afraid of him, and there was no need for him to be
afraid.

"If they're lying and deceiving me, what's at the bottom of it?" was the
thought that gnawed at his mind. The public announcement of the marriage
seemed to him absurd. "It's true that with such a wonder-worker anything
may come to pass; he lives to do harm. But what if he's afraid himself,
since the insult of Sunday, and afraid as he's never been before? And
so he's in a hurry to declare that he'll announce it himself, from fear
that I should announce it. Eh, don't blunder, Lebyadkin! And why does he
come on the sly, at night, if he means to make it public himself? And
if he's afraid, it means that he's afraid now, at this moment, for these
few days.... Eh, don't make a mistake, Lebyadkin!

"He scares me with Pyotr Stepanovitch. Oy, I'm frightened, I'm
frightened! Yes, this is what's so frightening! And what induced me to
blab to Liputin. Goodness knows what these devils are up to. I never can
make head or tail of it. Now they are all astir again as they were five
years ago. To whom could I give information, indeed? 'Haven't I written
to anyone in my foolishness?' H'm! So then I might write as though
through foolishness? Isn't he giving me a hint? 'You're going to
Petersburg on purpose.' The sly rogue. I've scarcely dreamed of it, and
he guesses my dreams. As though he were putting me up to going himself.
It's one or the other of two games he's up to. Either he's afraid
because he's been up to some pranks himself... or he's not afraid for
himself, but is simply egging me on to give them all away! Ach, it's
terrible, Lebyadkin! Ach, you must not make a blunder!"

He was so absorbed in thought that he forgot to listen. It was not easy
to hear either. The door was a solid one, and they were talking in a
very low voice. Nothing reached the captain but indistinct sounds. He
positively spat in disgust, and went out again, lost in thought, to
whistle on the steps.

III

Marya Timofyevna's room was twice as large as the one occupied by the
captain, and furnished in the same rough style; but the table in front
of the sofa was covered with a gay-coloured table-cloth, and on it a
lamp was burning. There was a handsome carpet on the floor. The bed was
screened off by a green curtain, which ran the length of the room, and
besides the sofa there stood by the table a large, soft easy chair, in
which Marya Timofyevna never sat, however. In the corner there was an
ikon