And how many decisions remarkable in the highest degree have been handed down by the juries?
How glad you were, and how glad I was then of your gladness ... we said we could be proud . . . And this clumsy defense, this strange argument, is, of course, an accident, one in a thousand."
Prince Lev Nikolaevich pondered a little, but with the most convinced air, though speaking softly and even as if timidly, replied:
"I only wanted to say that the distortion of ideas and notions (as Evgeny Pavlych put it) occurs very often, and is unfortunately much more of a general than a particular case.
And to the point that, if this distortion were not such a general case, there might not be such impossible crimes as these . . ."
"Impossible crimes?
But I assure you that exactly the same crimes, and perhaps still more terrible ones, existed before, and have always existed, not only here but everywhere, and, in my opinion, will occur for a very long time to come.
The difference is that before we had less publicity, while now we've begun to speak aloud and even to write about them, which is why it seems as if these criminals have appeared only now.
That's your mistake, an extremely naive mistake, Prince, I assure you," Prince Shch. smiled mockingly.
"I myself know that there were very many crimes before, and just as terrible; I was in some prisons not long ago and managed to become acquainted with certain criminals and accused men.
There are even more horrible criminals than this one, who have killed ten people and do not repent at all.
But at the same time I noticed this: the most inveterate and unrepentant murderer still knows that he is a criminal, that is, in all conscience he considers that he has done wrong, though without any repentance.
And every one of them is the same; but those whom Evgeny Pavlych has begun speaking about do not even want to consider themselves criminals and think to themselves that they had the right and . . . even did a good thing, or almost.
That, in my opinion, is what makes the terrible difference.
And note that they're all young people, that is, precisely of an age when they can most easily and defenselessly fall under the influence of perverse ideas."
Prince Shch. was no longer laughing and listened to the prince with perplexity.
Alexandra Ivanovna, who had long been wanting to make some remark, kept silent, as if some special thought stopped her.
But Evgeny Pavlovich looked at the prince in decided astonishment and this time without any smile.
"Why are you so astonished at him, my dear sir?" Lizaveta Prokofyevna stepped in unexpectedly. "What, is he stupider than you or something, can't he reason as well as you?"
"No, ma'am, it's not that," said Evgeny Pavlovich, "but how is it, Prince (forgive the question), if that's the way you see and observe it, then how is it (again, forgive me) that in that strange affair . . . the other day . . . with Burdovsky, I believe . . . how is it that you didn't notice the same perversion of ideas and moral convictions?
Exactly the same!
It seemed to me then that you didn't notice it at all."
"But the thing is, my dear," Lizaveta Prokofyevna was very excited, "that we noticed everything, we sit here and boast before him, and yet he received a letter today from one of them, the main one, with the blackheads, remember, Alexandra?
He apologizes in his letter, though in his own manner, and says he has dropped that friend of his, the one who egged him on then—remember, Alexandra?—and that he now believes more in the prince.
Well, and we haven't received such a letter yet, though we know well enough how to turn up our noses at him."
"And Ippolit also just moved to our dacha!" cried Kolya.
"What? He's already here?" the prince became alarmed.
"You had only just left with Lizaveta Prokofyevna when he came. I brought him!"
"Well, I'll bet," Lizaveta Prokofyevna suddenly boiled over, completely forgetting that she had just praised the prince, "I'll bet he went to his attic yesterday and begged his forgiveness on his knees, so that the spiteful little stinker would deign to come here.
Did you go yesterday?
You admitted it yourself earlier.
Is it so or not?
Did you get on your knees or not?"
"That's quite wrong," cried Kolya, "and it was quite the contrary: Ippolit seized the prince's hand yesterday and kissed it twice, I saw it myself, and that was the end of all the explanations, except that the prince simply said it would be better for him at the dacha, and he instantly agreed to come as soon as he felt better."
"You shouldn't, Kolya . . ." the prince murmured, getting up and taking his hat, "why are you telling them about that, I . . ."
"Where now?" Lizaveta Prokofyevna stopped him.
"Don't worry, Prince," the inflamed Kolya went on, "don't go and don't trouble him, he's fallen asleep after the trip; he's very glad; and you know, Prince, in my opinion it will be much better if you don't meet today, even put it off till tomorrow, otherwise he'll get embarrassed again.
This morning he said it was a whole six months since he'd felt so well and so strong; he even coughs three times less."
The prince noticed that Aglaya suddenly left her place and came over to the table.
He did not dare to look at her, but he felt with his whole being that she was looking at him at that moment, and perhaps looking menacingly, that there was certainly indignation in her dark eyes and her face was flushed.
"But it seems to me, Nikolai Ardalionovich, that you shouldn't have brought him here, if it's that same consumptive boy who wept the other time and invited us to his funeral," Evgeny Pavlovich observed. "He spoke so eloquently then about the wall of the neighboring house that he's bound to feel sad without it, you may be sure."
"What he says is true: he'll quarrel and fight with you and then leave, that's what I say!"
And Lizaveta Prokofyevna moved her sewing basket towards her with dignity, forgetting that they were all getting up to go for a walk.
"I remember him boasting a great deal about that wall," Evgeny Pavlovich picked up again. "Without that wall he won't be able to die eloquently, and he wants very much to die eloquently."
"What of it?" murmured the prince.
"If you don't want to forgive him, he'll die without it . . . He moved now for the sake of the trees.
"Oh, for my part I forgive him everything; you can tell him that."
"That's not how it should be understood," the prince replied quietly and as if reluctantly, continuing to look at one spot on the floor and not raising his eyes. "It should be that you, too, agree to accept his forgiveness."
"What is it to me?
How am I guilty before him?"