"An exaggeration, an exaggeration, Lebedev!" they guffawed all around.
"I agree that it's a historical thought, but what are you getting at?" the prince went on asking. (He spoke with such seriousness and such an absence of any joking or mockery of Lebedev, whom everyone laughed at, that his tone, amidst the general tone of the whole company, involuntarily became comical; a little more and they would have started making fun of him as well, but he did not notice it.)
"Don't you see he's crazy, Prince?" Evgeny Pavlovich leaned towards him. "I was told here earlier that he went crazy over being a lawyer and making speeches, and that he wants to pass an examination. I'm expecting an excellent parody."
"I'm getting at a tremendous conclusion," Lebedev meanwhile thundered. "But first of all let us analyze the psychological and juridical condition of the criminal. We see that the criminal, or, so to speak, my client, despite all the impossibility of finding other eatables, shows more than once, in the course of his peculiar career, a desire to repent, and avoids clergymen. We see it clearly from the facts: it is mentioned that he did, after all, eat five or six babies—a comparatively insignificant number, but portentous in another respect. It is obvious that, suffering from terrible remorse (for my client is a religious and conscientious man, as I shall prove), and in order to diminish his sin as far as possible, six times, by way of experiment, he changed monastic food for lay food. That it was
by way of experiment is, again, unquestionable; for if it was only for gastronomic variety, the number six would be too insignificant: why only six and not thirty? (I'm considering a fifty-fifty proportion.) But if it was only an experiment, only out of despair before the fear of blaspheming and insulting the Church, then the number six becomes all too comprehensible; for six experiments, to satisfy the remorse of conscience, are quite sufficient, because the experiments could not have been successful. And, first of all, in my opinion, a baby is too small, that is, not of large size, so that for a given period of time he would need three or five times the number of lay babies as of clergymen, so that the sin, while diminishing on the one hand, would in the final end be increased on the other, if not in quality, then in quantity. In reasoning this way, gentlemen, I am, of course, descending into the heart of the twelfth-century criminal. For my own part, as a nineteenth-century man, I might have reasoned differently, of which I inform you, so there's no need to go grinning at me, gentlemen, and for you, General, it is quite unsuitable. Second, a baby, in my personal opinion, is not nourishing, is perhaps even too sweet and cloying, so that, while not satisfying the need, it leaves one with nothing but remorse of conscience. Now for the conclusion, the finale, gentlemen, the finale which contains the answer to one of the greatest questions of that time and ours! The criminal ends by going and denouncing himself to the clergy, and surrenders to the hands of the authorities. One may ask, what tortures did he face, considering the time, what wheels, fires, and flames? Who prompted him to go and denounce himself? Why not simply stop at the number sixty, keeping your secret till your last breath? Why not simply give up monks and live in penitence as a recluse? Why, finally, not become a monk himself? Now here is the answer! It means there was something stronger than fire and flame and even than a twenty-year habit! It means there was a thought stronger than all calamities, crop failures, torture, plague, leprosy, and all that hell, which mankind would have been unable to endure without that thought which binds men together, guides their hearts, and makes fruitful the wellsprings of the life of thought! Show me something resembling such a force in our age of crime and railways . . . that is, I should have said: our age of steam and railways, but I say: in our age of crime and railways, because I'm drunk, but just! Show me a thought binding present-day mankind together that is half as strong as in those centuries. And dare to say, finally, that the wellsprings of life have
not weakened, have not turned muddy under this 'star,' under this network that ensnares people. And don't try to frighten me with your prosperity, your wealth, the rarity of famines, and the speed of communication! There is greater wealth, but less force; the binding idea is gone; everything has turned soft, everything is overstewed, everyone is overstewed! We're all, all, all overstewed! . . . But enough, that's not the point now; the point is, shouldn't we give orders, my highly esteemed Prince, about the little snack prepared for our guests?"
Lebedev, who had almost driven some of his listeners to real indignation (the bottles, it should be noted, did not cease to be uncorked all the while), immediately won over all his opponents by unexpectedly concluding his speech with a little snack. He himself called such a conclusion a "clever, advocatory rounding off of the case." Merry laughter arose again, the guests became animated; they all got up from the table to stretch and stroll about the terrace. Only Keller remained displeased with Lebedev's speech and was in extreme agitation.
"The man attacks enlightenment, preaches rabid twelfth-century fanaticism, clowns, and even without any innocence of heart: how did he pay for this house, may I ask?" he said aloud, stopping all and sundry.
"I've seen a real interpreter of the Apocalypse," the general said in another corner to other listeners, among them Ptitsyn, whom he seized by a button, "the late Grigory Semyonovich Burmistrov: he burned through your heart, so to speak. First, he put on his spectacles, opened a big old book bound in black leather, well, and a gray beard along with it, two medals for his donations. He'd begin sternly and severely, generals bowed down to him, and ladies swooned—well, and this one ends with a snack. I've never seen the like!"
Ptitsyn listened to the general, smiled, and seemed about to take his hat, but could not quite make up his mind or else kept forgetting his intention. Ganya, before the moment when they all got up from the table, had suddenly stopped drinking and pushed his glass away; something dark had passed over his face. When they got up from the table, he went over to Rogozhin and sat down next to him. One might have thought they were on the most friendly terms. Rogozhin, who at first also made as if to leave quietly several times, now sat motionless, his head bowed, and also seemed to have forgotten that he wanted to leave. He did not drink a single
drop of wine all evening and was very pensive; only from time to time he raised his eyes and looked them all over. Now one might have thought he was waiting there for something extremely important for him and was resolved not to leave till the time came.
The prince drank only two or three glasses and was merely merry. Getting up from the table, he met Evgeny Pavlovich's gaze, remembered about their forthcoming talk, and smiled affably. Evgeny Pavlovich nodded to him and suddenly pointed to Ippolit, whom he was observing intently at that moment. Ippolit was asleep, stretched out on the sofa.
"Tell me, Prince, why has this boy foisted himself on you?" he said suddenly, with such obvious vexation and even spite that the prince was surprised. "I'll bet he's got something wicked in mind!"
"I've noticed," said the prince, "or at least it seems to me, that he interests you very much today, Evgeny Pavlych. Is it true?"