"But this is insupportable!" came from the visitors' side, some of whom even jumped up from their seats.

"Gentlemen! That is why I decided that the unfortunate Mr. Burdovsky must be a simple, defenseless man, a man easily swayed by crooks, and thus I had all the more reason to help him as 'Pavlishchev's son'—first, by opposing Mr. Chebarov, second, by my devotion and friendship, in order to guide him, and, third, by arranging to pay him ten thousand roubles, which, as I calculate, is all that Pavlishchev could have spent on me in cash . . ."

"What! Only ten thousand!" cried Ippolit.

"Well, Prince, you're not very strong in arithmetic, or else you're very strong, though you pretend to be a simpleton!" Lebedev's nephew cried out.

"I don't agree to ten thousand," said Burdovsky.

"Antip! Agree!" the boxer, leaning over the back of Ippolit's chair, said in a quick and distinct whisper. "Agree, and then later we'll see!"

"Listen he-e-ere, Mr. Myshkin," shrieked Ippolit, "understand that we're not fools, not vulgar fools, as your guests all probably think we are, and these ladies, who are smirking at us with such indignation, and especially this high-society gentleman" (he pointed to Evgeny Pavlovich), "whom I naturally do not have the honor of knowing, but of whom I seem to have heard a thing or two ..."

"Excuse me, excuse me, gentlemen, but again you haven't understood me!" the prince addressed them in agitation. "First of all,

Mr. Keller, in your article you give an extremely inexact notion of my fortune: I didn't get any millions; I have only an eighth or a tenth part of what you suppose. Second, no one ever spent any tens of thousands on me in Switzerland: Schneider was paid six hundred roubles a year, and that only for the first three years; and Pavlishchev never went to Paris for pretty governesses—that again is slander. I think far less than ten thousand was spent on me in all, but I decided on ten thousand and, you must agree, in repaying a debt, I simply couldn't offer Mr. Burdovsky more, even if I was terribly fond of him, I couldn't do it simply from a feeling of delicacy, precisely because I was paying him back a debt and not sending him charity. I don't see how you can fail to understand that, gentlemen! But I wanted to make up for it all later by my friendship, my active participation in the fate of the unfortunate Mr. Burdovsky, who had obviously been deceived, because without deceit he himself could not have agreed to such baseness as, for instance, today's public statement about his mother in Mr. Keller's article . . . But why, finally, are you again getting so beside yourselves, gentlemen! We finally won't understand each other at all! Because it turned out my way! I'm now convinced by my own eyes that my guess was correct," the excited prince went on persuading, trying to calm the agitation and not noticing that he was only increasing it.

"How? Convinced of what?" they accosted him almost ferociously.

"But, good heavens, first of all, I myself have had time to take a very good look at Mr. Burdovsky, and I can now see for myself how he is . . . He's an innocent man, but whom everybody is deceiving! A defenseless man . . . and therefore I must spare him. And, second, Gavrila Ardalionovich, whom I entrusted with this affair and from whom I had not heard any news for a long time, because I was on the road and then sick for three days in Petersburg, now suddenly, just an hour ago, at our first meeting, informs me that he has gotten to the bottom of Chebarov's intentions, that he has proofs, and that Chebarov is precisely what I supposed him to be. I know, gentlemen, that many people consider me an idiot, and Chebarov, going by my reputation for giving money away easily, thought it would be very easy to deceive me, counting precisely on my feelings for Pavlishchev. But the main thing is—no, hear me out, gentlemen, hear me out!—the main thing is that now it suddenly turns out that Mr. Burdovsky isn't Pavlishchev's son at

all! Gavrila Ardalionovich just told me so, and he assures me that he has obtained positive proofs. Well, how does that strike you? It's impossible to believe it, after all that's gone on already! Positive proofs—you hear! I still don't believe it, I don't believe it myself, I assure you; I'm still doubtful, because Gavrila Ardalionovich hasn't had time yet to tell me all the details, but that Chebarov is a blackguard there is not longer any doubt! He has duped the unfortunate Mr. Burdovsky and all of you, gentlemen, who came nobly to support your friend (for he obviously needs support, I do understand that!), he has duped you all, and involved you in a crooked affair, because it's all essentially knavery and crookedness!"

"What's crooked about it! . . . How is he not 'Pavlishchev's son'? .. . How is it possible!. .." exclamations rang out. Burdovsky's whole company was in inexpressible confusion.

"But naturally it's crooked! You see, if Mr. Burdovsky now turns out not to be 'Pavlishchev's son,' then in that case Mr. Burdovsky's demand turns out to be downright crooked (that is, of course, if he knew the truth!), but the thing is that he was deceived, that's why I insist that he be vindicated; that's why I say that he deserves to be pitied in his simplicity, and cannot be left without support; otherwise he, too, will come out as a crook in this affair. And I myself am convinced that he doesn't understand a thing! I, too, was in such a condition before I left for Switzerland; I, too, babbled incoherent words—you want to express yourself and can't ... I understand it; I can sympathize very much, because I'm almost like that myself, I'm permitted to speak! And, finally, I still— despite the fact that 'Pavlishchev's son' is no more and it all turns out to be a mystification—I still haven't changed my decision and am ready to hand over the ten thousand in memory of Pavlishchev. I wanted to use this ten thousand to start a school in memory of Pavlishchev even before Mr. Burdovsky appeared, but now it won't make any difference whether it's a school or Mr. Burdovsky, because if Mr. Burdovsky is not 'Pavlishchev's son,' he's almost like 'Pavlishchev's son,' because he has been so wickedly deceived: he sincerely considered himself the son of Pavlishchev! Now listen to Gavrila Ardalionovich, gentlemen, let's be done with it—don't be angry, don't worry, sit down! Gavrila Ardalionovich will explain it all now, and, I confess, I'm extremely anxious to learn all the details myself. He says he even went to Pskov to see your mother, Mr. Burdovsky, who didn't die at all, as you were forced to write in the article ... Sit down, gentlemen, sit down!"

The prince sat down and managed to get the Burdovsky company, who had all jumped up from their places, to sit down again. For the last ten or twenty minutes he had been speaking vehemently, loudly, in an impatient patter, carried away, trying to talk above them all, to outshout them, and, of course, later he would bitterly regret some of the phrases and surmises that had escaped him. If he had not been so excited and all but beside himself, he would never have permitted himself to speak some of his guesses and needless sincerities aloud so baldly and hastily. But as soon as he sat down, one burning regret painfully pierced his heart. Besides the fact that he had "insulted" Burdovsky by so publicly supposing him to have the same illness for which he himself had been treated in Switzerland—besides that, the offer of the ten thousand instead of the school had, in his opinion, been made crudely and carelessly, as if it were charity, and precisely in that it had been spoken aloud in front of other people. "I should have waited and offered it tomorrow when we were alone," the prince thought at once, "and now it's unlikely that I can put it right! Yes, I'm an idiot, a real idiot!" he decided to himself in a fit of shame and extreme distress.