noble. Suppose there had indeed been something there ... en Suisse ... or there was beginning to be. Oughtn't I to question their hearts first, so as... enfin, so as not to hinder their hearts or stand in their way like a post... solely out of nobility?"

"Oh, God, what a stupid thing to do!" burst from me involuntarily.

"Stupid, stupid!" he picked up, even greedily. "You've never said anything more intelligent, c'était bête, mais que faire, tout est dit.^[lxv]I am getting married anyway, even if it's to 'someone else's sins,' andso what was the point of writing? Isn't that so?"

"You're at it again!"

"Oh, you won't frighten me with your shouting now, it's not the same Stepan Verkhovensky you see before you; that one is buried; enfin, tout est dit. And why are you shouting? Only because it's not you who is getting married, and it's not you who is going to wear a certain ornament on your head. You're cringing again? My poor friend, you don't know women; as for me, all I've ever done is study them. 'If you want to overcome the whole world, overcome yourself—the only thing that other romantic like yourself, Shatov, my spouse's dear brother, ever managed to say well. I gladly borrow the utterance from him. Well, now I, too, am prepared to overcome myself and am getting married, and yet what am I conquering in place of the whole world? Oh, my friend, marriage is the moral death of any proud soul, of any independence. Married life will corrupt me, will rob me of my energy, my courage in serving the cause; there will be children, perhaps not even mine, that is, certainly not mine—a wise man is not afraid to face the truth... Liputin suggested today that I save myself from Nicolas with barricades; he's stupid, Liputin. A woman will deceive the all-seeing eye itself. Le bon Dieu knew, of course, what he was letting himself in for when he created woman, but I'm sure she herself interfered with him and forced him to make her this way and... with these attributes; otherwise who would want to get himself into such troubles for nothing? Nastasya, I know, will probably be angry with me for freethinking, but... Enfin, tout est dit.”

He would not have been himself if he could have done without the cheap, quibbling freethinking that had flourished so much in his day, but at least he had comforted himself this time with his little quibble, though not for long.

"Oh, why couldn't there simply not be this day after tomorrow, this Sunday!" he suddenly exclaimed, now in utter despair. "Why couldn't just this one week be without a Sunday—si le miracle existe?^[lxvi]What would it cost providence to cross out just this one Sunday from the calendar, just to prove its power to an atheist, et que tout soit dit!^[lxvii]Oh, how I loved her! Twenty years, all these twenty years, and she never, never understood me!"