be without reverence, without gladness, with contempt, with abuse, with
blasphemy in the presence of so great a mystery, the coming of a new
creature! Oh, she is cursing it already!"
"If you like I'll..."
"No, no, but while I'm running (oh, I'll make Madame Virginsky come),
will you go to the foot of my staircase and quietly listen? But don't
venture to go in, you'll frighten her; don't go in on any account, you
must only listen... in case anything dreadful happens. If anything very
bad happens, then run in."
"I understand. I've another rouble. Here it is. I meant to have a fowl
to-morrow, but now I don't want to, make haste, run with all your might.
There's a samovar all the night."
Kirillov knew nothing of the present design against Shatov, nor had he
had any idea in the past of the degree of danger that threatened him.
He only knew that Shatov had some old scores with "those people,"
and although he was to some extent involved with them himself through
instructions he had received from abroad (not that these were of
much consequence, however, for he had never taken any direct share in
anything), yet of late he had given it all up, having left off doing
anything especially for the "cause," and devoted himself entirely to a
life of contemplation. Although Pyotr Stepanovitch had at the meeting
invited Liputin to go with him to Kirillov's to make sure that the
latter would take upon himself, at a given moment, the responsibility
for the "Shatov business," yet in his interview with Kirillov he had
said no word about Shatov nor alluded to him in any way--probably
considering it impolitic to do so, and thinking that Kirillov could
not be relied upon. He put off speaking about it till next day, when it
would be all over and would therefore not matter to Kirillov; such at
least was Pyotr Stepanovitch's judgment of him. Liputin, too, was
struck by the fact that Shatov was not mentioned in spite of what Pyotr
Stepanovitch had promised, but he was too much agitated to protest.
Shatov ran like a hurricane to Virginsky's house, cursing the distance
and feeling it endless.
He had to knock a long time at Virginsky's; every one had been asleep a
long while. But Shatov did not scruple to bang at the shutters with
all his might. The dog chained up in the yard dashed about barking
furiously. The dogs caught it up all along the street, and there was a
regular babel of barking.
"Why are you knocking and what do you want?" Shatov heard at the window
at last Virginsky's gentle voice, betraying none of the resentment
appropriate to the "outrage." The shutter was pushed back a little and
the casement was opened.
"Who's there, what scoundrel is it?" shrilled a female voice which
betrayed all the resentment appropriate to the "outrage." It was the old
maid, Virginsky's relation.
"I am Shatov, my wife has come back to me and she is just confined...."
"Well, let her be, get along."
"I've come for Arina Prohorovna; I won't go without Arina Prohorovna!"
"She can't attend to every one. Practice at night is a special line.
Take yourself off to Maksheyev's and don't dare to make that din,"
rattled the exasperated female voice. He could hear Virginsky checking
her; but the old maid pushed him away and would not desist.
"I am not going away!" Shatov cried again.
"Wait a little, wait a little," Virginsky cried at last, overpowering
the lady. "I beg you to wait five minutes, Shatov. I'll wake Arina
Prohorovna. Please don't knock and don't shout.... Oh, how awful it all
is!"
After five endless minutes, Arina Prohorovna made her appearance.
"Has your wife come?" Shatov heard her voice at the window, and to his
surprise it was not at all ill-tempered, only as usual peremptory, but
Arina Prohorovna could not speak except in a peremptory tone.
"Yes, my wife, and she is in labour."
"Marya Ignatyevna?"
"Yes, Marya Ignatyevna. Of course it's Marya Ignatyevna."
A silence followed. Shatov waited. He heard a whispering in the house.
"Has she been here long?" Madame Virginsky asked again.
"She came this evening at eight o'clock. Please make haste."
Again he heard whispering, as though they were consulting. "Listen, you
are not making a mistake? Did she send you for me herself?"
"No, she didn't send for you, she wants a peasant woman, so as not to
burden me with expense, but don't be afraid, I'll pay you."
"Very good, I'll come, whether you pay or not. I always thought highly
of Marya Ignatyevna for the independence of her sentiments, though
perhaps she won't remember me. Have you got the most necessary things?"
"I've nothing, but I'll get everything, everything."
"There is something generous even in these people," Shatov reflected,
as he set off to Lyamshin's. "The convictions and the man are two very
different things, very likely I've been very unfair to them!... We are
all to blame, we are all to blame... and if only all were convinced of
it!"
He had not to knock long at Lyamshin's; the latter, to Shatov's
surprise, opened his casement at once, jumping out of bed, barefoot
and in his night-clothes at the risk of catching cold; and he was
hypochondriacal and always anxious about his health. But there was
a special cause for such alertness and haste: Lyamshin had been in a
tremor all the evening, and had not been able to sleep for excitement
after the meeting of the quintet; he was haunted by the dread
of uninvited and undesired visitors. The news of Shatov's giving
information tormented him more than anything.... And suddenly there
was this terrible loud knocking at the window as though to justify his
fears.
He was so frightened at seeing Shatov that he at once slammed the
casement and jumped back into bed. Shatov began furiously knocking and
shouting.
"How dare you knock like that in the middle of the night?" shouted
Lyamshin, in a threatening voice, though he was numb with fear, when at
least two minutes later he ventured to open the casement again, and was
at last convinced that Shatov had come alone.
"Here's your revolver for you; take it back, give me fifteen roubles."
"What's the matter, are you drunk? This is outrageous, I shall simply
catch cold. Wait a minute, I'll just throw my rug over me."
"Give me fifteen roubles at once. If you don't give it me, I'll knock
and shout till daybreak; I'll break your window-frame."
"And I'll shout police and you'll be taken to the lock-up."
"And am I dumb? Can't I shout 'police' too? Which of us has most reason
to be afraid of the police, you or I?"
"And you can hold such contemptible opinions! I know what you are
hinting at.... Stop, stop, for God's sake don't go on knocking! Upon my
word, who has money at night? What do you want money for, unless you are
drunk?"
"My wife has come back. I've taken ten roubles off the price, I haven't
fired it once; take the revolver, take it this minute!"
Lyamshin mechanically put his hand out of the casement and took the
revolver; he waited a little, and suddenly thrusting his head out of the
casement, and with a shiver running down his spine, faltered as though
he were beside himself.
"You are lying, your wife hasn't come back to you.... It's... it's
simply that you want to run away."
"You are a fool. Where should I run to? It's for your Pyotr Verhovensky
to run away, not for me. I've just been to the midwife, Madame
Virginsky, and she consented at once to come to me. You can ask them. My
wife is in agony; I need the money; give it me!"
A swarm of ideas flared up in Lyamshin's crafty mind like a shower of
fireworks. It all suddenly took a different colour, though still panic
prevented him from reflecting.
"But how... you are not living with your wife?"
"I'll break your skull for questions like that."
"Oh dear, I understand, forgive me, I was struck all of a heap.... But I
understand, I understand... is Arina Prohorovna really coming? You said
just now that she had gone? You know, that's not true. You see, you see,
you see what lies you tell at every step."
"By now, she must be with my wife... don't keep me... it's not my fault
you are a fool."
"That's a lie, I am not a fool. Excuse me, I really can't..."
And utterly distraught he began shutting the casement again for the
third time, but Shatov gave such a yell that he put his head out again.
"But this is simply an unprovoked assault! What do you want of me, what
is it, what is it, formulate it? And think, only think, it's the middle
of the night!"
"I want fifteen roubles, you sheep's-head!"
"But perhaps I don't care to take back the revolver. You have no right
to force me. You bought the thing and the matter is settled, and you've
no right.... I can't give you a sum like that in the night, anyhow.
Where am I to get a sum like that?"
"You always have money. I've taken ten roubles off the price, but every
one knows you are a skinflint."
"Come the day after to-morrow, do you hear, the day after to-morrow at
twelve o'clock, and I'll give you the whole of it, that will do, won't
it?"
Shatov knocked furiously at the window-frame for the third time.
"Give me ten roubles, and to-morrow early the other five."
"No, the day after to-morrow the other five, to-morrow I swear I shan't
have it. You'd better not come, you'd better not come."
"Give me ten, you scoundrel!"
"Why are you so abusive. Wait a minute, I must light a candle; you've
broken the window.... Nobody swears like that at night. Here you are!"
He held a note to him out of the window.
Shatov seized it--it was a note for five roubles.
"On my honour I can't do more, if you were to murder me, I couldn't; the
day after to-morrow I can give you it all, but now I can do nothing."
"I am not going away!" roared Shatov.
"Very well, take it, here's some more, see, here's some more, and I
won't give more. You can shout at the top of your voice, but I won't
give more, I won't, whatever happens, I won't, I won't."
He was in a perfect frenzy, desperate and perspiring. The two notes
he had just given him were each for a rouble. Shatov had seven roubles
altogether now.
"Well, damn you, then, I'll come to-morrow. I'll thrash you, Lyamshin,
if you don't give me the other eight."
"You won't find me at home, you fool!" Lyamshin reflected quickly.
"Stay, stay!" he shouted frantically after Shatov, who was already
running off. "Stay, come back. Tell me please, is it true what you said
that your wife has come back?"
"Fool!" cried Shatov, with a gesture of disgust, and ran home as hard as
he could.
IV
I may mention that Anna Prohorovna knew nothing of the resolutions
that had been taken at the meeting the day before. On returning home
overwhelmed and exhausted, Virginsky had not ventured to tell her of the
decision that had been taken, yet he could not refrain from telling her
half--that is, all that Verhovensky had told them of the certainty of
Shatov's intention to betray them; but he added at the same time that
he did not quite believe it. Arina Prohorovna was terribly alarmed. This
was why she decided at once to go when Shatov came to fetch her, though
she was tired out, as she had been hard at work at a confinement all the
night before. She had always been convinced that "a wretched creature
like Shatov was capable of any political baseness," but the arrival of
Marya Ignatyevna put things in a different light. Shatov's alarm, the
despairing tone of his entreaties, the way he begged for help, clearly
showed a complete change of feeling in the traitor: a man who was ready
to betray himself merely for the sake of ruining others would, she
thought, have had a different air and tone. In short, Arina Prohorovna
resolved to look into the matter for herself, with her own eyes.
Virginsky was very glad of her decision, he felt as though a
hundredweight had been lifted off him! He even began to feel
hopeful: Shatov's appearance seemed to him utterly incompatible with
Verhovensky's supposition.
Shatov was not mistaken: on getting home he found Arina Prohorovna
already with Marie. She had just arrived, had contemptuously dismissed
Kirillov, whom she found hanging about the foot of the stairs, had
hastily introduced herself to Marie, who had not recognised her as
her former acquaintance, found her in "a very bad way," that is
ill-tempered, irritable and in "a state of cowardly despair," and within
five minutes had completely silenced all her protests.
"Why do you keep on that you don't want an expensive midwife?" she was
saying at the moment when Shatov came in. "That's perfect nonsense,
it's a false idea arising from the abnormality of your condition. In the
hands of some ordinary old woman, some peasant midwife, you'd have fifty
chances of going wrong and then you'd have more bother and expense than
with a regular midwife. How do you know I am an expensive midwife? You
can pay afterwards; I won't charge you much and I answer for my success;
you won't die in my hands, I've seen worse cases than yours. And I can
send the baby to a foundling asylum to-morrow, if you like, and then to
be brought up in the country, and that's all it will mean. And meantime
you'll grow strong again, take up some rational work, and in a very
short time you'll repay Shatov for sheltering you and for the expense,
which will not be so great."
"It's not that... I've no right to be a burden...."
"Rational feelings and worthy of a citizen, but you can take my word for
it, Shatov will spend scarcely anything, if he is willing to become ever
so little a man of sound ideas instead of the fantastic person he is.
He has only not to do anything stupid, not to raise an alarm, not to run
about the town with his tongue out. If we don't restrain him he will be
knocking up all the doctors of the town before the morning; he waked
all the dogs in my street. There's no need of doctors I've said already.
I'll answer for everything. You can hire an old woman if you like
to wait on you, that won't cost much. Though he too can do something
besides the silly things he's been doing. He's got hands and feet, he
can run to the chemist's without offending your feelings by being too
benevolent. As though it were a case of benevolence! Hasn't he brought
you into this position? Didn't he make you break with the family in
which you were a governess, with the egoistic object of marrying you? We
heard of it, you know... though he did run for me like one possessed and
yell so all the street could hear. I won't force myself upon anyone and
have come only for your sake, on the principle that all of us are bound
to hold together! And I told him so before I left the house. If you
think I am in the way, good-bye, I only hope you won't have trouble
which might so easily be averted."
And she positively got up from the chair. Marie was so helpless, in such
pain, and--the truth must be confessed--so frightened of what was before
her that she dared not let her go. But this woman was suddenly hateful
to her, what she said was not what she wanted, there was something quite
different in Marie's soul. Yet the prediction that she might possibly
die in the hands of an inexperienced peasant woman overcame her
aversion. But she made up for it by being more exacting and more
ruthless than ever with Shatov. She ended by forbidding him not only to
look at her but even to stand facing her. Her pains became more violent.
Her curses, her abuse became more and more frantic.
"Ech, we'll send him away," Arina Prohorovna rapped out. "I don't know
what he looks like, he is simply frightening you; he is as white as a
corpse! What is it to you, tell me please, you absurd fellow? What a
farce!"
Shatov made no reply, he made up his mind to say nothing. "I've seen
many a foolish father, half crazy in such cases. But they, at any
rate..."
"Be quiet or leave me to die! Don't say another word! I won't have it, I
won't have it!" screamed Marie.
"It's impossible not to say another word, if you are not out of your
mind, as I think you are in your condition. We must talk of what we
want, anyway: tell me, have you anything ready? You answer, Shatov, she
is incapable."
"Tell me what's needed?"
"That means you've nothing ready." She reckoned up all that was quite
necessary, and one must do her the justice to say she only asked for
what was absolutely indispensable, the barest necessaries. Some things
Shatov had. Marie took out her key and held it out to him, for him to
look in her bag. As his hands shook he was longer than he should have
been opening the unfamiliar lock. Marie flew into a rage, but when Arina
Prohorovna rushed up to take the key from him, she would not allow her
on any account to look into her bag and with peevish cries and tears
insisted that no one should open the bag but Shatov.
Some things he had to fetch from Kirillov's. No sooner had Shatov turned
to go for them than she began frantically calling him back and was only
quieted when Shatov had rushed impetuously back from the stairs, and
explained that he should only be gone a minute to fetch something
indispensable and would be back at once.
"Well, my lady, it's hard to please you," laughed Arina Prohorovna, "one
minute he must stand with his face to the wall and not dare to look at
you, and the next he mustn't be gone for a minute, or you begin crying.
He may begin to imagine something. Come, come, don't be silly, don't
blubber, I was laughing, you know."
"He won't dare to imagine anything."
"Tut, tut, tut, if he didn't love you like a sheep he wouldn't run about
the streets with his tongue out and wouldn't have roused all the dogs in
the town. He broke my window-frame."
V
He found Kirillov still pacing up and down his room so preoccupied that
he had forgotten the arrival of Shatov's wife, and heard what he said
without understanding him.
"Oh, yes!" he recollected suddenly, as though tearing himself with an
effort and only for an instant from some absorbing idea, "yes... an
old woman.... A wife or an old woman? Stay a minute: a wife and an old
woman, is that it? I remember. I've been, the old woman will come, only
not just now. Take the pillow. Is there anything else? Yes.... Stay, do
you have moments of the eternal harmony, Shatov?"
"You know, Kirillov, you mustn't go on staying up every night."
Kirillov came out of his reverie and, strange to say, spoke far more
coherently than he usually did; it was clear that he had formulated it
long ago and perhaps written it down.
"There are seconds--they come five or six at a time--when you suddenly
feel the presence of the eternal harmony perfectly attained. It's
something not earthly--I don't mean in the sense that it's heavenly--but
in that sense that man cannot endure it in his earthly aspect. He must
be physically changed or die. This feeling is clear and unmistakable;
it's as though you apprehend all nature and suddenly say, 'Yes, that's
right.' God, when He created the world, said at the end of each day
of creation, 'Yes, it's right, it's good.' It... it's not being deeply
moved, but simply joy. You don't forgive anything because there is no
more need of forgiveness. It's not that you love--oh, there's something
in it higher than love--what's most awful is that it's terribly clear
and such joy. If it lasted more than five seconds, the soul could
not endure it and must perish. In those five seconds I live through a
lifetime, and I'd give my whole life for them, because they are worth
it. To endure ten seconds one must be physically changed. I think man
ought to give up having children--what's the use of children, what's the
use of evolution when the goal has been attained? In the gospel it is
written that there will be no child-bearing in the resurrection, but
that men will be like the angels of the Lord. That's a hint. Is your
wife bearing a child?"
"Kirillov, does this often happen?"
"Once in three days, or once a week."
"Don't you have fits, perhaps?"
"No."
"Well, you will. Be careful, Kirillov. I've heard that's just how fits
begin. An epileptic described exactly that sensation before a fit, word
for word as you've done. He mentioned five seconds, too, and said that
more could not be endured. Remember Mahomet's pitcher from which no drop
of water was spilt while he circled Paradise on his horse. That was a
case of five seconds too; that's too much like your eternal harmony, and
Mahomet was an epileptic. Be careful, Kirillov, it's epilepsy!"
"It won't have time," Kirillov smiled gently.
VI
The night was passing. Shatov was sent hither and thither, abused,
called back. Marie was reduced to the most abject terror for life. She
screamed that she wanted to live, that "she must, she must," and was
afraid to die. "I don't want to, I don't want to!" she repeated. If
Arina Prohorovna had not been there, things would have gone very badly.
By degrees she gained complete control of the patient--who began to obey
every word, every order from her like a child. Arina Prohorovna ruled by
sternness not by kindness, but she was first-rate at her work. It began
to get light... Arina Prohorovna suddenly imagined that Shatov had just
run out on to the stairs to say his prayers and began laughing. Marie
laughed too, spitefully, malignantly, as though such laughter relieved
her. At last they drove Shatov away altogether. A damp, cold morning
dawned. He pressed his face to the wall in the corner just as he had
done the evening before when Erkel came. He was trembling like a leaf,
afraid to think, but his mind caught at every thought as it does in
dreams.
He was continually being carried away by day-dreams, which snapped off
short like a rotten thread. From the room came no longer groans but
awful animal cries, unendurable, incredible. He tried to stop up his
ears, but could not, and he fell on his knees, repeating unconsciously,
"Marie, Marie!" Then suddenly he heard a cry, a new cry, which made
Shatov start and jump up from his knees, the cry of a baby, a weak
discordant cry. He crossed himself and rushed into the room. Arina
Prohorovna held in her hands a little red wrinkled creature, screaming,
and moving its little arms and legs, fearfully helpless, and looking
as though it could be blown away by a puff of wind, but screaming and
seeming to assert its full right to live. Marie was lying as though
insensible, but a minute later she opened her eyes, and bent a strange,
strange look on Shatov: it was something quite new, that look. What it
meant exactly he was not able to understand yet, but he had never known
such a look on her face before.
"Is it a boy? Is it a boy?" she asked Arina Prohorovna in an exhausted
voice.
"It is a boy," the latter shouted in reply, as she bound up the child.
When she had bound him up and was about to lay him across the bed
between the two pillows, she gave him to Shatov for a minute to hold.
Marie signed to him on the sly as though afraid of Arina Prohorovna. He
understood at once and brought the baby to show her.
"How... pretty he is," she whispered weakly with a smile.
"Foo, what does he look like," Arina Prohorovna laughed gaily in
triumph, glancing at Shatov's face. "What a funny face!"
"You may be merry, Arina Prohorovna.... It's a great joy," Shatov
faltered with an expression of idiotic bliss, radiant at the phrase
Marie had uttered about the child.
"Where does the great joy come in?" said Arina Prohorovna
good-humouredly, bustling about, clearing up, and working like a
convict.
"The mysterious coming of a new creature, a great and inexplicable
mystery; and what a pity it is, Arina Prohorovna, that you don't
understand it."
Shatov spoke in an incoherent, stupefied and ecstatic way. Something
seemed to be tottering in his head and welling up from his soul apart
from his own will.
"There were two and now there's a third human being, a new spirit,
finished and complete, unlike the handiwork of man; a new thought and a
new love... it's positively frightening.... And there's nothing grander
in the world."
"Ech, what nonsense he talks! It's simply a further development of
the organism, and there's nothing else in it, no mystery," said Arina
Prohorovna with genuine and good-humoured laughter. "If you talk like
that, every fly is a mystery. But I tell you what: superfluous people
ought not to be born. We must first remould everything so that they
won't be superfluous and then bring them into the world. As it is, we
shall have to take him to the Foundling, the day after to-morrow....
Though that's as it should be."
"I will never let him go to the Foundling," Shatov pronounced
resolutely, staring at the floor.
"You adopt him as your son?"
"He is my son."
"Of course he is a Shatov, legally he is a Shatov, and there's no need
for you to pose as a humanitarian. Men can't get on without fine words.
There, there, it's all right, but look here, my friends," she added,
having finished clearing up at last, "it's time for me to go. I'll come
again this morning, and again in the evening if necessary, but now,
since everything has gone off so well, I must run off to my other
patients, they've been expecting me long ago. I believe you got an old
woman somewhere, Shatov; an old woman is all very well, but don't you,
her tender husband, desert her; sit beside her, you may be of use; Marya
Ignatyevna won't drive you away, I fancy.... There, there, I was only
laughing."
At the gate, to which Shatov accompanied her, she added to him alone.
"You've given me something to laugh at for the rest of my life; I shan't
charge you anything; I shall laugh at you in my sleep! I have never seen
anything funnier than you last night."
She went off very well satisfied. Shatov's appearance and conversation
made it as clear as daylight that this man "was going in for being a
father and was a ninny." She ran home on purpose to tell Virginsky about
it, though it was shorter and more direct to go to another patient.
"Marie, she told you not to go to sleep for a little time, though, I
see, it's very hard for you," Shatov began timidly. "I'll sit here by
the window and take care of you, shall I?"
And he sat down, by the window behind the sofa so that she could not see
him. But before a minute had passed she called him and fretfully asked
him to arrange the pillow. He began arranging it. She looked angrily at
the wall.
"That's not right, that's not right.... What hands!"
Shatov did it again.
"Stoop down to me," she said wildly, trying hard not to look at him.
He started but stooped down.
"More... not so... nearer," and suddenly her left arm was impulsively
thrown round his neck and he felt her warm moist kiss on his forehead.
"Marie!"
Her lips were quivering, she was struggling with herself, but suddenly
she raised herself and said with flashing eyes:
"Nikolay Stavrogin is a scoundrel!" And she fell back helplessly with
her face in the pillow, sobbing hysterically, and tightly squeezing
Shatov's hand in hers.
From that moment she would not let him leave her; she insisted on his
sitting by her pillow. She could not talk much but she kept gazing at
him and smiling blissfully. She seemed suddenly to have become a silly
girl. Everything seemed transformed. Shatov cried like a boy, then
talked of God knows what, wildly, crazily, with inspiration, kissed
her hands; she listened entranced, perhaps not understanding him, but
caressingly ruffling his hair with her weak hand, smoothing it and
admiring it. He talked about Kirillov, of how they would now begin "a
new life" for good, of the existence of God, of the goodness of all men.
... She took out the child again to gaze at it rapturously.
"Marie," he cried, as he held the child in his arms, "all the old
madness, shame, and deadness is over, isn't it? Let us work hard and
begin a new life, the three of us, yes, yes!... Oh, by the way, what
shall we call him, Marie?"
"What shall we call him?" she repeated with surprise, and there was a
sudden look of terrible grief in her face.
She clasped her hands, looked reproachfully at Shatov and hid her face
in the pillow.
"Marie, what is it?" he cried with painful alarm.
"How could you, how could you... Oh, you ungrateful man!"
"Marie, forgive me, Marie... I only asked you what his name should be. I
don't know...."
"Ivan, Ivan." She raised her flushed and tear-stained face. "How could
you suppose we should call him by another _horrible_ name?"
"Marie, calm yourself; oh, what a nervous state you are in!"
"That's rude again, putting it down to my nerves. I bet that if I'd said
his name was to be that other... horrible name, you'd have agreed
at once and not have noticed it even! Oh, men, the mean ungrateful
creatures, they are all alike!"
A minute later, of course, they were reconciled. Shatov persuaded her to
have a nap. She fell asleep but still kept his hand in hers; she waked
up frequently, looked at him, as though afraid he would go away, and
dropped asleep again.
Kirillov sent an old woman "to congratulate them," as well as some hot
tea, some freshly cooked cutlets, and some broth and white bread for
Marya Ignatyevna. The patient sipped the broth greedily, the old woman
undid the baby's wrappings and swaddled it afresh, Marie made Shatov
have a cutlet too.
Time was passing. Shatov, exhausted, fell asleep himself in his chair,
with his head on Marie's pillow. So they were found by Arina Prohorovna,
who kept her word. She waked them up gaily, asked Marie some necessary
questions, examined the baby, and again forbade Shatov to leave her.
Then, jesting at the "happy couple," with a shade of contempt and
superciliousness she went away as well satisfied as before.
It was quite dark when Shatov waked up. He made haste to light the
candle and ran for the old woman; but he had hardly begun to go down the
stairs when he was struck by the sound of the soft, deliberate steps of
someone coming up towards him. Erkel came in.
"Don't come in," whispered Shatov, and impulsively seizing him by the
hand he drew him back towards the gate. "Wait here, I'll come directly,
I'd completely forgotten you, completely! Oh, how you brought it back!"
He was in such haste that he did not even run in to Kirillov's, but
only called the old woman. Marie was in despair and indignation that "he
could dream of leaving her alone."
"But," he cried ecstatically, "this is the very last step! And then for
a new life and we'll never, never think of the old horrors again!"
He somehow appeased her and promised to be back at nine o'clock; he
kissed her warmly, kissed the baby and ran down quickly to Erkel.
They set off together to Stavrogin's park at Skvoreshniki, where, in a
secluded place at the very edge of the park where it adjoined the pine
wood, he had, eighteen months before, buried the printing press which
had been entrusted to him. It was a wild and deserted place, quite
hidden and at some distance from the Stavrogins' house. It was two or
perhaps three miles from Filipov's house.
"Are we going to walk all the way? I'll take a cab."
"I particularly beg you not to," replied Erkel.
They insisted on that. A cabman would be a witness.
"Well... bother! I don't care, only to make an end of it."
They walked very fast.
"Erkel, you little boy," cried Shatov, "have you ever been happy?"
"You seem to be very happy just now," observed Erkel with curiosity.
CHAPTER VI. A BUSY NIGHT
I
During that day Virginsky had spent two hours in running round to
see the members of the quintet and to inform them that Shatov would
certainly not give information, because his wife had come back and given
birth to a child, and no one "who knew anything of human nature" could
suppose that Shatov could be a danger at this moment. But to his
discomfiture he found none of them at home except Erkel and Lyamshin.
Erkel listened in silence, looking candidly into his eyes, and in answer
to the direct question "Would he go at six o'clock or not?" he replied
with the brightest of smiles that "of course he would go."
Lyamshin was in bed, seriously ill, as it seemed, with his head covered
with a quilt. He was alarmed at Virginsky's coming in, and as soon as
the latter began speaking he waved him off from under the bedclothes,
entreating him to let him alone. He listened to all he said about
Shatov, however, and seemed for some reason extremely struck by the news
that Virginsky had found no one at home. It seemed that Lyamshin
knew already (through Liputin) of Fedka's death, and hurriedly and
incoherently told Virginsky about it, at which the latter seemed struck
in his turn. To Virginsky's direct question, "Should they go or not?" he
began suddenly waving his hands again, entreating him to let him alone,
and saying that it was not his business, and that he knew nothing about
it.
Virginsky returned home dejected and greatly alarmed. It weighed upon
him that he had to hide it from his family; he was accustomed to tell
his wife everything; and if his feverish brain had not hatched a new
idea at that moment, a new plan of conciliation for further action, he
might have taken to his bed like Lyamshin. But this new idea sustained
him; what's more, he began impatiently awaiting the hour fixed, and set
off for the appointed spot earlier than was necessary. It was a very
gloomy place at the end of the huge park. I went there afterwards on
purpose to look at it. How sinister it must have looked on that chill
autumn evening! It was at the edge of an old wood belonging to the
Crown. Huge ancient pines stood out as vague sombre blurs in the
darkness. It was so dark that they could hardly see each other two paces
off, but Pyotr Stepanovitch, Liputin, and afterwards Erkel, brought
lanterns with them. At some unrecorded date in the past a rather
absurd-looking grotto had for some reason been built here of rough
unhewn stones. The table and benches in the grotto had long ago decayed
and fallen. Two hundred paces to the right was the bank of the third
pond of the park. These three ponds stretched one after another for
a mile from the house to the very end of the park. One could scarcely
imagine that any noise, a scream, or even a shot, could reach the
inhabitants of the Stavrogins' deserted house. Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch's
departure the previous day and Alexey Yegorytch's absence left only five
or six people in the house, all more or less invalided, so to speak. In
any case it might be assumed with perfect confidence that if cries or
shouts for help were heard by any of the inhabitants of the isolated
house they would only have excited terror; no one would have moved from
his warm stove or snug shelf to give assistance.
By twenty past six almost all of them except Erkel, who had been told
off to fetch Shatov, had turned up at the trysting-place. This time
Pyotr Stepanovitch was not late; he came with Tolkatchenko. Tolkatchenko
looked frowning and anxious; all his assumed determination and insolent
bravado had vanished. He scarcely left Pyotr Stepanovitch's side, and
seemed to have become all at once immensely devoted to him. He was
continually thrusting himself forward to whisper fussily to him, but the
latter scarcely answered him, or muttered something irritably to get rid
of him.
Shigalov and Virginsky had arrived rather before Pyotr Stepanovitch, and
as soon as he came they drew a little apart in profound and obviously
intentional silence. Pyotr Stepanovitch raised his lantern and examined
them with unceremonious and insulting minuteness. "They mean to speak,"
flashed through his mind.
"Isn't Lyamshin here?" he asked Virginsky. "Who said he was ill?"
"I am here," responded Lyamshin, suddenly coming from behind a tree.
He was in a warm greatcoat and thickly muffled in a rug, so that it was
difficult to make out his face even with a lantern.
"So Liputin is the only one not here?"
Liputin too came out of the grotto without speaking. Pyotr Stepanovitch
raised the lantern again.
"Why were you hiding in there? Why didn't you come out?"
"I imagine we still keep the right of freedom... of our actions,"
Liputin muttered, though probably he hardly knew what he wanted to
express.
"Gentlemen," said Pyotr Stepanovitch, raising his voice for the first
time above a whisper, which produced an effect, "I think you fully
understand that it's useless to go over things again. Everything
was said and fully thrashed out yesterday, openly and directly.
But perhaps--as I see from your faces--someone wants to make some
statement; in that case I beg you to make haste. Damn it all! there's
not much time, and Erkel may bring him in a minute...."
"He is sure to bring him," Tolkatchenko put in for some reason.
"If I am not mistaken, the printing press will be handed over, to begin
with?" inquired Liputin, though again he seemed hardly to understand why
he asked the question.
"Of course. Why should we lose it?" said Pyotr Stepanovitch, lifting the
lantern to his face. "But, you see, we all agreed yesterday that it was
not really necessary to take it. He need only show you the exact spot
where it's buried; we can dig it up afterwards for ourselves. I know
that it's somewhere ten paces from a corner of this grotto. But, damn
it all! how could you have forgotten, Liputin? It was agreed that you
should meet him alone and that we should come out afterwards.... It's
strange that you should ask--or didn't you mean what you said?"
Liputin kept gloomily silent. All were silent. The wind shook the tops
of the pine-trees.
"I trust, however, gentlemen, that every one will do his duty," Pyotr
Stepanovitch rapped out impatiently.
"I know that Shatov's wife has come back and has given birth to a
child," Virginsky said suddenly, excited and gesticulating and scarcely
able to speak distinctly. "Knowing what human nature is, we can be sure
that now he won't give information... because he is happy.... So I
went to every one this morning and found no one at home, so perhaps now
nothing need be done...."
He stopped short with a catch in his breath.
"If you suddenly became happy, Mr. Virginsky," said Pyotr Stepanovitch,
stepping up to him, "would you abandon--not giving information; there's
no question of that--but any perilous public action which you had
planned before you were happy and which you regarded as a duty and
obligation in spite of the risk and loss of happiness?"
"No, I wouldn't abandon it! I wouldn't on any account!" said Virginsky
with absurd warmth, twitching all over.
"You would rather be unhappy again than be a scoundrel?"
"Yes, yes.... Quite the contrary.... I'd rather be a complete
scoundrel... that is no... not a scoundrel at all, but on the contrary
completely unhappy rather than a scoundrel."
"Well then, let me tell you that Shatov looks on this betrayal as a
public duty. It's his most cherished conviction, and the proof of it is
that he runs some risk himself; though, of course, they will pardon him
a great deal for giving information. A man like that will never give up
the idea. No sort of happiness would overcome him. In another day he'll
go back on it, reproach himself, and will go straight to the police.
What's more, I don't see any happiness in the fact that his wife
has come back after three years' absence to bear him a child of
Stavrogin's."
"But no one has seen Shatov's letter," Shigalov brought out all at once,
emphatically.
"I've seen it," cried Pyotr Stepanovitch. "It exists, and all this is
awfully stupid, gentlemen."
"And I protest..." Virginsky cried, boiling over suddenly: "I protest
with all my might.... I want... this is what I want. I suggest that when
he arrives we all come out and question him, and if it's true, we induce
him to repent of it; and if he gives us his word of honour, let him
go. In any case we must have a trial; it must be done after trial. We
mustn't lie in wait for him and then fall upon him."
"Risk the cause on his word of honour--that's the acme of stupidity!
Damnation, how stupid it all is now, gentlemen! And a pretty part you
are choosing to play at the moment of danger!"
"I protest, I protest!" Virginsky persisted.
"Don't bawl, anyway; we shan't hear the signal. Shatov, gentlemen....
(Damnation, how stupid this is now!) I've told you already that Shatov
is a Slavophil, that is, one of the stupidest set of people.... But,
damn it all, never mind, that's no matter! You put me out!... Shatov is
an embittered man, gentlemen, and since he has belonged to the party,
anyway, whether he wanted to or no, I had hoped till the last minute
that he might have been of service to the cause and might have been
made use of as an embittered man. I spared him and was keeping him
in reserve, in spite of most exact instructions.... I've spared him a
hundred times more than he deserved! But he's ended by betraying
us.... But, hang it all, I don't care! You'd better try running away
now, any of you! No one of you has the right to give up the job! You can
kiss him if you like, but you haven't the right to stake the cause on
his word of honour! That's acting like swine and spies in government
pay!"
"Who's a spy in government pay here?" Liputin filtered out.
"You, perhaps. You'd better hold your tongue, Liputin; you talk for the
sake of talking, as you always do. All men are spies, gentlemen, who
funk their duty at the moment of danger. There will always be some fools
who'll run in a panic at the last moment and cry out, 'Aie, forgive
me, and I'll give them all away!' But let me tell you, gentlemen,
no betrayal would win you a pardon now. Even if your sentence were
mitigated it would mean Siberia; and, what's more, there's no escaping
the weapons of the other side--and their weapons are sharper than the
government's."
Pyotr Stepanovitch was furious and said more than he meant to. With a
resolute air Shigalov took three steps towards him. "Since yesterday
evening I've thought over the question," he began, speaking with his
usual pedantry and assurance. (I believe that if the earth had given way
under his feet he would not have raised his voice nor have varied one
tone in his methodical exposition.) "Thinking the matter over, I've come
to the conclusion that the projected murder is not merely a waste of
precious time which might be employed in a more suitable and befitting
manner, but presents, moreover, that deplorable deviation from the
normal method which has always been most prejudicial to the cause
and has delayed its triumph for scores of years, under the guidance of
shallow thinkers and pre-eminently of men of political instead of purely
socialistic leanings. I have come here solely to protest against the
projected enterprise, for the general edification, intending then
to withdraw at the actual moment, which you, for some reason I don't
understand, speak of as a moment of danger to you. I am going--not from
fear of that danger nor from a sentimental feeling for Shatov, whom I
have no inclination to kiss, but solely because all this business from
beginning to end is in direct contradiction to my programme. As for my
betraying you and my being in the pay of the government, you can set
your mind completely at rest. I shall not betray you."
He turned and walked away.
"Damn it all, he'll meet them and warn Shatov!" cried Pyotr
Stepanovitch, pulling out his revolver. They heard the click of the
trigger.
"You may be confident," said Shigalov, turning once more, "that if I
meet Shatov on the way I may bow to him, but I shall not warn him."
"But do you know, you may have to pay for this, Mr. Fourier?"
"I beg you to observe that I am not Fourier. If you mix me up with that
mawkish theoretical twaddler you simply prove that you know nothing of
my manuscript, though it has been in your hands. As for your vengeance,
let me tell you that it's a mistake to cock your pistol: that's
absolutely against your interests at the present moment. But if you
threaten to shoot me to-morrow, or the day after, you'll gain nothing by
it but unnecessary trouble. You may kill me, but sooner or later you'll
come to my system all the same. Good-bye."
At that instant a whistle was heard in the park, two hundred paces away
from the direction of the pond. Liputin at once answered, whistling also
as had been agreed the evening before. (As he had lost several teeth and
distrusted his own powers, he had this morning bought for a farthing
in the market a child's clay whistle for the purpose.) Erkel had warned
Shatov on the way that they would whistle as a signal, so that the
latter felt no uneasiness.
"Don't be uneasy, I'll avoid them and they won't notice me at all,"
Shigalov declared in an impressive whisper; and thereupon deliberately
and without haste he walked home through the dark park.
Everything, to the smallest detail of this terrible affair, is now fully
known. To begin with, Liputin met Erkel and Shatov at the entrance
to the grotto. Shatov did not bow or offer him his hand, but at once
pronounced hurriedly in a loud voice:
"Well, where have you put the spade, and haven't you another lantern?
You needn't be afraid, there's absolutely no one here, and they wouldn't
hear at Skvoreshniki now if we fired a cannon here. This is the place,
here this very spot."
And he stamped with his foot ten paces from the end of the grotto
towards the wood. At that moment Tolkatchenko rushed out from behind
a tree and sprang at him from behind, while Erkel seized him by the
elbows. Liputin attacked him from the front. The three of them at once
knocked him down and pinned him to the ground. At this point Pyotr
Stepanovitch darted up with his revolver. It is said that Shatov had
time to turn his head and was able to see and recognise him. Three
lanterns lighted up the scene. Shatov suddenly uttered a short and
desperate scream. But they did not let him go on screaming. Pyotr
Stepanovitch firmly and accurately put his revolver to Shatov's
forehead, pressed it to it, and pulled the trigger. The shot seems not
to have been loud; nothing was heard at Skvoreshniki, anyway. Shigalov,
who was scarcely three paces away, of course heard it--he heard the
shout and the shot, but, as he testified afterwards, he did not turn nor
even stop. Death was almost instantaneous. Pyotr Stepanovitch was the
only one who preserved all his faculties, but I don't think he was quite
cool. Squatting on his heels, he searched the murdered man's pockets
hastily, though with steady hand. No money was found (his purse had been
left under Marya Ignatyevna's pillow). Two or three scraps of paper
of no importance were found: a note from his office, the title of some
book, and an old bill from a restaurant abroad which had been preserved,
goodness knows why, for two years in his pocket. Pyotr Stepanovitch
transferred these scraps of paper to his own pocket, and suddenly
noticing that they had all gathered round, were gazing at the corpse and
doing nothing, he began rudely and angrily abusing them and urging them
on. Tolkatchenko and Erkel recovered themselves, and running to the
grotto brought instantly from it two stones which they had got ready
there that morning. These stones, which weighed about twenty pounds
each, were securely tied with cord. As they intended to throw the body
in the nearest of the three ponds, they proceeded to tie the stones to
the head and feet respectively. Pyotr Stepanovitch fastened the stones
while Tolkatchenko and Erkel only held and passed them. Erkel was
foremost, and while Pyotr Stepanovitch, grumbling and swearing, tied the
dead man's feet together with the cord and fastened the stone to them--a
rather lengthy operation--Tolkatchenko stood holding the other stone
at arm's-length, his whole person bending forward, as it were,
deferentially, to be in readiness to hand it without delay. It never
once occurred to him to lay his burden on the ground in the interval.
When at last both stones were tied on and Pyotr Stepanovitch got up from
the ground to scrutinise the faces of his companions, something strange
happened, utterly unexpected and surprising to almost every one.
As I have said already, all except perhaps Tolkatchenko and Erkel were
standing still doing nothing. Though Virginsky had rushed up to Shatov
with the others he had not seized him or helped to hold him. Lyamshin
had joined the group after the shot had been fired. Afterwards,
while Pyotr Stepanovitch was busy with the corpse--for perhaps ten
minutes--none of them seemed to have been fully conscious. They grouped
themselves around and seemed to have felt amazement rather than anxiety
or alarm. Liputin stood foremost, close to the corpse. Virginsky stood
behind him, peeping over his shoulder with a peculiar, as it were
unconcerned, curiosity; he even stood on tiptoe to get a better view.
Lyamshin hid behind Virginsky. He took an apprehensive peep from time to
time and slipped behind him again at once. When the stones had been tied
on and Pyotr Stepanovitch had risen to his feet, Virginsky began faintly
shuddering all over, clasped his hands, and cried out bitterly at the
top of his voice:
"It's not the right thing, it's not, it's not at all!" He would perhaps
have added something more to his belated exclamation, but Lyamshin did
not let him finish: he suddenly seized him from behind and squeezed him
with all his might, uttering an unnatural shriek. There are moments of
violent emotion, of terror, for instance, when a man will cry out in a
voice not his own, unlike anything one could have anticipated from him,
and this has sometimes a very terrible effect. Lyamshin gave vent to a
scream more animal than human. Squeezing Virginsky from behind more and
more tightly and convulsively, he went on shrieking without a pause,
his mouth wide open and his eyes starting out of his head, keeping up
a continual patter with his feet, as though he were beating a drum.
Virginsky was so scared that he too screamed out like a madman, and
with a ferocity, a vindictiveness that one could never have expected of
Virginsky. He tried to pull himself away from Lyamshin, scratching and
punching him as far as he could with his arms behind him. Erkel at last
helped to pull Lyamshin away. But when, in his terror, Virginsky had
skipped ten paces away from him, Lyamshin, catching sight of Pyotr
Stepanovitch, began yelling again and flew at him. Stumbling over
the corpse, he fell upon Pyotr Stepanovitch, pressing his head to
the latter's chest and gripping him so tightly in his arms that Pyotr
Stepanovitch, Tolkatchenko, and Liputin could all of them do nothing
at the first moment. Pyotr Stepanovitch shouted, swore, beat him on
the head with his fists. At last, wrenching himself away, he drew his
revolver and put it in the open mouth of Lyamshin, who was still yelling
and was by now tightly held by Tolkatchenko, Erkel, and Liputin. But
Lyamshin went on shrieking in spite of the revolver. At last Erkel,
crushing his silk handkerchief into a ball, deftly thrust it into his
mouth and the shriek ceased. Meantime Tolkatchenko tied his hands with
what was left of the rope.
"It's very strange," said Pyotr Stepanovitch, scrutinising the madman
with uneasy wonder. He was evidently struck. "I expected something very
different from him," he added thoughtfully.
They left Erkel in charge of him for a time. They had to make haste to
get rid of the corpse: there had been so much noise that someone might
have heard. Tolkatchenko and Pyotr Stepanovitch took up the lanterns
and lifted the corpse by the head, while Liputin and Virginsky took the
feet, and so they carried it away. With the two stones it was a heavy
burden, and the distance was more than two hundred paces. Tolkatchenko
was the strongest of them. He advised them to keep in step, but no one
answered him and they all walked anyhow. Pyotr Stepanovitch walked
on the right and, bending forward, carried the dead man's head on
his shoulder while with the left hand he supported the stone. As
Tolkatchenko walked more than half the way without thinking of helping
him with the stone, Pyotr Stepanovitch at last shouted at him with an
oath. It was a single, sudden shout. They all went on carrying the body
in silence, and it was only when they reached the pond that Virginsky,
stooping under his burden and seeming to be exhausted by the weight of
it, cried out again in the same loud and wailing voice:
"It's not the right thing, no, no, it's not the right thing!"
The place to which they carried the dead man at the extreme end of the
rather large pond, which was the farthest of the three from the house,
was one of the most solitary and unfrequented spots in the park,
especially at this late season of the year. At that end the pond was
overgrown with weeds by the banks. They put down the lantern, swung the
corpse and threw it into the pond. They heard a muffled and prolonged
splash. Pyotr Stepanovitch raised the lantern and every one followed his
example, peering curiously to see the body sink, but nothing could
be seen: weighted with the two stones, the body sank at once. The big
ripples spread over the surface of the water and quickly passed away. It
was over.
Virginsky went off with Erkel, who before giving up Lyamshin to
Tolkatchenko brought him to Pyotr Stepanovitch, reporting to the
latter that Lyamshin had come to his senses, was penitent and begged
forgiveness, and indeed had no recollection of what had happened to him.
Pyotr Stepanovitch walked off alone, going round by the farther side of
the pond, skirting the park. This was the longest way. To his surprise
Liputin overtook him before he got half-way home.
"Pyotr Stepanovitch! Pyotr Stepanovitch! Lyamshin will give
information!"
"No, he will come to his senses and realise that he will be the first to
go to Siberia if he did. No one will betray us now. Even you won't."
"What about you?"
"No fear! I'll get you all out of the way the minute you attempt to turn
traitors, and you know that. But you won't turn traitors. Have you run a
mile and a half to tell me that?"
"Pyotr Stepanovitch, Pyotr Stepanovitch, perhaps we shall never meet
again!"
"What's put that into your head?"
"Only tell me one thing."
"Well, what? Though I want you to take yourself off."
"One question, but answer it truly: are we the only quintet in the
world, or is it true that there are hundreds of others? It's a question
of the utmost importance to me, Pyotr Stepanovitch."
"I see that from the frantic state you are in. But do you know, Liputin,
you are more dangerous than Lyamshin?"
"I know, I know; but the answer, your answer!"
"You are a stupid fellow! I should have thought it could make no
difference to you now whether it's the only quintet or one of a
thousand."
"That means it's the only one! I was sure of it..." cried Liputin.
"I always knew it was the only one, I knew it all along." And without
waiting for any reply he turned and quickly vanished into the darkness.
Pyotr Stepanovitch pondered a little.
"No, no one will turn traitor," he concluded with decision, "but the
group must remain a group and obey, or I'll... What a wretched set they
are though!"
II
He first went home, and carefully, without haste, packed his trunk. At
six o'clock in the morning there was a special train from the town.
This early morning express only ran once a week, and was only a recent
experiment. Though Pyotr Stepanovitch had told the members of the
quintet that he was only going to be away for a short time in the
neighbourhood, his intentions, as appeared later, were in reality
very different. Having finished packing, he settled accounts with his
landlady to whom he had previously given notice of his departure, and
drove in a cab to Erkel's lodgings, near the station. And then just upon
one o'clock at night he walked to Kirillov's, approaching as before by
Fedka's secret way.
Pyotr Stepanovitch was in a painful state of mind. Apart from other
extremely grave reasons for dissatisfaction (he was still unable to
learn anything of Stavrogin), he had, it seems--for I cannot assert
it for a fact--received in the course of that day, probably from
Petersburg, secret information of a danger awaiting him in the immediate
future. There are, of course, many legends in the town relating to this
period; but if any facts were known, it was only to those immediately
concerned. I can only surmise as my own conjecture that Pyotr
Stepanovitch may well have had affairs going on in other neighbourhoods
as well as in our town, so that he really may have received such a
warning. I am convinced, indeed, in spite of Liputin's cynical and
despairing doubts, that he really had two or three other quintets;
for instance, in Petersburg and Moscow, and if not quintets at least
colleagues and correspondents, and possibly was in very curious
relations with them. Not more than three days after his departure an
order for his immediate arrest arrived from Petersburg--whether in
connection with what had happened among us, or elsewhere, I don't know.
This order only served to increase the overwhelming, almost panic terror
which suddenly came upon our local authorities and the society of
the town, till then so persistently frivolous in its attitude, on
the discovery of the mysterious and portentous murder of the student
Shatov--the climax of the long series of senseless actions in
our midst--as well as the extremely mysterious circumstances that
accompanied that murder. But the order came too late: Pyotr Stepanovitch
was already in Petersburg, living under another name, and, learning
what was going on, he made haste to make his escape abroad.... But I am
anticipating in a shocking way.
He went in to Kirillov, looking ill-humoured and quarrelsome. Apart from
the real task before him, he felt, as it were, tempted to satisfy some
personal grudge, to avenge himself on Kirillov for something. Kirillov
seemed pleased to see him; he had evidently been expecting him a long
time with painful impatience. His face was paler than usual; there was a
fixed and heavy look in his black eyes.
"I thought you weren't coming," he brought out drearily from his corner
of the sofa, from which he had not, however, moved to greet him.
Pyotr Stepanovitch stood before him and, before uttering a word, looked
intently at his face.
"Everything is in order, then, and we are not drawing back from our
resolution. Bravo!" He smiled an offensively patronising smile. "But,
after all," he added with unpleasant jocosity, "if I am behind my time,
it's not for you to complain: I made you a present of three hours."
"I don't want extra hours as a present from you, and you can't make me a
present... you fool!"
"What?" Pyotr Stepanovitch was startled, but instantly controlled
himself. "What huffiness! So we are in a savage temper?" he rapped
out, still with the same offensive superciliousness. "At such a moment
composure is what you need. The best thing you can do is to consider
yourself a Columbus and me a mouse, and not to take offence at anything
I say. I gave you that advice yesterday."
"I don't want to look upon you as a mouse."
"What's that, a compliment? But the tea is cold--and that shows that
everything is topsy-turvy. Bah! But I see something in the window, on a
plate." He went to the window. "Oh oh, boiled chicken and rice!... But
why haven't you begun upon it yet? So we are in such a state of mind
that even chicken..."
"I've dined, and it's not your business. Hold your tongue!"
"Oh, of course; besides, it's no consequence--though for me at the
moment it is of consequence. Only fancy, I scarcely had any dinner, and
so if, as I suppose, that chicken is not wanted now... eh?"
"Eat it if you can."
"Thank you, and then I'll have tea."
He instantly settled himself at the other end of the sofa and fell upon
the chicken with extraordinary greediness; at the same time he kept a
constant watch on his victim. Kirillov looked at him fixedly with angry
aversion, as though unable to tear himself away.
"I say, though," Pyotr Stepanovitch fired off suddenly, while he still
went on eating, "what about our business? We are not crying off, are we?
How about that document?"
"I've decided in the night that it's nothing to me. I'll write it. About
the manifestoes?"
"Yes, about the manifestoes too. But I'll dictate it. Of course, that's
nothing to you. Can you possibly mind what's in the letter at such a
moment?"
"That's not your business."
"It's not mine, of course. It need only be a few lines, though: that you
and Shatov distributed the manifestoes and with the help of Fedka, who
hid in your lodgings. This last point about Fedka and your lodgings is
very important--the most important of all, indeed. You see, I am talking
to you quite openly."
"Shatov? Why Shatov? I won't mention Shatov for anything."
"What next! What is it to you? You can't hurt him now."
"His wife has come back to him. She has waked up and has sent to ask me
where he is."
"She has sent to ask you where he is? H'm... that's unfortunate. She may
send again; no one ought to know I am here."
Pyotr Stepanovitch was uneasy.
"She won't know, she's gone to sleep again. There's a midwife with her,
Arina Virginsky."
"So that's how it was.... She won't overhear, I suppose? I say, you'd
better shut the front door."
"She won't overhear anything. And if Shatov comes I'll hide you in
another room."
"Shatov won't come; and you must write that you quarrelled with him
because he turned traitor and informed the police... this evening...
and caused his death."
"He is dead!" cried Kirillov, jumping up from the sofa.
"He died at seven o'clock this evening, or rather, at seven o'clock
yesterday evening, and now it's one o'clock."
"You have killed him!... And I foresaw it yesterday!"
"No doubt you did! With this revolver here." (He drew out his revolver
as though to show it, but did not put it back again and still held it in
his right hand as though in readiness.) "You are a strange man, though,
Kirillov; you knew yourself that the stupid fellow was bound to end
like this. What was there to foresee in that? I made that as plain as
possible over and over again. Shatov was meaning to betray us; I was
watching him, and it could not be left like that. And you too had
instructions to watch him; you told me so yourself three weeks ago...."
"Hold your tongue! You've done this because he spat in your face in
Geneva!"
"For that and for other things too--for many other things; not from
spite, however. Why do you jump up? Why look like that? Oh oh, so that's
it, is it?"
He jumped up and held out his revolver before him. Kirillov had suddenly
snatched up from the window his revolver, which had been loaded and put
ready since the morning. Pyotr Stepanovitch took up his position and
aimed his weapon at Kirillov. The latter laughed angrily.
"Confess, you scoundrel, that you brought your revolver because I might
shoot you.... But I shan't shoot you... though... though..."
And again he turned his revolver upon Pyotr Stepanovitch, as it were
rehearsing, as though unable to deny himself the pleasure of imagining
how he would shoot him. Pyotr Stepanovitch, holding his ground, waited
for him, waited for him till the last minute without pulling the
trigger, at the risk of being the first to get a bullet in his head: it
might well be expected of "the maniac." But at last "the maniac" dropped
his hand, gasping and trembling and unable to speak.
"You've played your little game and that's enough." Pyotr Stepanovitch,
too, dropped his weapon. "I knew it was only a game; only you ran a
risk, let me tell you: I might have fired."
And he sat down on the sofa with a fair show of composure and poured
himself out some tea, though his hand trembled a little. Kirillov laid
his revolver on the table and began walking up and down.
"I won't write that I killed Shatov... and I won't write anything now.
You won't have a document!"
"I shan't?"
"No, you won't."
"What meanness and what stupidity!" Pyotr Stepanovitch turned green with
resentment. "I foresaw it, though. You've not taken me by surprise, let
me tell you. As you please, however. If I could make you do it by force,
I would. You are a scoundrel, though." Pyotr Stepanovitch was more and
more carried away and unable to restrain himself. "You asked us for
money out there and promised us no end of things.... I won't go away
with nothing, however: I'll see you put the bullet through your brains
first, anyway."
"I want you to go away at once." Kirillov stood firmly before him.
"No, that's impossible." Pyotr Stepanovitch took up his revolver again.
"Now in your spite and cowardice you may think fit to put it off and to
turn traitor to-morrow, so as to get money again; they'll pay you for
that, of course. Damn it all, fellows like you are capable of anything!
Only don't trouble yourself; I've provided for all contingencies: I am
not going till I've dashed your brains out with this revolver, as I did
to that scoundrel Shatov, if you are afraid to do it yourself and put
off your intention, damn you!"
"You are set on seeing my blood, too?"
"I am not acting from spite; let me tell you, it's nothing to me. I am
doing it to be at ease about the cause. One can't rely on men; you see
that for yourself. I don't understand what fancy possesses you to put
yourself to death. It wasn't my idea; you thought of it yourself before
I appeared, and talked of your intention to the committee abroad before
you said anything to me. And you know, no one has forced it out of you;
no one of them knew you, but you came to confide in them yourself, from
sentimentalism. And what's to be done if a plan of action here, which
can't be altered now, was founded upon that with your consent and upon
your suggestion?... your suggestion, mind that! You have put yourself
in a position in which you know too much. If you are an ass and go off
to-morrow to inform the police, that would be rather a disadvantage to
us; what do you think about it? Yes, you've bound yourself; you've given
your word, you've taken money. That you can't deny...."
Pyotr Stepanovitch was much excited, but for some time past Kirillov
had not been listening. He paced up and down the room, lost in thought
again.
"I am sorry for Shatov," he said, stopping before Pyotr Stepanovitch
again.
"Why so? I am sorry, if that's all, and do you suppose..."
"Hold your tongue, you scoundrel," roared Kirillov, making an alarming
and unmistakable movement; "I'll kill you."
"There, there, there! I told a lie, I admit it; I am not sorry at all.
Come, that's enough, that's enough." Pyotr Stepanovitch started up
apprehensively, putting out his hand.
Kirillov subsided and began walking up and down again.
"I won't put it off; I want to kill myself now: all are scoundrels."
"Well, that's an idea; of course all are scoundrels; and since life is a
beastly thing for a decent man..."
"Fool, I am just such a scoundrel as you, as all, not a decent man.
There's never been a decent man anywhere."
"He's guessed the truth at last! Can you, Kirillov, with your sense,
have failed to see till now that all men are alike, that there are none
better or worse, only some are stupider, than others, and that if all
are scoundrels (which is nonsense, though) there oughtn't to be any
people that are not?"
"Ah! Why, you are really in earnest?" Kirillov looked at him with some
wonder. "You speak with heat and simply.... Can it be that even fellows
like you have convictions?"
"Kirillov, I've never been able to understand why you mean to kill
yourself. I only know it's from conviction... strong conviction. But
if you feel a yearning to express yourself, so to say, I am at your
service.... Only you must think of the time."
"What time is it?"
"Oh oh, just two." Pyotr Stepanovitch looked at his watch and lighted a
cigarette.
"It seems we can come to terms after all," he reflected.
"I've nothing to say to you," muttered Kirillov.
"I remember that something about God comes into it... you explained it
to me once--twice, in fact. If you stopped yourself, you become God;
that's it, isn't it?"
"Yes, I become God."
Pyotr Stepanovitch did not even smile; he waited. Kirillov looked at him
subtly.
"You are a political impostor and intriguer. You want to lead me on into
philosophy and enthusiasm and to bring about a reconciliation so as to
disperse my anger, and then, when I am reconciled with you, beg from me
a note to say I killed Shatov."
Pyotr Stepanovitch answered with almost natural frankness.
"Well, supposing I am such a scoundrel. But at the last moments does
that matter to you, Kirillov? What are we quarrelling about? Tell me,
please. You are one sort of man and I am another--what of it? And what's
more, we are both of us..."
"Scoundrels."
"Yes, scoundrels if you like. But you know that that's only words."
"All my life I wanted it not to be only words. I lived because I did not
want it to be. Even now every day I want it to be not words."
"Well, every one seeks to be where he is best off. The fish... that is,
every one seeks his own comfort, that's all. That's been a commonplace
for ages and ages."
"Comfort, do you say?"
"Oh, it's not worth while quarrelling over words."
"No, you were right in what you said; let it be comfort. God is
necessary and so must exist."
"Well, that's all right, then."
"But I know He doesn't and can't."
"That's more likely."
"Surely you must understand that a man with two such ideas can't go on
living?"
"Must shoot himself, you mean?"
"Surely you must understand that one might shoot oneself for that
alone? You don't understand that there may be a man, one man out of your
thousands of millions, one man who won't bear it and does not want to."
"All I understand is that you seem to be hesitating.... That's very
bad."
"Stavrogin, too, is consumed by an idea," Kirillov said gloomily, pacing
up and down the room. He had not noticed the previous remark.
"What?" Pyotr Stepanovitch pricked up his ears. "What idea? Did he tell
you something himself?"
"No, I guessed it myself: if Stavrogin has faith, he does not believe
that he has faith. If he hasn't faith, he does not believe that he
hasn't."
"Well, Stavrogin has got something else worse than that in his head,"
Pyotr Stepanovitch muttered peevishly, uneasily watching the turn the
conversation had taken and the pallor of Kirillov.
"Damn it all, he won't shoot himself!" he was thinking. "I always
suspected it; it's a maggot in the brain and nothing more; what a rotten
lot of people!"
"You are the last to be with me; I shouldn't like to part on bad terms
with you," Kirillov vouchsafed suddenly.
Pyotr Stepanovitch did not answer at once. "Damn it all, what is it
now?" he thought again.
"I assure you, Kirillov, I have nothing against you personally as a man,
and always..."
"You are a scoundrel and a false intellect. But I am just the same as
you are, and I will shoot myself while you will remain living."
"You mean to say, I am so abject that I want to go on living."
He could not make up his mind whether it was judicious to keep up such
a conversation at such a moment or not, and resolved "to be guided by
circumstances." But the tone of superiority and of contempt for him,
which Kirillov had never disguised, had always irritated him, and
now for some reason it irritated him more than ever--possibly because
Kirillov, who was to die within an hour or so (Pyotr Stepanovitch still
reckoned upon this), seemed to him, as it were, already only half a man,
some creature whom he could not allow to be haughty.
"You seem to be boasting to me of your shooting yourself."
"I've always been surprised at every one's going on living," said
Kirillov, not hearing his remark.
"H'm! Admitting that's an idea, but..."
"You ape, you assent to get the better of me. Hold your tongue; you
won't understand anything. If there is no God, then I am God."
"There, I could never understand that point of yours: why are you God?"
"If God exists, all is His will and from His will I cannot escape. If
not, it's all my will and I am bound to show self-will."
"Self-will? But why are you bound?"
"Because all will has become mine. Can it be that no one in the whole
planet, after making an end of God and believing in his own will, will
dare to express his self-will on the most vital point? It's like a
beggar inheriting a fortune and being afraid of it and not daring to
approach the bag of gold, thinking himself too weak to own it. I want to
manifest my self-will. I may be the only one, but I'll do it."
"Do it by all means."
"I am bound to shoot myself because the highest point of my self-will is
to kill myself with my own hands."
"But you won't be the only one to kill yourself; there are lots of
suicides."
"With good cause. But to do it without any cause at all, simply for
self-will, I am the only one."
"He won't shoot himself," flashed across Pyotr Stepanovitch's mind
again.
"Do you know," he observed irritably, "if I were in your place I should
kill someone else to show my self-will, not myself. You might be of
use. I'll tell you whom, if you are not afraid. Then you needn't shoot
yourself to-day, perhaps. We may come to terms."
"To kill someone would be the lowest point of self-will, and you show
your whole soul in that. I am not you: I want the highest point and I'll
kill myself."
"He's come to it of himself," Pyotr Stepanovitch muttered malignantly.
"I am bound to show my unbelief," said Kirillov, walking about the room.
"I have no higher idea than disbelief in God. I have all the history of
mankind on my side. Man has done nothing but invent God so as to go on
living, and not kill himself; that's the whole of universal history up
till now. I am the first one in the whole history of mankind who would
not invent God. Let them know it once for all."
"He won't shoot himself," Pyotr Stepanovitch thought anxiously.
"Let whom know it?" he said, egging him on. "It's only you and me here;
you mean Liputin?"
"Let every one know; all will know. There is nothing secret that will
not be made known. _He_ said so."
And he pointed with feverish enthusiasm to the image of the Saviour,
before which a lamp was burning. Pyotr Stepanovitch lost his temper
completely.
"So you still believe in Him, and you've lighted the lamp; 'to be on the
safe side,' I suppose?"
The other did not speak.
"Do you know, to my thinking, you believe perhaps more thoroughly than
any priest."
"Believe in whom? In _Him?_ Listen." Kirillov stood still, gazing before
him with fixed and ecstatic look. "Listen to a great idea: there was a
day on earth, and in the midst of the earth there stood three crosses.
One on the Cross had such faith that he said to another, 'To-day thou
shalt be with me in Paradise.' The day ended; both died and passed away
and found neither Paradise nor resurrection. His words did not come
true. Listen: that Man was the loftiest of all on earth, He was that
which gave meaning to life. The whole planet, with everything on it, is
mere madness without that Man. There has never been any like Him before
or since, never, up to a miracle. For that is the miracle, that there
never was or never will be another like Him. And if that is so, if
the laws of nature did not spare even Him, have not spared even their
miracle and made even Him live in a lie and die for a lie, then all the
planet is a lie and rests on a lie and on mockery. So then, the very
laws of the planet are a lie and the vaudeville of devils. What is there
to live for? Answer, if you are a man."
"That's a different matter. It seems to me you've mixed up two different
causes, and that's a very unsafe thing to do. But excuse me, if you are
God? If the lie were ended and if you realised that all the falsity
comes from the belief in that former God?"
"So at last you understand!" cried Kirillov rapturously. "So it can be
understood if even a fellow like you understands. Do you understand now
that the salvation for all consists in proving this idea to every one?
Who will prove it? I! I can't understand how an atheist could know that
there is no God and not kill himself on the spot. To recognise that
there is no God and not to recognise at the same instant that one is God
oneself is an absurdity, else one would certainly kill oneself. If you
recognise it you are sovereign, and then you won't kill yourself but
will live in the greatest glory. But one, the first, must kill himself,
for else who will begin and prove it? So I must certainly kill myself,
to begin and prove it. Now I am only a god against my will and I am
unhappy, because I am bound to assert my will. All are unhappy because
all are afraid to express their will. Man has hitherto been so unhappy
and so poor because he has been afraid to assert his will in the
highest point and has shown his self-will only in little things, like a
schoolboy. I am awfully unhappy, for I'm awfully afraid. Terror is the
curse of man.... But I will assert my will, I am bound to believe that
I don't believe. I will begin and will make an end of it and open the
door, and will save. That's the only thing that will save mankind and
will re-create the next generation physically; for with his present
physical nature man can't get on without his former God, I believe. For
three years I've been seeking for the attribute of my godhead and I've
found it; the attribute of my godhead is self-will! That's all I can
do to prove in the highest point my independence and my new terrible
freedom. For it is very terrible. I am killing myself to prove my
independence and my new terrible freedom."
His face was unnaturally pale, and there was a terribly heavy look in
his eyes. He was like a man in delirium. Pyotr Stepanovitch thought he
would drop on to the floor.
"Give me the pen!" Kirillov cried suddenly, quite unexpectedly, in a
positive frenzy. "Dictate; I'll sign anything. I'll sign that I killed
Shatov even. Dictate while it amuses me. I am not afraid of what the
haughty slaves will think! You will see for yourself that all that is
secret shall be made manifest! And you will be crushed.... I believe, I
believe!"
Pyotr Stepanovitch jumped up from his seat and instantly handed him an
inkstand and paper, and began dictating, seizing the moment, quivering
with anxiety.
"I, Alexey Kirillov, declare..."
"Stay; I won't! To whom am I declaring it?"
Kirillov was shaking as though he were in a fever. This declaration and
the sudden strange idea of it seemed to absorb him entirely, as though
it were a means of escape by which his tortured spirit strove for a
moment's relief.
"To whom am I declaring it? I want to know to whom?"
"To no one, every one, the first person who reads it. Why define it? The
whole world!"
"The whole world! Bravo! And I won't have any repentance. I don't want
penitence and I don't want it for the police!"
"No, of course, there's no need of it, damn the police! Write, if you
are in earnest!" Pyotr Stepanovitch cried hysterically.
"Stay! I want to put at the top a face with the tongue out."
"Ech, what nonsense," cried Pyotr Stepanovitch crossly, "you can express
all that without the drawing, by--the tone."
"By the tone? That's true. Yes, by the tone, by the tone of it. Dictate,
the tone."
"I, Alexey Kirillov," Pyotr Stepanovitch dictated firmly and
peremptorily, bending over Kirillov's shoulder and following every
letter which the latter formed with a hand trembling with excitement,
"I, Kirillov, declare that to-day, the --th October, at about eight
o'clock in the evening, I killed the student Shatov in the park for
turning traitor and giving information of the manifestoes and of Fedka,
who has been lodging with us for ten days in Filipov's house. I am
shooting myself to-day with my revolver, not because I repent and am
afraid of you, but because when I was abroad I made up my mind to put an
end to my life."
"Is that all?" cried Kirillov with surprise and indignation.
"Not another word," cried Pyotr Stepanovitch, waving his hand, attempting
to snatch the document from him.
"Stay." Kirillov put his hand firmly on the paper. "Stay, it's nonsense!
I want to say with whom I killed him. Why Fedka? And what about the
fire? I want it all and I want to be abusive in tone, too, in tone!"
"Enough, Kirillov, I assure you it's enough," cried Pyotr Stepanovitch
almost imploringly, trembling lest he should tear up the paper; "that
they may believe you, you must say it as obscurely as possible, just
like that, simply in hints. You must only give them a peep of the truth,
just enough to tantalise them. They'll tell a story better than ours,
and of course they'll believe themselves more than they would us; and
you know, it's better than anything--better than anything! Let me have
it, it's splendid as it is; give it to me, give it to me!"
And he kept trying to snatch the paper. Kirillov listened open-eyed and
appeared to be trying to reflect, but he seemed beyond understanding
now.
"Damn it all," Pyotr Stepanovitch cried all at once, ill-humouredly, "he
hasn't signed it! Why are you staring like that? Sign!"
"I want to abuse them," muttered Kirillov. He took the pen, however, and
signed. "I want to abuse them."
"Write _'Vive la république,'_ and that will be enough."
"Bravo!" Kirillov almost bellowed with delight. "_'Vive la république
démocratique sociale et universelle ou la mort!'_ No, no, that's not it.
_'Liberté, égalité, fraternité ou la mort.'_ There, that's better, that's
better." He wrote it gleefully under his signature.
"Enough, enough," repeated Pyotr Stepanovitch.
"Stay, a little more. I'll sign it again in French, you know. '_De
Kirillov, gentilhomme russe et citoyen du monde._' Ha ha!" He went off
in a peal of laughter. "No, no, no; stay. I've found something better
than all. Eureka! _'Gentilhomme, séminariste russe et citoyen du monde
civilisé!'_ That's better than any...." He jumped up from the sofa
and suddenly, with a rapid gesture, snatched up the revolver from the
window, ran with it into the next room, and closed the door behind him.
Pyotr Stepanovitch stood for a moment, pondering and gazing at the door.
"If he does it at once, perhaps he'll do it, but if he begins thinking,
nothing will come of it."
Meanwhile he took up the paper, sat down, and looked at it again. The
wording of the document pleased him again.
"What's needed for the moment? What's wanted is to throw them all off
the scent and keep them busy for a time. The park? There's no park in
the town and they'll guess its Skvoreshniki of themselves. But while
they are arriving at that, time will be passing; then the search will
take time too; then when they find the body it will prove that the story
is true, and it will follow that's it all true, that it's true about
Fedka too. And Fedka explains the fire, the Lebyadkins; so that it was
all being hatched here, at Filipov's, while they overlooked it and saw
nothing--that will quite turn their heads! They will never think of
the quintet; Shatov and Kirillov and Fedka and Lebyadkin, and why they
killed each other--that will be another question for them. Oh, damn it
all, I don't hear the shot!"
Though he had been reading and admiring the wording of it, he had been
listening anxiously all the time, and he suddenly flew into a rage. He
looked anxiously at his watch; it was getting late and it was fully ten
minutes since Kirillov had gone out.... Snatching up the candle, he went
to the door of the room where Kirillov had shut himself up. He was just
at the door when the thought struck him that the candle had burnt out,
that it would not last another twenty minutes, and that there was no
other in the room. He took hold of the handle and listened warily; he
did not hear the slightest sound. He suddenly opened the door and lifted
up the candle: something uttered a roar and rushed at him. He slammed
the door with all his might and pressed his weight against it; but all
sounds died away and again there was deathlike stillness.
He stood for a long while irresolute, with the candle in his hand. He
had been able to see very little in the second he held the door open,
but he had caught a glimpse of the face of Kirillov standing at the
other end of the room by the window, and the savage fury with which the
latter had rushed upon him. Pyotr Stepanovitch started, rapidly set the
candle on the table, made ready his revolver, and retreated on tiptoe to
the farthest corner of the room, so that if Kirillov opened the door and
rushed up to the table with the revolver he would still have time to be
the first to aim and fire.
Pyotr Stepanovitch had by now lost all faith in the suicide. "He was
standing in the middle of the room, thinking," flashed like a whirlwind
through Pyotr Stepanovitch's mind, "and the room was dark and horrible
too.... He roared and rushed at me. There are two possibilities: either
I interrupted him at the very second when he was pulling the trigger
or... or he was standing planning how to kill me. Yes, that's it, he was
planning it.... He knows I won't go away without killing him if he funks
it himself--so that he would have to kill me first to prevent my killing
him.... And again, again there is silence. I am really frightened: he
may open the door all of a sudden.... The nuisance of it is that he
believes in God like any priest.... He won't shoot himself for
anything! There are lots of these people nowadays 'who've come to it of
themselves.' A rotten lot! Oh, damn it, the candle, the candle! It'll go
out within a quarter of an hour for certain.... I must put a stop to it;
come what may, I must put a stop to it.... Now I can kill him.... With
that document here no one would think of my killing him. I can put him
in such an attitude on the floor with an unloaded revolver in his hand
that they'd be certain he'd done it himself.... Ach, damn it! how is one
to kill him? If I open the door he'll rush out again and shoot me first.
Damn it all, he'll be sure to miss!"
He was in agonies, trembling at the necessity of action and his own
indecision. At last he took up the candle and again approached the door
with the revolver held up in readiness; he put his left hand, in which
he held the candle, on the doorhandle. But he managed awkwardly:
the handle clanked, there was a rattle and a creak. "He will fire
straightway," flashed through Pyotr Stepanovitch's mind. With his foot
he flung the door open violently, raised the candle, and held out the
revolver; but no shot nor cry came from within.... There was no one in
the room.
He started. The room led nowhere. There was no exit, no means of
escape from it. He lifted the candle higher and looked about him more
attentively: there was certainly no one. He called Kirillov's name in a
low voice, then again louder; no one answered.
"Can he have got out by the window?" The casement in one window was, in
fact, open. "Absurd! He couldn't have got away through the casement."
Pyotr Stepanovitch crossed the room and went up to the window. "He
couldn't possibly." All at once he turned round quickly and was aghast
at something extraordinary.
Against the wall facing the windows on the right of the door stood a
cupboard. On the right side of this cupboard, in the corner formed by
the cupboard and the wall, stood Kirillov, and he was standing in a very
strange way; motionless, perfectly erect, with his arms held stiffly at
his sides, his head raised and pressed tightly back against the wall in
the very corner, he seemed to be trying to conceal and efface himself.
Everything seemed to show that he was hiding, yet somehow it was not
easy to believe it. Pyotr Stepanovitch was standing a little sideways
to the corner, and could only see the projecting parts of the figure.
He could not bring himself to move to the left to get a full view of
Kirillov and solve the mystery. His heart began beating violently, and
he felt a sudden rush of blind fury: he started from where he stood,
and, shouting and stamping with his feet, he rushed to the horrible
place.
But when he reached Kirillov he stopped short again, still more
overcome, horror-stricken. What struck him most was that, in spite of
his shout and his furious rush, the figure did not stir, did not move
in a single limb--as though it were of stone or of wax. The pallor of
the face was unnatural, the black eyes were quite unmoving and were
staring away at a point in the distance. Pyotr Stepanovitch lowered the
candle and raised it again, lighting up the figure from all points of
view and scrutinising it. He suddenly noticed that, although Kirillov
was looking straight before him, he could see him and was perhaps
watching him out of the corner of his eye. Then the idea occurred to him
to hold the candle right up to the wretch's face, to scorch him and see
what he would do. He suddenly fancied that Kirillov's chin twitched and
that something like a mocking smile passed over his lips--as though
he had guessed Pyotr Stepanovitch's thought. He shuddered and, beside
himself, clutched violently at Kirillov's shoulder.
Then something happened so hideous and so soon over that Pyotr
Stepanovitch could never afterwards recover a coherent impression of
it. He had hardly touched Kirillov when the latter bent down quickly and
with his head knocked the candle out of Pyotr Stepanovitch's hand; the
candlestick fell with a clang on the ground and the candle went out. At
the same moment he was conscious of a fearful pain in the little finger
of his left hand. He cried out, and all that he could remember was that,
beside himself, he hit out with all his might and struck three blows
with the revolver on the head of Kirillov, who had bent down to him
and had bitten his finger. At last he tore away his finger and rushed
headlong to get out of the house, feeling his way in the dark. He was
pursued by terrible shouts from the room.
"Directly, directly, directly, directly." Ten times. But he still ran
on, and was running into the porch when he suddenly heard a loud shot.
Then he stopped short in the dark porch and stood deliberating for five
minutes; at last he made his way back into the house. But he had to
get the candle. He had only to feel on the floor on the right of the
cupboard for the candlestick; but how was he to light the candle? There
suddenly came into his mind a vague recollection: he recalled that
when he had run into the kitchen the day before to attack Fedka he had
noticed in passing a large red box of matches in a corner on a shelf.
Feeling with his hands, he made his way to the door on the left leading
to the kitchen, found it, crossed the passage, and went down the steps.
On the shelf, on the very spot where he had just recalled seeing it, he
felt in the dark a full unopened box of matches. He hurriedly went up
the steps again without striking a light, and it was only when he was
near the cupboard, at the spot where he had struck Kirillov with the
revolver and been bitten by him, that he remembered his bitten finger,
and at the same instant was conscious that it was unbearably painful.
Clenching his teeth, he managed somehow to light the candle-end, set it
in the candlestick again, and looked about him: near the open casement,
with his feet towards the right-hand corner, lay the dead body of
Kirillov. The shot had been fired at the right temple and the bullet
had come out at the top on the left, shattering the skull. There were
splashes of blood and brains. The revolver was still in the suicide's
hand on the floor. Death must have been instantaneous. After a careful
look round, Pyotr Stepanovitch got up and went out on tiptoe, closed the
door, left the candle on the table in the outer room, thought a moment,
and resolved not to put it out, reflecting that it could not possibly
set fire to anything. Looking once more at the document left on the
table, he smiled mechanically and then went out of the house, still for
some reason walking on tiptoe. He crept through Fedka's hole again and
carefully replaced the posts after him.
III
Precisely at ten minutes to six Pyotr Stepanovitch and Erkel were
walking up and down the platform at the railway-station beside a rather
long train. Pyotr Stepanovitch was setting off and Erkel was saying
good-bye to him. The luggage was in, and his bag was in the seat he had
taken in a second-class carriage. The first bell had rung already; they
were waiting for the second. Pyotr Stepanovitch looked about him, openly
watching the passengers as they got into the train. But he did not meet
anyone he knew well; only twice he nodded to acquaintances--a merchant
whom he knew slightly, and then a young village priest who was going
to his parish two stations away. Erkel evidently wanted to speak of
something of importance in the last moments, though possibly he did not
himself know exactly of what, but he could not bring himself to begin!
He kept fancying that Pyotr Stepanovitch seemed anxious to get rid of
him and was impatient for the last bell.
"You look at every one so openly," he observed with some timidity, as
though he would have warned him.
"Why not? It would not do for me to conceal myself at present. It's too
soon. Don't be uneasy. All I am afraid of is that the devil might send
Liputin this way; he might scent me out and race off here."
"Pyotr Stepanovitch, they are not to be trusted," Erkel brought out
resolutely.
"Liputin?"
"None of them, Pyotr Stepanovitch."
"Nonsense! they are all bound by what happened yesterday. There isn't
one who would turn traitor. People won't go to certain destruction
unless they've lost their reason."
"Pyotr Stepanovitch, but they will lose their reason." Evidently that
idea had already occurred to Pyotr Stepanovitch too, and so Erkel's
observation irritated him the more.
"You are not in a funk too, are you, Erkel? I rely on you more than on
any of them. I've seen now what each of them is worth. Tell them to-day
all I've told you. I leave them in your charge. Go round to each of them
this morning. Read them my written instructions to-morrow, or the day
after, when you are all together and they are capable of listening
again... and believe me, they will be by to-morrow, for they'll be in an
awful funk, and that will make them as soft as wax.... The great thing
is that you shouldn't be downhearted."
"Ach, Pyotr Stepanovitch, it would be better if you weren't going away."
"But I am only going for a few days; I shall be back in no time."
"Pyotr Stepanovitch," Erkel brought out warily but resolutely, "what if
you were going to Petersburg? Of course, I understand that you are only
doing what's necessary for the cause."
"I expected as much from you, Erkel. If you have guessed that I am going
to Petersburg you can realise that I couldn't tell them yesterday, at
that moment, that I was going so far for fear of frightening them. You
saw for yourself what a state they were in. But you understand that I
am going for the cause, for work of the first importance, for the common
cause, and not to save my skin, as Liputin imagines."
"Pyotr Stepanovitch, what if you were going abroad? I should
understand... I should understand that you must be careful of yourself
because you are everything and we are nothing. I shall understand, Pyotr
Stepanovitch." The poor boy's voice actually quivered.
"Thank you, Erkel.... Aie, you've touched my bad finger." (Erkel had
pressed his hand awkwardly; the bad finger was discreetly bound up
in black silk.) "But I tell you positively again that I am going to
Petersburg only to sniff round, and perhaps shall only be there for
twenty-four hours and then back here again at once. When I come back I
shall stay at Gaganov's country place for the sake of appearances. If
there is any notion of danger, I should be the first to take the lead
and share it. If I stay longer in Petersburg I'll let you know at once
... in the way we've arranged, and you'll tell them." The second bell
rang.
"Ah, then there's only five minutes before the train starts. I don't
want the group here to break up, you know. I am not afraid; don't be
anxious about me. I have plenty of such centres, and it's not much
consequence; but there's no harm in having as many centres as possible.
But I am quite at ease about you, though I am leaving you almost alone
with those idiots. Don't be uneasy; they won't turn traitor, they won't
have the pluck.... Ha ha, you going to-day too?" he cried suddenly in a
quite different, cheerful voice to a very young man, who came up gaily
to greet him. "I didn't know you were going by the express too. Where
are you off to... your mother's?"
The mother of the young man was a very wealthy landowner in a
neighbouring province, and the young man was a distant relation of Yulia
Mihailovna's and had been staying about a fortnight in our town.
"No, I am going farther, to R----. I've eight hours to live through in
the train. Off to Petersburg?" laughed the young man.
"What makes you suppose I must be going to Petersburg?" said Pyotr
Stepanovitch, laughing even more openly.
The young man shook his gloved finger at him.
"Well, you've guessed right," Pyotr Stepanovitch whispered to him
mysteriously. "I am going with letters from Yulia Mihailovna and have to
call on three or four personages, as you can imagine--bother them all,
to speak candidly. It's a beastly job!"
"But why is she in such a panic? Tell me," the young man whispered too.
"She wouldn't see even me yesterday. I don't think she has anything to
fear for her husband, quite the contrary; he fell down so creditably at
the fire--ready to sacrifice his life, so to speak."
"Well, there it is," laughed Pyotr Stepanovitch. "You see, she is
afraid that people may have written from here already... that is, some
gentlemen.... The fact is, Stavrogin is at the bottom of it, or rather
Prince K.... Ech, it's a long story; I'll tell you something about it on
the journey if you like--as far as my chivalrous feelings will allow
me, at least.... This is my relation, Lieutenant Erkel, who lives down
here."
The young man, who had been stealthily glancing at Erkel, touched his
hat; Erkel made a bow.
"But I say, Verhovensky, eight hours in the train is an awful ordeal.
Berestov, the colonel, an awfully funny fellow, is travelling with me in
the first class. He is a neighbour of ours in the country, and his wife
is a Garin (_née_ de Garine), and you know he is a very decent fellow.
He's got ideas too. He's only been here a couple of days. He's
passionately fond of whist; couldn't we get up a game, eh? I've already
fixed on a fourth--Pripuhlov, our merchant from T----with a beard, a
millionaire--I mean it, a real millionaire; you can take my word for
it.... I'll introduce you; he is a very interesting money-bag. We shall
have a laugh."
"I shall be delighted, and I am awfully fond of cards in the train, but
I am going second class."
"Nonsense, that's no matter. Get in with us. I'll tell them directly to
move you to the first class. The chief guard would do anything I tell
him. What have you got?... a bag? a rug?"
"First-rate. Come along!"
Pyotr Stepanovitch took his bag, his rug, and his book, and at once and
with alacrity transferred himself to the first class. Erkel helped him.
The third bell rang.
"Well, Erkel." Hurriedly, and with a preoccupied air, Pyotr Stepanovitch
held out his hand from the window for the last time. "You see, I am
sitting down to cards with them."
"Why explain, Pyotr Stepanovitch? I understand, I understand it all!"
"Well, au revoir," Pyotr Stepanovitch turned away suddenly on his
name being called by the young man, who wanted to introduce him to his
partners. And Erkel saw nothing more of Pyotr Stepanovitch.