Demons (Vintage Classics) by Fyodor Dostoevsky

Author:Fyodor Dostoevsky [Dostoevsky, Fyodor]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780307434869
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2010-05-06T04:00:00+00:00

V

FOR PYOTR STEPANOVICH the day proved a bustling one. From von Lembke he quickly ran over to Bogoyavlensky Street, but going down Bykov Street, past the house where Karmazinov was lodging, he suddenly halted, grinned, and went into the house. “You are expected, sir,” he was told, which highly intrigued him, because he had given no notice of his coming.

But the great writer was indeed expecting him, and had been even yesterday, and the day before. Three days earlier he had handed him the manuscript of his Merci (which he wanted to read at the literary matinée on the day of Yulia Mikhailovna’s fête), and had done so as a favor, quite certain that he would pleasantly flatter the man’s vanity by letting him acquaint himself with the great work beforehand. Pyotr Stepanovich had long ago noticed that this gentleman, conceited, spoiled, and insultingly unapproachable for the non-elect, this “all but statesmanly mind,” was quite simply fawning on him, even eagerly so. I believe the young man finally realized that the older one considered him, if not the ringleader of everything covertly revolutionary in the whole of Russia, at least one of those most deeply initiated into the secrets of the Russian revolution and with an unquestionable influence on the young. The state of mind of “the most intelligent man in Russia” interested Pyotr Stepanovich, but up to now, for certain reasons, he had avoided any explanations.

The great writer lodged in the house of his sister, a court chamberlain’s wife and a landowner; the two of them, husband and wife, stood in awe of their famous relation, but, to their great regret, during his present visit they were both in Moscow, so that the honor of receiving him went to a little old lady, a very distant and poor relation of the chamberlain’s, who lived in their house and had long looked after all the housekeeping. With the arrival of Mr. Karmazinov, the household all began to go around on tiptoe. The little old lady notified Moscow almost daily of how he had reposed and upon what he had been pleased to dine, and once sent a telegram with the news that he had been obliged, after a formal dinner at the mayor’s, to take a spoonful of a certain medication. She rarely ventured into his room, though he treated her politely, if dryly, and spoke with her only if there was some need. When Pyotr Stepanovich entered, he was eating his little morning cutlet with half a glass of red wine. Pyotr Stepanovich had visited him before and always found him over this little morning cutlet, which he went on eating in his presence without ever offering him anything. After the little cutlet, a small cup of coffee was served. The valet who brought the food wore a tailcoat, soft inaudible boots, and gloves.

“Ahh!” Karmazinov rose from the sofa, wiping his mouth with a napkin, and with an air of the purest joy came at him with his kisses—a habit characteristic of Russians if they are indeed so famous.

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