There was an inquest. No one could understand or explain the suicide. It never even entered his uncle's head that its cause could be anything in common with the confession Eugene had made to him two months previously.
Varvara Alexeevna assured them that she had always foreseen it. It had been evident from his way of disputing. Neither Liza nor Mary Pavlovna could at all understand why it had happened, but still they did not believe what the doctors said, namely, that he was mentally deranged—a psychopath. They were quite unable to accept this, for they knew he was saner than hundreds of their acquaintances.
And indeed if Eugene Irtenev was mentally deranged everyone is similarly insane; the most mentally deranged people are certainly those who see in others indications of insanity they do not notice in themselves.
VARIATION OF THE CONCLUSION OF
THE DEVIL
"To kill, yes. There were only two ways out: to kill his wife, or to kill her. For it is impossible to live like this," said he to himself, and going up to the table he took from it a revolver which, having examined—one cartridge was wanting—he put in his trouser pocket.
"My God! What am I doing?" he suddenly exclaimed, and folding his hands he began to pray.
"Oh, God, help me and deliver me. Thou knowest that I do not desire evil, but by myself am powerless. Help me," said he, making the sign of the cross on his breast before the icon.
"Yes, I can control myself. I will go out, walk about and think things over."
He went to the entrance-hall, put on his overcoat and went out on to the porch. Unconsciously his steps took him past the garden along the field path to the outlying farmstead. There the thrashing machine was still droning and the cries of the driver-lads were heard. He entered the barn. She was there. He saw her at once. She was raking up the corn, and on seeing him she, with laughing eyes, ran briskly and merrily over the scattered corn, raking it up with agility. Eugene could not help watching her though he did not wish it. He only recollected himself when she was no longer in sight. The clerk informed him that they were now finishing thrashing the corn that had been beaten down—that was why it was going slower and the output was less. Eugene went up to the drum, which occasionally gave a knock as sheaves not evenly fed in passed under it, and he asked the clerk if there were many such sheaves of beaten-down corn.
"There will be five cartloads of it."