THEY passed through the same rooms which the prince had traversed
on his arrival. In the largest there were pictures on the walls, portraits and landscapes of little interest. Over the door, however, there was one of strange and rather striking shape; it was six or seven feet in length, and not more than a foot in height. It represented the Saviour just taken from the cross.
The prince glanced at it, but took no further notice. He moved on
hastily, as though anxious to get out of the house. But Rogojin
suddenly stopped underneath the picture.
"My father picked up all these pictures very cheap at auctions, and so on," he said; "they are all rubbish, except the one over the door, and that is valuable. A man offered five hundred roubles for it last week."
"Yes—that's a copy of a Holbein," said the prince, looking at it
again, "and a good copy, too, so far as I am able to judge. I saw
the picture abroad, and could not forget it—what's the matter?"
Rogojin had dropped the subject of the picture and walked on. Of
course his strange frame of mind was sufficient to account for
his conduct; but, still, it seemed queer to the prince that he
should so abruptly drop a conversation commenced by himself. Rogojin did not take any notice of his question.
"Lef Nicolaievitch," said Rogojin, after a pause, during which
the two walked along a little further, "I have long wished to ask
you, do you believe in God?"
"How strangely you speak, and how odd you look!" said the other, involuntarily.
"I like looking at that picture," muttered Rogojin, not noticing, apparently, that the prince had not answered his question.
"That picture! That picture!" cried Muishkin, struck by a sudden
idea. "Why, a man's faith might be ruined by looking at that
picture!"
"So it is!" said Rogojin, unexpectedly. They had now reached the
front door.
The prince stopped.
"How?" he said. "What do you mean? I was half joking, and you
took me up quite seriously! Why do you ask me whether I believe
in God
"Oh, no particular reason. I meant to ask you before—many people
are unbelievers nowadays, especially Russians, I have been told. You ought to know—you've lived abroad."
Rogojin laughed bitterly as he said these words, and opening the
door, held it for the prince to pass out. Muishkin looked
surprised, but went out. The other followed him as far as the
landing of the outer stairs, and shut the door behind him. They
both now stood facing one another, as though oblivious of where
they were, or what they had to do next.
"Well, good-bye!" said the prince, holding out his hand.
"Good-bye," said Rogojin, pressing it hard, but quite
mechanically.
The prince made one step forward, and then turned round.
"As to faith," he said, smiling, and evidently unwilling to leave
Rogojin in this state—"as to faith, I had four curious
conversations in two days, a week or so ago. One morning I met a
man in the train, and made acquaintance with him at once. I had
often heard of him as a very learned man, but an atheist; and I
was very glad of the opportunity of conversing with so eminent
and clever a person. He doesn't believe in God, and he talked a
good deal about it, but all the while it appeared to me that he
was speaking OUTSIDE THE SUBJECT. And it has always struck me, both in speaking to such men and in reading their books, that they do not seem really to be touching on that at all, though on the surface they may appear to do so. I told him this, but I dare say I did not clearly express what I meant, for he could not understand me.
"That same evening I stopped at a small provincial hotel, and it
so happened that a dreadful murder had been committed there the
night before, and everybody was talking about it. Two peasants—
elderly men and old friends—had had tea together there the night
before, and were to occupy the same bedroom. They were not drunk
but one of them had noticed for the first time that his friend
possessed a silver watch which he was wearing on a chain. He was
by no means a thief, and was, as peasants go, a rich man; but
this watch so fascinated him that he could not restrain himself. He took a knife, and when his friend turned his back, he came up softly behind, raised his eyes to heaven, crossed himself, and saying earnestly—'God forgive me, for Christ's sake!' he cut his friend's throat like a sheep, and took the watch."