You, Prince, I know, sent money to Burdovsky's mother on the quiet, through Ganechka, and I'll bet—hee, hee, hee!" (he giggled hysterically), "I'll bet that Burdovsky himself will now accuse you of indelicacy of form and disrespect for his mother, by God, he will, ha, ha, ha!"
Here he again lost his breath and began to cough.
"Well, is that all? Is that all now, have you said it all?
Well, go to bed now, you have a fever," Lizaveta Prokofyevna interrupted impatiently, not taking her worried eyes off him.
"Ah, Lord!
He's still talking!"
"It seems you're laughing?
Why must you keep laughing at me?
I've noticed that you keep laughing at me," he suddenly turned anxiously and irritably to Evgeny Pavlovich; the latter was indeed laughing.
"I merely want to ask you, Mr. . . . Ippolit . . . sorry, I've forgotten your last name."
"Mr. Terentyev," said the prince.
"Yes, Terentyev, thank you, Prince, it was mentioned earlier, but it slipped my mind ... I wanted to ask you, Mr. Terentyev, is it true what I've heard, that you are of the opinion that you need only talk to the people through the window for a quarter of an hour, and they will at once agree with you in everything and follow you at once?"
"I may very well have said it . . ." Ippolit replied, as if trying to recall something. "Certainly I said it!" he suddenly added, becoming animated again and looking firmly at Evgeny Pavlovich. "And what of it?"
"Precisely nothing; merely for my own information, to add it all up."
Evgeny Pavlovich fell silent, but Ippolit went on looking at him in impatient expectation.
"Well, are you finished, or what?" Lizaveta Prokofyevna turned to Evgeny Pavlovich. "Finish quickly, dear boy, it's time he went to bed.
Or don't you know how?" (She was terribly vexed.) "I wouldn't mind adding," Evgeny Pavlovich went on with a smile, "that everything I've heard from your comrades, Mr. Terentyev, and everything you've just explained, and with such unquestionable talent, boils down, in my opinion, to the theory of the triumph of rights, before all, and beyond all, and even to the exclusion of all else, and perhaps even before analyzing what makes up these rights.
Perhaps I'm mistaken?"
"Of course you're mistaken, and I don't even understand you . . . go on."
There was also a murmur in the corner.
Lebedev's nephew muttered something in a half-whisper.
"There's not much more," Evgeny Pavlovich went on. "I merely wanted to observe that from this case it's possible to jump over directly to the right of force, that is, to the right of the singular fist and personal wanting, as, incidentally, has happened very often in this world.
Proudhon stopped at the right of force.41 In the American war, many of the most progressive liberals declared themselves on the side of the plantation owners, in this sense, that Negroes are Negroes, inferior to the white race, and consequently the right of force belongs to the whites ..."
"Well?"
"So you don't deny the right of force?"
"Go on."
"You're consistent, then. I only wanted to observe that from the right of force to the right of tigers and crocodiles and even to Danilov and Gorsky is not a long step."
"I don't know; go on."
Ippolit was barely listening to Evgeny Pavlovich, and even if he said "well" and "go on" to him, it seemed to be more from an old, adopted habit of conversation, and not out of attention and curiosity.
"There's nothing more . . . that's all."
"Incidentally, I'm not angry with you," Ippolit suddenly concluded quite unexpectedly and, hardly with full consciousness, held out his hand, even with a smile.
Evgeny Pavlovich was surprised at first, but touched the hand held out to him with a most serious air, as though receiving forgiveness.
"I cannot help adding," he said in the same ambiguously respectful tone, "my gratitude to you for the attention with which you have allowed me to speak, because it has been my oft-repeated observation that our liberal has never yet been able to allow anyone to have his own convictions and not reply at once to his opponent with abuse or even worse ..."
"That is perfectly right," General Ivan Fyodorovich observed and, putting his hands behind his back, with a most bored air retreated to the door of the terrace, where he proceeded to yawn with vexation.
"Well, enough for you, dear boy," Lizaveta Prokofyevna suddenly announced to Evgeny Pavlovich, "I'm tired of you . . ."
"It's time," Ippolit suddenly stood up with a preoccupied and all but frightened look, gazing around in perplexity, "I've kept you; I wanted to tell you ... I thought that everyone ... for the last time ... it was a fantasy . . ."
One could see that he would become animated in bursts, suddenly coming out of what was almost real delirium for a few moments, and with full consciousness would suddenly remember and speak, mostly in fragments, perhaps thought up and memorized much earlier, in the long, boring hours of illness, in bed, alone, sleepless.
"So, farewell!" he suddenly said sharply.
"Do you think it's easy for me to say farewell to you?
Ha, ha!" he smiled vexedly at his own awkward question and suddenly, as if angry that he kept failing to say what he wanted, declared loudly and irritably: "Your Excellency!
I have the honor of inviting you to my funeral, if you will vouchsafe me such an honor, and ... all of you, ladies and gentlemen, along with the general! . . ."
He laughed again; but this was now the laughter of a madman.
Lizaveta Prokofyevna fearfully moved towards him and grasped his arm.
He gazed at her intently, with the same laughter, though it no longer went on but seemed to have stopped and frozen on his face.
"Do you know that I came here in order to see trees?
Those . . ." (he pointed to the trees in the park), "that's not funny, eh?
There's nothing funny in it, is there?" he asked Lizaveta Prokofyevna seriously, and suddenly fell to thinking; then, after a moment, he raised his head and began curiously searching through the crowd with his eyes.
He was looking for Evgeny Pavlovich, who was standing very near, to the right, in the same spot as before, but he had already forgotten and searched all around. "Ah, you haven't left!" he finally found him. "You laughed at me earlier, that I wanted to talk through the window for a quarter of an hour . . . But do you know that I'm not eighteen years old: I've spent so long lying on that pillow, and spent so long looking out of that window, and thought so much . . . about everybody . . . that ... A dead man has no age, you know.
I thought of that last week, when I woke up in the night . . . But do you know what you're most afraid of?
You're most afraid of our sincerity, though you despise us!