Less than a rouble, if you try and think.
Try to remember when last you gave away anything; it'll be two years ago, maybe four.
You make an outcry and only hinder things.
Charity ought to be forbidden by law, even in the present state of society.
In the new regime there will be no poor at all."
"Oh, what an eruption of borrowed phrases!
So it's come to the new regime already?
Unhappy woman, God help you!"
"Yes; it has, Stepan Trofimovitch. You carefully concealed all these new ideas from me, though every one's familiar with them nowadays. And you did it simply out of jealousy, so as to have power over me.
So that now even that Yulia is a hundred miles ahead of me.
But now my eyes have been opened.
I have defended you, Stepan Trofimovitch, all I could, but there is no one who does not blame you."
"Enough!" said he, getting up from his seat. "Enough!
And what can I wish you now, unless it's repentance?"
"Sit still a minute, Stepan Trofimovitch. I have another question to ask you.
You've been told of the invitation to read at the literary matinee. It was arranged through me.
Tell me what you're going to read?"
"Why, about that very Queen of Queens, that ideal of humanity, the Sistine Madonna, who to your thinking is inferior to a glass or a pencil."
"So you're not taking something historical?'" said Varvara Petrovna in mournful surprise.
"But they won't listen to you.
You've got that Madonna on your brain.
You seem bent on putting every one to sleep!
Let me assure you, Stepan Trofimovitch, I am speaking entirely in your own interest.
It would be a different matter if you would take some short but interesting story of medi?val court life from Spanish history, or, better still, some anecdote, and pad it out with other anecdotes and witty phrases of your own.
There were magnificent courts then; ladies, you know, poisonings.
Karmazinov says it would be strange if you couldn't read something interesting from Spanish history."
"Karmazinov—that fool who has written himself out—looking for a subject for me!"
"Karmazinov, that almost imperial intellect.
You are too free in your language, Stepan Trofimovitch."
"Your Karmazinov is a spiteful old woman whose day is over.
Chere, chere, how long have you been so enslaved by them? Oh God!"
"I can't endure him even now for the airs he gives himself. But I do justice to his intellect.
I repeat, I have done my best to defend you as far as I could.
And why do you insist on being absurd and tedious?
On the contrary, come on to the platform with a dignified smile as the representative of the last generation, and tell them two or three anecdotes in your witty way, as only you can tell things sometimes.
Though you may be an old man now, though you may belong to a past age, though you may have dropped behind them, in fact, yet you'll recognise it yourself, with a smile, in your preface, and all will see that you're an amiable, good-natured, witty relic... in brief, a man of the old savour, and so far advanced as to be capable of appreciating at their value all the absurdities of certain ideas which you have hitherto followed.
Come, as a favour to me, I beg you."
"Chere, enough.
Don't ask me. I can't.
I shall speak of the Madonna, but I shall raise a storm that will either crush them all or shatter me alone."
"It will certainly be you alone, Stepan Trofimovitch."
"Such is my fate.
I will speak of the contemptible slave, of the stinking, depraved flunkey who will first climb a ladder with scissors in his hands, and slash to pieces the divine image of the great ideal, in the name of equality, envy, and... digestion.
Let my curse thunder out upon them, and then—then..."
"The madhouse?"
"Perhaps.
But in any case, whether I shall be left vanquished or victorious, that very evening I shall take my bag, my beggar's bag. I shall leave all my goods and chattels, all your presents, all your pensions and promises of future benefits, and go forth on foot to end my life a tutor in a merchant's family or to die somewhere of hunger in a ditch.
I have said it.
Alea jacta est."
He got up again.