"Ach! Don't let him see us!" Liza cried suddenly, like a mad creature.

"Come away, come away! To the woods, to the fields!"

And she ran back.

"Lizaveta Nikolaevna, this is such cowardice," cried Pyotr Stepanovitch,

running after her. "And why don't you want him to see you? On the

contrary, you must look him straight in the face, with pride.... If it's

some feeling about that... some maidenly... that's such a prejudice, so

out of date... But where are you going? Where are you going? Ech! she is

running! Better go back to Stavrogin's and take my droshky.... Where are

you going? That's the way to the fields! There! She's fallen down!..."

He stopped. Liza was flying along like a bird, not conscious where she

was going, and Pyotr Stepanovitch was already fifty paces behind her.

She stumbled over a mound of earth and fell down. At the same moment

there was the sound of a terrible shout from behind. It came from

Mavriky Nikolaevitch, who had seen her flight and her fall, and was

running to her across the field. In a flash Pyotr Stepanovitch had

retired into Stavrogin's gateway to make haste and get into his droshky.

Mavriky Nikolaevitch was already standing in terrible alarm by Liza, who

had risen to her feet; he was bending over her and holding her hands in

both of his. All the incredible surroundings of this meeting overwhelmed

him, and tears were rolling down his cheeks. He saw the woman for whom

he had such reverent devotion running madly across the fields, at such

an hour, in such weather, with nothing over her dress, the gay dress she

wore the day before now crumpled and muddy from her fall.... He could

not utter a word; he took off his greatcoat, and with trembling hands

put it round her shoulders. Suddenly he uttered a cry, feeling that she

had pressed her lips to his hand.

"Liza," he cried, "I am no good for anything, but don't drive me away

from you!"

"Oh, no! Let us make haste away from here. Don't leave me!" and, seizing

his hand, she drew him after her. "Mavriky Nikolaevitch," she suddenly

dropped her voice timidly, "I kept a bold face there all the time, but

now I am afraid of death. I shall die soon, very soon, but I am afraid,

I am afraid to die...." she whispered, pressing his hand tight.

"Oh, if there were someone," he looked round in despair. "Some

passer-by! You will get your feet wet, you... will lose your reason!"

"It's all right; it's all right," she tried to reassure him. "That's

right. I am not so frightened with you. Hold my hand, lead me.... Where

are we going now? Home? No! I want first to see the people who have been

murdered. His wife has been murdered they say, and he says he killed

her himself. But that's not true, is it? I want to see for myself those

three who've been killed... on my account... it's because of them his

love for me has grown cold since last night.... I shall see and find out

everything. Make haste, make haste, I know the house... there's a fire

there.... Mavriky Nikolaevitch, my dear one, don't forgive me in my

shame! Why forgive me? Why are you crying? Give me a blow and kill me

here in the field, like a dog!"

"No one is your judge now," Mavriky Nikolaevitch pronounced firmly. "God

forgive you. I least of all can be your judge."

But it would be strange to describe their conversation. And meanwhile

they walked hand in hand quickly, hurrying as though they were crazy.

They were going straight towards the fire. Mavriky Nikolaevitch still

had hopes of meeting a cart at least, but no one came that way. A mist

of fine, drizzling rain enveloped the whole country, swallowing up every

ray of light, every gleam of colour, and transforming everything into

one smoky, leaden, indistinguishable mass. It had long been daylight,

yet it seemed as though it were still night. And suddenly in this cold

foggy mist there appeared coming towards them a strange and absurd

figure. Picturing it now I think I should not have believed my eyes if

I had been in Lizaveta Nikolaevna's place, yet she uttered a cry of

joy, and recognised the approaching figure at once. It was Stepan

Trofimovitch. How he had gone off, how the insane, impracticable idea

of his flight came to be carried out, of that later. I will only mention

that he was in a fever that morning, yet even illness did not prevent

his starting. He was walking resolutely on the damp ground. It was

evident that he had planned the enterprise to the best of his ability,

alone with his inexperience and lack of practical sense. He wore

"travelling dress," that is, a greatcoat with a wide patent-leather

belt, fastened with a buckle and a pair of new high boots pulled over

his trousers. Probably he had for some time past pictured a traveller as

looking like this, and the belt and the high boots with the shining tops

like a hussar's, in which he could hardly walk, had been ready some time

before. A broad-brimmed hat, a knitted scarf, twisted close round his

neck, a stick in his right hand, and an exceedingly small but extremely

tightly packed bag in his left, completed his get-up. He had, besides,

in the same right hand, an open umbrella. These three objects--the

umbrella, the stick, and the bag--had been very awkward to carry for the

first mile, and had begun to be heavy by the second.

"Can it really be you?" cried Liza, looking at him with distressed

wonder, after her first rush of instinctive gladness.

_"Lise,"_ cried Stepan Trofimovitch, rushing to her almost in delirium too.

"_Chère, chère_.... Can you be out, too... in such a fog? You see the glow

of fire. _Vous êtes malheureuse, n'est-ce pas?_ I see, I see. Don't tell

me, but don't question me either. _Nous sommes tous malheureux mais il

faut les pardonner tous. Pardonnons, Lise,_ and let us be free forever.

To be quit of the world and be completely free. _Il faut pardonner,

pardonner, et pardonner!"_

"But why are you kneeling down?"

"Because, taking leave of the world, I want to take leave of all my past

in your person!" He wept and raised both her hands to his tear-stained

eyes. "I kneel to all that was beautiful in my life. I kiss and give

thanks! Now I've torn myself in half; left behind a mad visionary who

dreamed of soaring to the sky. _Vingt-deux ans,_ here. A shattered, frozen

old man. A tutor _chez ce marchand, s'il existe pourtant ce

marchand...._ But how drenched you are, _Lise!"_ he cried, jumping on to

his feet, feeling that his knees too were soaked by the wet earth. "And

how is it possible... you are in such a dress... and on foot, and in

these fields?... You are crying! _Vous êtes malheureuse._ Bah, I did hear

something.... But where have you come from now?" He asked hurried

questions with an uneasy air, looking in extreme bewilderment at Mavriky

Nikolaevitch. _"Mais savez-vous l'heure qu'il est?"_

"Stepan Trofimovitch, have you heard anything about the people who've

been murdered?... Is it true? Is it true?"

"These people! I saw the glow of their work all night. They were bound

to end in this...." His eyes flashed again. "I am fleeing away from

madness, from a delirious dream. I am fleeing away to seek for Russia.

_Existe-t-elle, la Russie? Bah! C'est vous, cher capitaine!_

I've never doubted that I should meet you somewhere on some high

adventure.... But take my umbrella, and--why must you be on foot? For

God's sake, do at least take my umbrella, for I shall hire a carriage

somewhere in any case. I am on foot because Stasie (I mean, Nastasya)

would have shouted for the benefit of the whole street if she'd found out

I was going away. So I slipped away as far as possible incognito. I don't

know; in the _Voice_ they write of there being brigands everywhere, but I

thought surely I shouldn't meet a brigand the moment I came out on the

road. _Chère Lise,_ I thought you said something of someone's being

murdered. _Oh, mon Dieu!_ You are ill!"

"Come along, come along!" cried Liza, almost in hysterics, drawing

Mavriky Nikolaevitch after her again. "Wait a minute, Stepan

Trofimovitch!" she came back suddenly to him. "Stay, poor darling, let

me sign you with the cross. Perhaps, it would be better to put you under

control, but I'd rather make the sign of the cross over you. You, too,

pray for 'poor' Liza--just a little, don't bother too much about it.

Mavriky Nikolaevitch, give that baby back his umbrella. You must give it

him. That's right.... Come, let us go, let us go!"

They reached the fatal house at the very moment when the huge crowd,

which had gathered round it, had already heard a good deal of Stavrogin,

and of how much it was to his interest to murder his wife. Yet, I

repeat, the immense majority went on listening without moving or

uttering a word. The only people who were excited were bawling drunkards

and excitable individuals of the same sort as the gesticulatory

cabinet-maker. Every one knew the latter as a man really of mild

disposition, but he was liable on occasion to get excited and to fly off

at a tangent if anything struck him in a certain way. I did not see

Liza and Mavriky Nikolaevitch arrive. Petrified with amazement, I first

noticed Liza some distance away in the crowd, and I did not at once

catch sight of Mavriky Nikolaevitch. I fancy there was a moment when

he fell two or three steps behind her or was pressed back by the crush.

Liza, forcing her way through the crowd, seeing and noticing nothing

round her, like one in a delirium, like a patient escaped from a

hospital, attracted attention only too quickly, of course. There arose

a hubbub of loud talking and at last sudden shouts. Some one bawled out,

"It's Stavrogin's woman!" And on the other side, "It's not enough to

murder them, she wants to look at them!" All at once I saw an arm raised

above her head from behind and suddenly brought down upon it. Liza fell

to the ground. We heard a fearful scream from Mavriky Nikolaevitch as

he dashed to her assistance and struck with all his strength the man who

stood between him and Liza. But at that instant the same cabinetmaker

seized him with both arms from behind. For some minutes nothing could be

distinguished in the scrimmage that followed. I believe Liza got up but

was knocked down by another blow. Suddenly the crowd parted and a

small space was left empty round Liza's prostrate figure, and Mavriky

Nikolaevitch, frantic with grief and covered with blood, was standing

over her, screaming, weeping, and wringing his hands. I don't remember

exactly what followed after; I only remember that they began to carry

Liza away. I ran after her. She was still alive and perhaps still

conscious. The cabinet-maker and three other men in the crowd were

seized. These three still deny having taken any part in the dastardly

deed, stubbornly maintaining that they have been arrested by mistake.

Perhaps it's the truth. Though the evidence against the cabinet-maker

is clear, he is so irrational that he is still unable to explain what

happened coherently. I too, as a spectator, though at some distance,

had to give evidence at the inquest. I declared that it had all happened

entirely accidentally through the action of men perhaps moved by

ill-feeling, yet scarcely conscious of what they were doing--drunk and

irresponsible. I am of that opinion to this day.

CHAPTER IV. THE LAST RESOLUTION

I

THAT MORNING MANY people saw Pyotr Stepanovitch. All who saw him

remembered that he was in a particularly excited state. At two o'clock

he went to see Gaganov, who had arrived from the country only the day

before, and whose house was full of visitors hotly discussing the events

of the previous day. Pyotr Stepanovitch talked more than anyone and made

them listen to him. He was always considered among us as a "chatterbox

of a student with a screw loose," but now he talked of Yulia Mihailovna,

and in the general excitement the theme was an enthralling one. As one

who had recently been her intimate and confidential friend, he disclosed

many new and unexpected details concerning her; incidentally (and of

course unguardedly) he repeated some of her own remarks about persons

known to all in the town, and thereby piqued their vanity. He dropped

it all in a vague and rambling way, like a man free from guile driven

by his sense of honour to the painful necessity of clearing up a perfect

mountain of misunderstandings, and so simple-hearted that he hardly knew

where to begin and where to leave off. He let slip in a rather unguarded

way, too, that Yulia Mihailovna knew the whole secret of Stavrogin and

that she had been at the bottom of the whole intrigue. She had taken

him in too, for he, Pyotr Stepanovitch, had also been in love with this

unhappy Liza, yet he had been so hoodwinked that he had _almost_ taken her

to Stavrogin himself in the carriage. "Yes, yes, it's all very well

for you to laugh, gentlemen, but if only I'd known, if I'd known how it

would end!" he concluded. To various excited inquiries about Stavrogin

he bluntly replied that in his opinion the catastrophe to the Lebyadkins

was a pure coincidence, and that it was all Lebyadkin's own fault for

displaying his money. He explained this particularly well. One of his

listeners observed that it was no good his "pretending"; that he had

eaten and drunk and almost slept at Yulia Mihailovna's, yet now he was

the first to blacken her character, and that this was by no means such

a fine thing to do as he supposed. But Pyotr Stepanovitch immediately

defended himself.

"I ate and drank there not because I had no money, and it's not my fault

that I was invited there. Allow me to judge for myself how far I need to

be grateful for that."

The general impression was in his favour. "He may be rather absurd, and

of course he is a nonsensical fellow, yet still he is not responsible

for Yulia Mihailovna's foolishness. On the contrary, it appears that he

tried to stop her."

About two o'clock the news suddenly came that Stavrogin, about whom

there was so much talk, had suddenly left for Petersburg by the midday

train. This interested people immensely; many of them frowned. Pyotr

Stepanovitch was so much struck that I was told he turned quite pale and

cried out strangely, "Why, how could they have let him go?" He hurried

away from Gaganov's forthwith, yet he was seen in two or three other

houses.

Towards dusk he succeeded in getting in to see Yulia Mihailovna though

he had the greatest pains to do so, as she had absolutely refused to see

him. I heard of this from the lady herself only three weeks afterwards,

just before her departure for Petersburg. She gave me no details, but

observed with a shudder that "he had on that occasion astounded her

beyond all belief." I imagine that all he did was to terrify her

by threatening to charge her with being an accomplice if she "said

anything." The necessity for this intimidation arose from his plans at

the moment, of which she, of course, knew nothing; and only later,

five days afterwards, she guessed why he had been so doubtful of her

reticence and so afraid of a new outburst of indignation on her part.

Between seven and eight o'clock, when it was dark, all the five members

of the quintet met together at Ensign Erkel's lodgings in a little

crooked house at the end of the town. The meeting had been fixed by

Pyotr Stepanovitch himself, but he was unpardonably late, and the

members waited over an hour for him. This Ensign Erkel was that young

officer who had sat the whole evening at Virginsky's with a pencil in

his hand and a notebook before him. He had not long been in the town;

he lodged alone with two old women, sisters, in a secluded by-street and

was shortly to leave the town; a meeting at his house was less likely

to attract notice than anywhere. This strange boy was distinguished by

extreme taciturnity: he was capable of sitting for a dozen evenings in

succession in noisy company, with the most extraordinary conversation

going on around him, without uttering a word, though he listened with

extreme attention, watching the speakers with his childlike eyes. His

face was very pretty and even had a certain look of cleverness. He did

not belong to the quintet; it was supposed that he had some special job

of a purely practical character. It is known now that he had nothing of

the sort and probably did not understand his position himself. It was

simply that he was filled with hero-worship for Pyotr Stepanovitch,

whom he had only lately met. If he had met a monster of iniquity who had

incited him to found a band of brigands on the pretext of some romantic

and socialistic object, and as a test had bidden him rob and murder the

first peasant he met, he would certainly have obeyed and done it. He had

an invalid mother to whom he sent half of his scanty pay--and how

she must have kissed that poor little flaxen head, how she must have

trembled and prayed over it! I go into these details about him because I

feel very sorry for him.

"Our fellows" were excited. The events of the previous night had made a

great impression on them, and I fancy they were in a panic. The simple

disorderliness in which they had so zealously and systematically taken

part had ended in a way they had not expected. The fire in the night,

the murder of the Lebyadkins, the savage brutality of the crowd with

Liza, had been a series of surprises which they had not anticipated in

their programme. They hotly accused the hand that had guided them of

despotism and duplicity. In fact, while they were waiting for Pyotr

Stepanovitch they worked each other up to such a point that they

resolved again to ask him for a definite explanation, and if he evaded

again, as he had done before, to dissolve the quintet and to found

instead a new secret society "for the propaganda of ideas" and on

their own initiative on the basis of democracy and equality. Liputin,

Shigalov, and the authority on the peasantry supported this plan;

Lyamshin said nothing, though he looked approving. Virginsky hesitated

and wanted to hear Pyotr Stepanovitch first. It was decided to hear

Pyotr Stepanovitch, but still he did not come; such casualness added

fuel to the flames. Erkel was absolutely silent and did nothing but

order the tea, which he brought from his landladies in glasses on a

tray, not bringing in the samovar nor allowing the servant to enter.

Pyotr Stepanovitch did not turn up till half-past eight. With rapid

steps he went up to the circular table before the sofa round which the

company were seated; he kept his cap in his hand and refused tea. He

looked angry, severe, and supercilious. He must have observed at once

from their faces that they were "mutinous."

"Before I open my mouth, you've got something hidden; out with it."

Liputin began "in the name of all," and declared in a voice quivering

with resentment "that if things were going on like that they might as

well blow their brains out." Oh, they were not at all afraid to blow

their brains out, they were quite ready to, in fact, but only to serve

the common cause (a general movement of approbation). So he must be more

open with them so that they might always know beforehand, "or else what

would things be coming to?" (Again a stir and some guttural sounds.) To

behave like this was humiliating and dangerous. "We don't say so because

we are afraid, but if one acts and the rest are only pawns, then one

would blunder and all would be lost." (Exclamations. "Yes, yes." General

approval.)

"Damn it all, what do you want?"

"What connection is there between the common cause and the petty

intrigues of Mr. Stavrogin?" cried Liputin, boiling over. "Suppose he

is in some mysterious relation to the centre, if that legendary centre

really exists at all, it's no concern of ours. And meantime a murder has

been committed, the police have been roused; if they follow the thread

they may find what it starts from."

"If Stavrogin and you are caught, we shall be caught too," added the

authority on the peasantry.

"And to no good purpose for the common cause," Virginsky concluded

despondently.

"What nonsense! The murder is a chance crime; it was committed by Fedka

for the sake of robbery."

"H'm! Strange coincidence, though," said Liputin, wriggling.

"And if you will have it, it's all through you."

"Through us?"

"In the first place, you, Liputin, had a share in the intrigue yourself;

and the second chief point is, you were ordered to get Lebyadkin away

and given money to do it; and what did you do? If you'd got him away

nothing would have happened."

"But wasn't it you yourself who suggested the idea that it would be a

good thing to set him on to read his verses?"

"An idea is not a command. The command was to get him away."

"Command! Rather a queer word.... On the contrary, your orders were to

delay sending him off."

"You made a mistake and showed your foolishness and self-will. The

murder was the work of Fedka, and he carried it out alone for the sake

of robbery. You heard the gossip and believed it. You were scared.

Stavrogin is not such a fool, and the proof of that is he left the town

at twelve o'clock after an interview with the vice-governor; if there

were anything in it they would not let him go to Petersburg in broad

daylight."

"But we are not making out that Mr. Stavrogin committed the murder

himself," Liputin rejoined spitefully and unceremoniously. "He may have

known nothing about it, like me; and you know very well that I knew

nothing about it, though I am mixed up in it like mutton in a hash."

"Whom are you accusing?" said Pyotr Stepanovitch, looking at him darkly.

"Those whose interest it is to burn down towns."

"You make matters worse by wriggling out of it. However, won't you read

this and pass it to the others, simply as a fact of interest?"

He pulled out of his pocket Lebyadkin's anonymous letter to Lembke and

handed it to Liputin. The latter read it, was evidently surprised, and

passed it thoughtfully to his neighbour; the letter quickly went the

round.

"Is that really Lebyadkin's handwriting?" observed Shigalov.

"It is," answered Liputin and Tolkatchenko (the authority on the

peasantry).

"I simply brought it as a fact of interest and because I knew you were

so sentimental over Lebyadkin," repeated Pyotr Stepanovitch, taking the

letter back. "So it turns out, gentlemen, that a stray Fedka relieves us

quite by chance of a dangerous man. That's what chance does sometimes!

It's instructive, isn't it?"

The members exchanged rapid glances.

"And now, gentlemen, it's my turn to ask questions," said Pyotr

Stepanovitch, assuming an air of dignity. "Let me know what business you

had to set fire to the town without permission."

"What's this! We, we set fire to the town? That is laying the blame on

others!" they exclaimed.

"I quite understand that you carried the game too far," Pyotr

Stepanovitch persisted stubbornly, "but it's not a matter of petty

scandals with Yulia Mihailovna. I've brought you here gentlemen,

to explain to you the greatness of the danger you have so stupidly

incurred, which is a menace to much besides yourselves."

"Excuse me, we, on the contrary, were intending just now to point out

to you the greatness of the despotism and unfairness you have shown

in taking such a serious and also strange step without consulting the

members," Virginsky, who had been hitherto silent, protested, almost

with indignation.

"And so you deny it? But I maintain that you set fire to the town, you

and none but you. Gentlemen, don't tell lies! I have good evidence. By

your rashness you exposed the common cause to danger. You are only one

knot in an endless network of knots--and your duty is blind obedience to

the centre. Yet three men of you incited the Shpigulin men to set fire

to the town without the least instruction to do so, and the fire has

taken place."

"What three? What three of us?"

"The day before yesterday, at three o'clock in the night, you,

Tolkatchenko, were inciting Fomka Zavyalov at the 'Forget-me-not.'"

"Upon my word!" cried the latter, jumping up, "I scarcely said a word

to him, and what I did say was without intention, simply because he had

been flogged that morning. And I dropped it at once; I saw he was too

drunk. If you had not referred to it I should not have thought of it

again. A word could not set the place on fire."

"You are like a man who should be surprised that a tiny spark could blow

a whole powder magazine into the air."

"I spoke in a whisper in his ear, in a corner; how could you have heard

of it?"

Tolkatchenko reflected suddenly.

"I was sitting there under the table. Don't disturb yourselves,

gentlemen; I know every step you take. You smile sarcastically, Mr.

Liputin? But I know, for instance, that you pinched your wife black and

blue at midnight, three days ago, in your bedroom as you were going to

bed."

Liputin's mouth fell open and he turned pale. (It was afterwards found

out that he knew of this exploit of Liputin's from Agafya, Liputin's

servant, whom he had paid from the beginning to spy on him; this only

came out later.)

"May I state a fact?" said Shigalov, getting up.

"State it."

Shigalov sat down and pulled himself together.

"So far as I understand--and it's impossible not to understand it--you

yourself at first and a second time later, drew with great eloquence,

but too theoretically, a picture of Russia covered with an endless

network of knots. Each of these centres of activity, proselytising

and ramifying endlessly, aims by systematic denunciation to injure the

prestige of local authority, to reduce the villages to confusion,

to spread cynicism and scandals, together with complete disbelief in

everything and an eagerness for something better, and finally, by means

of fires, as a pre-eminently national method, to reduce the country at

a given moment, if need be, to desperation. Are those your words which

I tried to remember accurately? Is that the programme you gave us as the

authorised representative of the central committee, which is to this day

utterly unknown to us and almost like a myth?"

"It's correct, only you are very tedious."

"Every one has a right to express himself in his own way. Giving us

to understand that the separate knots of the general network already

covering Russia number by now several hundred, and propounding the

theory that if every one does his work successfully, all Russia at a

given moment, at a signal..."

"Ah, damn it all, I have enough to do without you!" cried Pyotr

Stepanovitch, twisting in his chair.

"Very well, I'll cut it short and I'll end simply by asking if we've

seen the disorderly scenes, we've seen the discontent of the people,

we've seen and taken part in the downfall of local administration, and

finally, we've seen with our own eyes the town on fire? What do you find

amiss? Isn't that your programme? What can you blame us for?"

"Acting on your own initiative!" Pyotr Stepanovitch cried furiously.

"While I am here you ought not to have dared to act without my

permission. Enough. We are on the eve of betrayal, and perhaps to-morrow

or to-night you'll be seized. So there. I have authentic information."

At this all were agape with astonishment.

"You will be arrested not only as the instigators of the fire, but as a

quintet. The traitor knows the whole secret of the network. So you see

what a mess you've made of it!"

"Stavrogin, no doubt," cried Liputin.

"What... why Stavrogin?" Pyotr Stepanovitch seemed suddenly taken aback.

"Hang it all," he cried, pulling himself together at once, "it's Shatov!

I believe you all know now that Shatov in his time was one of the

society. I must tell you that, watching him through persons he does

not suspect, I found out to my amazement that he knows all about the

organisation of the network and... everything, in fact. To save

himself from being charged with having formerly belonged, he will give

information against all. He has been hesitating up till now and I have

spared him. Your fire has decided him: he is shaken and will hesitate

no longer. To-morrow we shall be arrested as incendiaries and political

offenders."

"Is it true? How does Shatov know?" The excitement was indescribable.

"It's all perfectly true. I have no right to reveal the source from

which I learnt it or how I discovered it, but I tell you what I can

do for you meanwhile: through one person I can act on Shatov so that

without his suspecting it he will put off giving information, but not

more than for twenty-four hours." All were silent.

"We really must send him to the devil!" Tolkatchenko was the first to

exclaim.

"It ought to have been done long ago," Lyamshin put in malignantly,

striking the table with his fist.

"But how is it to be done?" muttered Liputin. Pyotr Stepanovitch at once

took up the question and unfolded his plan. The plan was the following

day at nightfall to draw Shatov away to a secluded spot to hand over

the secret printing press which had been in his keeping and was buried

there, and there "to settle things." He went into various essential

details which we will omit here, and explained minutely Shatov's present

ambiguous attitude to the central society, of which the reader knows

already.

"That's all very well," Liputin observed irresolutely, "but since it

will be another adventure... of the same sort... it will make too great

a sensation."

"No doubt," assented Pyotr Stepanovitch, "but I've provided against

that. We have the means of averting suspicion completely."

And with the same minuteness he told them about Kirillov, of his

intention to shoot himself, and of his promise to wait for a signal from

them and to leave a letter behind him taking on himself anything they

dictated to him (all of which the reader knows already).

"His determination to take his own life--a philosophic, or as I should

call it, insane decision--has become known _there_" Pyotr Stepanovitch

went on to explain. "_There_ not a thread, not a grain of dust is

overlooked; everything is turned to the service of the cause. Foreseeing

how useful it might be and satisfying themselves that his intention was

quite serious, they had offered him the means to come to Russia (he was

set for some reason on dying in Russia), gave him a commission which he

promised to carry out (and he had done so), and had, moreover, bound him

by a promise, as you already know, to commit suicide only when he was

told to. He promised everything. You must note that he belongs to the

organisation on a particular footing and is anxious to be of service;

more than that I can't tell you. To-morrow, _after Shatov's affair_, I'll

dictate a note to him saying that he is responsible for his death. That

will seem very plausible: they were friends and travelled together to

America, there they quarrelled; and it will all be explained in the

letter... and... and perhaps, if it seems feasible, we might dictate

something more to Kirillov--something about the manifestoes, for

instance, and even perhaps about the fire. But I'll think about

that. You needn't worry yourselves, he has no prejudices; he'll sign

anything."

There were expressions of doubt. It sounded a fantastic story. But they

had all heard more or less about Kirillov; Liputin more than all.

"He may change his mind and not want to," said Shigalov; "he is a madman

anyway, so he is not much to build upon."

"Don't be uneasy, gentlemen, he will want to," Pyotr Stepanovitch

snapped out. "I am obliged by our agreement to give him warning the day

before, so it must be to-day. I invite Liputin to go with me at once to

see him and make certain, and he will tell you, gentlemen, when he comes

back--to-day if need be--whether what I say is true. However," he broke

off suddenly with intense exasperation, as though he suddenly felt he

was doing people like them too much honour by wasting time in persuading

them, "however, do as you please. If you don't decide to do it,

the union is broken up--but solely through your insubordination and

treachery. In that case we are all independent from this moment. But

under those circumstances, besides the unpleasantness of Shatov's

betrayal and its consequences, you will have brought upon yourselves

another little unpleasantness of which you were definitely warned when

the union was formed. As far as I am concerned, I am not much afraid of

you, gentlemen.... Don't imagine that I am so involved with you.... But

that's no matter."

"Yes, we decide to do it," Liputin pronounced.

"There's no other way out of it," muttered Tolkatchenko, "and if only

Liputin confirms about Kirillov, then...

"I am against it; with all my soul and strength I protest against such a

murderous decision," said Virginsky, standing up.

"But?" asked Pyotr Stepanovitch....

"_But_ what?"

"You said _but_... and I am waiting."

"I don't think I did say _but_... I only meant to say that if you decide

to do it, then..."

"Then?"

Virginsky did not answer.

"I think that one is at liberty to neglect danger to one's own life,"

said Erkel, suddenly opening his mouth, "but if it may injure the cause,

then I consider one ought not to dare to neglect danger to one's

life...."

He broke off in confusion, blushing. Absorbed as they all were in their

own ideas, they all looked at him in amazement--it was such a surprise

that he too could speak.

"I am for the cause," Virginsky pronounced suddenly.

Every one got up. It was decided to communicate once more and make final

arrangements at midday on the morrow, though without meeting. The place

where the printing press was hidden was announced and each was assigned

his part and his duty. Liputin and Pyotr Stepanovitch promptly set off

together to Kirillov.

II

All our fellows believed that Shatov was going to betray them; but they

also believed that Pyotr Stepanovitch was playing with them like pawns.

And yet they knew, too, that in any case they would all meet on the spot

next day and that Shatov's fate was sealed. They suddenly felt like

flies caught in a web by a huge spider; they were furious, but they were

trembling with terror.

Pyotr Stepanovitch, of course, had treated them badly; it might all have

gone off far more harmoniously and easily if he had taken the trouble

to embellish the facts ever so little. Instead of putting the facts in a

decorous light, as an exploit worthy of ancient Rome or something of the

sort, he simply appealed to their animal fears and laid stress on the

danger to their own skins, which was simply insulting; of course there

was a struggle for existence in everything and there was no other

principle in nature, they all knew that, but still....

But Pyotr Stepanovitch had no time to trot out the Romans; he was

completely thrown out of his reckoning. Stavrogin's flight had astounded

and crushed him. It was a lie when he said that Stavrogin had seen the

vice-governor; what worried Pyotr Stepanovitch was that Stavrogin had

gone off without seeing anyone, even his mother--and it was certainly

strange that he had been allowed to leave without hindrance.

(The authorities were called to account for it afterwards.) Pyotr

Stepanovitch had been making inquiries all day, but so far had found out

nothing, and he had never been so upset. And how could he, how could he

give up Stavrogin all at once like this! That was why he could not

be very tender with the quintet. Besides, they tied his hands: he had

already decided to gallop after Stavrogin at once; and meanwhile he was

detained by Shatov; he had to cement the quintet together once for all,

in case of emergency. "Pity to waste them, they might be of use." That,

I imagine, was his way of reasoning.

As for Shatov, Pyotr Stepanovitch was firmly convinced that he would

betray them. All that he had told the others about it was a lie: he had

never seen the document nor heard of it, but he thought it as certain as

that twice two makes four. It seemed to him that what had happened--the

death of Liza, the death of Marya Timofyevna--would be too much for

Shatov, and that he would make up his mind at once. Who knows? perhaps

he had grounds for supposing it. It is known, too, that he hated Shatov

personally; there had at some time been a quarrel between them, and

Pyotr Stepanovitch never forgave an offence. I am convinced, indeed,

that this was his leading motive.

We have narrow brick pavements in our town, and in some streets only

raised wooden planks instead of a pavement. Pyotr Stepanovitch walked

in the middle of the pavement, taking up the whole of it, utterly

regardless of Liputin, who had no room to walk beside him and so had to

hurry a step behind or run in the muddy road if he wanted to speak to

him. Pyotr Stepanovitch suddenly remembered how he had lately splashed

through the mud to keep pace with Stavrogin, who had walked, as he was

doing now, taking up the whole pavement. He recalled the whole scene,

and rage choked him.

But Liputin, too, was choking with resentment. Pyotr Stepanovitch might

treat the others as he liked, but him! Why, he knew more than all the

rest, was in closer touch with the work and taking more intimate part

in it than anyone, and hitherto his services had been continual, though

indirect. Oh, he knew that even now Pyotr Stepanovitch might ruin him _if

it came to the worst._ But he had long hated Pyotr Stepanovitch, and not

because he was a danger but because of his overbearing manner. Now, when

he had to make up his mind to such a deed, he raged inwardly more than

all the rest put together. Alas! he knew that next day "like a slave"

he would be the first on the spot and would bring the others, and if

he could somehow have murdered Pyotr Stepanovitch before the morrow,

without ruining himself, of course, he would certainly have murdered

him.

Absorbed in his sensations, he trudged dejectedly after his tormentor,

who seemed to have forgotten his existence, though he gave him a

rude and careless shove with his elbow now and then. Suddenly Pyotr

Stepanovitch halted in one of the principal thoroughfares and went into

a restaurant.

"What are you doing?" cried Liputin, boiling over. "This is a

restaurant."

"I want a beefsteak."

"Upon my word! It is always full of people."

"What if it is?"

"But... we shall be late. It's ten o'clock already."

"You can't be too late to go there."

"But I shall be late! They are expecting me back."

"Well, let them; but it would be stupid of you to go to them. With all

your bobbery I've had no dinner. And the later you go to Kirillov's the

more sure you are to find him."

Pyotr Stepanovitch went to a room apart. Liputin sat in an easy chair on

one side, angry and resentful, and watched him eating. Half an hour

and more passed. Pyotr Stepanovitch did not hurry himself; he ate with

relish, rang the bell, asked for a different kind of mustard, then for

beer, without saying a word to Liputin. He was pondering deeply. He was

capable of doing two things at once--eating with relish and pondering

deeply. Liputin loathed him so intensely at last that he could not tear

himself away. It was like a nervous obsession. He counted every morsel

of beefsteak that Pyotr Stepanovitch put into his mouth; he loathed him

for the way he opened it, for the way he chewed, for the way he smacked

his lips over the fat morsels, he loathed the steak itself. At last

things began to swim before his eyes; he began to feel slightly giddy;

he felt hot and cold run down his spine by turns.

"You are doing nothing; read that," said Pyotr Stepanovitch suddenly,

throwing him a sheet of paper. Liputin went nearer to the candle. The

paper was closely covered with bad handwriting, with corrections in

every line. By the time he had mastered it Pyotr Stepanovitch had paid

his bill and was ready to go. When they were on the pavement Liputin

handed him back the paper.

"Keep it; I'll tell you afterwards.... What do you say to it, though?"

Liputin shuddered all over.

"In my opinion... such a manifesto... is nothing but a ridiculous

absurdity."

His anger broke out; he felt as though he were being caught up and

carried along.

"If we decide to distribute such manifestoes," he said, quivering

all over, "we'll make ourselves, contemptible by our stupidity and

incompetence."

"H'm! I think differently," said Pyotr Stepanovitch, walking on

resolutely.

"So do I; surely it isn't your work?"

"That's not your business."

"I think too that doggerel, 'A Noble Personality,' is the most utter

trash possible, and it couldn't have been written by Herzen."

"You are talking nonsense; it's a good poem."

"I am surprised, too, for instance," said Liputin, still dashing along

with desperate leaps, "that it is suggested that we should act so as

to bring everything to the ground. It's natural in Europe to wish to

destroy everything because there's a proletariat there, but we are only

amateurs here and in my opinion are only showing off."

"I thought you were a Fourierist."

"Fourier says something quite different, quite different."

"I know it's nonsense."

"No, Fourier isn't nonsense.... Excuse me, I can't believe that there

will be a rising in May."

Liputin positively unbuttoned his coat, he was so hot.

"Well, that's enough; but now, that I mayn't forget it," said Pyotr

Stepanovitch, passing with extraordinary coolness to another subject,

"you will have to print this manifesto with your own hands. We're going

to dig up Shatov's printing press, and you will take it to-morrow. As

quickly as possible you must print as many copies as you can, and then

distribute them all the winter. The means will be provided. You must

do as many copies as possible, for you'll be asked for them from other

places."

"No, excuse me; I can't undertake such a... I decline."

"You'll take it all the same. I am acting on the instructions of the

central committee, and you are bound to obey."

"And I consider that our centres abroad have forgotten what Russia is

like and have lost all touch, and that's why they talk such

nonsense.... I even think that instead of many hundreds of quintets in

Russia, we are the only one that exists, and there is no network at

all," Liputin gasped finally.

"The more contemptible of you, then, to run after the cause without

believing in it... and you are running after me now like a mean little

cur."

"No, I'm not. We have a full right to break off and found a new

society."

"Fool!" Pyotr Stepanovitch boomed at him threateningly all of a sudden,

with flashing eyes.

They stood facing one another for some time. Pyotr Stepanovitch turned

and pursued his way confidently.

The idea flashed through Liputin's mind, "Turn and go back; if I don't

turn now I shall never go back." He pondered this for ten steps, but at

the eleventh a new and desperate idea flashed into his mind: he did not

turn and did not go back.

They were approaching Filipov's house, but before reaching it they

turned down a side street, or, to be more accurate, an inconspicuous

path under a fence, so that for some time they had to walk along a steep

slope above a ditch where they could not keep their footing without

holding the fence. At a dark corner in the slanting fence Pyotr

Stepanovitch took out a plank, leaving a gap, through which he promptly

scrambled. Liputin was surprised, but he crawled through after him; then

they replaced the plank after them. This was the secret way by which

Fedka used to visit Kirillov.

"Shatov mustn't know that we are here," Pyotr Stepanovitch whispered

sternly to Liputin.

III

Kirillov was sitting on his leather sofa drinking tea, as he always was

at that hour. He did not get up to meet them, but gave a sort of start

and looked at the new-comers anxiously.

"You are not mistaken," said Pyotr Stepanovitch, "it's just that I've

come about."

"To-day?"

"No, no, to-morrow... about this time." And he hurriedly sat down at

the table, watching Kirillov's agitation with some uneasiness. But the

latter had already regained his composure and looked as usual.

"These people still refuse to believe in you. You are not vexed at my

bringing Liputin?"

"To-day I am not vexed; to-morrow I want to be alone."

"But not before I come, and therefore in my presence."

"I should prefer not in your presence."

"You remember you promised to write and to sign all I dictated."

"I don't care. And now will you be here long?"

"I have to see one man and to remain half an hour, so whatever you say I

shall stay that half-hour."

Kirillov did not speak. Liputin meanwhile sat down on one side under the

portrait of the bishop. That last desperate idea gained more and more

possession of him. Kirillov scarcely noticed him. Liputin had heard

of Kirillov's theory before and always laughed at him; but now he was

silent and looked gloomily round him.

"I've no objection to some tea," said Pyotr Stepanovitch, moving up.

"I've just had some steak and was reckoning on getting tea with you."

"Drink it. You can have some if you like."

"You used to offer it to me," observed Pyotr Stepanovitch sourly.

"That's no matter. Let Liputin have some too."

"No, I... can't."

"Don't want to or can't?" said Pyotr Stepanovitch, turning quickly to

him.

"I am not going to here," Liputin said expressively.

Pyotr Stepanovitch frowned.

"There's a flavour of mysticism about that; goodness knows what to make

of you people!"

No one answered; there was a full minute of silence.

"But I know one thing," he added abruptly, "that no superstition will

prevent any one of us from doing his duty."

"Has Stavrogin gone?" asked Kirillov.

"Yes."

"He's done well."

Pyotr Stepanovitch's eyes gleamed, but he restrained himself.

"I don't care what you think as long as every one keeps his word."

"I'll keep my word."

"I always knew that you would do your duty like an independent and

progressive man."

"You are an absurd fellow."

"That may be; I am very glad to amuse you. I am always glad if I can

give people pleasure."

"You are very anxious I should shoot myself and are afraid I might

suddenly not?"

"Well, you see, it was your own doing--connecting your plan with our

work. Reckoning on your plan we have already done something, so that you

couldn't refuse now because you've let us in for it."

"You've no claim at all."

"I understand, I understand; you are perfectly free, and we don't come

in so long as your free intention is carried out."

"And am I to take on myself all the nasty things you've done?"

"Listen, Kirillov, are you afraid? If you want to cry off, say so at

once."

"I am not afraid."

"I ask because you are making so many inquiries."

"Are you going soon?"

"Asking questions again?"

Kirillov scanned him contemptuously.

"You see," Pyotr Stepanovitch went on, getting angrier and angrier, and

unable to take the right tone, "you want me to go away, to be alone, to

concentrate yourself, but all that's a bad sign for you--for you above

all. You want to think a great deal. To my mind you'd better not think.

And really you make me uneasy."

"There's only one thing I hate, that at such a moment I should have a

reptile like you beside me."

"Oh, that doesn't matter. I'll go away at the time and stand on the

steps if you like. If you are so concerned about trifles when it comes

to dying, then... it's all a very bad sign. I'll go out on to the

steps and you can imagine I know nothing about it, and that I am a man

infinitely below you."

"No, not infinitely; you've got abilities, but there's a lot you don't

understand because you are a low man."

"Delighted, delighted. I told you already I am delighted to provide

entertainment... at such a moment."

"You don't understand anything."

"That is, I... well, I listen with respect, anyway."

"You can do nothing; even now you can't hide your petty spite, though

it's not to your interest to show it. You'll make me cross, and then I

may want another six months." Pyotr Stepanovitch looked at his watch.

"I never understood your theory, but I know you didn't invent it for our

sakes, so I suppose you would carry it out apart from us. And I know too

that you haven't mastered the idea but the idea has mastered you, so you

won't put it off."

"What? The idea has mastered me?"

"Yes."

"And not I mastered the idea? That's good. You have a little sense. Only

you tease me and I am proud."

"That's a good thing, that's a good thing. Just what you need, to be

proud."

"Enough. You've drunk your tea; go away."

"Damn it all, I suppose I must"--Pyotr Stepanovitch got up--"though

it's early. Listen, Kirillov. Shall I find that man--you know whom I

mean--at Myasnitchiha's? Or has she too been lying?"

"You won't find him, because he is here and not there."

"Here! Damn it all, where?"

"Sitting in the kitchen, eating and drinking."

"How dared he?" cried Pyotr Stepanovitch, flushing angrily. "It was his

duty to wait... what nonsense! He has no passport, no money!"

"I don't know. He came to say good-bye; he is dressed and ready. He

is going away and won't come back. He says you are a scoundrel and he

doesn't want to wait for your money."

"Ha ha! He is afraid that I'll... But even now I can... if... Where is

he, in the kitchen?"

Kirillov opened a side door into a tiny dark room; from this room three

steps led straight to the part of the kitchen where the cook's bed was

usually put, behind the partition. Here, in the corner under the ikons,

Fedka was sitting now, at a bare deal table. Before him stood a

pint bottle, a plate of bread, and some cold beef and potatoes on an

earthenware dish. He was eating in a leisurely way and was already half

drunk, but he was wearing his sheep-skin coat and was evidently ready

for a journey. A samovar was boiling the other side of the screen, but

it was not for Fedka, who had every night for a week or more zealously

blown it up and got it ready for "Alexey Nilitch, for he's such a habit

of drinking tea at nights." I am strongly disposed to believe that,

as Kirillov had not a cook, he had cooked the beef and potatoes that

morning with his own hands for Fedka.

"What notion is this?" cried Pyotr Stepanovitch, whisking into the room.

"Why didn't you wait where you were ordered?"

And swinging his fist, he brought it down heavily on the table.

Fedka assumed an air of dignity.

"You wait a bit, Pyotr Stepanovitch, you wait a bit," he began, with a

swaggering emphasis on each word, "it's your first duty to understand

here that you are on a polite visit to Mr. Kirillov, Alexey Nilitch,

whose boots you might clean any day, because beside you he is a man of

culture and you are only--foo!"

And he made a jaunty show of spitting to one side. Haughtiness and

determination were evident in his manner, and a certain very threatening

assumption of argumentative calm that suggested an outburst to follow.

But Pyotr Stepanovitch had no time to realise the danger, and it did not

fit in with his preconceived ideas. The incidents and disasters of the

day had quite turned his head. Liputin, at the top of the three steps,

stared inquisitively down from the little dark room.

"Do you or don't you want a trustworthy passport and good money to go

where you've been told? Yes or no?"

"D'you see, Pyotr Stepanovitch, you've been deceiving me from the first,

and so you've been a regular scoundrel to me. For all the world like a

filthy human louse--that's how I look on you. You've promised me a lot

of money for shedding innocent blood and swore it was for Mr. Stavrogin,

though it turns out to be nothing but your want of breeding. I didn't

get a farthing out of it, let alone fifteen hundred, and Mr. Stavrogin

hit you in the face, which has come to our ears. Now you are threatening

me again and promising me money--what for, you don't say. And I

shouldn't wonder if you are sending me to Petersburg to plot some

revenge in your spite against Mr. Stavrogin, Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch,

reckoning on my simplicity. And that proves you are the chief murderer.

And do you know what you deserve for the very fact that in the depravity

of your heart you've given up believing in God Himself, the true

Creator? You are no better than an idolater and are on a level with

the Tatar and the Mordva. Alexey Nilitch, who is a philosopher, has

expounded the true God, the Creator, many a time to you, as well as the

creation of the world and the fate that's to come and the transformation

of every sort of creature and every sort of beast out of the Apocalypse,

but you've persisted like a senseless idol in your deafness and your

dumbness and have brought Ensign Erkel to the same, like the veriest

evil seducer and so-called atheist...."

"Ah, you drunken dog! He strips the ikons of their setting and then

preaches about God!"

"D'you see, Pyotr Stepanovitch, I tell you truly that I have stripped

the ikons, but I only took out the pearls; and how do you know? Perhaps

my own tear was transformed into a pearl in the furnace of the Most High

to make up for my sufferings, seeing I am just that very orphan, having

no daily refuge. Do you know from the books that once, in ancient times,

a merchant with just such tearful sighs and prayers stole a pearl from

the halo of the Mother of God, and afterwards, in the face of all the

people, laid the whole price of it at her feet, and the Holy Mother

sheltered him with her mantle before all the people, so that it was a

miracle, and the command was given through the authorities to write it

all down word for word in the Imperial books. And you let a mouse in,

so you insulted the very throne of God. And if you were not my natural

master, whom I dandled in my arms when I was a stripling, I would have

done for you now, without budging from this place!"

Pyotr Stepanovitch flew into a violent rage.

"Tell me, have you seen Stavrogin to-day?"

"Don't you dare to question me. Mr. Stavrogin is fairly amazed at you,

and he had no share in it even in wish, let alone instructions or giving

money. You've presumed with me."

"You'll get the money and you'll get another two thousand in Petersburg,

when you get there, in a lump sum, and you'll get more."

"You are lying, my fine gentleman, and it makes me laugh to see how

easily you are taken in. Mr. Stavrogin stands at the top of the ladder

above you, and you yelp at him from below like a silly puppy dog, while

he thinks it would be doing you an honour to spit at you."

"But do you know," cried Pyotr Stepanovitch in a rage, "that I won't

let you stir a step from here, you scoundrel, and I'll hand you straight

over to the police."

Fedka leapt on to his feet and his eyes gleamed with fury. Pyotr

Stepanovitch pulled out his revolver. Then followed a rapid and

revolting scene: before Pyotr Stepanovitch could take aim, Fedka swung

round and in a flash struck him on the cheek with all his might. Then

there was the thud of a second blow, a third, then a fourth, all on the

cheek. Pyotr Stepanovitch was dazed; with his eyes starting out of his

head, he muttered something, and suddenly crashed full length to the

ground.

"There you are; take him," shouted Fedka with a triumphant swagger; he

instantly took up his cap, his bag from under the bench, and was gone.

Pyotr Stepanovitch lay gasping and unconscious. Liputin even imagined

that he had been murdered. Kirillov ran headlong into the kitchen.

"Water!" he cried, and ladling some water in an iron dipper from a

bucket, he poured it over the injured man's head. Pyotr Stepanovitch

stirred, raised his head, sat up, and looked blankly about him.

"Well, how are you?" asked Kirillov. Pyotr Stepanovitch looked at him

intently, still not recognising him; but seeing Liputin peeping in from

the kitchen, he smiled his hateful smile and suddenly got up, picking up

his revolver from the floor.

"If you take it into your head to run away to-morrow like that scoundrel

Stavrogin," he cried, pouncing furiously on Kirillov, pale, stammering,

and hardly able to articulate his words, "I'll hang you... like a

fly... or crush you... if it's at the other end of the world... do you

understand!"

And he held the revolver straight at Kirillov's head; but almost at the

same minute, coming completely to himself, he drew back his hand, thrust

the revolver into his pocket, and without saying another word ran out of

the house. Liputin followed him. They clambered through the same gap and

again walked along the slope holding to the fence. Pyotr Stepanovitch

strode rapidly down the street so that Liputin could scarcely keep up

with him. At the first crossing he suddenly stopped.

"Well?" He turned to Liputin with a challenge.

Liputin remembered the revolver and was still trembling all over after

the scene he had witnessed; but the answer seemed to come of itself

irresistibly from his tongue:

"I think... I think that..."

"Did you see what Fedka was drinking in the kitchen?"

"What he was drinking? He was drinking vodka."

"Well then, let me tell you it's the last time in his life he will drink

vodka. I recommend you to remember that and reflect on it. And now go to

hell; you are not wanted till to-morrow. But mind now, don't be a fool!"

Liputin rushed home full speed.

IV

He had long had a passport in readiness made out in a false name. It

seems a wild idea that this prudent little man, the petty despot of

his family, who was, above all things, a sharp man of business and a

capitalist, and who was an official too (though he was a Fourierist),

should long before have conceived the fantastic project of procuring

this passport in case of emergency, that he might escape abroad by means

of it _if_... he did admit the possibility of this if, though no doubt he

was never able himself to formulate what this _if_ might mean.

But now it suddenly formulated itself, and in a most unexpected way.

That desperate idea with which he had gone to Kirillov's after that

"fool" he had heard from Pyotr Stepanovitch on the pavement, had been

to abandon everything at dawn next day and to emigrate abroad. If anyone

doubts that such fantastic incidents occur in everyday Russian life,

even now, let him look into the biographies of all the Russian exiles

abroad. Not one of them escaped with more wisdom or real justification.

It has always been the unrestrained domination of phantoms and nothing

more.

Running home, he began by locking himself in, getting out his travelling

bag, and feverishly beginning to pack. His chief anxiety was the

question of money, and how much he could rescue from the impending

ruin--and by what means. He thought of it as "rescuing," for it seemed

to him that he could not linger an hour, and that by daylight he must

be on the high road. He did not know where to take the train either; he

vaguely determined to take it at the second or third big station from

the town, and to make his way there on foot, if necessary. In that way,

instinctively and mechanically he busied himself in his packing with a

perfect whirl of ideas in his head--and suddenly stopped short, gave it

all up, and with a deep groan stretched himself on the sofa.

He felt clearly, and suddenly realised that he might escape, but that

he was by now utterly incapable of deciding whether he ought to make off

_before or after_ Shatov's death; that he was simply a lifeless body, a

crude inert mass; that he was being moved by an awful outside power; and

that, though he had a passport to go abroad, that though he could run

away from Shatov (otherwise what need was there of such haste?), yet he

would run away, not from Shatov, not before his murder, but _after_ it,

and that that was determined, signed, and sealed.

In insufferable distress, trembling every instant and wondering at

himself, alternately groaning aloud and numb with terror, he managed to

exist till eleven o'clock next morning locked in and lying on the sofa;

then came the shock he was awaiting, and it at once determined him. When

he unlocked his door and went out to his household at eleven o'clock

they told him that the runaway convict and brigand, Fedka, who was a

terror to every one, who had pillaged churches and only lately been

guilty of murder and arson, who was being pursued and could not be

captured by our police, had been found at daybreak murdered, five miles

from the town, at a turning off the high road, and that the whole town

was talking of it already. He rushed headlong out of the house at once

to find out further details, and learned, to begin with, that Fedka, who

had been found with his skull broken, had apparently been robbed and,

secondly, that the police already had strong suspicion and even good

grounds for believing that the murderer was one of the Shpigulin men

called Fomka, the very one who had been his accomplice in murdering the

Lebyadkins and setting fire to their house, and that there had been a

quarrel between them on the road about a large sum of money stolen from

Lebyadkin, which Fedka was supposed to have hidden. Liputin ran to Pyotr

Stepanovitch's lodgings and succeeded in learning at the back door, on

the sly, that though Pyotr Stepanovitch had not returned home till about

one o'clock at night, he had slept there quietly all night till eight

o'clock next morning. Of course, there could be no doubt that there was

nothing extraordinary about Fedka's death, and that such careers usually

have such an ending; but the coincidence of the fatal words that "it was

the last time Fedka would drink vodka," with the prompt fulfilment of

the prediction, was so remarkable that Liputin no longer hesitated. The

shock had been given; it was as though a stone had fallen upon him and

crushed him forever. Returning home, he thrust his travelling-bag under

the bed without a word, and in the evening at the hour fixed he was the

first to appear at the appointed spot to meet Shatov, though it's true

he still had his passport in his pocket.

CHAPTER V. A WANDERER

I

THE CATASTROPHE WITH Liza and the death of Marya Timofyevna made an

overwhelming impression on Shatov. I have already mentioned that that

morning I met him in passing; he seemed to me not himself. He told me

among other things that on the evening before at nine o'clock (that

is, three hours before the fire had broken out) he had been at Marya

Timofyevna's. He went in the morning to look at the corpses, but as far

as I know gave no evidence of any sort that morning. Meanwhile, towards

the end of the day there was a perfect tempest in his soul, and... I

think I can say with certainty that there was a moment at dusk when he

wanted to get up, go out and tell everything. What that _everything_ was,

no one but he could say. Of course he would have achieved nothing, and

would have simply betrayed himself. He had no proofs whatever with which

to convict the perpetrators of the crime, and, indeed, he had nothing

but vague conjectures to go upon, though to him they amounted to

complete certainty. But he was ready to ruin himself if he could only

"crush the scoundrels"--his own words. Pyotr Stepanovitch had guessed

fairly correctly at this impulse in him, and he knew himself that he

was risking a great deal in putting off the execution of his new

awful project till next day. On his side there was, as usual, great

self-confidence and contempt for all these "wretched creatures" and for

Shatov in particular. He had for years despised Shatov for his "whining

idiocy," as he had expressed it in former days abroad, and he was

absolutely confident that he could deal with such a guileless creature,

that is, keep an eye on him all that day, and put a check on him at the

first sign of danger. Yet what saved "the scoundrels" for a short time

was something quite unexpected which they had not foreseen....

Towards eight o'clock in the evening (at the very time when the quintet

was meeting at Erkel's, and waiting in indignation and excitement for

Pyotr Stepanovitch) Shatov was lying in the dark on his bed with a

headache and a slight chill; he was tortured by uncertainty, he was

angry, he kept making up his mind, and could not make it up finally, and

felt, with a curse, that it would all lead to nothing. Gradually he sank

into a brief doze and had something like a nightmare. He dreamt that

he was lying on his bed, tied up with cords and unable to stir, and

meantime he heard a terrible banging that echoed all over the house, a

banging on the fence, at the gate, at his door, in Kirillov's lodge,

so that the whole house was shaking, and a far-away familiar voice that

wrung his heart was calling to him piteously. He suddenly woke and sat

up in bed. To his surprise the banging at the gate went on, though

not nearly so violent as it had seemed in his dream. The knocks were

repeated and persistent, and the strange voice "that wrung his heart"

could still be heard below at the gate, though not piteously but angrily

and impatiently, alternating with another voice, more restrained and

ordinary. He jumped up, opened the casement pane and put his head out.

"Who's there?" he called, literally numb with terror.

"If you are Shatov," the answer came harshly and resolutely from below,

"be so good as to tell me straight out and honestly whether you agree to

let me in or not?"

It was true: he recognised the voice!

"Marie!... Is it you?"

"Yes, yes, Marya Shatov, and I assure you I can't keep the driver a

minute longer."

"This minute... I'll get a candle," Shatov cried faintly. Then he rushed

to look for the matches. The matches, as always happens at such moments,

could not be found. He dropped the candlestick and the candle on the

floor and as soon as he heard the impatient voice from below again, he

abandoned the search and dashed down the steep stairs to open the gate.

"Be so good as to hold the bag while I settle with this blockhead," was

how Madame Marya Shatov greeted him below, and she thrust into his hands

a rather light cheap canvas handbag studded with brass nails, of Dresden

manufacture. She attacked the driver with exasperation.

"Allow me to tell you, you are asking too much. If you've been driving

me for an extra hour through these filthy streets, that's your fault,

because it seems you didn't know where to find this stupid street and

imbecile house. Take your thirty kopecks and make up your mind that

you'll get nothing more."

"Ech, lady, you told me yourself Voznesensky Street and this is

Bogoyavlensky; Voznesensky is ever so far away. You've simply put the

horse into a steam."

"Voznesensky, Bogoyavlensky--you ought to know all those stupid names

better than I do, as you are an inhabitant; besides, you are unfair, I

told you first of all Filipov's house and you declared you knew it. In

any case you can have me up to-morrow in the local court, but now I beg

you to let me alone."

"Here, here's another five kopecks." With eager haste Shatov pulled a

five-kopeck piece out of his pocket and gave it to the driver.

"Do me a favour, I beg you, don't dare to do that!" Madame Shatov flared

up, but the driver drove off and Shatov, taking her hand, drew her

through the gate.

"Make haste, Marie, make haste... that's no matter, and... you are wet

through. Take care, we go up here--how sorry I am there's no light--the

stairs are steep, hold tight, hold tight! Well, this is my room. Excuse

my having no light... One minute!"

He picked up the candlestick but it was a long time before the matches

were found. Madame Shatov stood waiting in the middle of the room,

silent and motionless.

"Thank God, here they are at last!" he cried joyfully, lighting up the

room. Marya Shatov took a cursory survey of his abode.

"They told me you lived in a poor way, but I didn't expect it to be

as bad as this," she pronounced with an air of disgust, and she moved

towards the bed.

"Oh, I am tired!" she sat down on the hard bed, with an exhausted air.

"Please put down the bag and sit down on the chair yourself. Just as you

like though; you are in the way standing there. I have come to you for

a time, till I can get work, because I know nothing of this place and I

have no money. But if I shall be in your way I beg you again, be so good

as to tell me so at once, as you are bound to do if you are an honest

man. I could sell something to-morrow and pay for a room at an hotel,

but you must take me to the hotel yourself.... Oh, but I am tired!"

Shatov was all of a tremor.

"You mustn't, Marie, you mustn't go to an hotel! An hotel! What for?

What for?"

He clasped his hands imploringly....

"Well, if I can get on without the hotel... I must, any way, explain the

position. Remember, Shatov, that we lived in Geneva as man and wife for

a fortnight and a few days; it's three years since we parted, without

any particular quarrel though. But don't imagine that I've come back

to renew any of the foolishness of the past. I've come back to look for

work, and that I've come straight to this town is just because it's all

the same to me. I've not come to say I am sorry for anything; please

don't imagine anything so stupid as that."

"Oh, Marie! This is unnecessary, quite unnecessary," Shatov muttered

vaguely.

"If so, if you are so far developed as to be able to understand that, I

may allow myself to add, that if I've come straight to you now and am

in your lodging, it's partly because I always thought you were far

from being a scoundrel and were perhaps much better than other...

blackguards!"

Her eyes flashed. She must have had to bear a great deal at the hands of

some "blackguards."

"And please believe me, I wasn't laughing at you just now when I told

you you were good. I spoke plainly, without fine phrases and I can't

endure them. But that's all nonsense. I always hoped you would have

sense enough not to pester me.... Enough, I am tired."

And she bent on him a long, harassed and weary gaze. Shatov stood

facing her at the other end of the room, which was five paces away, and

listened to her timidly with a look of new life and unwonted radiance

on his face. This strong, rugged man, all bristles on the surface,

was suddenly all softness and shining gladness. There was a thrill

of extraordinary and unexpected feeling in his soul. Three years of

separation, three years of the broken marriage had effaced nothing from

his heart. And perhaps every day during those three years he had dreamed

of her, of that beloved being who had once said to him, "I love you."

Knowing Shatov I can say with certainty that he could never have allowed

himself even to dream that a woman might say to him, "I love you."

He was savagely modest and chaste, he looked on himself as a perfect

monster, detested his own face as well as his character, compared

himself to some freak only fit to be exhibited at fairs. Consequently

he valued honesty above everything and was fanatically devoted to his

convictions; he was gloomy, proud, easily moved to wrath, and sparing

of words. But here was the one being who had loved him for a fortnight

(that he had never doubted, never!), a being he had always considered

immeasurably above him in spite of his perfectly sober understanding of

her errors; a being to whom he could forgive everything, _everything_ (of

that there could be no question; indeed it was quite the other way, his

idea was that he was entirely to blame); this woman, this Marya Shatov,

was in his house, in his presence again... it was almost inconceivable!

He was so overcome, there was so much that was terrible and at the same

time so much happiness in this event that he could not, perhaps would

not--perhaps was afraid to--realise the position. It was a dream. But

when she looked at him with that harassed gaze he suddenly understood

that this woman he loved so dearly was suffering, perhaps had been

wronged. His heart went cold. He looked at her features with anguish:

the first bloom of youth had long faded from this exhausted face. It's

true that she was still good-looking--in his eyes a beauty, as she had

always been. In reality she was a woman of twenty-five, rather strongly

built, above the medium height (taller than Shatov), with abundant dark

brown hair, a pale oval face, and large dark eyes now glittering with

feverish brilliance. But the light-hearted, naïve and good-natured

energy he had known so well in the past was replaced now by a sullen

irritability and disillusionment, a sort of cynicism which was not yet

habitual to her herself, and which weighed upon her. But the chief thing

was that she was ill, that he could see clearly. In spite of the awe in

which he stood of her he suddenly went up to her and took her by both

hands.

"Marie... you know... you are very tired, perhaps, for God's sake, don't

be angry.... If you'd consent to have some tea, for instance, eh? Tea

picks one up so, doesn't it? If you'd consent!"

"Why talk about consenting! Of course I consent, what a baby you are

still. Get me some if you can. How cramped you are here. How cold it

is!"

"Oh, I'll get some logs for the fire directly, some logs... I've got

logs." Shatov was all astir. "Logs... that is... but I'll get tea

directly," he waved his hand as though with desperate determination and

snatched up his cap.

"Where are you going? So you've no tea in the house?"

"There shall be, there shall be, there shall be, there shall be

everything directly.... I..." he took his revolver from the shelf, "I'll

sell this revolver directly... or pawn it...."

"What foolishness and what a time that will take! Take my money if

you've nothing, there's eighty kopecks here, I think; that's all I have.

This is like a madhouse."

"I don't want your money, I don't want it I'll be here directly, in one

instant. I can manage without the revolver...."

And he rushed straight to Kirillov's. This was probably two hours before

the visit of Pyotr Stepanovitch and Liputin to Kirillov. Though Shatov

and Kirillov lived in the same yard they hardly ever saw each other, and

when they met they did not nod or speak: they had been too long "lying

side by side" in America....

"Kirillov, you always have tea; have you got tea and a samovar?"

Kirillov, who was walking up and down the room, as he was in the habit

of doing all night, stopped and looked intently at his hurried visitor,

though without much surprise.

"I've got tea and sugar and a samovar. But there's no need of the

samovar, the tea is hot. Sit down and simply drink it."

"Kirillov, we lay side by side in America.... My wife has come to me ...

I... give me the tea.... I shall want the samovar."

"If your wife is here you want the samovar. But take it later. I've

two. And now take the teapot from the table. It's hot, boiling hot. Take

everything, take the sugar, all of it. Bread... there's plenty of bread;

all of it. There's some veal. I've a rouble."

"Give it me, friend, I'll pay it back to-morrow! Ach, Kirillov!"

"Is it the same wife who was in Switzerland? That's a good thing. And

your running in like this, that's a good thing too."

"Kirillov!" cried Shatov, taking the teapot under his arm and carrying

the bread and sugar in both hands. "Kirillov, if... if you could get rid

of your dreadful fancies and give up your atheistic ravings... oh, what

a man you'd be, Kirillov!"

"One can see you love your wife after Switzerland. It's a good thing you

do--after Switzerland. When you want tea, come again. You can come all

night, I don't sleep at all. There'll be a samovar. Take the rouble,

here it is. Go to your wife, I'll stay here and think about you and your

wife."

Marya Shatov was unmistakably pleased at her husband's haste and fell

upon the tea almost greedily, but there was no need to run for the

samovar; she drank only half a cup and swallowed a tiny piece of bread.

The veal she refused with disgust and irritation.

"You are ill, Marie, all this is a sign of illness," Shatov remarked

timidly as he waited upon her.

"Of course I'm ill, please sit down. Where did you get the tea if you

haven't any?"

Shatov told her about Kirillov briefly. She had heard something of him.

"I know he is mad; say no more, please; there are plenty of fools. So

you've been in America? I heard, you wrote."

"Yes, I... I wrote to you in Paris."

"Enough, please talk of something else. Are you a Slavophil in your

convictions?"

"I... I am not exactly.... Since I cannot be a Russian, I became a

Slavophil." He smiled a wry smile with the effort of one who feels he

has made a strained and inappropriate jest.

"Why, aren't you a Russian?"

"No, I'm not."

"Well, that's all foolishness. Do sit down, I entreat you. Why are you

all over the place? Do you think I am lightheaded? Perhaps I shall be.

You say there are only you two in the house."

"Yes.... Downstairs..."

"And both such clever people. What is there downstairs? You said

downstairs?"

"No, nothing."

"Why nothing? I want to know."

"I only meant to say that now we are only two in the yard, but that the

Lebyadkins used to live downstairs...."

"That woman who was murdered last night?" she started suddenly. "I heard

of it. I heard of it as soon as I arrived. There was a fire here, wasn't

there?"

"Yes, Marie, yes, and perhaps I am doing a scoundrelly thing this moment

in forgiving the scoundrels...." He stood up suddenly and paced about

the room, raising his arms as though in a frenzy.

But Marie had not quite understood him. She heard his answers

inattentively; she asked questions but did not listen.

"Fine things are being done among you! Oh, how contemptible it all is!

What scoundrels men all are! But do sit down, I beg you, oh, how you

exasperate me!" and she let her head sink on the pillow, exhausted.

"Marie, I won't.... Perhaps you'll lie down, Marie?" She made no answer

and closed her eyes helplessly. Her pale face looked death-like. She

fell asleep almost instantly. Shatov looked round, snuffed the candle,

looked uneasily at her face once more, pressed his hands tight in front

of him and walked on tiptoe out of the room into the passage. At the

top of the stairs he stood in the corner with his face to the wall and

remained so for ten minutes without sound or movement. He would have

stood there longer, but he suddenly caught the sound of soft cautious

steps below. Someone was coming up the stairs. Shatov remembered he had

forgotten to fasten the gate.

"Who's there?" he asked in a whisper. The unknown visitor went on slowly

mounting the stairs without answering. When he reached the top he stood

still; it was impossible to see his face in the dark; suddenly Shatov

heard the cautious question:

"Ivan Shatov?"

Shatov said who he was, but at once held out his hand to check his

advance. The latter took his hand, and Shatov shuddered as though he had

touched some terrible reptile.

"Stand here," he whispered quickly. "Don't go in, I can't receive you

just now. My wife has come back. I'll fetch the candle."

When he returned with the candle he found a young officer standing

there; he did not know his name but he had seen him before.

"Erkel," said the lad, introducing himself. "You've seen me at

Virginsky's."

"I remember; you sat writing. Listen," said Shatov in sudden excitement,

going up to him frantically, but still talking in a whisper. "You gave

me a sign just now when you took my hand. But you know I can treat all

these signals with contempt! I don't acknowledge them.... I don't want

them.... I can throw you downstairs this minute, do you know that?"

"No, I know nothing about that and I don't know what you are in such a

rage about," the visitor answered without malice and almost ingenuously.

"I have only to give you a message, and that's what I've come for, being

particularly anxious not to lose time. You have a printing press which

does not belong to you, and of which you are bound to give an account,

as you know yourself. I have received instructions to request you to

give it up to-morrow at seven o'clock in the evening to Liputin. I have

been instructed to tell you also that nothing more will be asked of

you."

"Nothing?"

"Absolutely nothing. Your request is granted, and you are struck off our

list. I was instructed to tell you that positively."

"Who instructed you to tell me?"

"Those who told me the sign."

"Have you come from abroad?"

"I... I think that's no matter to you."

"Oh, hang it! Why didn't you come before if you were told to?"

"I followed certain instructions and was not alone."

"I understand, I understand that you were not alone. Eh... hang it! But

why didn't Liputin come himself?"

"So I shall come for you to-morrow at exactly six o'clock in the

evening, and we'll go there on foot. There will be no one there but us

three."

"Will Verhovensky be there?"

"No, he won't. Verhovensky is leaving the town at eleven o'clock

to-morrow morning."

"Just what I thought!" Shatov whispered furiously, and he struck his

fist on his hip. "He's run off, the sneak!"

He sank into agitated reflection. Erkel looked intently at him and

waited in silence.

"But how will you take it? You can't simply pick it up in your hands and

carry it."

"There will be no need to. You'll simply point out the place and we'll

just make sure that it really is buried there. We only know whereabouts

the place is, we don't know the place itself. And have you pointed the

place out to anyone else yet?"

Shatov looked at him.

"You, you, a chit of a boy like you, a silly boy like you, you too have

got caught in that net like a sheep? Yes, that's just the young blood

they want! Well, go along. E-ech! that scoundrel's taken you all in and

run away."

Erkel looked at him serenely and calmly but did not seem to understand.

"Verhovensky, Verhovensky has run away!" Shatov growled fiercely.

"But he is still here, he is not gone away. He is not going till

to-morrow," Erkel observed softly and persuasively. "I particularly

begged him to be present as a witness; my instructions all referred to

him (he explained frankly like a young and inexperienced boy). But I

regret to say he did not agree on the ground of his departure, and he

really is in a hurry."

Shatov glanced compassionately at the simple youth again, but suddenly

gave a gesture of despair as though he thought "they are not worth

pitying."

"All right, I'll come," he cut him short. "And now get away, be off."

"So I'll come for you at six o'clock punctually." Erkel made a courteous

bow and walked deliberately downstairs.

"Little fool!" Shatov could not help shouting after him from the top.

"What is it?" responded the lad from the bottom.

"Nothing, you can go."

"I thought you said something."

II

Erkel was a "little fool" who was only lacking in the higher form

of reason, the ruling power of the intellect; but of the lesser, the

subordinate reasoning faculties, he had plenty--even to the point of

cunning. Fanatically, childishly devoted to "the cause" or rather in

reality to Pyotr Verhovensky, he acted on the instructions given to him

when at the meeting of the quintet they had agreed and had distributed

the various duties for the next day. When Pyotr Stepanovitch gave him

the job of messenger, he succeeded in talking to him aside for ten

minutes.

A craving for active service was characteristic of this shallow,

unreflecting nature, which was forever yearning to follow the lead

of another man's will, of course for the good of "the common" or "the

great" cause. Not that that made any difference, for little fanatics

like Erkel can never imagine serving a cause except by identifying

it with the person who, to their minds, is the expression of it. The

sensitive, affectionate and kind-hearted Erkel was perhaps the most

callous of Shatov's would-be murderers, and, though he had no personal

spite against him, he would have been present at his murder without the

quiver of an eyelid. He had been instructed, for instance, to have a

good look at Shatov's surroundings while carrying out his commission,

and when Shatov, receiving him at the top of the stairs, blurted out to

him, probably unaware in the heat of the moment, that his wife had come

back to him--Erkel had the instinctive cunning to avoid displaying the

slightest curiosity, though the idea flashed through his mind that the

fact of his wife's return was of great importance for the success of

their undertaking.

And so it was in reality; it was only that fact that saved the

"scoundrels" from Shatov's carrying out his intention, and at the same

time helped them "to get rid of him." To begin with, it agitated Shatov,

threw him out of his regular routine, and deprived him of his usual

clear-sightedness and caution. Any idea of his own danger would be the

last thing to enter his head at this moment when he was absorbed with

such different considerations. On the contrary, he eagerly believed that

Pyotr Verhovensky was running away the next day: it fell in exactly with

his suspicions! Returning to the room he sat down again in a corner,

leaned his elbows on his knees and hid his face in his hands. Bitter

thoughts tormented him....

Then he would raise his head again and go on tiptoe to look at her.

"Good God! she will be in a fever by to-morrow morning; perhaps it's

begun already! She must have caught cold. She is not accustomed to this

awful climate, and then a third-class carriage, the storm, the rain, and

she has such a thin little pelisse, no wrap at all.... And to leave

her like this, to abandon her in her helplessness! Her bag, too, her

bag--what a tiny, light thing, all crumpled up, scarcely weighs ten

pounds! Poor thing, how worn out she is, how much she's been through!

She is proud, that's why she won't complain. But she is irritable, very

irritable. It's illness; an angel will grow irritable in illness. What

a dry forehead, it must be hot--how dark she is under the eyes,

and... and yet how beautiful the oval of her face is and her rich hair,

how..."

And he made haste to turn away his eyes, to walk away as though he were

frightened at the very idea of seeing in her anything but an unhappy,

exhausted fellow-creature who needed _help_--"how could he think of

_hopes_, oh, how mean, how base is man!" And he would go back to his

corner, sit down, hide his face in his hands and again sink into dreams

and reminiscences... and again he was haunted by hopes.

"Oh, I am tired, I am tired," he remembered her exclamations, her

weak broken voice. "Good God! Abandon her now, and she has only eighty

kopecks; she held out her purse, a tiny old thing! She's come to look

for a job. What does she know about jobs? What do they know about

Russia? Why, they are like naughty children, they've nothing but their

own fancies made up by themselves, and she is angry, poor thing,

that Russia is not like their foreign dreams! The luckless, innocent

creatures!... It's really cold here, though."

He remembered that she had complained, that he had promised to heat the

stove. "There are logs here, I can fetch them if only I don't wake her.

But I can do it without waking her. But what shall I do about the veal?

When she gets up perhaps she will be hungry.... Well, that will do

later: Kirillov doesn't go to bed all night. What could I cover her

with, she is sleeping so soundly, but she must be cold, ah, she must be

cold!" And once more he went to look at her; her dress had worked up

a little and her right leg was half uncovered to the knee. He suddenly

turned away almost in dismay, took off his warm overcoat, and, remaining

in his wretched old jacket, covered it up, trying not to look at it.

A great deal of time was spent in righting the fire, stepping about

on tiptoe, looking at the sleeping woman, dreaming in the corner, then

looking at her again. Two or three hours had passed. During that time

Verhovensky and Liputin had been at Kirillov's. At last he, too, began

to doze in the corner. He heard her groan; she waked up and called him;

he jumped up like a criminal.

"Marie, I was dropping asleep.... Ah, what a wretch I am, Marie!"

She sat up, looking about her with wonder, seeming not to recognise

where she was, and suddenly leapt up in indignation and anger.

"I've taken your bed, I fell asleep so tired I didn't know what I was

doing; how dared you not wake me? How could you dare imagine I meant to

be a burden to you?"

"How could I wake you, Marie?"

"You could, you ought to have! You've no other bed here, and I've taken

yours. You had no business to put me into a false position. Or do you

suppose that I've come to take advantage of your charity? Kindly get

into your bed at once and I'll lie down in the corner on some chairs."

"Marie, there aren't chairs enough, and there's nothing to put on them."

"Then simply oil the floor. Or you'll have to lie on the floor yourself.

I want to lie on the floor at once, at once!"

She stood up, tried to take a step, but suddenly a violent spasm of pain

deprived her of all power and all determination, and with a loud groan

she fell back on the bed. Shatov ran up, but Marie, hiding her face in

the pillow, seized his hand and gripped and squeezed it with all her

might. This lasted a minute.

"Marie darling, there's a doctor Frenzel living here, a friend of

mine.... I could run for him."

"Nonsense!"

"What do you mean by nonsense? Tell me, Marie, what is it hurting you?

For we might try fomentations... on the stomach for instance.... I can

do that without a doctor.... Or else mustard poultices."

"What's this," she asked strangely, raising her head and looking at him

in dismay.

"What's what, Marie?" said Shatov, not understanding. "What are you

asking about? Good heavens! I am quite bewildered, excuse my not

understanding."

"Ach, let me alone; it's not your business to understand. And it would

be too absurd..." she said with a bitter smile. "Talk to me about

something. Walk about the room and talk. Don't stand over me and don't

look at me, I particularly ask you that for the five-hundredth time!"

Shatov began walking up and down the room, looking at the floor, and

doing his utmost not to glance at her.

"There's--don't be angry, Marie, I entreat you--there's some veal here,

and there's tea not far off.... You had so little before."

She made an angry gesture of disgust. Shatov bit his tongue in despair.

"Listen, I intend to open a bookbinding business here, on rational

co-operative principles. Since you live here what do you think of it,

would it be successful?"

"Ech, Marie, people don't read books here, and there are none here at

all. And are they likely to begin binding them!"

"Who are they?"

"The local readers and inhabitants generally, Marie."

"Well, then, speak more clearly. _They_ indeed, and one doesn't know who

they are. You don't know grammar!"

"It's in the spirit of the language," Shatov muttered.

"Oh, get along with your spirit, you bore me. Why shouldn't the local

inhabitant or reader have his books bound?"

"Because reading books and having them bound are two different stages of

development, and there's a vast gulf between them. To begin with, a man

gradually gets used to reading, in the course of ages of course, but

takes no care of his books and throws them about, not thinking them

worth attention. But binding implies respect for books, and implies

that not only he has grown fond of reading, but that he looks upon it as

something of value. That period has not been reached anywhere in Russia

yet. In Europe books have been bound for a long while."

"Though that's pedantic, anyway, it's not stupid, and reminds me of the

time three years ago; you used to be rather clever sometimes three years

ago."

She said this as disdainfully as her other capricious remarks.

"Marie, Marie," said Shatov, turning to her, much moved, "oh, Marie!

If you only knew how much has happened in those three years! I heard

afterwards that you despised me for changing my convictions. But what

are the men I've broken with? The enemies of all true life, out-of-date

Liberals who are afraid of their own independence, the flunkeys

of thought, the enemies of individuality and freedom, the decrepit

advocates of deadness and rottenness! All they have to offer is

senility, a glorious mediocrity of the most bourgeois kind, contemptible

shallowness, a jealous equality, equality without individual dignity,

equality as it's understood by flunkeys or by the French in '93. And

the worst of it is there are swarms of scoundrels among them, swarms of

scoundrels!"

"Yes, there are a lot of scoundrels," she brought out abruptly with

painful effort. She lay stretched out, motionless, as though afraid

to move, with her head thrown back on the pillow, rather on one side,

staring at the ceiling with exhausted but glowing eyes. Her face was

pale, her lips were dry and hot.

"You recognise it, Marie, you recognise it," cried Shatov. She tried to

shake her head, and suddenly the same spasm came over her again. Again

she hid her face in the pillow, and again for a full minute she squeezed

Shatov's hand till it hurt. He had run up, beside himself with alarm.

"Marie, Marie! But it may be very serious, Marie!"

"Be quiet... I won't have it, I won't have it," she screamed almost

furiously, turning her face upwards again. "Don't dare to look at me

with your sympathy! Walk about the room, say something, talk...."

Shatov began muttering something again, like one distraught.

"What do you do here?" she asked, interrupting him with contemptuous

impatience.

"I work in a merchant's office. I could get a fair amount of money even

here if I cared to, Marie."

"So much the better for you...."

"Oh, don't suppose I meant anything, Marie. I said it without thinking."

"And what do you do besides? What are you preaching? You can't exist

without preaching, that's your character!"

"I am preaching God, Marie."

"In whom you don't believe yourself. I never could see the idea of that."

"Let's leave that, Marie; we'll talk of that later."

"What sort of person was this Marya Timofyevna here?"

"We'll talk of that later too, Marie."

"Don't dare to say such things to me! Is it true that her death may have

been caused by... the wickedness... of these people?"

"Not a doubt of it," growled Shatov.

Marie suddenly raised her head and cried out painfully:

"Don't dare speak of that to me again, don't dare to, never, never!"

And she fell back in bed again, overcome by the same convulsive agony;

it was the third time, but this time her groans were louder, in fact she

screamed.

"Oh, you insufferable man! Oh, you unbearable man," she cried, tossing

about recklessly, and pushing away Shatov as he bent over her.

"Marie, I'll do anything you like.... I'll walk about and talk...."

"Surely you must see that it has begun!"

"What's begun, Marie?"

"How can I tell! Do I know anything about it?... I curse myself! Oh,

curse it all from the beginning!"

"Marie, if you'd tell me what's beginning... or else I... if you don't,

what am I to make of it?"

"You are a useless, theoretical babbler. Oh, curse everything on earth!"

"Marie, Marie!" He seriously thought that she was beginning to go mad.

"Surely you must see that I am in the agonies of childbirth," she said,

sitting up and gazing at him with a terrible, hysterical vindictiveness

that distorted her whole face. "I curse him before he is born, this

child!"

"Marie," cried Shatov, realising at last what it meant. "Marie... but

why didn't you tell me before." He pulled himself together at once and

seized his cap with an air of vigorous determination.

"How could I tell when I came in here? Should I have come to you if I'd

known? I was told it would be another ten days! Where are you going?...

Where are you going? You mustn't dare!"

"To fetch a midwife! I'll sell the revolver. We must get money before

anything else now."

"Don't dare to do anything, don't dare to fetch a midwife! Bring a

peasant woman, any old woman, I've eighty kopecks in my purse....

Peasant women have babies without midwives.... And if I die, so much the

better...."

"You shall have a midwife and an old woman too. But how am I to leave

you alone, Marie!"

But reflecting that it was better to leave her alone now in spite of

her desperate state than to leave her without help later, he paid

no attention to her groans, nor her angry exclamations, but rushed

downstairs, hurrying all he could.

III

First of all he went to Kirillov. It was by now about one o'clock in the

night. Kirillov was standing in the middle of the room.

"Kirillov, my wife is in childbirth."

"How do you mean?"

"Childbirth, bearing a child!"

"You... are not mistaken?"

"Oh, no, no, she is in agonies! I want a woman, any old woman, I must

have one at once.... Can you get one now? You used to have a lot of old

women...."

"Very sorry that I am no good at childbearing," Kirillov answered

thoughtfully; "that is, not at childbearing, but at doing anything for

childbearing... or... no, I don't know how to say it."

"You mean you can't assist at a confinement yourself? But that's not

what I've come for. An old woman, I want a woman, a nurse, a servant!"

"You shall have an old woman, but not directly, perhaps... If you like

I'll come instead...."

"Oh, impossible; I am running to Madame Virginsky, the midwife, now."

"A horrid woman!"