"Ah, he mustn't see us!" Liza cried out suddenly, as if insane. "Let's go away, go away! To the forest, to the fields!"
And she started running back.
"Lizaveta Nikolaevna, this is real faintheartedness!" Pyotr Stepanovich ran after her. "Why don't you want him to see you? On the contrary, look him proudly and directly in the eye ... If it's something about that... maidenly... it's such a prejudice, such backwardness... But where are you going, where? Ehh, she's running! Let's better go back to Stavrogin, get my droshky... But where are you going? That's a field... hah, she fell! ..."
He stopped. Liza was flying like a bird, not knowing where, and Pyotr Stepanovich already lagged fifty steps behind her. She stumbled over a mound and fell. At the same moment, from in back, to one side, came a terrible cry, the cry of Mavriky Nikolaevich, who had seen her run and fall, and was running to her across the field. Pyotr Stepanovich instantly retreated through the gates of Stavrogin's house, to get quickly into his droshky.
And Mavriky Nikolaevich, terribly frightened, was already standing by Liza, who had gotten to her feet, was bending over her and holding her hand in his. The whole incredible situation of this encounter shook his reason, and tears streamed down his face. He had seen her, before whom he stood in awe, madly running across the field, at such an hour, in such weather, wearing only a dress, yesterday's magnificent dress, crumpled now, dirty from her fall... Unable to say a word, he took off his greatcoat and, with trembling hands, began to cover her shoulders. Suddenly he gave a cry, feeling her touch his hand with her lips.
"Liza!" he cried, "I'm no good for anything, but don't drive me away from you!"
"Oh, yes, let's leave here quickly, don't abandon me!" and taking him by the hand, she drew him after her. "Mavriky Nikolaevich," she suddenly lowered her voice fearfully, "I kept pretending I was brave in there, but here I'm afraid of death. I'll die, I'll die very soon, but I'm afraid, afraid to die..." she whispered, squeezing his hand hard.
"Oh, if only someone," he kept looking around in despair, "if only someone would pass by! Your feet will get wet, you'll... lose your reason!"
"Never mind, never mind," she reassured him, "like that, I'm less afraid with you, hold my hand, lead me ... Where are we going now, home? No, I want to see the murdered ones first. I've heard they murdered his wife, and he says he murdered her himself; but it's not true, it's not true, is it? I myself want to see the ones who were murdered ... for me... because of them he stopped loving me last night. . . I'll see and I'll know everything. Hurry, hurry, I know that house... there's fire there... Mavriky Nikolaevich, my friend, don't forgive me, dishonorable as I am! Why forgive me? What are you crying for? Slap me in the face and kill me here in the field, like a dog!"
"No one can be your judge now," Mavriky Nikolaevich said firmly, "God forgive you, and least of all will I be your judge!"
But it would be strange to describe their conversation. And meanwhile the two were walking arm in arm, quickly, hurrying, as if half crazed. They were making straight for the fire. Mavriky Nikolaevich had still not lost hope of meeting some cart at least, but no one came along. A fine drizzle pervaded all the surroundings, absorbing every sheen and every shade, and turning everything into one smoky, leaden, indifferent mass. It had long been day, yet it seemed that dawn had still not come. Then suddenly, out of this cold, smoky haze, a figure materialized, strange and absurd, walking towards them. Picturing it now, I think I would not have believed my eyes, even if I had been in Lizaveta Nikolaevna's place; and yet she cried out joyfully and recognized the approaching man at once. It was Stepan Trofimovich. How he had left, in what way the insane, cerebral notion of his flight could have been carried out—of that later. I will only mention that he was already in a fever that morning, but even illness did not stop him: he strode firmly over the wet ground; one could see that he had thought the enterprise over as best he could, alone with all his bookish inexperience. He was dressed in "traveling fashion"—that is, in a greatcoat with sleeves and a wide patent-leather belt with a buckle, as well as high new boots with his trousers tucked into them. Probably he had long pictured a traveling man in this way, and several days earlier had provided himself with the belt and the high boots with their gleaming hussar tops, in which he did not know how to walk. A wide-brimmed hat, a worsted scarf wrapped tightly around his neck, a stick in his right hand, and in his left an extremely small but exceedingly tightly packed valise, completed the outfit. There was, besides, an open umbrella in that same right hand. These three objects—the umbrella, the stick, and the valise—had been very awkward to carry for the first half mile, and simply heavy for the second.
"Can it really be you?" Liza cried out, looking him over in sorrowful surprise, which replaced her first impulse of unconscious joy.
"Lise!" Stepan Trofimovich also cried out, rushing to her also almost in delirium. "Chère, chère, can it be that you, too ... in such fog? Do you see: a glow! Vous êtes malheureuse, n 'est-ce pas?[cliii] I see, I see, don't tell, but don't question me either. Nous sommes tous malheureux, mais il faut les pardonner tous. Pardonnons, Lise,[cliv] and be free forever. To settle accounts with the world and be fully free—il faut pardonner, pardonner, et pardonner!"
"But why are you kneeling down?"
"Because, as I am bidding the world farewell, I want to bid farewell, in your image, to the whole of my past!" He began to weep and brought both her hands to his weeping eyes. "I kneel before all that was beautiful in my life, I kiss and give thanks! I've now broken myself in two: there—a madman who dreamed of soaring up into the sky, vingt-deux ans![clv] Here—a crushed and chilled old tutor... chez ce marchand, s'il existe pourtant ce marchand[clvi] ... But how soaked you are, Lise!" he cried, jumping to his feet, feeling that his knees, too, had become soaked on the sodden ground, "and how is this possible, you, in this dress?... and on foot, and in this field... You're crying? Vous êtes malheureuse? Hah, I heard something... But where are you coming from now?" he quickened his questions, with a timorous look, glancing in deep perplexity at Mavriky Nikolaevich, "mais savez-vous l'heure qu'il est!"[clvii]
"Stepan Trofimovich, did you hear anything there about murdered people ... Is it true? Is it?"
"Those people! I saw the glow of their deeds all night. They couldn't have ended otherwise..." (His eyes began to flash again.) "I'm running from a delirium, from a feverish dream, running to seek Russia, existe-t-elle la Russie? Bah, c'est vous, cher capitaine![clviii] I never doubted but that I'd meet you somewhere at some lofty deed... But do take my umbrella and—why must you go on foot? For God's sake, at least take my umbrella, and I'll hire a carriage somewhere anyway. I'm on foot only because Stasie (that is, Nastasya) would have started shouting for the whole street to hear, if she'd found out I was leaving; so I slipped away as incognito as possible. I don't know, in the Voice they're writing about robberies everywhere, but it can't be, I thought, that the moment I get out on the road, there will be a robber? Chère Lise, it seems you said someone murdered someone? O, mon Dieu, you're not well!"