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He stopped at shops, bought a newspaper, called at his tailor’s and ordered some clothes. The thought of visiting the Pogoreltsevs continued to be disagreeable to him, and he did not think about them; besides, he could not go to the country: it was as if he kept expecting something here in town. He dined with pleasure, talked with the waiter and with a neighboring diner, and drank half a bottle of wine. He did not even think of the possibility of yesterday’s attack coming back; he was convinced that his illness had gone completely the very moment yesterday when, having fallen asleep so strengthless, he had jumped from his bed an hour and a half later and with such strength hurled his murderer to the floor. Toward evening, however, he felt dizzy and it was as if something like last night’s delirium in sleep began to come over him again at moments. He returned home at dusk and was almost scared of his room when he entered it. Dreadful and eerie his apartment seemed to him. He walked around it several times and even went into his kitchen, where he hardly ever went. “They heated the plates here yesterday,” came to his mind. He locked the door well and lit the candles earlier than usual. As he was locking the door, he remembered that half an hour before, passing by the caretaker’s room, he had called Mavra out and asked her: “Hadn’t Pavel Pavlovich come by while he was out?”—as if he might really have come by.
Having locked himself in carefully, he unlocked his bureau, took out the case of razors, and opened “yesterday’s” razor to have a look at it. On the white bone handle slight traces of blood remained. He put the razor back into the case and locked it up in the bureau again. He wanted to sleep; he felt that it was necessary to lie down right away—otherwise “tomorrow he won’t be good for anything.” For some reason he imagined the next day as fatal and “definitive.” But the same thoughts that had never left him for a moment all day, even outside, also crowded and throbbed in his sick head now, tirelessly and irresistibly, and he kept thinking, thinking, thinking, and it would be a long time before he fell asleep…
“If we decide that he got up to kill me inadvertently” he kept thinking and thinking, “then had the thought come to him at least once before, at least as a dream in some wicked moment?”
He decided the question strangely—that “Pavel Pavlovich had wanted to kill him, but the thought of the killing had never once occurred to the future killer.” In short: “Pavel Pavlovich had wanted to kill, but hadn’t known that he wanted to kill. It’s senseless, but it’s so,” thought Velchaninov. “He came here not to solicit a post and not for Bagautov—though he did solicit a post and call on Bagautov, and was furious when the man died; he despised Bagautov like a chip of wood. He came here for me and came with Liza…
“And did I myself expect that he… would put a knife in me?” He decided that, yes, he had expected it precisely from the very moment he had seen him in the coach following Bagautov’s coffin. “I began as if to expect something… but, naturally, not this, naturally, not that he would put a knife in me!…
“And can it be, can it be that it was all true,” he exclaimed again, suddenly raising his head from the pillow and opening his eyes, “all that this… madman told me yesterday about his love for me, when his chin trembled and he beat his breast with his fist?
“Perfectly true!” he decided, tirelessly delving deeper and analyzing. “This Quasimodo15 from T———is only too sufficiently stupid and noble to fall in love with the lover of his wife, in whom, for twenty years, he noticed nothing! He respected me for nine years, he honored my memory and remembered my ‘utterances’—Lord, and I had no idea of anything! He couldn’t have been lying yesterday! But did he love me yesterday when he talked about his love and said: ‘Let’s square accounts’? Yes, loved me from spite; that’s the strongest love…
“And it could have been, and certainly was so, that I produced a colossal impression on him in T———, precisely a colossal and a ‘delightful’ one, and it’s precisely with such a Schiller in the shape of Quasimodo that that could happen! He exaggerated me a hundredfold, because I struck him too much in his philosophical solitude… It would be curious to know, precisely what about me struck him? Really, it might have been fresh gloves and knowing how to put them on. Quasimodos love aesthetics, oh, how they do! Gloves are all too sufficient for some most noble soul, the more so for one of the ‘eternal husbands.’ The rest they’ll fill out a thousandfold and they’ll even fight for you if you want. And how highly he rates my means of seduction! Maybe it’s precisely the means of seduction that struck him most of all. And that cry of his then: ‘If even this one as well, then who can one believe in after that?’ After such a cry, one could turn into a beast!…
“Hm! He came here so that we could ‘embrace each other and weep,’ as he himself put it in the meanest way—that is, he was coming in order to put a knife in me, but thought he was coming ‘to embrace and weep’… And he brought Liza. What, then: if I had wept with him, maybe he would in fact have forgiven me, because he wanted terribly to forgive!… All this turned, at the first encounter, into drunken clowning and caricature, and into a vile, womanish howling about being offended. (The horns, he made horns over his forehead!) That’s why he came drunk, so as to speak it out, even while clowning; he couldn’t do it not drunk… And he did like clowning, oh, how he did! Oh, how glad he was when he made me kiss him! Only he didn’t know then what he would end with: embracing or killing. It came out, of course, that the best would be both together. The most natural solution!—Yes, sir, nature doesn’t like monsters and finishes them off with ‘natural solutions.’ The most monstrous monster is the monster with noble feelings: I know it from my own experience, Pavel Pavlovich! For a monster, nature is not a tender mother, she’s a stepmother. Nature gives birth to a monster, and, instead of pitying him, executes him—and right she is. Even decent folk in our time don’t get off easily with embraces and tears of all-forgiveness, to say nothing of such as you and I, Pavel Pavlovich!
“Yes, he was stupid enough to take me to his fiancée as well—Lord! His fiancée! Only such a Quasimodo could conceive the thought of ‘resurrection into a new life’—by means of Mademoiselle Zakhlebinin’s i