Demons

1: Night

I

Eight days passed. Now, when everything is past and I am writing my chronicle, we know what it was all about; but then we still knew nothing, and, naturally, various things seemed strange to us. Stepan Trofimovich and I, at least, first locked ourselves in and watched timorously from afar. Though I did go out here and there as before and bring him all sorts of news, without which he could not even exist.

Needless to say, the most diverse rumors spread around town—that is, concerning the slap, Lizaveta Nikolaevna's swoon, and the rest of what happened that Sunday. The surprising thing for us was: through whom could it all have come out so quickly and accurately? None of the persons then present would seem to have found any need or profit in breaking the secrecy of what had happened. No servants had been there; Lebyadkin alone might have blabbed something, not so much from malice, because he had left then in great fright (and fear of an enemy destroys any malice against him), but solely from lack of restraint. But Lebyadkin, together with his sister, disappeared without a trace the very next day; he was not in Filippov's house, he had moved to some unknown place, as if he had vanished. Shatov, of whom I wanted to inquire about Marya Timofeevna, locked himself in and, it seems, spent all those eight days sitting in his apartment, and even stopped his lessons in town. He would not receive me. I came to see him on Tuesday and knocked at the door. There was no answer, but being convinced by indubitable evidence that he was at home, I knocked once more. Then he, evidently having jumped off the bed, came up to the door with big strides and shouted to me at the top of his lungs: "Shatov's not home." With that I left.

Stepan Trofimovich and I, not without fearing for the boldness of such a suggestion, but mutually encouraging each other, finally arrived at this thought: we decided that the one and only person who could be to blame for spreading the rumors was Pyotr Stepanovich, though sometime later, in a conversation with his father, he himself asserted that he had found the story already on everyone's lips, predominantly at the club, and perfectly known in the smallest detail to the governor's wife and her husband. Another remarkable thing: on the very next day, Monday evening, I met Liputin and he already knew everything to the last word, which meant that he had doubtless been one of the first to find out.

Many of the ladies (and of the best society) were also curious about the "mysterious lame girl"—as they called Marya Timofeevna. There were some who even insisted on seeing her in person and making her acquaintance, so that those gentlemen who had hastened to tuck the Lebyadkins away had obviously acted opportunely. But in the forefront still stood Lizaveta Nikolaevna's swoon, and "all society" was interested in that, if only because the matter directly concerned Yulia Mikhailovna, as Lizaveta Nikolaevna's relation and patroness. And the chattering that went on! The mysteriousness of the situation was conducive to chatter: both homes were shut tight; Lizaveta Nikolaevna was said to be lying in brain fever; the same was also asserted of Nikolai Vsevolodovich, with repugnant details about a tooth that had supposedly been knocked out and a swollen cheek. In some little corners it was even said that there would perhaps be a murder, that Stavrogin was not a man to bear with such an offense, and that he would kill Shatov, but secretly, as in a Corsican vendetta. This idea was liked; but the majority of our young society people listened to it all with disdain and an air of the most scornful indifference—assumed, of course. In general, the ancient hostility of our society towards Nikolai Vsevolodovich was markedly evident. Even the most solid people were eager to accuse him, though they themselves did not know of what. It was whispered that he had supposedly ruined Lizaveta Nikolaevna's honor, and that there had been an affair between them in Switzerland. Of course, cautious people restrained themselves, and yet everyone listened with appetite. There was talk of other sorts, not general but private, rare, and almost covert— extremely strange talk, the existence of which I mention just to warn the reader, solely with a view to further events in my story. Namely: some said, frowningly and God knows on what grounds, that Nikolai Vsevolodovich had some special business in our province, that in Petersburg, through Count K., he had entered into certain high relations, that he was perhaps even in government service and had been all but entrusted with some mission by someone. When very solid and restrained people smiled at this rumor, observing reasonably that a man who lived by scandals and had begun among us with a swollen jaw did not look like an official, it was observed to them in a whisper that he was serving not quite officially but, so to speak, confidentially, in which case the service itself required that the servant look as little as possible like an official. This observation produced its effect; it was known among us that the zemstvo^[76] of our province was looked upon with somewhat special attention in the capital. I repeat, these rumors only flashed and then disappeared without a trace, for a time, at Nikolai Vsevolodovich's first appearance; yet I will note that the cause of many of these rumors was in part several brief but spiteful remarks uttered vaguely and abruptly in the club by Artemy Pavlovich Gaganov, a retired captain of the Guard, recently returned from Petersburg, a rather big landowner of our province and district, a man of society in the capital, and son of the late Pavel Pavlovich Gaganov, that same venerable senior member with whom, over four years before, Nikolai Vsevolodovich had had a confrontation remarkable for its rudeness and suddenness, which I have already mentioned above, at the beginning of my story.

It immediately became known to everyone that Yulia Mikhailovna had paid an extraordinary visit to Varvara Petrovna, and that it had been announced to her on the porch that "the mistress was ill and not receiving." Also that two days or so after her visit, Yulia Mikhailovna sent a messenger to inquire about Varvara Petrovna's health. Finally, she started "defending" Varvara Petrovna everywhere, of course only in the loftiest—that is, the vaguest possible—sense. To all the first hasty hints about Sunday's story she had listened sternly and coldly, so that in the following days they were not renewed in her presence. And thus the idea came to be held everywhere that Yulia Mikhailovna knew not only the whole mysterious story but also its whole mysterious meaning in the minutest detail, and not as an outsider but as a participant. I will observe, incidentally, that she had already begun little by little to acquire that lofty influence among us which she was so undoubtedly striving and thirsting for, and she was already beginning to see herself "surrounded." Part of society acknowledged her as having practical sense and tact... but of that later. Her patronage also partly explained Pyotr Stepanovich's rather rapid success in our society—a success which at the time particularly struck Stepan Trofimovich.

Perhaps we were both exaggerating. First of all, Pyotr Stepanovich became acquainted with the whole town almost instantly, in the first four days after his appearance. He appeared on Sunday, and already on Tuesday I met him in a carriage with Artemy Pavlovich Gaganov, a proud man, irritable and overbearing, despite all his worldly polish, and with whom, owing to his character, it was quite difficult to get along. Pyotr Stepanovich was also very well received at the governor's, so much so that he stepped at once into the position of an intimate or, so to speak, a much favored young man; he dined at Yulia Mikhailovna's almost daily. He had already made her acquaintance in Switzerland, but there was indeed something curious about his rapid success in His Excellency's house. After all, whether it was true or not, he was once reputed to have been a foreign revolutionary, to have participated in some foreign publications and conferences, "which can even be proved from the newspapers," as it was spitefully put in my presence by Alyosha Telyatnikov, now, alas, a retired petty official, but formerly also a much favored young man in the old governor's house. Still, the fact remained that the former revolutionary appeared in his beloved fatherland not only without any trouble, but almost with inducements; so perhaps there was nothing to it. Liputin once whispered to me that, according to rumors, Pyotr Stepanovich had supposedly made his repentance somewhere, and had received absolution, after disclosing a few other names, and had thus perhaps already managed to make good his guilt, also promising to be useful in future to the fatherland. I conveyed this venomous remark to Stepan Trofimovich, and he, though he was almost incapable of reflection, lapsed into deep thought. Later on it was disclosed that Pyotr Stepanovich had come to us with extremely respectable letters of recommendation, at least he had brought one to the governor's wife from an extremely important little old lady of Petersburg, whose husband was one of the most distinguished little old men of Petersburg. This little old lady, Yulia Mikhailovna's godmother, mentioned in her letter that Count K. also knew Pyotr Stepanovich quite well through Nikolai Vsevolodovich, had shown him favor, and found him "a worthy young man, in spite of his former errors." Yulia Mikhailovna valued exceedingly her scant and so difficultly maintained connections with the "high world," and was of course very glad of the important little old lady's letter; but there still remained something peculiar here, as it were. She even put her husband into almost familiar relations with Pyotr Stepanovich, which caused Mr. von Lembke to complain... but of that, too, later. I will observe, too, so as not to forget, that the great writer also treated Pyotr Stepanovich quite benignly and immediately invited him to visit. Such haste on the part of such a self-inflated man stung Stepan Trofimovich most painfully, but I explained it to myself otherwise: in courting a nihilist,^[77] Mr. Karmazinov most certainly had in mind his relations with the progressive young men of both capitals. The great writer trembled morbidly before the newest revolutionary young men, and, imagining in his ignorance of the matter that the keys to the Russian future were in their hands, sucked up to them humiliatingly, the more so since they paid no attention at all to him.

II

Pyotr Stepanovich also ran by a couple of times to see his father, but, to my misfortune, I was absent both times. He visited him for the first time on Wednesday, that is, only on the fourth day after that first meeting, and even then on business. Incidentally, the settling of accounts for the estate was concluded between them in some unseen and unheard way. Varvara Petrovna took it all upon herself and paid for everything, acquiring the little piece of land, to be sure, and Stepan Trofimovich was simply informed that it had all been concluded, and Varvara Petrovna's agent, her valet Alexei Yegorovich, presented him with something to sign, which he proceeded to perform silently and with extreme dignity. Speaking of dignity, I will observe that I hardly recognized our former old man in those days. He behaved as never before, became surprisingly taciturn, did not write even one letter to Varvara Petrovna from that Sunday on, which I would consider a miracle, and, above all, became calm. He had settled upon some final and extraordinary idea which enabled him to be calm, one could see that. He found this idea, sat and waited for something. At first, however, he was sick, especially on Monday—an attack of cholerine. He also could not do without news all that time; but whenever, leaving facts aside, I moved on to the essence of the matter and voiced some suggestions, he would at once begin waving his hands at me to stop. The two meetings with his boy still had a painful effect on him, though they did not sway him. On both days after these meetings he lay on the sofa, his head wrapped in a handkerchief moistened with vinegar; but he continued to remain calm in the lofty sense.

Occasionally, however, he did not wave his hands at me. Occasionally it also seemed to me that the mysterious resoluteness he had acquired was abandoning him, as it were, and that he had begun to struggle with some new, tempting flood of ideas. These were just moments, but I make note of them. I suspected that he wanted very much to come out of seclusion and declare himself, to put up a fight, to wage his last battle.

"Cher, I would crush them!" escaped him on Thursday evening, after the second meeting with Pyotr Stepanovich, as he lay stretched out on the sofa with his head wrapped in a towel.

Until that moment he had not spoken a word to me all day.

“‘Fils, fils chéri, ' and so on—I agree, all these phrases are nonsense, kitchen-maidish vocabulary, but let it be, I see it now myself. I did not give him food and drink, I sent him off from Berlin to ——-- province, a nursling, by mail, well, and so forth. I agree... 'You did not give me drink,' he says, 'and sent me off by mail, and here, on top of that, you've robbed me.' But, wretched man, I cry to him, my heart ached for you all my life, even if it was by mail! Il rit.^[lxxvi] But I agree, I agree... say it was by mail," he ended, as if in delirium.

"Passons, " he began again five minutes later. "I don't understand Turgenev. His Bazarov is some sort of false character, who doesn't exist at all; they were the first to reject him as having no resemblance to anything. This Bazarov is some vague mixture of Nozdryov and Byron,^[78] c'est le mot.^[lxxvii] Look at them attentively: they cavort and squeal with joy like puppies in the sun, they're happy, they're the victors! Forget Byron! ... And besides, how mundane! What kitchen-maidish, irritable vanity, what a trite little desire to faire du bruit autour de son nom,^[lxxviii] without noticing that son nom... Oh, caricature! For pity's sake, I cry to him, but do you really want to offer yourself to people, just as you are, in place of Christ? Il rit. Il rit beaucoup, il rit trop. His smile is somehow strange. His mother didn't have such a smile. Il rit toujours."^[lxxix]

Again there was silence.

"They're cunning; they had it all set up on Sunday ..." he suddenly blurted out.

"Oh, no doubt," I cried, pricking up my ears, "it was all patched together, with the seams showing, and so badly acted."

"I don't mean that. You know, they left the seams showing on purpose, so that it would be noticed by... the right people. Do you understand?"

"No, I don't."

"Tant mieux.^[lxxx] Passons. I'm very irritated today."

"But why did you argue with him, Stepan Trofimovich?" I said reproachfully.

"Je voulais convertir.^[lxxxi] Laugh, of course, go on. Cette pauvre auntie, elle entendra de belles choses!^[lxxxii] Oh, my friend, would you believe, I felt like a patriot today! But, in fact, I've always considered myself a Russian... yes, a true Russian cannot but be like you and me. Il y a là-dedans quelque chose d'aveugle et de louche."^[lxxxiii]

"Absolutely," I replied.

"My friend, the real truth is always implausible, did you know that? To make the truth more plausible, it's absolutely necessary to mix a bit of falsehood with it. People have always done so. Perhaps there's something here that we don't understand. What do you think, is there something in this victorious squealing that we don't understand? I wish there was. I do wish it."

I kept my silence. He, too, was silent for a very long time.

"They say that the French mind..." he began babbling suddenly, as if in a fever, "but that's a lie, it has always been so. Why slander the French mind? It's simply Russian laziness, our humiliating impotence to produce an idea, our disgusting parisitism among the nations. Ils sont tout simplement des paresseux,^[lxxxiv] and not the French mind. Oh, Russians ought to be exterminated for the good of mankind, like harmful parasites! It was not for that, it was not at all for that that we strove; I don't understand any of it. I've ceased to understand! But do you understand, I cry to him, do you understand that if you have the guillotine in the forefront, and with such glee, it's for the sole reason that cutting heads off is the easiest thing, and having an idea is difficult! Vous êtes des paresseux! Votre drapeau est une guenille, une impuissance.^[lxxxv] Those carts—or how does it go?—'the rumble of carts bringing bread to mankind' is more useful than the Sistine Madonna,^[79] or however it goes... une bêtise dans ce genre.^[lxxxvi] But do you understand, I cry to him, do you understand that along with happiness, in the exact same way and in perfectly equal proportion, man also needs unhappiness! Il rit. You're tossing off bon mots here, he says, while 'pampering your members on a velvet sofa' (he put it more nastily)... And note our new custom of familiar speech between father and son: it's very well when the two agree, but what if they're quarreling?"

We were silent again for about a minute.

"Cher," he suddenly concluded, rising quickly, "do you know that this will most certainly end with something?"

"That it will," I said.

"Vous ne comprenez pas.^[lxxxvii] Passons. But... in this world things usually end with nothing, but here there will be an end, most certainly, most certainly!"

He got up, paced the room in the greatest agitation, and, coming to the sofa again, strengthlessly collapsed on it.

On Friday morning, Pyotr Stepanovich went somewhere in the district and was gone until Monday. I learned of his departure from Liputin, and just then, somehow in conversation, found out from him that the Lebyadkins, brother and sister, were both somewhere across the river, in the potters' quarter. "It was I who took them across," Liputin added, and, dropping the Lebyadkin subject, suddenly declared to me that Lizaveta Nikolaevna was going to marry Mavriky Nikolaevich, and though it had not been announced yet, there had been an engagement and the matter was concluded. The next day I met Lizaveta Nikolaevna on horseback, accompanied by Mavriky Nikolaevich, venturing out for the first time after her illness. She flashed her eyes at me from afar, laughed, and gave me a very friendly nod. All this I conveyed to Stepan Trofimovich; he paid some attention only to the news about the Lebyadkins.

And now, having described our puzzled situation during those eight days, when we still did not know anything, I will set out to describe the subsequent events of my chronicle, this time knowingly, so to speak, as they have now been revealed and explained. I will begin precisely from the eighth day following that Sunday, that is, from Monday evening, because it was essentially from that evening that the "new story" began.

III

It was seven o'clock in the evening, and Nikolai Vsevolodovich was sitting alone in his study—his favorite room from long past, lofty, spread with carpets, filled with somewhat heavy, old-fashioned furniture. He sat in the corner on the sofa, dressed as if to go out, but he did not seem to be going anywhere. On the table before him stood a lamp with a shade. The sides and corners of this big room remained in shadow. His look was pensive and concentrated, not altogether at ease; his face was tired and had grown somewhat thin. He was indeed suffering from a swollen cheek; but the rumor about the knocked-out tooth was exaggerated. The tooth had been loosened, but was now firm again; the lower lip had also been cut inside, but this, too, had healed. It had taken a whole week for the swelling to go down only because he did not want to receive the doctor and have him lance the abscess, but waited until it broke of itself. Not just the doctor, he would scarcely even admit his mother, and then only for a moment, once a day, and inevitably at dusk, when it was already dark but before the lights had been brought in. He did not receive Pyotr Stepanovich either, who nevertheless ran by two or three times a day, while he was still in town, to see Varvara Petrovna. And then at last, on Monday, having returned in the morning from his three-day absence, having run all over town, and having dined at Yulia Mikhailovna's, Pyotr Stepanovich came at last in the evening to Varvara Petrovna, who was awaiting him impatiently. The ban had been lifted, Nikolai Vsevolodovich was receiving. Varvara Petrovna herself led the guest to the door of the study; she had long wanted this meeting, and Pyotr Stepanovich gave her his word that he would run to her from Nicolas and recount it all. She timidly knocked for Nikolai Vsevolodovich and, getting no answer, ventured to open the door a couple of inches.

"Nicolas, may I bring Pyotr Stepanovich in?" she asked softly and restrainedly, trying to make Nikolai Vsevolodovich out behind the lamp.

"You may, you may, of course you may!" Pyotr Stepanovich himself cried loudly and gaily, opened the door with his own hand, and walked in.

Nikolai Vsevolodovich had not heard the knock on the door, he heard only his mother's timid question, but had no time to answer it. At that moment there lay before him a letter he had just read, over which he was pondering deeply. Hearing Pyotr Stepanovich's sudden cry, he started and quickly covered the letter with a paperweight that happened to be there, but not quite successfully: a corner of the letter and almost the entire envelope could be seen.

"I cried as loud as I could on purpose, to give you time to get ready,” Pyotr Stepanovich whispered hastily, with surprising naivety, running over to the desk and instantly fixing his eyes on the paperweight and the corner of the letter.

"And of course you had time to spy me hiding this just-received letter under the paperweight," Nikolai Vsevolodovich said calmly, without stirring from his seat.

"A letter? For heaven's sake, what's your letter to me!" the guest exclaimed. "But... the main thing," he whispered again, turning towards the door, now closed, and nodding in that direction.

"She never eavesdrops," Nikolai Vsevolodovich observed coolly.

"I mean, what if she did eavesdrop!" Pyotr Stepanovich picked up at once, raising his voice gaily and sitting down in an armchair. "I've got nothing against it, I just ran by to have a private chat with you ... So I've got you at last! First of all, how is your health? I see, it's excellent, and perhaps you'll come tomorrow—eh?"

"Perhaps."

"But, release them, finally, release me!" he was gesticulating frantically, with a jocular and agreeable air. "If you knew the babble I've had to produce for them. But, then, you do know." He laughed.

"I don't know everything. I've only heard from mother that you've been very much ... on the move."

"I mean, it wasn't anything specific," Pyotr Stepanovich suddenly heaved himself up, as if he were defending himself against some terrible attack, "you know, I pulled out Shatov's wife, I mean rumors about your liaison in Paris, which, of course, explained Sunday's incident... you're not angry?"

"I'm sure you tried very hard."

"Ah, just what I was afraid of. Incidentally, what does 'tried very hard' mean? It's a reproach. You put it straight, however; what I was most afraid of when I was coming here was that you wouldn't want to put it straight."

"I don't want to put anything straight," Nikolai Vsevolodovich said, with some irritation, but he grinned at once.

"I don't mean that, not that, don't take me wrong, not that!" Pyotr Stepanovich waved his hands, spilling the words out like peas, delighting at once in the master's irritability. "I won't irritate you with our thing, especially in your present situation. I ran by only to talk about Sunday's incident, and that only so far as necessary, because it's really impossible. I've come with the most open explanations, and it's mainly I who need them, not you—that's for your vanity, but all the same it's the truth. I've come so as always to be frank from now on."

"So you weren't frank before?"

"And you know it yourself. I was cunning a lot of the time... you smile; I'm very glad of your smile, as a pretext for an explanation; I evoked your smile on purpose with the boastful word 'cunning,' so that you'd immediately get angry at my daring to think I could be cunning, and so as to explain myself at once. See, see how frank I've become now! Well, sir, will you kindly hear me out?"

The expression of Nikolai Vsevolodovich's face, contemptuously calm and even derisive, despite all the obviousness of the guest's wish to annoy his host with the insolence of his crude naiveties, prepared beforehand and intentionally, expressed at last a somewhat uneasy curiosity.

"Listen, now," Pyotr Stepanovich began to fidget more than ever. "When I set out to come here, I mean, here generally, to this town, ten days ago, I decided, of course, to adopt a role. The best would be no role at all, just one's own person, isn't that so? Nothing is more cunning than one's own person, because no one will believe you. To be frank, I wanted to adopt the silly fool, because the silly fool is easier than one's own person; but since the silly fool is, after all, an extreme thing, and extreme things arouse curiosity, I finally chose my own person. Well, sir, and what is my own person? The golden mean— neither stupid nor smart, rather giftless, and dropped from the moon, as sensible people here say, isn't that so?"

"Well, maybe it is," Nikolai Vsevolodovich smiled slightly.

"Ah, you agree—I'm very glad; I knew beforehand that these were your own thoughts... Don't worry, don't worry, I'm not angry, and I didn't define myself in that way to provoke your reverse praises: 'No, you're not giftless, no, you're smart...' Ah, you're smiling again! ... I've been caught again. You wouldn't say 'you're smart'— well, all right, I accept all that. Passons, as papa says, and, in parenthesis, don't be angry at my verbosity. Incidentally, here's an example for you: I always speak a lot, I mean, a lot of words, and I rush, and it always comes out wrong. And why is it that I speak a lot of words and it comes out wrong? Because I don't know how to speak. Those who know how to speak well, speak briefly. So, there you have my giftlessness—isn't it true? But since this gift of giftlessness is natural to me, why shouldn't I use it artificially? And so I do. True, as I was preparing to come here, I first had the thought of being silent; but to be silent is a great talent, and is therefore not fitting for me, and, second, it's dangerous to be silent, after all; well, so I finally decided that it would be best to talk, but precisely in a giftless way, I mean, a lot, a lot, a lot, to be in a great rush to prove something, and towards the end to get tangled up in one's own proofs, so that the listener throws up his hands, or, best of all, just spits and walks away without any end. The result will be, first, that you've convinced him of your simpleheartedness, have been very tiresome, and haven't been understood—all three profits at once! For pity's sake, who is going to start suspecting you of mysterious designs after that? No, there's not one of them who wouldn't be personally offended with anybody who said I had mysterious designs. And, what's more, I sometimes make them laugh—and that is priceless. No, they'll forgive me everything for this alone, that the wise man who published tracts there has turned out here to be stupider than they are, isn't that so? I can see by your smile that you approve."

Incidentally, Nikolai Vsevolodovich was not smiling at all, but, on the contrary, was listening frowningly and somewhat impatiently.

"Eh? What? Did I hear you say 'Who cares?'" Pyotr Stepanovich rattled on (Nikolai Vsevolodovich had not said anything at all). "Of course, of course; I assure you it's not at all so as to compromise you with comradeship. And, you know, you're terribly jumpy today; I came running to you with an open and cheerful soul, and you pick up every dropped stitch; I assure you I won't talk about anything ticklish today, I give you my word, and I accept all your conditions beforehand!"

Nikolai Vsevolodovich was obstinately silent.

"Eh? What? Did you say something? I see, I see, it seems I've blundered again; you didn't offer any conditions, and you're not going to, I believe it, I believe it, but don't worry; I know it's not worth my while offering them myself, right? I'll answer for you beforehand, and—from giftlessness, of course; giftlessness, giftlessness... You're laughing? Eh? What?"

"Nothing," Nikolai Vsevolodovich finally grinned, "I just remembered that I did once call you giftless, but you weren't there, so you must have been told ... I might ask you to get down to business quickly."

"But I am down to business, it precisely has to do with Sunday!" Pyotr Stepanovich babbled. "So, what, what was I on Sunday, in your opinion? Precisely a hasty, giftless mediocrity, and I took over the conversation by force in the most giftless way. But I was forgiven everything, because first of all I'm from the moon, that seems to have been decided on by everyone now; and, second, because I told a lovely little story and rescued the lot of you—right? right?"

"That is, you told it precisely so as to leave doubts and show our patching and shuffling, when there wasn't any patching and I never asked you to do anything at all."

"Precisely, precisely!" Pyotr Stepanovich picked up, as if in rapture. "I precisely did it that way, so that you would notice the whole spring; I was clowning mainly for you, because I was trying to catch you and wanted to compromise you. I mainly wanted to find out how afraid you were."

"Curious, why are you so frank now?"

"Don't be angry, don't be angry, don't flash your eyes ... But, then, you're not flashing them. You're curious why I'm so frank? But, precisely because everything's changed now, finished, passed, and overgrown with sand. I've suddenly changed my thinking about you. The old way is completely finished; I'll never compromise you in the old way now; now it's the new way."

"Changed your tactics?"

"There aren't any tactics. Now it's entirely your will in everything—I mean, say yes if you want, or no if you want. That's my new tactic. And about our business I won't even make a peep until you yourself tell me to. You're laughing? Be my guest; I'm laughing myself. But I'm serious now, serious, serious, though anyone who is in such a hurry is naturally giftless, no? Never mind, let it be giftless, but I'm serious, serious."

He was indeed speaking seriously, in quite a different tone and in some special agitation, so that Nikolai Vsevolodovich glanced at him curiously.

"You say you've changed your thinking about me?" he asked.

"I changed my thinking about you the moment you took your hands back after Shatov—and enough, enough, please, no questions, I won't say anything now."

He jumped up, in fact, waving his hands as if he were waving the questions away; but since there were no questions, and there was no reason for him to leave, he sat down in the chair again, somewhat calmer.

"Incidentally, in parenthesis," he went rattling on at once, "some people here are babbling that you're going to kill him, and are making bets, so that Lembke even thought of jogging the police, but Yulia Mikhailovna forbade it. . . Enough, enough of that, I was just letting you know. Incidentally, again: I had the Lebyadkins moved that same day, you know; did you get my note with their address?"

"I got it right then."

"That wasn't out of 'giftlessness,' it was done sincerely, out of willingness. If it came out as giftless, anyway it was sincere."

"Yes, never mind, maybe it had to be so ..." Nikolai Vsevolodovich said pensively. "Only don't write me any more notes, I beg you."

"Couldn't help it, just that once."

"So Liputin knows?"

"Couldn't help it, but you know yourself that Liputin doesn't dare... Incidentally, you ought to go and see our people—I mean, them, not our people—otherwise you'll be picking up my dropped stitches again. Don't worry, not now, but someday. It's raining now. I'll let them know, they'll get together, and we'll come in the evening. They're waiting with their mouths open, like baby jackdaws in a nest, to see what sort of treat we've brought them. A fervent lot. Got their books out, all ready to argue. Virginsky—an omni-man;^[80] Liputin—a Fourierist, with a strong propensity for police dealings; a valuable man, I must tell you, in one respect, but requiring strictness in all others; and, finally, that one with the long ears, he'll read us his own system. And, you know, they're offended that I treat them casually and pour cold water on them, heh, heh! But to go is certainly a must."

"You've presented me there as some sort of chief?" Nikolai Vsevolodovich let escape as casually as he could. Pyotr Stepanovich glanced quickly at him.

"Incidentally," he picked up, as if he had not heard, and quickly glossing it over, "I did call two or three times a day on the much esteemed Varvara Petrovna, and was again forced to talk a lot."

"I can imagine."

"No, don't imagine, I simply said that you won't kill anybody, and, well, all sorts of sweet things. And, imagine, she already knew the next day that I'd had Marya Timofeevna moved across the river—did you tell her?"

"Never occurred to me."

"I just knew it wasn't you. But who could have, besides you? Interesting."

"Liputin, of course."

"N-no, not Liputin," Pyotr Stepanovich muttered, frowning. "I know who. It looks like Shatov... Nonsense, though, let's drop it! Though it's terribly important... Incidentally, I kept waiting for your mother suddenly to blurt out the main question... Ah, yes, all those first days she was terribly glum, and suddenly when I came today— she's beaming all over. What's that about?"

"It's because I gave her my word today that I'd propose to Lizaveta Nikolaevna in five days," Nikolai Vsevolodovich suddenly said with unexpected frankness.

"Ah, well... yes, of course," Pyotr Stepanovich babbled, hesitating, as it were, "there are these rumors about an engagement, you know? It's true, though. But you're right. She'll come running from the foot of the altar, you only have to call. You're not angry that I'm like this?"

"No, I'm not."

"I've been noticing that it's terribly difficult to make you angry today, and I'm beginning to be afraid of you. I'm terribly curious about how you'll appear tomorrow. You must have a lot of tricks ready. You're not angry that I'm like this?"

Nikolai Vsevolodovich made no reply at all, which thoroughly vexed Pyotr Stepanovich.

"Incidentally, were you serious with your mother about Lizaveta Nikolaevna?" he asked.

Nikolai Vsevolodovich looked at him intently and coldly.

"Ah, I understand, it was just to calm her down, that's what."

"And if I was serious?" Nikolai Vsevolodovich asked firmly.

"Well, then God be with you, as they say in such cases, it won't harm anything (you see, I didn't say our thing; you don't like the word our), and I... well, as for me, I'm at your service, you know that."

"You think so?"

"I think nothing, nothing," Pyotr Stepanovich rushed on, laughing, "because I know you've thought over your affairs beforehand, and you have it all thought out. I'm just saying that I am seriously at your service, always and everywhere and in any event—I mean any, understand?"

Nikolai Vsevolodovich yawned.

"You're tired of me," Pyotr Stepanovich suddenly jumped up, seizing his round, quite new hat as if he were leaving, yet still remaining and continuing to talk ceaselessly, though he was standing, pacing the room from time to time and slapping himself on the knee with his hat at animated points in the conversation.

"I still hoped to amuse you with the Lembkes," he cried gaily.

"No, don't, maybe later. How is Yulia Mikhailovna's health, by the way?"

"You all have this social manner, really: you care as much about her health as you do about a gray cat's, and yet you ask. I praise that. She's well, and respects you to the point of superstition, and, also to the point of superstition, expects a lot of you. Concerning Sunday's incident she says nothing and is certain that you yourself will overcome everything with your appearance alone. By God, she imagines you can do God knows what. Anyhow, you're a mysterious and romantic figure, now more than ever—an extremely advantageous position. How they're waiting for you—it's incredible. It was hot enough when I was leaving, but now it's even more so. Incidentally, thanks again for that letter. They're all afraid of Count K. You know, they seem to look on you as a spy? I yes them—you're not angry?"

"It's all right."

"It is all right; it will be necessary in the future. They have their own customs here. I encourage them, of course; Yulia Mikhailovna is at the head, Gaganov also ... You're laughing? But I have a tactic: I blab and blab, then suddenly I say some intelligent word, precisely when they're all searching for it. They surround me, and I start blabbing again. They've all waved me away by now—'has abilities,' they say, 'but dropped from the moon.' Lembke's inviting me to go into the service, to straighten me out. You know, I tyrannize, I mean, I compromise him terribly—he just goggles his eyes. Yulia Mikhailovna encourages me. Ah, incidentally, Gaganov is terribly angry with you. Yesterday, in Dukhovo, he spoke quite nastily about you. I immediately told him the whole truth—I mean, of course, not the whole truth. I spent the day at his place. A fine estate, a nice house."

"Can he still be in Dukhovo?" Nikolai Vsevolodovich suddenly heaved himself up, almost jumped, and made a strong move forward.

"No, it was he who drove me here this morning, we came back together," Pyotr Stepanovich said, as if he had not noticed Nikolai Vsevolodovich's momentary agitation at all. "Look at that, I've dropped a book." He bent down to pick up the keepsake^[81] he had brushed against. "'Balzac's Women, with illustrations"—he suddenly opened the book—"I haven't read it. Lembke also writes novels."

"Really?" Nikolai Vsevolodovich asked, as if interested.

"In Russian—secretly, of course. Yulia Mikhailovna knows and lets him. A duffer, but he has his ways; they've got it all worked out. What strictness of form, what self-possession! We could use some of that."

"You're praising the administration?"

"And why not? The only thing in Russia that's natural and achieved... I'll stop, I'll stop," he suddenly heaved himself up, "I didn't mean it, not a word about anything delicate. Anyhow, goodbye, you look a bit green."

"It's a fever."

"I believe it; you should go to bed. Incidentally, there are castrates in the district, curious people^[82]... Later, though. Here, though, is another little anecdote: there's an infantry regiment in the district.

Friday evening I was drinking with the officers in ——tsy. We have three friends there, vous comprenez? There was talk about atheism, and, of course, we cashiered God well and good. They were delighted, squealing. Incidentally, Shatov insists that to start a rebellion in Russia one must inevitably begin with atheism. Maybe he's right. One gray-haired boor of a captain sat and sat, silent, not saying a word; suddenly he stands up in the middle of the room and says, so loudly, you know, as if to himself: 'If there's no God, then what sort of captain am I?'—took his cap, threw up his arms, and walked out."

"Having uttered a rather well rounded thought," Nikolai Vsevolodovich yawned for the third time.

"Really? I didn't understand it; I was going to ask you. Well, what else have I got for you? The Shpigulins' factory is interesting; five hundred workers there, as you know, a hotbed of cholera, they haven't cleaned the place in fifteen years, and they cheat their employees; the owners are millionaires. I can assure you some of the workers have a notion of what the Internationale^[83] is. Did you smile? You'll see for yourself, just give me a tiny, tiny bit of time! I've already asked you for some time, and now I'm asking for more, and then... sorry, though, I won't, I won't, I don't mean that, don't scowl. Anyhow, good-bye. Ah, what's the matter with me?" he suddenly turned back. "I completely forgot the main thing: I was just told that our box has come from Petersburg."

"Meaning?" Nikolai Vsevolodovich looked at him uncomprehendingly.

"Meaning your box, your things, tailcoats, trousers, linen—has it come? Is it true?"

"Yes, I heard something earlier."

"Ah, might it be possible, now! ..."

"Ask Alexei."

"Then tomorrow? Tomorrow? In with your things there are also my jacket, my tailcoat, and three pairs of trousers, from Charmeur's,^[84]on your recommendation, remember?"

"I've heard you're playing the gallant around here?" Nikolai Vsevolodovich grinned. "Is it true you're going to take lessons from a riding-master?"

Pyotr Stepanovich smiled a crooked smile.

"You know," he suddenly hurried excessively, in a quivering and faltering voice, "you know, Nikolai Vsevolodovich, with regard to persons, we'll drop that once and for all, right? You may, of course, despise me as much as you like, if you find it so amusing, but still it would be better not to be personal for a while, right?"

"Very well, I won't do it again," said Nikolai Vsevolodovich. Pyotr Stepanovich grinned, slapped his knee with his hat, shifted from one foot to the other, and assumed his former expression.

"There are some here who even consider me your rival with Lizaveta Nikolaevna, so how can I not think of my appearance?" he laughed. "Who has been informing you, though? Hm. It's precisely eight o'clock; well, I'm off; I promised to call on Varvara Petrovna, but I'll pass that up; you go to bed and tomorrow you'll feel more chipper. It's dark and raining outside, I have a cab, though, because the streets aren't quiet here at night. . . Ah, incidentally: there's a certain Fedka the Convict wandering around town and hereabouts, a fugitive from Siberia, imagine, my former household serf, whom papa packed off to the army fifteen years ago, to make some money.^[85] A very remarkable man."

"Have you... talked with him?" Nikolai Vsevolodovich glanced up.

"I have. He's not hiding from me. A man ready for anything, anything—for money, naturally, but there are convictions there, too, of his own kind, of course. Ah, yes, again incidentally: if you were serious just now about that plan, remember, to do with Lizaveta Nikolaevna, then I repeat once more that I, too, am a man ready for anything, in all senses, whatever you like, and am completely at your service ... What, are you reaching for your stick? Ah, no, it's not your stick... Imagine, I thought you were looking for your stick."

Nikolai Vsevolodovich was not looking for anything and did not say anything, but he did indeed rise a little, somehow suddenly, with some strange movement in his face.

"Or if you need something in connection with Mr. Gaganov," Pyotr Stepanovich suddenly blurted out, this time nodding directly at the paperweight, "I can, of course, arrange everything, and I'm sure you won't pass me up."

He suddenly walked out without waiting for a reply, but then stuck his head back in through the doorway.

"Because," he cried in a patter, "Shatov, for example, also had no right to risk his life on Sunday when he went up to you, right? I wish you to make note of that."

He disappeared again, without waiting for a reply.

IV

He may have thought, as he disappeared, that when Nikolai Vsevolodovich was left alone he would start pounding the wall with his fists, and no doubt he would have been glad to peek in, if only it had been possible. But he would have been very disappointed: Nikolai Vsevolodovich remained calm. For a couple of minutes he stood by the desk in the same position, apparently deep in thought; but soon a cold, listless smile forced itself to his lips. He slowly sat down on the sofa, in his former place in the corner, and closed his eyes as if from fatigue. The corner of the letter was still peeking out from under the paperweight, but he made no move to put it right.

Soon he became totally oblivious. Varvara Petrovna, who had worn herself out with cares during those days, could not restrain herself, and after Pyotr Stepanovich, who had promised to stop and see her, left without keeping his promise, she herself ventured to visit Nicolas, though it was not her appointed time. She kept imagining: what if he were finally to say something definite? Softly, as before, she knocked on the door and, again receiving no reply, opened it herself. Seeing Nicolas sitting there somehow too motionlessly, she cautiously approached the sofa, her heart pounding. She was as if struck that he had fallen asleep so quickly and that he could sleep like that, sitting so straight and so motionlessly; even his breathing was almost imperceptible. His face was pale and stern, but as if quite frozen, motionless; his eyebrows were slightly knitted and frowning; he decidedly resembled an inanimate wax figure. She stood over him for three minutes or so, scarcely breathing, and was suddenly overcome with fear; she went out on tiptoe, paused in the doorway, hastily made a cross over him, and withdrew unnoticed, with a new heavy feeling, and a new anguish.

He slept for a long time, more than an hour, still in the same torpor; not a muscle in his face moved, not the slightest movement appeared in his whole body; his eyebrows remained as sternly knitted. If Varvara Petrovna had stayed another three minutes, she would certainly have been unable to bear the oppressive feeling of this lethargic motionlessness and would have wakened him. But suddenly he opened his eyes himself and, still without stirring, sat for another ten minutes as if peering persistently and curiously at some startling object in the corner of the room, though there was nothing there either new or unusual.

Finally there came the quiet, deep sound of the big wall clock striking once. With a certain uneasiness he turned his head to look at the face of the clock, but at almost the same moment the far door, giving onto the corridor, opened, and the valet Alexei Yegorovich appeared. He was carrying a warm coat, a scarf, and a hat in one hand, and in the other a little silver salver on which a note was lying.

"Half past nine," he announced in a soft voice and, placing the clothing he had brought on a chair in the corner, held out to him the salver with the note—a small piece of paper, unsealed, with two penciled lines on it. Having glanced over these lines, Nikolai Vsevolodovich took a pencil from the desk, scribbled a couple of words at the end of the note, and put it back on the salver.

"To be delivered right after I leave, and now—to dress," he said, getting up from the sofa.

Noticing that he was wearing a light velvet jacket, he thought a bit and asked for a different, woolen frock coat to be brought, the one he wore on more formal evening visits. Finally, having dressed completely and put on his hat, he locked the door through which Varvara Petrovna had come to him and, taking the hidden letter from under the paperweight, silently walked out into the corridor, accompanied by Alexei Yegorovich. They went along the corridor to a narrow, stone back stairway, and went down to a hall that gave directly onto the garden. In a corner of the hall a lantern and a big umbrella stood ready.

"The rain being exceedingly heavy, the mud in our streets is intolerable," Alexei Yegorovich reported, in a last remote attempt to deflect his master from the journey. But the master opened his umbrella and silently walked out into the sodden and dripping old garden, dark as a cellar. The wind howled and swayed the tops of the half-bare trees, the narrow sand paths were swamped and slippery. Alexei Yegorovich went just as he was, in a tailcoat and bareheaded, lighting the way for some three steps ahead with the lantern.

"Won't we be noticed?" Nikolai Vsevolodovich asked suddenly.

"Not from the windows, what with everything having been foreseen beforehand," the servant replied softly and evenly.

"Mama has retired?"

"The mistress locked herself in, as she regularly has over the past few days, at nine o'clock sharp, and it's impossible for her to find out anything now. At what time should I expect you?" he added, making so bold as to pose a question.

"At one, or half past one, no later than two."

"Very good, sir."

Having passed through the garden along the winding paths they both knew by heart, they reached the stone garden wall, and there, in the far corner of the wall, they found a little door which led to a narrow and deserted lane and was almost always locked, but the key to which now turned up in Alexei Yegorovich's hands.

"Won't the door creak?" Nikolai Vsevolodovich questioned again.

But Alexei Yegorovich reported that it had been oiled just yesterday, "and today as well." He was now thoroughly soaked. Having opened the door, he gave the key to Nikolai Vsevolodovich.

"If you should be pleased to be undertaking a long trip, then I must report my being uncertain of the local folk, especially in the out-of-the-way lanes, and most of all across the river," he again could not restrain himself. He was an old servant, who had formerly taken care of Nikolai Vsevolodovich and used to dandle him in his arms, a serious and stern man, who liked hearing and reading about things divine.

"Don't worry, Alexei Yegorych."

"God bless you, sir, but only setting out upon good deeds."

"How's that?" Nikolai Vsevolodovich paused with one foot already in the lane.

Alexei Yegorovich firmly repeated his wish; never before would he have ventured to express it in such words, aloud, to his master.

Nikolai Vsevolodovich locked the door, put the key in his pocket, and went off down the lane, sinking several inches into the mud at every step. He finally came out onto a paved street, long and deserted. He knew the town like the back of his hand; but Bogoyavlensky Street was still a long way off. It was past ten o'clock when he finally stopped before the locked gate of Filippov's dark old house. Now that the Lebyadkins had moved out, the ground floor was left completely empty, with the windows boarded up, but there was light in Shatov's garret. As there was no bell, he began rapping on the gate with his fist. The little window opened and Shatov peeked out; it was pitch-dark, and hard to distinguish anything; Shatov peered for a long time, about a minute.

"Is it you?" he asked suddenly.

"Yes," the uninvited guest replied.

Shatov slammed the window, went down, and unlocked the gate. Nikolai Vsevolodovich stepped across the high sill and, without saying a word, walked past him straight to Kirillov's wing.

V

Here nothing was locked, or even closed. The entry way and the first two rooms were dark, but in the last room, where Kirillov lived and took his tea, light was shining and laughter could be heard, along with some strange little cries. Nikolai Vsevolodovich went towards the light, but stopped on the threshold without going in. Tea was on the table. In the middle of the room stood the old woman, the landlord's relative, bareheaded, wearing only a skirt, a rabbit-skin jacket, and shoes over her bare feet. She was holding in her arms a one-and-a-half-year-old baby, dressed only in a little shirt, with bare legs, flushed cheeks, tousled white hair, fresh from the crib. It must have been crying; tears still clung to its eyes; but at that moment it was reaching out its arms, clapping its hands, and laughing, as little children do, with a choke in its voice. Kirillov was bouncing a big, red rubber ball on the floor in front of it; the ball bounced up to the ceiling, came down again, the baby shouted: "Ba, ba!" Kirillov caught the "ba" and gave it to the baby, the baby threw the ball itself with its clumsy little hands, and Kirillov ran to pick it up again. Finally, the "ba" rolled under the wardrobe. "Ba, ba!" shouted the baby. Kirillov bent down to the floor and reached out, trying to get the "ba" from under the wardrobe with his hand. Nikolai Vsevolodovich entered the room; the baby, seeing him, clutched at the old woman and dissolved in a long, infantile cry; she carried it out at once.

"Stavrogin?" said Kirillov, raising himself from the floor a little, the ball in his hands, without the least surprise at the unexpected visit. "Want some tea?"

He stood up all the way.

"Very much, I won't refuse, if it's warm," said Nikolai Vsevolodovich. "I'm soaked through."

"Warm, even hot," Kirillov confirmed with pleasure. "Sit down: you're muddy; never mind; I'll mop later with a wet rag."

Nikolai Vsevolodovich sat down and drank the full cup almost at one gulp.

"More?" asked Kirillov.

"No thanks."

Kirillov, who had not sat down yet, at once seated himself across from him and asked:

"What have you come for?"

"Business. Here, read this letter, from Gaganov—remember, I told you in Petersburg."

Kirillov took the letter, read it, put it on the table, and looked up expectantly.

"As you know," Nikolai Vsevolodovich began to explain, "I met this Gaganov a month ago in Petersburg, for the first time in my life. We ran into each other about three times in public. Without making my acquaintance or speaking with me, he still found an opportunity for being very impudent. I told you at the time; but here is something you don't know: at that time, leaving Petersburg before I did, he suddenly sent me a letter which, though unlike this one, was still improper in the highest degree, and strange if only in that it contained no explanation of why it had been written. I replied to him at once, also with a letter, in which I stated quite frankly that he was probably angry with me for the incident with his father four years earlier, here at the club, and that for my part I was prepared to give him every possible apology, on the grounds that my action had been unintentional and caused by illness. I asked him to take my apologies into consideration. He did not reply, and left; and now I find him here completely enraged. I've been told of his several public comments about me, utterly abusive and with astounding accusations. Finally, today comes this letter—such as no one, surely, has ever received, with curses and such expressions as: 'your beaten mug.' I've come in hopes that you will not refuse to be my second."

"You say a letter no one received," Kirillov remarked. "In rage it's possible; written more than once. Pushkin wrote to Heeckeren.^[86] All right, I'll go. Tell me how."

Nikolai Vsevolodovich explained that he wanted it to be tomorrow, and that he would certainly begin with the renewal of his apologies, and even with the promise of a second letter of apology, but with the understanding that Gaganov, for his part, should also promise not to write any more letters. The letter in hand would be regarded as never having existed.

"Too many concessions; he won't agree," Kirillov said.

"I've come primarily to find out whether you will agree to take these conditions to him."

"I will. It's your affair. But he won't agree."

"I know he won't."

"He wants to fight. Tell how you'll fight."

"The point is that I'd like to finish it all tomorrow for certain. You'll be at his place around nine in the morning. He'll listen and not agree, but he'll get you together with his second—say at around eleven. You'll arrange things, and by one or two everyone should be on the spot. Please try to do it that way. The weapon is pistols, of course, and I especially ask you to arrange it like this: the barriers should be ten paces apart; then you place each of us ten paces from the barrier, and at a sign we start walking towards each other. Each must be sure to reach his barrier, but he can fire before, as he's walking. That's all, I believe."

"Ten paces between barriers is too close," Kirillov observed.

"Twelve, then, only not more, you understand, he seriously wants to fight. Do you know how to load a pistol?"

"I do. I have pistols; I'll give my word that you've never fired them. His second will also give his word about his; two pair, and we'll do odds and evens, his or ours."

"Fine."

"Want to see the pistols?"

"Why not?"

Kirillov squatted down in front of his suitcase in the corner, which was still not unpacked, but from which he took things as he needed them. He pulled from the bottom a boxwood case lined with red velvet, and took from it a pair of elegant, extremely expensive pistols.

"I have everything: powder, bullets, cartridges. I also have a revolver, wait."

He again went into the suitcase and pulled out another case, with a six-chambered American revolver.

"You've got plenty of weapons, and very expensive ones."

"Very. Extremely."

The poor, almost destitute Kirillov—who, incidentally, never noticed his destitution—was now obviously boasting as he displayed the treasures of his weaponry, no doubt acquired at great sacrifice.

"You're still of the same mind?" Stavrogin asked, after a moment's silence, and somewhat cautiously.

"The same," Kirillov answered curtly, guessing at once by the tone what he was being asked about, and he began to remove the weapons from the table.

"When?" Nikolai Vsevolodovich asked even more cautiously, again after some silence.

Kirillov meanwhile put both cases into the suitcase and sat down in his former chair.

"That's not up to me, as you know; when they say," he muttered, as if the question were somewhat burdensome, but at the same time with an obvious readiness to answer all other questions. He looked at Stavrogin, not tearing his black, lusterless eyes away, with a certain calm but kind and affable feeling.

"I, of course, understand shooting oneself," Nikolai Vsevolodovich began again, frowning somewhat, after a long, three-minute-long, thoughtful silence. "I myself have sometimes imagined, and there's always some new thought here: if one did some villainy or, worse, some shame, that is, disgrace, only very mean and ... ludicrous, so that people would remember it for a thousand years and spit on it for a thousand years, and suddenly comes the thought: 'One blow in the temple, and there will be nothing.' What do I care then about people and how they'll be spitting for a thousand years, right?"

"You call that it's a new thought?" Kirillov said, after some reflection.

"I... don't call... once, when I reflected, I felt quite a new thought."

"'Felt a thought'?" Kirillov repeated. "That's good. Many thoughts are there all the time, and suddenly become new. That's right. I see much now as if for the first time."

"Suppose you lived on the moon," Stavrogin interrupted, not listening and continuing his thought, "suppose that there you did all those ludicrous, nasty things... From here you know for certain that there they'll laugh and spit on your name for a thousand years, eternally, all over the moon. But you are here now, and you're looking at the moon from here: what do you care here about all you've done there, or that they'll spit on you there for a thousand years, isn't it true?"

"I don't know," Kirillov answered. "I haven't been on the moon," he added, without any irony, solely to note the fact.

"Whose baby was that just now?"

"The old woman's mother-in-law came; no, daughter-in-law ... it makes no difference. Three days. She's lying sick, with the baby; cries a lot at night—stomach. The mother sleeps, and the old woman brings it; I give it the ball. The ball's from Hamburg. Bought in Hamburg, to throw and catch: strengthens the back. A girl."

"You love children?"

"I love them," Kirillov echoed—quite indifferently, however.

"So, you also love life?"

"Yes, I also love life, what of it?"

"Yet you've resolved to shoot yourself."

"So what? Why together? Life's separate, and that's separate. Life is, and death is not at all."

"You've started believing in the future eternal life?"

"No, not future eternal, but here eternal. There are moments, you reach moments, and time suddenly stops, and will be eternal."

"You hope to reach such a moment?"

"Yes."

"It's hardly possible in our time," Nikolai Vsevolodovich responded, also without any irony, slowly and as if thoughtfully. "In the Apocalypse the angel swears that time will be no more."^[87]

"I know. It's quite correct there; clear and precise. When all mankind attains happiness, time will be no more, because there's no need. A very correct thought."

"And where are they going to hide it?"

"Nowhere. Time isn't an object, it's an idea. It will die out in the mind."

"Old philosophical places, the same since the beginning of the ages," Stavrogin muttered with a certain squeamish regret.

"The same! The same since the beginning of the ages, and no others, ever!" Kirillov picked up with flashing eyes, as if this idea held nothing short of victory.

"You seem to be very happy, Kirillov?"

"Yes, very happy," the latter replied, as if making the most ordinary reply.

"But you were upset still so recently, angry with Liputin?"

"Hm... now I'm not scolding. Then I didn't know I was happy yet. Have you seen a leaf, a leaf from a tree?"

"I have."

"I saw one recently, a yellow one, with some green, decayed on the edges. Blown about by the wind. When I was ten years old, I'd close my eyes on purpose, in winter, and imagine a leaf—green, bright, with veins, and the sun shining. I'd open my eyes and not believe it, because it was so good, then I'd close them again."

"What's that, an allegory?"

"N-no... why? Not an allegory, simply a leaf, one leaf. A leaf is good. Everything is good."

"Everything?"

"Everything. Man is unhappy because he doesn't know he's happy; only because of that. It's everything, everything! Whoever learns will at once immediately become happy, that same moment. This mother-in-law will die, and the girl will remain—everything is good. I discovered suddenly."

"And if someone dies of hunger, or someone offends and dishonors the girl—is that good?"

"Good. And if someone's head gets smashed in for the child's sake, that's good, too; and if it doesn't get smashed in, that's good, too. Everything is good, everything. For all those who know that everything is good. If they knew it was good with them, it would be good with them, but as long as they don't know it's good with them, it will not be good with them. That's the whole thought, the whole, there isn't any more!"

"And when did you find out that you were so happy?"

"Last week, on Tuesday, no, Wednesday, because it was Wednesday by then, in the night."

"And what was the occasion?"

"I don't remember, just so; I was pacing the room ... it makes no difference. I stopped my clock, it was two thirty-seven."

"As an emblem that time should stop?"

Kirillov did not reply.

"They're not good," he suddenly began again, "because they don't know they're good. When they find out, they won't violate the girl. They must find out that they're good, then they'll all become good at once, all, to a man."

"Well, you did find out, so you must be good?"

"I am good."

"With that I agree, incidentally," Stavrogin muttered frowningly.

"He who teaches that all are good, will end the world."

"He who taught it was crucified."

"He will come, and his name is the man-god."

"The God-man?"

"The man-god—that's the whole difference."^[88]

"Can it be you who lights the icon lamp?"

"Yes, I lit it."

"You've become a believer?"

"The old woman likes the icon lamp... she's busy today," Kirillov muttered.

"But you don't pray yet?"

"I pray to everything. See, there's a spider crawling on the wall, I look and am thankful to it for crawling."

His eyes lit up again. He kept looking straight at Stavrogin, his gaze firm and unflinching. Stavrogin watched him frowningly and squeamishly, but there was no mockery in his eyes.

"I bet when I come the next time you'll already believe in God," he said, getting up and grabbing his hat.

"Why?" Kirillov also rose.

"If you found out that you believe in God, you would believe; but since you don't know yet that you believe in God, you don't believe," Nikolai Vsevolodovich grinned.

"It's not that," Kirillov thought it over, "you've inverted my thought. A drawing-room joke. Remember what you've meant in my life, Stavrogin."

"Good-bye, Kirillov."

"Come at night. When?"

"Why, you haven't forgotten about tomorrow?"

"Ah, I forgot, don't worry, I won't oversleep; at nine o'clock. I can wake up whenever I want to. I go to bed and say: at seven o'clock, and I wake up at seven; at ten o'clock, and I wake up at ten."

"You have remarkable qualities," Nikolai Vsevolodovich looked at his pale face.

"I'll go and unlock the gate."

"Don't bother. Shatov will unlock it."

"Ah, Shatov. Very well, good-bye."

VI

The porch of the empty house where Shatov lodged was not locked; but on going into the entryway, Stavrogin found himself in complete darkness and began feeling with his hand for the stairway to the attic. Suddenly the door opened upstairs and light appeared; Shatov did not come out himself, but only opened his door. When Nikolai Vsevolodovich stood on the threshold of the room, he made him out in the corner by the table, standing expectantly.

"Will you receive me on business?" he asked from the threshold.

"Come in and sit down," Shatov replied, "lock the door—wait, I'll do it."

He locked the door with a key, went back to the table, and sat down facing Nikolai Vsevolodovich. During that week he had lost weight and now seemed to be in a fever.

"You've been tormenting me," he said, looking down, in a soft half-whisper, "why didn't you come?"

"Were you so certain I'd come?"

"Yes, wait, I was delirious... maybe I'm delirious now... Wait."

He stood up and got hold of something on the topmost of his three bookshelves, on the edge. It was a revolver.

"One night I had a delirium that you would come and kill me, and early in the morning I bought a revolver with my last money, from that worthless Lyamshin; I didn't want to give in to you. Later I came to my senses ... I have no powder or bullets; it's been lying on the shelf ever since. Wait..."

He rose and opened the vent window.^[89]

"Don't throw it out, what for?" Nikolai Vsevolodovich stopped him. "It cost money, and tomorrow people will start saying there are revolvers lying around under Shatov's window. Put it back, so, and sit down. Tell me, why are you as if repenting before me for thinking I would come and kill you? And I haven't come now to make peace, but to talk about necessary things. Explain to me, first of all: you didn't hit me because of my liaison with your wife?"

"You know I didn't," Shatov looked down again.

"And not because you believed the stupid gossip about Darya Pavlovna?"

"No, no, of course not! Stupid! My sister told me from the very beginning .. ." Shatov said impatiently and sharply, even stamping his foot slightly.

"Then I guessed right, and so did you," Stavrogin continued in a calm tone. "It's true: Marya Timofeevna Lebyadkin is my lawful wife, married to me in Petersburg about four and a half years ago. You hit me on account of her, didn't you?"

Shatov, totally astounded, listened and said nothing.

"I guessed, but didn't believe it," he finally muttered, looking strangely at Stavrogin.

"And you hit me?"

Shatov blushed and began to mutter almost incoherently:

"For your fall... for the lie. I didn't go up to you in order to punish you; as I was going I didn't know I would hit you ... It was for your having meant so much in my life... I..."

"I understand, I understand, save your words. It's too bad you're in a fever; I've come with the most necessary business."

"I've been waiting too long for you," Shatov somehow nearly shook all over and rose slightly from his seat. "Tell me your business, I'll tell you, too... afterwards..."

He sat down.

"The business isn't of that kind," Nikolai Vsevolodovich began, studying him with curiosity. "Owing to certain circumstances, I was obliged to choose this hour, today, to come and warn you that it's possible you will be killed."

Shatov stared wildly at him.

"I knew I could be in danger," he said in measured tones, "but you, how can you know it?"

"Because I, too, belong to them, as you do, and am a member of their society, as you are."

"You... you are a member of the society?"

"I see by your eyes that you expected anything but that from me," Nikolai Vsevolodovich grinned slightly. "But, I beg your pardon, so you already knew there was to be an attempt against you?"

"I never thought so. And don't think so now, either, in spite of your words, though... though who could vouch for anything with those fools!" he suddenly cried out in fury, banging his fist on the table. "I'm not afraid of them! I've broken with them. That one ran by four times and said it was possible ... but," he looked at Stavrogin, "what do you actually know about it?"

"Don't worry, I'm not deceiving you," Stavrogin went on rather coldly, with the air of a man who was merely fulfilling his duty. "You're testing what I know? I know that you joined this society abroad, two years ago, still under the old organization, just before your trip to America, and, I believe, right after our last conversation, of which you wrote me so much in your letter from America. By the way, forgive me for not answering with a letter of my own, and limiting myself to ..."

"To sending money—wait," Shatov stopped him, hastily pulled open a drawer in the table, and took an iridescent banknote from under some papers, "here, take it, the hundred roubles you sent me; without you I'd have perished there. I wouldn't have paid it back for a long time if it weren't for your mother: she gave me that hundred roubles nine months ago, on account of my poverty, after my illness. But go on, please ..."

He was breathless.

"In America you changed your thinking and, on returning to Switzerland, wanted to renounce. They gave no answer, but charged you to receive some printing press here in Russia from somebody, and to keep it until you turned it over to a person who would come to you from them. I don't know it all with complete precision, but that seems right in the main? And you undertook it in the hope, or on the condition, that it would be their last demand, and that after that they would let you go entirely. All this, right or wrong, I learned not from them but quite accidentally. But what you don't seem to know yet is that these gentlemen have no intention of parting with you."

"That's absurd!" Shatov yelled. "I declared honestly that I disagree with them in everything! It's my right, my right of conscience and thought ... I won't have it! There is no power that could..."

"You know, you shouldn't shout," Nikolai Vsevolodovich stopped him very seriously. "This little Verkhovensky is the kind of man who could be eavesdropping on us now, with his own or someone else's ear, maybe in your own entryway. Even the drunkard Lebyadkin was all but obliged to keep watch on you, and perhaps you on him, right? Better tell me: has Verkhovensky accepted your arguments now, or not?"

"He's accepted; he says it's possible, and I have the right..."

"Well, then he's deceiving you. I know that even Kirillov, who hardly belongs to them at all, has furnished information on you; as for agents, they have a lot of them, some who don't even know they're serving the society. You've always been watched. Among other things, Pyotr Verkhovensky came here to resolve your case finally, and is authorized to do so—namely, by destroying you at an opportune moment, as someone who knows too much and may inform. I repeat that this is certain; and allow me to add that for some reason they are fully convinced that you are a spy, and that if you haven't informed yet, you will. Is that true?"

Shatov twisted his mouth on hearing such a question, uttered in such a matter-of-fact tone.

"Even if I were a spy, where would I go to inform?" he said spitefully, without giving a direct answer. "No, enough about me, to hell with me!" he cried, suddenly grasping his original thought, which had shaken him so much, by all evidence incomparably more strongly than the news of his own danger. "You, you, Stavrogin, how could you mix yourself in with such shameless, giftless, lackeyish absurdity! You a member of their society! And this is Nikolai Stavrogin's great exploit!" he cried out, all but in despair.

He even clasped his hands, as though nothing could be more bitter and dismal to him than such a discovery.

"Forgive me," Nikolai Vsevolodovich really was surprised, "but you seem to look upon me as some sort of sun, and upon yourself as some sort of bug compared with me. I noticed it even in your letter from America."

"You... you know... Ah, better let's drop me altogether, altogether!" Shatov suddenly cut himself short. "If you can explain anything about yourself, explain it... Answer my question!" he kept repeating feverishly.

"With pleasure. You ask how I could mix myself in with such a slum? After my communication, I even owe you a certain frankness in this matter. You see, in a strict sense I don't belong to this society at all, never did belong, and have far more right than you to leave them, since I never even joined them. On the contrary, from the very beginning I announced to them that I was no friend of theirs, and if I chanced to help them, it was just so, as an idle man. I participated partly in the reorganization of the society according to the new plan, and that's all. But now they've thought better of it, and have decided among themselves that it's also dangerous to let me go, so it seems that I, too, am under sentence."

"Oh, with them it's capital punishment for everything, and everything's on instructions, with sealed orders, signed by three and a half men. And you believe they're capable!"

"There you're partly right and partly not," Stavrogin went on with the same indifference, even listlessness. "No doubt there's considerable fantasy, as always in such cases: the crew exaggerates its size and significance. In my opinion, if you like, Pyotr Verkhovensky is the only one they have, and it's much too nice of him to consider himself merely the agent of his own society. However, the basic idea is no more stupid than others of the sort. They have connections with the Internationale; they've succeeded in placing agents in Russia, they've even stumbled onto a rather original method... but, of course, only in theory. As for their intentions here, the activities of our Russian organization are such an obscure affair, and almost always so unexpected, that anything might actually be tried. Note that Verkhovensky is a persistent man."

"He's a bedbug, an ignoramus, a tomfool, who doesn't understand a thing about Russia!" Shatov cried spitefully.

"You know him very little. It's true that they all generally understand little about Russia, but perhaps only slightly less than you and I; and, besides, Verkhovensky is an enthusiast."

"Verkhovensky an enthusiast?"

"Oh, yes. There's a point where he ceases to be a buffoon and turns half crazy. I ask you to recall an expression of yours: 'Do you know how strong one man can be?' Please don't laugh, he's quite capable of pulling a trigger. They're sure that I, too, am a spy. For lack of skill in conducting their own affairs, they're all terribly fond of accusations of spying."

"But you're not afraid, are you?"

"N-no... I'm not much afraid... But your case is quite different. I've warned you so that you can at least keep it in mind. I don't think you should be offended that you're being threatened by fools; their intelligence is not the point: they've raised their hand against better than you and me. However, it's a quarter past eleven," he looked at his watch and got up from his chair. "I'd like to ask you one quite unrelated question."

"For God's sake!" Shatov exclaimed, jumping up impetuously from his seat.

"Meaning what?" Nikolai Vsevolodovich looked at him questioningly.

"Do ask, ask me your question, for God's sake," Shatov repeated, in inexpressible agitation, "only I'm also going to ask you a question. I beg you to allow me ... I can't... ask me your question!"

Stavrogin waited a little and then began:

"I've heard you had some influence here on Marya Timofeevna, and that she liked seeing and listening to you. Is it so?"

"Yes... she did listen..." Shatov was somewhat embarrassed.

"I have the intention of announcing my marriage to her one of these days, publicly, here in town."

"Can it be possible?" Shatov whispered, almost horrified.

"In what sense do you mean? There are no difficulties about it; the witnesses to the marriage are here. It all took place back in Petersburg in a completely calm and lawful manner, and if it hasn't been revealed before now, that is simply because the only two witnesses to the marriage, Kirillov and Pyotr Verkhovensky, and, finally, Lebyadkin himself (whom I now have the pleasure of regarding as my relation), gave their word at the time to keep silent."

"I don't mean that... You talk so calmly ... but go on! Listen, you weren't forced into this marriage, were you?"

"No, no one forced me," Nikolai Vsevolodovich smiled at Shatov's provocative haste.

"And what's all this talk of hers about her baby?" Shatov hurried on, feverishly and disconnectedly.

"About her baby? Hah! I didn't know, it's the first time I've heard of it. She had no baby, and couldn't have: Marya Timofeevna is a virgin."

"Ah! Just as I thought! Listen!"

"What's the matter with you, Shatov?"

Shatov hid his face in his hands, turned away, but suddenly seized Stavrogin firmly by the shoulder.

"Do you know, do you at least know," he shouted, "why you did it all, and why you've decided on such a punishment now?"

"Your question is intelligent and caustic, but I am also going to surprise you: yes, I do almost know why I got married then, and why I've decided on such a 'punishment,' as you put it, now."

"Let's leave that... of that later, don't say yet; but about the main thing, the main thing: I've been waiting two years for you."

"Really?"

"I've been waiting too long a time for you, I've been thinking ceaselessly about you. You are the only man who could ... I wrote you about it still in America."

"I remember well your long letter."

"Too long to read? I agree: six sheets of writing paper. Keep still, keep still! Tell me: can you give me ten more minutes, but right now, at once?... I've been waiting too long for you!"

"I can give you half an hour, if you like, but not more, if that's possible for you."

"And with this, by the way," Shatov went on fiercely, "that you change your tone. Do you hear? I demand, when I ought to implore ... Do you understand what it means to demand when one ought to implore?"

"I understand that you thereby rise above common things for the sake of higher purposes," Nikolai Vsevolodovich grinned slightly. "I also regret to see that you are in a fever."

"I ask, I demand to be respected!" Shatov went on shouting. "Not for my person—to hell with it—but for something else, just for now, for a few words... We are two beings, and we have come together in infinity... for the last time in the world. Abandon your tone and take a human one! At least for once in your life speak in a human voice. Not for my sake, but for your own. Do you understand that you should forgive me that slap in the face if only because with it I gave you an opportunity to know your infinite power... Again you smile that squeamish, worldly smile. Oh, when will you understand me! Away with the young squire! Understand that I demand it, I do, otherwise I'm not going to speak, not for anything!"

His frenzy was reaching the point of raving; Nikolai Vsevolodovich frowned and seemed to become more guarded.

"If I have agreed to stay for half an hour," he said imposingly and seriously, "when time is so precious to me, then you may believe that I intend to listen to you with interest at least, and... and I am sure I shall hear much that is new from you."

He sat down on a chair.

"Sit down!" Shatov cried, and somehow suddenly sat down himself.

"Allow me to remind you, however," Stavrogin recalled once again, "that I had begun a whole request to you concerning Marya Timofeevna, a very important one, for her at least..."

"Well?" Shatov suddenly frowned, looking like someone who has suddenly been interrupted at the most important point, and who, though he is looking at you, has still not quite managed to grasp your question.

"And you didn't let me finish," Nikolai Vsevolodovich concluded with a smile.

"Eh, well, nonsense—later!" Shatov waved his hand squeamishly, having finally understood the claim, and went straight on to his main theme.

VII

"Do you know," he began almost menacingly, leaning forward a little on his chair, flashing his eyes and raising the forefinger of his right hand in front of him (obviously without noticing it), "do you know which is now the only 'god-bearing' nation^[90] on the whole earth, come to renew and save the world in the name of a new God, and to whom alone is given the keys of life and of a new word... Do you know which nation it is, and what is its name?"

"By the way you put it, I must inevitably conclude, and, I suppose, as quickly as possible, that it is the Russian nation ..."

"And you're laughing already—oh, what a tribe!" Shatov reared up.

"Calm yourself, I beg you; on the contrary, I precisely expected something of this sort."

"Expected something of this sort? And are these words not familiar to you?"

"Quite familiar; I see only too well what you're driving at. Your whole phrase and even the expression 'god-bearing' nation is simply the conclusion of our conversation that took place more than two years ago, abroad, not long before your departure for America ... At least as far as I now recall."

"The phrase is entirely yours, not mine. Your own, and not merely the conclusion of our conversation. There wasn't any 'our' conversation: there was a teacher uttering immense words, and there was a disciple who rose from the dead. I am that disciple and you are the teacher."

"But, if you recall, it was precisely after my words that you joined that society, and only then left for America."

"Yes, and I wrote to you about it from America; I wrote to you about everything. Yes, I could not all at once tear myself bloodily from what I had grown fast to since childhood, to which I had given all the raptures of my hopes and all the tears of my hatred ... It is hard to change gods. I did not believe you then because I did not want to believe, and I clung for the last time to this filthy cesspool... But the seed remained and grew. Seriously, tell me seriously, did you read to the end of my letter from America? Perhaps you didn't read it at all?"

"I read three pages of it, the first two and the last, and glanced quickly over the middle as well. Though I kept meaning to..."

"Eh, it makes no difference, to hell with it!" Shatov waved his hand. "If you've now renounced those words about the nation, how could you have uttered them then?... That's what weighs on me now."

"But I was not joking with you then, either; in persuading you, I was perhaps more concerned with myself than with you," Stavrogin said mysteriously.

"Not joking! In America I lay on straw for three months next to a certain... unfortunate man, and I learned from him that at the very same time as you were planting God and the motherland in my heart— at that very same time, perhaps even in those very same days, you were pouring poison into the heart of this unfortunate man, this maniac, Kirillov ... You confirmed lies and slander in him and drove his reason to frenzy... Go and look at him now, he's your creation... You've seen him, however."

"First, I shall note for you that Kirillov himself has just told me he is happy and he is beautiful. Your assumption that all this happened at one and the same time is almost correct; well, and what of it? I repeat, I was not deceiving either one of you."

"You are an atheist? An atheist now?"

"Yes."

"And then?"

"Exactly the same as then."

"I wasn't asking your respect for myself when I began this conversation; with your intelligence, you should have understood that," Shatov muttered indignantly.

"I didn't get up at your first word, didn't close the conversation, didn't walk out on you, but have sat here all the while humbly answering your questions and... shouts, which means that my respect for you is still intact."

Shatov interrupted him, waving his hand:

"Do you remember your expression: 'An atheist cannot be Russian, an atheist immediately ceases to be Russian'—remember that?"

"Really?" Nikolai Vsevolodovich seemed to want the question repeated.

"You ask? You've forgotten? And yet this is one of the most precise indications of one of the main peculiarities of the Russian spirit, which you figured out. You can't have forgotten it? I'll remind you of more— you said at the same time: 'He who is not Orthodox cannot be Russian.’”

"A Slavophil notion, I suppose."

"No, the Slavophils nowadays disavow it. People have grown smarter nowadays. But you went even further: you believed that Roman Catholicism was no longer Christianity; you affirmed that Rome proclaimed a Christ who had succumbed to the third temptation of the devil, and that, having announced to the whole world that Christ cannot stand on earth without an earthly kingdom, Catholicism thereby proclaimed the Antichrist, thus ruining the whole Western world. You precisely pointed out that if France is suffering, Catholicism alone is to blame, for she rejected the foul Roman God but has not found a new one. That is what you were able to say then! I remember our conversations."^[91]

"If I had belief, I would no doubt repeat it now as well; I wasn't lying, speaking as a believer," Nikolai Vsevolodovich said very seriously. "But I assure you that this repetition of my past thoughts produces an all too unpleasant impression on me. Couldn't you stop?"

"If you had belief?" Shatov cried, paying not the slightest attention to the request. "But wasn't it you who told me that if someone proved to you mathematically that the truth is outside Christ, you would better agree to stay with Christ than with the truth?^[92] Did you say that? Did you?"

"But allow me also to ask, finally," Stavrogin raised his voice, "what this whole impatient and... spiteful examination is leading to?"

"This examination will end forever and you will never be reminded of it."

"You keep insisting that we are outside space and time..."

"Be silent!" Shatov suddenly shouted. "I'm stupid and clumsy, but let my name perish in ridiculousness! Will you permit me to repeat before you your main thought of that time... Oh, only ten lines, just the conclusion."

"Repeat it, if it's just the conclusion..."

Stavrogin nearly made a move to look at his watch, but refrained and did not look.

Shatov again leaned forward a little on his chair, and even raised his finger again for a moment.

"Not one nation," he began, as if reciting line by line, and at the same time still looking menacingly at Stavrogin, "not one nation has ever set itself up on the principles of science and reason; there has never been an example of it, unless perhaps only for a moment, out of foolishness. Socialism by its very essence must be atheism, because it has precisely declared, from the very first line, that it is an atheistic order, and intends to set itself up on the principles of science and reason exclusively. Reason and science always, now, and from the beginning of the ages, have performed only a secondary and auxiliary task in the life of nations; and so they will to the end of the ages. Nations are formed and moved by another ruling and dominating force, whose origin is unknown and inexplicable. This force is the force of the unquenchable desire to get to the end, while at the same time denying the end. It is the force of a ceaseless and tireless confirmation of its own being and a denial of death. The Spirit of life, as Scripture says, the 'rivers of living water,' whose running dry is so threatened in the Apocalypse.^[93] The aesthetic principle, as philosophers say, the moral principle, as they also identify it. 'Seeking for God'—as I call it in the simplest way. The aim of all movements of nations, of every nation and in every period of its existence, is solely the seeking for God, its own God, entirely its own, and faith in him as the only true one. God is the synthetic person of the whole nation, taken from its beginning and to its end. It has never yet happened that all or many nations have had one common God, but each has always had a separate one. It is a sign of a nation's extinction when there begin to be gods in common. When there are gods in common, they die along with the belief in them and with the nations themselves. The stronger the nation, the more particular its God. There has never yet been a nation without a religion, that is, without an idea of evil and good. Every nation has its own idea of evil and good, and its own evil and good. When many nations start having common ideas of evil and good, then the nations die out and the very distinction between evil and good begins to fade and disappear. Reason has never been able to define evil and good, or even to separate evil from good, if only approximately; on the contrary, it has always confused them, shamefully and pitifully; and science has offered the solution of the fist. Half-science has been especially distinguished for that—the most terrible scourge of mankind, worse than plague, hunger, or war, unknown till our century. Half-science is a despot such as has never been seen before. A despot with its own priests and slaves, a despot before whom everything has bowed down with a love and superstition unthinkable till now, before whom even science itself trembles and whom it shamefully caters to. These are all your own words, Stavrogin, all except the words about half-science; those are mine, because I myself am only half-science, and therefore I especially hate it. As for your thoughts and even your very words, I haven't changed anything, not a word."

"I wouldn't say you haven't," Stavrogin remarked cautiously. "You took it ardently, and have altered it ardently without noticing it. The fact alone that you reduce God to a mere attribute of nationality..."

He suddenly began to observe Shatov with increased and particular attention, not so much his words as the man himself.

"I reduce God to an attribute of nationality?" Shatov cried. "On the contrary, I raise the nation up to God. Has it ever been otherwise? The nation is the body of God. Any nation is a nation only as long as it has its own particular God and rules out all other gods in the world with no conciliation; as long as it believes that through its God it will be victorious and will drive all other gods from the world. Thus all have believed from the beginning of time, all great nations at least, all that were marked out to any extent, all that have stood at the head of mankind. There is no going against the fact. The Jews lived only to wait for the true God, and left the true God to the world. The Greeks deified nature, and bequeathed the world their religion, that is, philosophy and art. Rome deified the nation in the state, and bequeathed the state to the nations. France, throughout her whole long history, has simply been the embodiment and development of the idea of the Roman God, and if she has finally flung her Roman God down into the abyss and plunged into atheism, which for the time being they call socialism, that is solely because atheism is, after all, healthier than Roman Catholicism. If a great nation does not believe that the truth is in it alone (precisely in it alone, and that exclusively), if it does not believe that it alone is able and called to resurrect and save everyone with its truth, then it at once ceases to be a great nation, and at once turns into ethnographic material and not a great nation. A truly great nation can never be reconciled with a secondary role in mankind, or even with a primary, but inevitably and exclusively with the first. Any that loses this faith is no longer a nation. But the truth is one, and therefore only one among the nations can have the true God, even if the other nations do have their particular and great gods. The only 'god-bearing' nation is the Russian nation, and... and ... do you, do you really regard me as such a fool, Stavrogin," he suddenly cried out frenziedly, "who cannot even tell whether his words now are old, decrepit rubbish, ground up in all the Slavophil mills of Moscow, or a completely new word, the last word, the only word of renewal and resurrection, and... what do I care about your laughter at this moment! What do I care that you don't understand me at all, not at all, not a word, not a sound! ... Oh, how I despise your proud laughter and look at this moment!"

He jumped up from his place; there was even foam on his lips.

"On the contrary, Shatov, on the contrary," Stavrogin said, with remarkable seriousness and restraint, without rising from his place, "on the contrary, with your ardent words you've revived many extremely powerful recollections in me. I recognize in your words my own state of mind two years ago, and I shall no longer say to you, as I just did, that you have exaggerated my thoughts of that time. It even seems to me that they were still more exceptional, still more absolute, and I assure you for the third time that I would wish very much to confirm everything you've said, even to a word, but..."

"But you need a hare?"

"Wha-a-at?"

"Your own vile expression," Shatov laughed spitefully, sitting down again.”‘To make sauce from a hare, you need a hare; to have belief in God, you need a God,' you went around saying in Petersburg, I'm told, like Nozdryov, who wanted to catch a hare by its hind legs."^[94]

"No, he was precisely boasting that he'd already caught it. Incidentally, though, allow me to trouble you with a question as well, the more so as it seems to me I now have full right to ask. Tell me about your hare—have you caught it, or is it still running around?"

"Do not dare to ask me in such words; use others, others!" Shatov suddenly trembled all over.

"As you wish, here are your others," Nikolai Vsevolodovich looked at him sternly. "I simply wanted to know: do you yourself believe in God, or not?"

"I believe in Russia, I believe in her Orthodoxy ... I believe in the body of Christ ... I believe that the new coming will take place in Russia ... I believe..." Shatov babbled frenziedly.

"But in God? In God?"

"I ... I will believe in God."

Not a muscle moved in Stavrogin's face. Shatov looked at him fierily, defiantly, as if he wanted to burn him with his eyes.

"But I didn't tell you I don't believe at all!" he finally cried. "I'm only letting you know that I am a wretched, boring book, and nothing more so far, so far... But perish my name! The point is in you, not me... I'm a man without talent, and can only give my blood, and nothing more, like any other man without talent. Perish my blood as well! I'm talking about you, I've been waiting here two years for you... I've just been dancing naked for you for half an hour. You, you alone could raise this banner! ..."

He did not finish, but leaned his elbows on the table and propped his head in both hands, as if in despair.

"I'll merely note, incidentally, as a strange thing," Stavrogin suddenly interrupted, "why is it that everyone is foisting some banner on me? Pyotr Verkhovensky is also convinced that I could 'raise their banner,' or so at least his words were conveyed to me. He's taken it into his head that I could play the role of Stenka Razin^[95] for them, 'owing to my extraordinary capacity for crime'—also his words."

"How's that?" Shatov asked.”‘Owing to your extraordinary capacity for crime'?"

"Precisely."

"Hm. And is it true that you," he grinned spitefully, "is it true that in Petersburg you belonged to some secret society of bestial sensualists? Is it true that the Marquis de Sade^[96] could take lessons from you? Is it true that you lured and corrupted children? Speak, do not dare to lie," he cried, completely beside himself, "Nikolai Stavrogin cannot lie before Shatov who hit him in the face! Speak everything, and if it's true, I'll kill you at once, right here, on the spot!"

"I did speak those words, but it was not I who offended children," said Stavrogin, but only after too long a silence. He turned pale, and his eyes lit up.

"But you spoke of it!" Shatov went on imperiously, not taking his flashing eyes from Stavrogin. "Is it true that you insisted you knew no difference in beauty between some brutal sensual stunt and any great deed, even the sacrifice of life for mankind? Is it true that you found a coincidence of beauty, a sameness of pleasure at both poles?"

"It's impossible to answer like this ... I won't answer," muttered Stavrogin, who could very well have gotten up and left, but did not get up and leave.

"I don't know why evil is bad and good is beautiful either, but I do know why the sense of this distinction is faded and effaced in such gentlemen as the Stavrogins," Shatov, trembling all over, would not let go. "Do you know why you married so disgracefully and basely then? Precisely because here the disgrace and senselessness reached the point of genius! Oh, you don't go straying along the verge, you boldly fly down headfirst. You married out of a passion for torture, out of a passion for remorse, out of moral sensuality. It was from nervous strain... The challenge to common sense was too enticing! Stavrogin and a scrubby, feebleminded, beggarly lame girl! When you bit the governor's ear, did you feel the sensuality of it? Did you? Idle, loafing young squire—did you feel it?"

"You're a psychologist," Stavrogin was turning paler and paler, "though you are partly mistaken about the reasons for my marriage ... And who, incidentally, could have given you all this information?" he forced himself to grin. "Could it be Kirillov? But he had no part in it..."

"You're turning pale?"

"What do you want, anyway?" Nikolai Vsevolodovich finally raised his voice. "I've sat for half an hour under your lash, you could at least politely let me go ... if you indeed have no reasonable purpose in acting this way with me."

"Reasonable purpose?"

"Undoubtedly. It was your duty at least to announce your purpose to me finally. I kept waiting for you to do so, but all I've found is frenzied spite. I ask you to open the gate for me."

He got up from the chair. Shatov rushed frantically after him.

"Kiss the earth, flood it with tears, ask forgiveness!" he cried out, seizing him by the shoulder.

"Anyhow, I didn't kill you... that morning ... I put both hands behind my back..." Stavrogin said, almost with pain, looking down.

"Say it all, say it all! You came to warn me about the danger, you allowed me to speak, you want to announce your marriage publicly tomorrow! ... Can't I see by your face that you're at grips with some awesome new thought?... Stavrogin, why am I condemned to believe in you unto ages of ages? Would I be able to talk like this with anyone else? I have chastity, yet I wasn't afraid of my nakedness, for I was speaking with Stavrogin. I wasn't afraid to caricature a great thought by my touch, for Stavrogin was listening to me... Won't I kiss your footprints when you've gone? I cannot tear you out of my heart, Nikolai Stavrogin!"

"I'm sorry I cannot love you, Shatov," Nikolai Vsevolodovich said coldly.

"I know you cannot, and I know you're not lying. Listen, I can set everything right: I'll get you that hare!"

Stavrogin was silent.

"You're an atheist because you're a squire, an ultimate squire. You've lost the distinction between evil and good because you've ceased to recognize your own nation. A new generation is coming, straight from the nation's heart, and you won't recognize it, neither will the Verkhovenskys, son or father, nor will I, for I, too, am a squire—I, the son of your serf and lackey Pashka... Listen, acquire God by labor; the whole essence is there, or else you'll disappear like vile mildew; do it by labor."

"God by labor? What labor?"

"Peasant labor. Go, leave your wealth... Ah! you're laughing, you're afraid it will turn out to be flimflam."

But Stavrogin was not laughing.

"You suppose God can be acquired by labor, and precisely by peasant labor?" he repeated, after a moment's thought, as if he had indeed encountered something new and serious which was worth pondering. "Incidentally," he suddenly passed on to a new thought, "you've just reminded me: do you know that I'm not rich at all, so there's nothing to leave? I'm hardly even able to secure Marya Timofeevna's future... Another thing: I came to ask you if it's possible for you not to abandon Marya Timofeevna in the future, since you alone may have some influence on her poor mind ... I say it just in case."

"All right, all right, you and Marya Timofeevna," Shatov waved his hand, holding a candle in the other, "all right, later, of itself... Listen, go to Tikhon."

"Who?"

"Tikhon. Tikhon, a former bishop, retired for reasons of health, lives here in town, within town limits, in our Saint Yefimi-Bogorodsky monastery."

"What's it all about?"

"Never mind. People go and see him. You should go to him; what is it to you? Well, what is it to you?"

"First time I've heard of him, and... I've never seen that sort of people before. Thank you, I'll go."

"This way," Shatov walked downstairs with the light. "Go," he flung open the gate to the street.

"I won't come to you anymore, Shatov," Stavrogin said softly, stepping through the gate.

Darkness and rain continued as before.