He got up from the sofa and began pacing from one end of the room to the other for the sake of exercise, as he always did after lunch.
“Leaving here soon?” asked Pyotr Stepanovitch from his easy chair, lighting a cigarette.
“I really came to sell an estate and I am in the hands of my bailiff.”
“You left, I believe, because they expected an epidemic out there after the war?”
“N‑no, not entirely for that reason,” Mr. Karmazinov went on, uttering his phrases with an affable intonation, and each time he turned round in pacing the corner there was a faint but jaunty quiver of his right leg. “I certainly intend to live as long as I can.” He laughed, not without venom. “There is something in our Russian nobility that makes them wear out very quickly, from every point of view. But I wish to wear out as late as possible, and now I am going abroad for good; there the climate is better, the houses are of stone, and everything stronger. Europe will last my time, I think. What do you think?”
“How can I tell?”
“H’m. If the Babylon out there really does fall, and great will be the fall thereof (about which I quite agree with you, yet I think it will last my time), there’s nothing to fall here in Russia, comparatively speaking. There won’t be stones to fall, everything will crumble into dirt. Holy Russia has less power of resistance than anything in the world. The Russian peasantry is still held together somehow by the Russian God; but according to the latest accounts the Russian God is not to be relied upon, and scarcely survived the emancipation; it certainly gave Him a severe shock. And now, what with railways, what with you … I’ve no faith in the Russian God.”
“And how about the European one?”
“I don’t believe in any. I’ve been slandered to the youth of Russia. I’ve always sympathised with every movement among them. I was shown the manifestoes here. Everyone looks at them with perplexity because they are frightened at the way things are put in them, but everyone is convinced of their power even if they don’t admit it to themselves. Everybody has been rolling downhill, and everyone has known for ages that they have nothing to clutch at. I am persuaded of the success of this mysterious propaganda, if only because Russia is now preeminently the place in all the world where anything you like may happen without any opposition. I understand only too well why wealthy Russians all flock abroad, and more and more so every year. It’s simply instinct. If the ship is sinking, the rats are the first to leave it. Holy Russia is a country of wood, of poverty … and of danger, the country of ambitious beggars in its upper classes, while the immense majority live in poky little huts. She will be glad of any way of escape; you have only to present it to her. It’s only the government that still means to resist, but it brandishes its cudgel in the dark and hits its own men. Everything here is doomed and awaiting the end. Russia as she is has no future. I have become a German and I am proud of it.”
“But you began about the manifestoes. Tell me everything; how do you look at them?”
“Everyone is afraid of them, so they must be influential. They openly unmask what is false and prove that there is nothing to lay hold of among us, and nothing to lean upon. They speak aloud while all is silent. What is most effective about them (in spite of their style) is the incredible boldness with which they look the truth straight in the face. To look facts straight in the face is only possible to Russians of this generation. No, in Europe they are not yet so bold; it is a realm of stone, there there is still something to lean upon. So far as I see and am able to judge, the whole essence of the Russian revolutionary idea lies in the negation of honour. I like its being so boldly and fearlessly expressed. No, in Europe they wouldn’t understand it yet, but that’s just what we shall clutch at. For a Russian a sense of honour is only a superfluous burden, and it always has been a burden through all his history. The open ‘right to dishonour’ will attract him more than anything. I belong to the older generation and, I must confess, still cling to honour, but only from habit. It is only that I prefer the old forms, granted it’s from timidity; you see one must live somehow what’s left of one’s life.”
He suddenly stopped.
“I am talking,” he thought, “while he holds his tongue and watches me. He has come to make me ask him a direct question. And I shall ask him.”
“Yulia Mihailovna asked me by some stratagem to find out from you what the surprise is that you are preparing for the ball tomorrow,” Pyotr Stepanovitch asked suddenly.
“Yes, there really will be a surprise and I certainly shall astonish …” said Karmazinov with increased dignity. “But I won’t tell you what the secret is.”
Pyotr Stepanovitch did not insist.
“There is a young man here called Shatov,” observed the great writer. “Would you believe it, I haven’t seen him.”
“A very nice person. What about him?”
“Oh, nothing. He talks about something. Isn’t he the person who gave Stavrogin that slap in the face?”
“Yes.”
“And what’s your opinion of Stavrogin?”
“I don’t know; he is such a flirt.”
Karmazinov detested
