Demons

Karmazinov most certainly had in mind his relations with the progressive young men of both capitals. The great writer trembled morbidly before the newest revolutionary young men, and, imagining in his ignorance of the matter that the keys to the Russian future were in their hands, sucked up to them humiliatingly, the more so since they paid no attention at all to him.

II

Pyotr Stepanovich also ran by a couple of times to see his father, but, to my misfortune, I was absent both times. He visited him for the first time on Wednesday, that is, only on the fourth day after that first meeting, and even then on business. Incidentally, the settling of accounts for the estate was concluded between them in some unseen and unheard way. Varvara Petrovna took it all upon herself and paid for everything, acquiring the little piece of land, to be sure, and Stepan Trofimovich was simply informed that it had all been concluded, and Varvara Petrovna's agent, her valet Alexei Yegorovich, presented him with something to sign, which he proceeded to perform silently and with extreme dignity. Speaking of dignity, I will observe that I hardly recognized our former old man in those days. He behaved as never before, became surprisingly taciturn, did not write even one letter to Varvara Petrovna from that Sunday on, which I would consider a miracle, and, above all, became calm. He had settled upon some final and extraordinary idea which enabled him to be calm, one could see that. He found this idea, sat and waited for something. At first, however, he was sick, especially on Monday—an attack of cholerine. He also could not do without news all that time; but whenever, leaving facts aside, I moved on to the essence of the matter and voiced some suggestions, he would at once begin waving his hands at me to stop. The two meetings with his boy still had a painful effect on him, though they did not sway him. On both days after these meetings he lay on the sofa, his head wrapped in a handkerchief moistened with vinegar; but he continued to remain calm in the lofty sense.

Occasionally, however, he did not wave his hands at me. Occasionally it also seemed to me that the mysterious resoluteness he had acquired was abandoning him, as it were, and that he had begun to struggle with some new, tempting flood of ideas. These were just moments, but I make note of them. I suspected that he wanted very much to come out of seclusion and declare himself, to put up a fight, to wage his last battle.

'Cher, I would crush them!' escaped him on Thursday evening, after the second meeting with Pyotr Stepanovich, as he lay stretched out on the sofa with his head wrapped in a towel.

Until that moment he had not spoken a word to me all day.

“‘Fils, fils cheri, ' and so on—I agree, all these phrases are nonsense, kitchen-maidish vocabulary, but let it be, I see it now myself. I did not give him food and drink, I sent him off from Berlin to ——-- province, a nursling, by mail, well, and so forth. I agree... 'You did not give me drink,' he says, 'and sent me off by mail, and here, on top of that, you've robbed me.' But, wretched man, I cry to him, my heart ached for you all my life, even if it was by mail! Il rit.^[lxxvi] But I agree, I agree... say it was by mail,' he ended, as if in delirium.

'Passons, ' he began again five minutes later. 'I don't understand Turgenev. His Bazarov is some sort of false character, who doesn't exist at all; they were the first to reject him as having no resemblance to anything. This Bazarov is some vague mixture of Nozdryov and Byron,^[78] c'est le mot.^[lxxvii] Look at them attentively: they cavort and squeal with joy like puppies in the sun, they're happy, they're the victors! Forget Byron! ... And besides, how mundane! What kitchen-maidish, irritable vanity, what a trite little desire to faire du bruit autour de son nom,^[lxxviii] without noticing that son nom... Oh, caricature! For pity's sake, I cry to him, but do you really want to offer yourself to people, just as you are, in place of Christ? Il rit. Il rit beaucoup, il rit trop. His smile is somehow strange. His mother didn't have such a smile. Il rit toujours.'^[lxxix]

Again there was silence.

'They're cunning; they had it all set up on Sunday ...' he suddenly blurted out.

'Oh, no doubt,' I cried, pricking up my ears, 'it was all patched together, with the seams showing, and so badly acted.'

'I don't mean that. You know, they left the seams showing on purpose, so that it would be noticed by... the right people. Do you understand?'

'No, I don't.'

'Tant mieux.^[lxxx] Passons. I'm very irritated today.'

'But why did you argue with him, Stepan Trofimovich?' I said reproachfully.

'Je voulais convertir.^[lxxxi] Laugh, of course, go on. Cette pauvre auntie, elle entendra de belles choses!^[lxxxii] Oh, my friend, would you believe, I felt like a patriot today! But, in fact, I've always considered myself a Russian... yes, a true Russian cannot but be like you and me. Il y a la-dedans quelque chose d'aveugle et de louche.'^[lxxxiii]

'Absolutely,' I replied.

'My friend, the real truth is always implausible, did you know that? To make the truth more plausible, it's absolutely necessary to mix a bit of falsehood with it. People have always done so. Perhaps there's something here that we don't understand. What do you think, is there something in this victorious squealing that we don't understand? I wish there was. I do wish it.'

I kept my silence. He, too, was silent for a very long time.

'They say that the French mind...' he began babbling suddenly, as if in a fever, 'but that's a lie, it has always been so. Why slander the French mind? It's simply Russian laziness, our humiliating impotence to produce an idea, our disgusting parisitism among the nations. Ils sont tout simplement des paresseux,^[lxxxiv] and not the French mind. Oh, Russians ought to be exterminated for the good of mankind, like harmful parasites! It was not for that, it was not at all for that that we strove; I don't understand any of it. I've ceased to understand! But do you understand, I cry to him, do you understand that if you have the guillotine in the forefront, and with such glee, it's for the sole reason that cutting heads off is the easiest thing, and having an idea is difficult! Vous etes des paresseux! Votre drapeau est une guenille, une impuissance.^[lxxxv] Those carts—or how does it go?—'the rumble of carts bringing bread to mankind' is more useful than the Sistine Madonna,^[79] or however it goes... une betise dans ce