“But I do this by the 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.