Ivan spent the week absorbing these reiterated facts, and trying, vaguely, to resolve them into some sort of order: to come to some sort of decision regarding his own course of action. Certain he was that he knew where to lay hands upon Ternoff's assassin. Certain also was he that, if he gave Burevsky up to justice—his father's "justice," the responsibility of Burevsky's execution or exile would be on his conscience forevermore.
What to do?
Burevsky and his companions had used him ruthlessly, as their shield.—Ivan had no idea of how slight had been the advantage they took in comparison with predecessors of his.—Why should he hesitate to visit them with his ideas of right?—But, though he came forever to this point he always left it again, unanswered, and went reluctantly back to the beginning of his syllogism. The men had been his friends. He had liked them more than he had known. He had broken their bread. Could he deliver them up to their fearful retribution?—God help him, he could not: criminals, menacing society, though they were.
It took Ivan an entire week to come to the simple and obvious decision of a middle course, so harassed and over-excited had his brain become. But when, on the morning of May 17th, it suddenly occurred to him to go to Sergius and make a clean breast of his doubt and his self-reproach, he could hardly constrain himself to wait till his classes were over and a mouthful of luncheon swallowed before he betook himself, in a swift droschky along the bank of the river, till he came to the bridge across which lay the Student Quarter. Thence he proceeded, on foot, through the maze of ugly little streets, wherein the spring sunshine only showed up all the more pitilessly their meanness, and filth, and ugliness. Once at the house in which the brother and sister lodged, he went up the rickety stairs unheeding any of the customary sights and sounds, till, arriving at Sergius' door, he started a little to find it wide open. Five minutes later he returned to that door in a state of yet greater bewilderment; for both rooms were empty of occupants.
Sergius and Irina were gone; but, as their belongings were scattered about in the usual untidiness, Ivan argued return. Throwing off his hat, then, he filled and lighted a pipe, seated himself at the battered piano—sole remaining relic of old Petrov Lihnoff, and now too dilapidated for sale—and yielded himself for an hour to that most dangerous luxury of the serious composer: improvisation.
Interested in the little theme he had developed, Ivan lost count of time, and nearly two hours passed before he was interrupted. There was a sound of feet running rapidly up-stairs, and then there burst into the room Burevsky: bare-headed, leaden-hued, eyes aflame, his left hand hanging, crushed and bloody, at his side, in his right a pistol, its barrel glinting in the light.
Ivan was on his feet, facing the other, who stared at him as he gasped, between his quick breaths:
"You, Gregoriev!—You!—Go, instantly!—Leave the house at the back;—there may be time!—You—"
"But for God's sake, Burevsky, what's the matter?—Where are Sergius and Irina?"
"Irina got away, thank God!—We managed that, last night.—See here, Ivan, she's at—"