"I got ... I got my requital for my treason and my meanness ... I got a slap in the face!" he finally concluded tragically.

"A slap in the face? From whom? . . . And at such an early hour?"

"Early?" Lebedev smiled sarcastically. "Time means nothing here . . . even for a physical requital . . . but I got a moral ... a moral slap, not a physical one!"

He suddenly sat down unceremoniously and began telling the story. It was very incoherent; the prince frowned and wanted to leave, but suddenly a few words struck him. He was struck dumb with astonishment . . . Mr. Lebedev had strange things to tell.

To begin with, the matter apparently had to do with some letter; the name of Aglaya Ivanovna was spoken. Then suddenly Lebedev started bitterly accusing the prince himself; it was clear that he had been offended by the prince. First, he said, the prince had honored him with his trust in dealing with a certain "personage" (Nastasya Filippovna); but then had broken with him completely and driven him away in disgrace, and even to such an offensive degree that last time he was supposed to have rudely dismissed his "innocent question about imminent changes in the house." With drunken tears Lebedev confessed that "after that he could no longer endure, the less so as he knew a great deal ... a very great deal . . . both from Rogozhin and from Nastasya Filippovna, and from Nastasya Filippovna's friend, and from Varvara Ardalionovna . . . herself, sir . . . and from . . . and even from Aglaya Ivanovna

herself, if you can imagine, sir, through Vera, sir, through my beloved daughter Vera, my only-begotten²⁹ . . . yes, sir . . . though not my only-begotten, for I have three. And who informed Lizaveta Prokofyevna by letters, and that in the deepest secret, sir, heh, heh! Who reported to her on all the relations and ... on the movements of the personage Nastasya Filippovna, heh, heh, heh! Who, who is this anonymous person, may I ask?"

"Can it be you?" cried the prince.

"Precisely," the drunkard replied with dignity, "and it was today at half-past eight, only half an hour, no, already three-quarters of an hour ago, that I notified the noblest of mothers that I had an adventure to tell her of... an important one. I sent her a note, by a maid, at the back door, sir. She received it."

"You've just seen Lizaveta Prokofyevna?" the prince asked, scarcely believing his ears.

"I just saw her and got a slap in the face ... a moral one. She gave me back my letter, even flung it at me, unopened . . . and threw me out on my ear . . . though only morally, not physically . . . though almost physically even, just short of it!"

"What letter did she fling at you unopened?"

"Didn't I . . . heh, heh, heh! So I haven't told you yet! And I thought I had . . . There's this little letter I received, to be passed on, sir ..."

"From whom? To whom?"

But certain of Lebedev's "explanations" were extremely difficult to make out and even partially understand. The prince nevertheless realized, as far as he could, that the letter had been given to Vera Lebedev early in the morning, through a maid, to be delivered to the address . . . "the same as before . . . the same as before, to a certain personage and from the same person, sir . . . (for one of them I designate by the name of 'person,' sir, and the other only as 'personage,' for humiliation and for distinction; for there is a great difference between the innocent and highly noble daughter of a general and a . . . kept woman, sir), and so, the letter was from a 'person,' sir, beginning with the letter A . . ."

"How can it be? To Nastasya Filippovna? Nonsense!" cried the prince.

"It was, it was, sir, and if not to her, then to Rogozhin, sir, it's all the same, to Rogozhin, sir . . . and once there was even one to be passed on to Mr. Terentyev, sir, from the person with the letter A," Lebedev winked and smiled.

Since he often jumped from one thing to another and forgot what he had begun to say, the prince kept still so as to let him speak everything out. But all the same it was extremely unclear whether the letters had gone through him or through Vera. If he himself insisted that "to Rogozhin was all the same as to Nastasya Filippovna," it meant that most likely they had not gone through him, if there were any letters at all. And how it happened that the letter now ended up with him, remained decidedly unexplained; most likely of all would be to suppose that he had somehow stolen it from Vera . . . carried it off on the sly and taken it with some sort of intention to Lizaveta Prokofyevna. So the prince finally figured it out and understood it.

"You've lost your mind!" he cried, extremely disconcerted.

"Not entirely, my much-esteemed Prince," Lebedev answered, not without anger. "True, I was going to give it to you, into your own hands, so as to be of service . . . but I chose rather to be of service there and tell the most noble mother about everything . . . just as I had informed her once before in an anonymous letter; and when I wrote a note today, asking beforehand to be received at twenty past eight, I also signed it: 'your secret correspondent'; I was admitted at once, immediately, even with great haste, by the back door ... to see the most noble mother."

"Well?"

"And you know the rest, sir. She nearly gave me a beating, sir; that is, very nearly, sir, so that one might consider that she all but gave me a beating, sir. And she flung the letter at me. True, she wanted to keep it—I could see that, I noticed it—but she changed her mind and flung it at me: 'If you, such as you are, were entrusted with delivering it, then go and deliver it. ..' She even got offended. If she didn't feel ashamed to say it in front of me, it means she got offended. A hot-tempered lady!"

"And where is the letter now?"

"Still here with me, sir."

And he handed the prince the note from Aglaya to Gavrila Ardalionovich, which the latter triumphantly showed to his sister that same morning, two hours later.

"This letter cannot remain with you."

"For you, for you! I brought it for you, sir," Lebedev picked up hotly. "Now I'm yours again, entirely, from head to heart, your servant, sir, after a fleeting betrayal, sir! Punish my heart, spare my beard, as Thomas Morus³⁰ said ... in England and in Great

Britain, sir. Mea culpa, mea culpa*³¹ so says the Roman papa . . . that is, he's the pope of Rome, but I call him the 'Roman papa.'"

"This letter must be sent at once," the prince bustled, "I'll deliver it."

"But wouldn't it be better, wouldn't it be better, my most well-mannered Prince, wouldn't it be better, sir . . . sort of, sir!"

Lebedev made a strange, ingratiating grimace; he suddenly fidgeted terribly in his chair, as if he had suddenly been pricked by a needle, and, winking slyly, gestured and indicated something with his hands.

"What do you mean?" the prince asked menacingly.

"Open it beforehand, sir!" he whispered ingratiatingly and as if confidentially.

The prince jumped up in such fury that Lebedev was about to run away, but having reached the door, he stopped, waiting to see if he would be pardoned.

"Eh, Lebedev! Is it possible, is it possible to reach such mean disorder as you have?" the prince cried ruefully. Lebedev's features brightened.

"I'm mean, mean!" he approached at once, with tears, beating his breast.