way, simply to while away the tedious hours and to
satisfy the persistent demands of my fellow-countrymen."

"You are probably aware, Stepan Trofimovitch," Yulia Mihailovna went on
enthusiastically, "that to-morrow we shall have the delight of hearing
the charming lines... one of the last of Semyon Yakovlevitch's exquisite
literary inspirations--it's called _Merci._ He announces in this piece
that he will write no more, that nothing in the world will induce him
to, if angels from Heaven or, what's more, all the best society were to
implore him to change his mind. In fact he is laying down the pen for
good, and this graceful _Merci_ is addressed to the public in grateful
acknowledgment of the constant enthusiasm with which it has for so many
years greeted his unswerving loyalty to true Russian thought."

Yulia Mihailovna was at the acme of bliss.

"Yes, I shall make my farewell; I shall say my _Merci_ and depart and
there... in Karlsruhe... I shall close my eyes." Karmazinov was gradually
becoming maudlin.

Like many of our great writers (and there are numbers of them amongst
us), he could not resist praise, and began to be limp at once, in spite
of his penetrating wit. But I consider this is pardonable. They say that
one of our Shakespeares positively blurted out in private conversation
that "we _great men_ can't do otherwise," and so on, and, what's more, was
unaware of it.

"There in Karlsruhe I shall close my eyes. When we have done our duty,
all that's left for us great men is to make haste to close our eyes
without seeking a reward. I shall do so too."

"Give me the address and I shall come to Karlsruhe to visit your tomb,"
said the German, laughing immoderately.

"They send corpses by rail nowadays," one of the less important young
men said unexpectedly.

Lyamshin positively shrieked with delight. Yulia Mihailovna frowned.
Nikolay Stavrogin walked in.

"Why, I was told that you were locked up?" he said aloud, addressing
Stepan Trofimovitch before every one else.

"No, it was a case of unlocking," jested Stepan Trofimovitch.

"But I hope that what's happened will have no influence on what I asked
you to do," Yulia Mihailovna put in again. "I trust that you will not
let this unfortunate annoyance, of which I had no idea, lead you to
disappoint our eager expectations and deprive us of the enjoyment of
hearing your reading at our literary matinee."

"I don't know, I... now..."

"Really, I am so unlucky