fists, with unnatural force tore the iron grating from the little window in the door, broke the glass, and cut his hands all over. When the officer of the guard came running with a detachment of men and the keys and ordered the cell to be opened so as to fall upon the raging man and bind him, it turned out that he was in an acute state of brain fever. He was brought home to his mama. At once everything was explained. All three of our doctors gave the opinion that the sick man could already have been in delirium three days earlier, still in possession of consciousness and cunning, but not of common sense and will—which, by the way, was confirmed by the facts. Thus it turned out that Liputin had been the first to guess right. Ivan Osipovich, a delicate and sensitive man, was extremely embarrassed; but, curiously, that meant that he, too, considered Nikolai Vsevolodovich capable of any crazy act while in his right mind. In the club they were also ashamed and puzzled at how they had failed to notice the elephant and had missed the only possible explanation of all these wonders. Skeptics turned up as well, of course, but they did not hold out for long.
Nicolas spent more than two months in bed. A famous doctor was invited from Moscow for consultation; the whole town came to call on Varvara Petrovna. Forgiveness was granted. Towards spring, when Nicolas had completely recovered and had assented without any objections to his mother's proposal that he go to Italy, she also persuaded him to pay farewell visits to everyone and, while doing so, to make apologies as far as possible and wherever necessary. Nicolas assented quite readily. It became known in the club that he had a most delicate talk with Pavel Pavlovich Gaganov in his own home, which left the man perfectly satisfied. Going around on his visits, Nicolas was very serious, even somewhat gloomy. Everyone received him, apparently, with complete sympathy, but everyone was also embarrassed for some reason and glad that he was going to Italy. Ivan Osipovich even shed a tear, but for some reason did not dare to embrace him even at this final parting. Indeed, some among us remained convinced that the scoundrel was simply laughing at us all, and that his illness was beside the point. He also stopped by at Liputin's.
'Tell me,' he asked him, 'how could you guess beforehand what I was going to say about your intelligence, and provide Agafya with an answer?'
'I'll tell you how,' laughed Liputin. 'It's because I also regard you as an intelligent man, and therefore could divine your answer beforehand.'
'Still, it's a remarkable coincidence. Excuse me, however, but does it mean that you regarded me as an intelligent man and not a crazy one when you sent Agafya over?'
'As a most intelligent and reasonable man, and I only pretended to believe that you were not in your right mind ... And you immediately guessed my thoughts then and sent me a patent for my wit through Agafya.'
'Well, there you're slightly mistaken. I really... wasn't well...' Nikolai Vsevolodovich muttered, frowning. 'Bah!' he cried out, 'do you really think I'm capable of throwing myself on people when I'm in my right mind? Why would I do that?'
Liputin cringed and was unable to answer. Nicolas became somewhat pale, or at least it seemed so to Liputin.
'In any case, you have a very amusing turn of mind,' Nicolas continued, 'and as for Agafya, I realize, of course, that you sent her to abuse me.'
'Could I have challenged you to a duel, sir?'
'Ah, yes, right! I did hear something about your dislike of duels...'
'Why translate from the French!' Liputin cringed again.
'You adhere to native things?'
Liputin cringed even more.
'Hah, hah! What's this I see?' Nicolas cried out, suddenly noticing a volume of Considerant[39] in a most conspicuous place on the table. 'Do you mean you're a Fourierist? Good for you! But isn't this also a translation from the French?' he laughed, tapping the book with his finger.
'No, it's not a translation from the French!' Liputin jumped up, even with some sort of spite. 'It's a translation from the universal human language, sir, and not just from the French! From the language of the universally human social republic and harmony, that's what, sir! Not just from the French! ...'
'Pah, the devil, but there is no such language!' Nicolas went on laughing.
Sometimes even a little thing strikes one's attention exceptionally and for a long time. Though the whole main story about Mr. Stavrogin still lies ahead, I will note here, as a curiosity, that of all his impressions during all the time he spent in our town, the sharpest stamp was left in his memory by the homely and almost mean little figure of the little provincial official, the jealous husband and crude family despot, the miser and moneylender, who locked up candle ends and the leftovers from dinner, and who was at the same time a fierce sectarian of God knows what future 'social harmony,' who reveled by night in ecstasies over fantastic pictures of the future phalanstery, [40] in the coming realization of which, in Russia and in our province, he believed as firmly as in his own existence. And that in a place where he himself had set aside 'a little house,' where he had married a second time and picked up a
'God knows how these people get made!' Nicolas thought in bewilderment, occasionally recalling the unexpected Fourierist.
IV
Our prince traveled for more than three years, so that he was almost forgotten in town. But we knew through Stepan Trofimovich that he had been all over Europe, had even gone to Egypt and stopped off at Jerusalem; then he had stuck himself onto some scientific expedition to Iceland and actually visited Iceland. It was also reported that during one winter he attended lectures at some German university. He seldom wrote to his mother—once in six months or even less often; but Varvara Petrovna was not angry or offended. She accepted the once-established relationship with her son submissively and without a murmur; but, of course, every day of those three years she worried about her Nicolas, pined for him, and dreamed of him continually. She did not tell anyone about her dreams or complaints. Apparently she even withdrew somewhat from Stepan Trofimovich. She formed some plans within herself and, it seemed, became even stingier than before, and began saving even more and getting all the more angry over Stepan Trofimovich's losses at cards.
Finally, in April of this year, she received a letter from Paris, from Praskovya Ivanovna, General Drozdov's widow and her childhood friend. In the letter Praskovya Ivanovna—whom Varvara Petrovna had not seen or corresponded with for about eight years—informed her that Nikolai Vsevolodovich had become a familiar of her house and was friends with Liza (her only daughter), and intended to accompany them to Switzerland in the summer, to Vernex-Montreux, despite the fact that he was received like a son and was almost living in the family of Count K. (quite an influential person in Petersburg), who was now staying in Paris. It was a brief letter and its
