Demons

6: Pyotr Stepanovich Bustles About

I

The day of the fête had been finally fixed, yet von Lembke was growing more and more sad and pensive. He was full of strange and sinister forebodings, and this worried Yulia Mikhailovna greatly. True, all was not well. Our soft former governor had left the administration in some disorder; at the present moment cholera was approaching; there had been a great loss of cattle in some parts; fires had raged all summer in towns and villages, and among the people a foolish murmuring about arson was more and more taking root. Robbery had increased twice over the previous scale. All of this would, of course, have been more than ordinary had there not been other, weightier reasons which disrupted the peace of the hitherto happy Andrei Antonovich.

What struck Yulia Mikhailovna most was that he was becoming taciturn and, strangely, more secretive every day. And what, she wondered, did he have to be secretive about? True, he rarely opposed her, and for the most part was perfectly obedient. On her insistence, for example, two or three highly risky and all but illegal measures were passed with a view to strengthening the governor's power. Several sinister connivances took place with the same aim; people deserving of the courts and Siberia, for example, were put up for awards solely at her insistence. It was decided to leave certain complaints and inquiries systematically unanswered. All this was found out afterwards. Lembke not only signed everything, but did not even discuss the question of the extent of his wife's participation in the fulfillment of his duties. Instead, at times he would suddenly bridle at "perfect trifles," which surprised Yulia Mikhailovna. Naturally, he felt a need to reward himself for days of obedience with little moments of rebellion. Unfortunately, Yulia Mikhailovna, for all her perspicacity, was unable to understand this noble refinement of a noble character. Alas! she could not be bothered, and that was the cause of many misunderstandings.

It is not for me to tell of certain things, nor would I be able to. To discuss administrative errors is not my business either, and so I shall also omit entirely the whole administrative side. In beginning this chronicle, I set myself other tasks. Besides, much will be uncovered by the investigation that has now been ordered in our province, one need only wait a bit. However, we still cannot avoid certain explanations.

But to continue with Yulia Mikhailovna. The poor lady (I feel very sorry for her) might have attained all that so attracted and beckoned to her (fame and the rest) quite without such strong and eccentric moves as she set herself from the very first. But either from an excess of poetry, or from the long, sad failures of her early youth, she felt suddenly, with the change in her lot, that she was somehow even all too especially called, almost anointed, one "o'er whom this tongue of flame blazed up,"^[128] and it was in this tongue that the trouble consisted; after all, it is not a chignon that can go on any woman's head. But there is nothing more difficult than to convince a woman of this truth; on the contrary, anyone who chooses to yes her will succeed, and they all vied with one another in yessing her. The poor woman suddenly found herself the plaything of the most various influences, at the same time fully imagining herself to be original. Many artful dodgers feathered their own nests and took advantage of her simpleheartedness during the brief term of her governorship. And what a hash came of it, under the guise of independence! At the same time she liked large-scale landholding, and the aristocratic element, and the strengthening of the governor's power, and the democratic element, and the new institutions, and order, and freethinking, and little social ideas, and the strict tone of an aristocratic salon, and the all but pot-house casualness of the young people that surrounded her. She dreamed of giving happiness and reconciling the irreconcilable, or, more exactly, of uniting all and sundry in the adoration of her own person. She also had her favorites; she was very fond of Pyotr Stepanovich, who acted, incidentally, through the crudest flattery. But she also liked him for another reason, a most wondrous one and most characteristically revealing of the poor lady: she kept hoping he would point her to a whole state conspiracy! Difficult as it is to imagine, this was so. It seemed to her, for some reason, that there must be a state conspiracy lurking in the province. Pyotr Stepanovich, by his silence in some cases and his hints in others, contributed to the rooting of her strange idea. Whereas she imagined him to be connected with everything revolutionary in Russia, yet at the same time devoted to her to the point of adoration. Uncovering a conspiracy, earning the gratitude of Petersburg, furthering one's career, influencing the youth by "indulgence" so as to keep them on the brink—all this got along quite well in her fantastic head. After all, she had saved, she had won over Pyotr Stepanovich (of this she was for some reason irrefutably certain), and so she would save others. Not a one, not a one of them would perish, she would save them all; she would sort them out; and thus she would report on them; she would act with a view to higher justice, and even history and all of Russian liberalism would perhaps bless her name; and the conspiracy would be uncovered even so. All profits at once.

But, even so, it was necessary that Andrei Antonovich be a bit brighter for the fête. He absolutely had to be cheered up and reassured. She sent Pyotr Stepanovich to him on this mission, in hopes that he might influence his despondency in some reassuring way known only to himself. Perhaps even with some information delivered, so to speak, at first mouth. She trusted entirely to his adroitness. It was long since Pyotr Stepanovich had been in Mr. von Lembke's study. He flew in precisely at a moment when the patient was in a particularly tense mood.

II

A certain combination had occurred which Mr. von Lembke was simply unable to resolve. In one district (the same one in which Pyotr Stepanovich had recently been feasting) a certain sub-lieutenant had been subjected to a verbal reprimand by his immediate commander. This had happened in front of the whole company. The sub-lieutenant was still a young man, recently come from Petersburg, always sullen and taciturn, with an air of importance, but at the same time short, fat, red-cheeked. He could not endure the reprimand and suddenly charged at his commander with some sort of unexpected shriek that astonished the whole company, his head somehow savagely lowered; struck him and bit him on the shoulder as hard as he could; they were barely able to pull him away. There was no doubt that he had lost his mind; in any case it was discovered that he had been noted lately for the most impossible oddities. For example, he had thrown two icons belonging to his landlord out of his apartment, and chopped one of them up with an axe; and in his room he had placed the works of Vogt, Moleschott, and Buchner^[129] on stands like three lecterns, and before each lectern kept wax church candles burning. From the number of books found in his place it could be concluded that he was a well-read man. If he had had fifty thousand francs, he might have sailed off to the Marquesas Islands like that "cadet" mentioned with such merry humor by Mr. Herzen in one of his works.^[130] When he was taken, a whole bundle of the most desperate tracts was found in his pockets and in his lodgings.

Tracts are an empty affair of themselves, and in my opinion not at all worrisome. As if we haven't seen enough of them. Besides, these were not even new tracts: exactly the same ones, it was said later, had been spread recently in Kh—— province, and Liputin, who had been in the district capital and the neighboring province about a month and a half earlier, insisted that he had already seen exactly the same leaflets there. But what chiefly struck Andrei Antonovich was that just at the same time the manager of the Shpigulin factory turned in to the police two or three bundles of exactly the same leaflets as the sublieutenant's, which had been left at the factory during the night. The bundles had not even been undone yet, and none of the workers had had time to read even one. The fact was silly, but Andrei Antonovich fell to pondering strenuously. The affair appeared unpleasantly complicated to him.

In this factory of the Shpigulins there was just beginning that very "Shpigulin story" which caused so much shouting among us and was then passed on with such variations to the metropolitan newspapers. About three weeks previously a worker there had fallen ill and died of Asian cholera; then several more people fell ill. Everyone in town got scared, because cholera was approaching from the neighboring province. I will note that all possibly satisfactory sanitary measures were taken in our town to meet the uninvited guest. But the factory of the Shpigulins, who were millionaires and people with connections, was somehow overlooked. And so everyone suddenly started screaming that it was there that the root and hotbed of disease lay and that the uncleanliness of the factory itself, and especially of the workers' quarters, was so inveterate that even if there had been no cholera, it would have generated there of itself. Naturally, measures were taken at once, and Andrei Antonovich vigorously insisted that they be carried out immediately. The factory was cleaned up in about three weeks, but then for some reason the Shpigulins closed it. One of the Shpigulin brothers resided permanently in Petersburg, and the other, after the order from the authorities about the cleaning, left for Moscow. The manager began paying off the workers and, as it now turns out, was brazenly cheating them. The workers began to murmur, wanted their rightful pay, were foolish enough to go to the police, though without making a great noise or really causing much trouble. It was just at this time that the tracts were turned in to Andrei Antonovich by the manager.

Pyotr Stepanovich flew into the study unannounced, like a good friend and familiar, and with an errand from Yulia Mikhailovna besides. Seeing him, von Lembke scowled sullenly and stopped inimically by his desk. Before then he had been pacing the study, discussing something in private with his chancery official Blum, an extremely awkward and sullen German whom he had brought from Petersburg over the most strenuous opposition of Yulia Mikhailovna. When Pyotr Stepanovich entered, the official retreated to the door, but did not leave. It even seemed to Pyotr Stepanovich that he somehow exchanged significant looks with his superior.

"Oho, caught you this time, you cagey burgomaster!" Pyotr Stepanovich cried out, laughing, and he placed the flat of his hand over the tract lying on the table. "Adding to your collection, eh?"

Andrei Antonovich flared up. Something suddenly became as if distorted in his face.

"Leave off, leave off at once!" he cried, starting with wrath, "and do not dare ... sir..."

"What's the matter with you? You seem angry?"

"Allow me to tell you, my dear sir, that henceforth I by no means intend to suffer your sans-façon,^[xciv] and I ask you to recall..."

"Pah, the devil, he really means it!"

"Be still, be still!" von Lembke stamped his feet on the carpet, "and do not dare..."

God knows what it might have come to. Alas, there was one further circumstance here, besides all the rest, which was quite unknown both to Pyotr Stepanovich and even to Yulia Mikhailovna herself. The unhappy Andrei Antonovich had reached a point of such distress that lately he had begun to be secretly jealous about his wife and Pyotr Stepanovich. Alone, especially at night, he had endured some most unpleasant moments.

"And I thought that if a man reads you his novel for two days running, in private, past midnight, and wants your opinion, then he's at least beyond these officialities... Yulia Mikhailovna receives me on a friendly footing; who can figure you out?" Pyotr Stepanovich pronounced, even with some dignity. "Here's your novel, by the way," he placed on the desk a large, weighty notebook, rolled into a tube and entirely wrapped in dark blue paper.

Lembke blushed and faltered.

"Where did you find it?" he asked cautiously, with a flood of joy that he could not contain and that he tried nevertheless to contain with all his might.

"Imagine, it fell behind the chest of drawers, rolled up just as it was. I must have tossed it carelessly on the chest as I came in. It was found only two days ago, when they were scrubbing the floors—and what a job you gave me, really!"

Lembke sternly lowered his eyes.

"Thanks to you I haven't slept for two nights running. They found it two days ago, but I kept it, I've been reading it, I have no time during the day, so I did it at night. Well, sir, and—I'm not pleased: can't warm up to the idea. Spit on it, however, I've never been a critic, but—I couldn't tear myself away, my dear, even though I'm not pleased! The fourth and fifth chapters are ... are ... are ... the devil knows what! And so crammed with humor, I laughed out loud. No, you really know how to poke fun sans que cela paraisse!^[xcv] Well, but the ninth, the tenth, it's all about love, not my thing; makes an effect, however; and I almost started blubbering over Igrenev's letter, though you present him so subtly... You know, there's feeling there, and at the same time you want to present him as if with a false side, right? Have I guessed, or not? Well, and for the ending I'd simply thrash you. What is it you're pushing there? Why, it's the same old deification of family happiness, of the multiplying of children, and capital, and they lived happily ever after, for pity's sake! You'll charm the reader, because even I couldn't tear myself away, but so much the worse. Readers are as stupid as ever, intelligent people ought to shake them up, while you... But enough, though. Good-bye. Next time don't be angry; I had a couple of important little words to say to you; but you seem somehow..."

Andrei Antonovich meanwhile took his novel and locked it up in the oak bookcase, having managed in the meantime to wink at Blum to efface himself. The latter vanished with a long and sad face.

"I do not seem somehow, I'm simply... nothing but troubles," he muttered, scowling, though no longer wrathfully, and sitting down at the desk. "Sit down and tell me your two little words. I haven't seen you for a long time, Pyotr Stepanovich, only in future don't come flying in with that manner of yours... sometimes, when one is busy, it's..."

"I always have the same manners..."

"I know, sir, and I believe it is unintentional, but sometimes, amidst all this bustle ... Sit down now."

Pyotr Stepanovich sprawled on the sofa and immediately tucked his legs up.

III

"And what is all this bustle—you can't mean these trifles?" he nodded towards the tract. "I can drag in as many of these leaflets as you like, I already made their acquaintance in Kh—— province."

"You mean, when you were living there?"

"Well, naturally, not when I wasn't. There's a vignette, a drawing of an axe, at the top.^[131] Excuse me" (he picked up the tract), "ah, yes, here's the axe; it's the same one, exactly."

"Yes, an axe. See—an axe."

"And what, are you afraid of the axe?"

"Not of the axe... and not afraid, sir, but this matter is... such a matter, there are circumstances here."

"Which? That they were turned in from the factory? Heh, heh. You know, you'll soon have the workers at that factory writing tracts themselves."

"How's that?" von Lembke stared sternly.

"Just so. With you looking on. You're too soft, Andrei Antonovich; you write novels. What's needed here are the old methods."

"What do you mean, the old methods, what sort of advice is that? The factory has been cleaned up; I gave orders, it was cleaned up."

"Yet there's rioting among the workers. They all ought to be whipped, and there's an end to it."

"Rioting? Nonsense, I gave orders and it was cleaned up."

"Eh, what a soft man you are, Andrei Antonovich!"

"In the first place, I am by no means so soft, and in the second ..." von Lembke felt stung again. He forced himself to talk with the young man out of curiosity, on the chance that he might tell him a little something new.

"Ahh, again an old acquaintance!" Pyotr Stepanovich interrupted, sighting another sheet of paper under the paperweight, also looking like a tract, apparently of foreign imprint, but in verse. "Why, this one I know by heart, it's 'The Shining Light.' Let me see: yes, so it is, 'The Shining Light.' I've been acquainted with this light ever since I was abroad. Where did you dig it up?"

"You say you saw it abroad?" von Lembke roused himself.

"Sure thing, about four months ago, or even five."

"You saw quite a lot abroad, however," von Lembke glanced at him subtly. Pyotr Stepanovich, without listening, unfolded the paper and read the poem aloud:

The Shining Light

A man of high birth he was not, Among the people he cast his lot.

Hounded by the wrath of tsars, The jealous malice of boyars, He from suffering drew not back, From torment, torture, nor the rack, But firm before the people stood, For liberty, equality, and brotherhood.

And when rebellion once was sparked, He then for foreign lands embarked, Escaping thus the tsar's redoubt, The tongs, the hangman, and the knout, While the people, cursing empty skies, Against harsh fate prepared to rise, And from Smolensk to far Tashkent Awaited only the student.

All were awaiting his return So they could go without concern To rid themselves of cruel boyars, To rid themselves of greedy tsars, To hold all property as one, And take their just revenge upon Marriage, church, and family ties— Evils in which the old world lies.^[132]

"You must have taken it from that officer, eh?" Pyotr Stepanovich asked.

"So you have the honor of knowing that officer as well?"

"Sure thing. I feasted with them there for two days. He was bound to lose his mind."

"Perhaps he never did lose his mind."

"You mean since he started biting?"

"But, I beg your pardon, if you saw this poem abroad, and then, it turns out, here at this officer's..."

"What, intricate? I see, so you're examining me, Andrei Antonovich? You see, sir," he began suddenly, with unusual importance, "of what I saw abroad I already gave my explanations to certain persons on my return, and my explanations were found satisfactory, otherwise I would not have bestowed the happiness of my presence upon this town. I think that my affairs in that sense are done with, and that I do not owe any reports. Done with, not because I am an informer, but because I was unable to act otherwise. Those who wrote to Yulia Mikhailovna, knowing the situation, said I was an honest man... Well, and that's all, devil take it, because I came to tell you something serious, and it's a good thing you sent that chimney sweep of yours away. The matter is important for me, Andrei Antonovich; I have an extraordinary request to make of you."

"A request? Hm, please do, I'm waiting, and, I confess, with curiosity. And generally I will add that you rather surprise me, Pyotr Stepanovich."

Von Lembke was in some agitation. Pyotr Stepanovich crossed his legs.

"In Petersburg," he began, "I spoke candidly about many things, but certain other things—this, for instance" (he tapped "The Shining Light" with his finger), "I passed over in silence, first, because it wasn't worth speaking about, and second, because I answered only what I was asked. I don't like getting ahead of myself in that sense; here I see the difference between a scoundrel and an honest man, who quite simply was overtaken by circumstances... Well, in short, let's set that aside. Well, sir, and now... now that these fools... well, now that this has come out and is in your hands and, I see, will not be concealed from you—because you are a man with eyes, and you can't be second-guessed, whereas these fools are still going on with it—I... I... well, yes, in short, I've come to ask you to save one man, one more fool, a madman perhaps, in the name of his youth, his misfortunes, in the name of your own humaneness ... It can't be that you're so humane only in novels of your own fabrication!" he suddenly broke off his speech impatiently and with rude sarcasm.

In short, one beheld a direct man, but an awkward and impolitic one, owing to an excess of humane feeling and a perhaps unnecessary ticklishness—above all, a none-too-bright man, as von Lembke judged at once with extreme subtlety, and as he had long supposed him to be, especially during the last week, alone in his study, especially at night, when he privately cursed him with all his might for his inexplicable successes with Yulia Mikhailovna.

"For whom do you make this request, and what does it all signify?" he inquired imposingly, trying to conceal his curiosity.

"It's... it's ... ah, the devil... Am I to blame for believing in you? Am I really to blame for considering you a most noble man and, above all, a sensible one... that is, capable of understanding ... ah, the devil..."

The poor fellow was apparently unable to control himself.

"Do finally understand," he went on, "do understand that by giving you his name, I'm really betraying him to you; I'm betraying him, right? Right?"

"But how am I to guess, however, if you can't bring yourself to say it?"

"That's just it, you always chop it down with that logic of yours, the devil ... so, the devil... this 'shining light,' this 'student'—it's Shatov ... so, there it is!"

"Shatov? That is, how is it Shatov?"

"Shatov, he's the 'student,' the one that's mentioned. He lives here, the former serf, well, the one who gave that slap."

"I know, I know!" Lembke narrowed his eyes. "But, excuse me, what in fact is he accused of, and, most chiefly, what are you interceding for?"

"I'm asking you to save him, do you understand! I've known him since eight years ago, you might say we used to be friends," Pyotr Stepanovich was turning himself inside out. "Well, I really don't owe you any reports on my former life," he waved his hand. "It's all insignificant, all just three men and a half, and with the ones abroad it wouldn't even make ten, and the main thing is that I was counting on your humaneness, your intelligence. You'll understand and you yourself will show the matter in the right way, not as God knows what, but as the foolish dream of a madcap... from misfortunes, mind you, from long misfortunes, and not as devil knows what sort of unprecedented state conspiracy! ..."

He was almost breathless.

"Hm. I see he's to blame for the tracts with the axe," Lembke concluded almost majestically, "but, excuse me, if he's alone, how could he have spread them both here and in other districts, and even in Kh—— province, and ... and, finally, the main thing is— Where'd he get them?"

"But I'm telling you there are apparently five of them in all, or maybe ten, how should I know?"

"You don't know?"

"But how should I know, devil take it?"

"You did know, however, that Shatov was one of the accomplices?"

"Ehh!" Pyotr Stepanovich waved his arm, as if warding off the overwhelming perspicacity of the inquirer. "Well, listen, I'll tell you the whole truth: I know nothing about the tracts, I mean nothing whatsoever, devil take it, do you understand what nothing means? ... Well, of course, that sub-lieutenant, and someone else besides, and someone else here... well, and maybe Shatov, well, and someone else besides, well, that's all, trash and measliness... but I came to plead for Shatov, he must be saved, because this poem is his, he wrote it, and it was published abroad through him; that much I know for sure, but I know nothing whatsoever about the tracts."

"If the verses are his, then most likely the tracts are, too. On what grounds, however, do you suspect Mr. Shatov?"

Pyotr Stepanovich, with the air of a man who has finally lost all patience, snatched his wallet from his pocket, and from it took a note.

"Here are the grounds!" he cried, throwing it on the desk. Lembke unfolded it; the note, as it turned out, had been written about half a year before, from here to somewhere abroad; it was a short note, a couple of words:

Am unable to print "The Shining Light" here; that or anything else; print it abroad.

IV: Shatov

Lembke stared fixedly at Pyotr Stepanovich. Varvara Petrovna correctly referred to his having something of a sheep's gaze, especially at times.

"I mean, this is what it is," Pyotr Stepanovich lurched ahead. "That he wrote these verses here, half a year ago, but couldn't print them here, well, on some secret press—and so he asks for them to be printed abroad... that seems clear?"

"Yes, it's clear, sir, but whom is he asking?—that still isn't clear," Lembke remarked, with the most cunning irony.

"But, Kirillov, finally; the note was written to Kirillov abroad... Didn't you know? What's annoying is that you may only be pretending with me, and knew about these verses a long, long time ago, that's the thing! How else would they turn up on your desk? They did get there somehow! So why are you tormenting me?"

He convulsively wiped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief.

"I am perhaps informed about certain things..." Lembke dodged adroitly, "but who is this Kirillov?"

"Well, so, he's this visiting engineer, acted as Stavrogin's second, a maniac, a madman; your sub-lieutenant may indeed just have brain fever, but this one is totally mad—totally, I guarantee it. Ehh, Andrei Antonovich, if the government only knew what sort of people they are, the lot of them, they wouldn't raise a hand against them. They're all ripe for Bedlam as it is; I saw enough of them in Switzerland and at congresses."

"From where they direct the movement here?"

"Yes, and who is directing it?—three men and another half. One just gets bored looking at them. And what is this movement here? These tracts, or what? And look who they've recruited—brain-sick sublieutenants and two or three students! You're an intelligent man, here's a question for you: Why don't they recruit more significant people, why is it always students and twenty-two-year-old dunces? And how many are there? They must have a million bloodhounds out searching, and how many have they found in all? Seven men. I'm telling you, one gets bored."

Lembke listened attentively, but with an air that seemed to say: "You can't catch an old bird with chaff."

"Excuse me, however, you were pleased to insist just now that the note was addressed abroad; but there's no address here; how is it known to you that the note was addressed to Mr. Kirillov, and, finally, abroad, and... and... that it was in fact written by Mr. Shatov?"

"But just get Shatov's handwriting and check. Some signature of his is bound to turn up in your chancery. And as for its being to Kirillov, it was Kirillov himself who showed it to me right then."

"So you yourself..."

"Well, yes, of course, so I myself. They showed me all kinds of things there. And about these verses, it was supposedly the late Herzen who wrote them for Shatov while he was still wandering abroad, supposedly in memory of their meeting, as praise, as a recommendation—ah, well, the devil... so Shatov is spreading it among the young people. Herzen's own opinion of me, he says."

"Tsk, tsk, tsk," Lembke finally figured it all out, "and here I was thinking: the tracts I understand, but why the verses?"

"But how could you not understand? And devil knows why I'm spilling it all out to you! Listen, you give me Shatov, and the devil take all the rest, even with Kirillov, who has now locked himself up in Filippov's house, where Shatov also lives, and is lying low. They don't like me, because I've gone back... but promise me Shatov and I'll bring you all the rest of them on a platter. I'll prove useful, Andrei Antonovich! I reckon the whole pitiful crew numbers nine—maybe ten—people. I'm keeping an eye on them myself, for my own part, sir. Three are already known to us: Shatov, Kirillov, and that sublieutenant. The rest I'm still making out... not that I'm all that nearsighted. It's like it was in Kh—— province; two students, one high-school boy, two twenty-year-old noblemen, one teacher, and one retired major of about sixty, stupefied with drink, were seized there with tracts—that's all, and believe me, that was all; they were even surprised that that was all. But I'll need six days. I've already worked it out on the abacus; six days, and not before. If you want to get any results, don't stir them up for another six days, and I'll tie them all into a single knot for you; stir them up before then, and the nest will scatter. But give me Shatov. I'm for Shatov... And best of all would be to summon him secretly and amiably, why not here to this study, and examine him, after lifting the veil for him ... And he'll probably throw himself at your feet and weep! He's a nervous man, an unhappy man; his wife goes about with Stavrogin. Coddle him a bit and he'll reveal everything himself, but I need six days... And the main thing, the main thing—not even half a word to Yulia Mikhailovna. A secret. Can we keep it a secret?"

"What?" Lembke goggled his eyes. "You actually haven't ... revealed anything to Yulia Mikhailovna?"

"To her? Save me and have mercy on me! Ehh, Andrei Antonovich! You see, sir: I greatly value her friendship and highly respect. . . well, and all that... but I wouldn't make such a blunder. I don't contradict her, because to contradict her, you know yourself, is dangerous. It's possible I did drop a hint or two, because she likes that, but to give away names or anything to her, as I just did to you—ehh, my dear! And why am I turning to you now? Because you are, after all, a man, a serious person, with solid, old-style experience in the service. You've seen it all. I suppose you already know every step in such matters by heart from Petersburg cases. And if I were to tell her these two names, for example, she'd just start banging the drums ... Because she'd really love to astonish Petersburg from here. No, she's too hot-headed, that's the thing, sir."

"Yes, she does have something of that fougue," Andrei Antonovich muttered, not without pleasure, at the same time regretting terribly that this ignoramus should dare to express himself quite so freely about Yulia Mikhailovna. But Pyotr Stepanovich probably thought it was still too little, and that he must put on more steam so as to flatter and completely subdue "Lembka."

"Fougue, precisely," he agreed. "Granted she may be a genius, a literary woman, but—she'll scare the sparrows away. She couldn't hold out for six hours, much less six days. Ehh, Andrei Antonovich, don't ever lay a six-day term on a woman! You will acknowledge that I do have some experience, in these matters, I mean; I do know a thing or two, and you yourself know that I'm capable of knowing a thing or two. I'm asking you for six days not to play around, but for serious business."

"I've heard..." Lembke hesitated to voice his thought, "I've heard that on your return from abroad you expressed something like repentance ... in the proper quarters?"

"Well, or whatever it was."

"And I, naturally, have no wish to go into... but I kept thinking that up to now you've talked in quite a different style here, about the Christian faith, for example, about social structures, and, finally, about the government..."

"I've said all kinds of things. I say the same things now, too, only these ideas shouldn't be pursued the way those fools do it, that's the point. What's this biting the shoulder? You agreed with me yourself, only you were saying it was too early."

"I was not, in fact, speaking about that when I agreed but said it was too early."

"You just hang every word on a hook, though—heh, heh!—you cautious man!" Pyotr Stepanovich suddenly remarked gaily. "Listen, dear heart, I did have to get acquainted with you, after all, that's why I've been speaking to you in this style of mine. It's not only you, I make many acquaintances this way. Maybe I had to figure out your character."

"And what would you need my character for?"

"Well, how should I know what for?" (he laughed again). "You see, my dear and much respected Andrei Antonovich, you are cunning, but it hasn't come to that yet, and most likely it won't, understand? You understand, perhaps? Though I did give explanations in the proper quarters on my return from abroad, and I really don't see why a person of certain convictions shouldn't act for the benefit of his genuine convictions... but no one there has ordered your character yet, and I have not yet taken upon myself any such orders from there. Try to realize: it was quite possible for me not to disclose these two names to you first, but to shoot straight over there—I mean, where I gave my original explanations; and if I were exerting myself on account of finances, or for some profit, then, of course, it would be a miscalculation on my part, because now they'll be grateful to you and not to me.

It's solely for the sake of Shatov," Pyotr Stepanovich added, with a noble air, "for Shatov alone, out of past friendship ... well, and maybe when you take up your pen to write there, well, you can praise me, if you wish ... I won't object, heh, heh! Adieu, however, I've stayed too long and babbled more than I should have!" he added, not without affability, and got up from the sofa.

"On the contrary, I'm very glad things are beginning to take shape, so to speak," von Lembke got up, too, also with an affable air, apparently influenced by the last words. "I accept your services with gratitude, and, rest assured, everything, for my part, concerning references to your zeal ..."

"Six days, that's the main thing, give me six days, and make no move for those six days, that's what I need!"

"Very well."

"Naturally, I'm not tying your hands, and wouldn't dare to. You can't really not keep an eye out; only don't frighten the nest ahead of time, this is where I'm counting on your intelligence and experience. And I bet you must have all sorts of hounds and bloodhounds of your own ready, heh, heh!" Pyotr Stepanovich blurted out gaily and thoughtlessly (like a young man).

"Not quite," Lembke dodged affably. "It's a prejudice of youth that there's so much ready... But, incidentally, allow me one word: if this Kirillov was Stavrogin's second, then Mr. Stavrogin, too, in that case..."

"What about Stavrogin?"

"I mean, if they're such friends?"

"Ah, no, no, no! You're way off the mark, though you are cunning. And you even surprise me. I thought you were not uninformed with regard to that. . . Hm, Stavrogin is something totally the opposite—I mean, totally... Avis au lecteur.^[xcvi]"

"Indeed! But, can it be?" Lembke uttered mistrustfully. "Yulia Mikhailovna told me that, according to her information from Petersburg, he is a man with certain, so to speak, instructions..."

"I know nothing, nothing, nothing at all. Adieu. Avis au lecteur!" Pyotr Stepanovich suddenly and obviously dodged.

He flew to the door.

"Allow me, Pyotr Stepanovich, allow me," cried Lembke, "one other tiny matter—I won't keep you."

He pulled an envelope from his desk drawer.

"Here's one little specimen of the same category, and with this I prove that I trust you in the highest degree. Here, sir, what is your opinion?"

There was a letter in the envelope—a strange letter, anonymous, addressed to Lembke, and received only the day before. To his great vexation, Pyotr Stepanovich read the following:

Your Excellency, For by rank you are so. I herewith announce an attempt on the life of the persons of generals and the fatherland; for it leads straight to that. I myself have constantly been spreading them for a multitude of years. And godlessness, too. A rebellion is in preparation, there being several thousand tracts, and a hundred men will run after each one with their tongues hanging out, if not taken away by the authorities beforehand, for a multitude is promised as a reward, and the simple people are stupid, and also vodka. People considering the culprit are destroying one and another, and, fearing both sides, I repented of what I did not participate in, for such are my circumstances. If you want a denunciation to save the fatherland, and also the churches and icons, I alone can. But, with that, a pardon by telegraph from the Third Department,^[133] immediately, to me alone out of all of them, and the rest to be held responsible. As a signal, every evening at seven o'clock put a candle in the doorkeeper's window. Seeing it, I will believe and come to kiss the merciful hand from the capital, but, with that, a pension, otherwise what will I live on? And you will not regret it, because you will get a star. It has to be on the quiet, or else there will be a neck wrung.

Your Excellency's desperate man.

At your feet falls the repentant freethinker,

Incognito

Von Lembke explained that the letter had turned up a day ago in the doorkeeper's room, while no one was there.

"So what do you think?" Pyotr Stepanovich asked almost rudely.

"I should suppose that this is an anonymous lampoon, a mockery."

"Most likely that's what it is. You're not to be hoodwinked."

"Mainly because it's so stupid."

"And have you received other lampoons here?"

"I have, twice, anonymously."

"Well, naturally they're not going to sign them. In different styles? Different hands?"

"Different styles and different hands."

"And clownish, like this one?"

"Yes, clownish, and you know... extremely vile."

"Well, since there have been some already, it's probably the same now."

"And mainly because it's so stupid. Because those people are educated and probably wouldn't write so stupidly."

"Ah, yes, yes."

"But what if someone indeed wants to make a denunciation?"

"Impossible," Pyotr Stepanovich cut off dryly. "What's this telegram from the Third Department? And the pension? An obvious lampoon."

"Yes, yes," Lembke felt ashamed.

"You know what, why don't you let me keep it. I'll find out definitely for you. Even before I find out the others."

"Take it," von Lembke agreed, though with a certain hesitation.

"Have you shown it to anyone?"

"No, how would I, not to anyone."

"I mean, to Yulia Mikhailovna?"

"Ah, God forbid, and for God's sake don't you show it to her!" Lembke cried out in fright. "She'll be so shocked ... and terribly angry with me."

"Yes, you'll be the first to catch it, she'll say you had it coming, if they write to you like that. We know women's logic. Well, good-bye. I may even present this writer to you within three days. Above all, our agreement!"

IV

Pyotr Stepanovich was perhaps not a stupid man, but Fedka the Convict rightly said of him that he "invents a man and then lives with him." He went away from von Lembke quite certain that he had set him at ease for at least six days, and he needed the time badly. But this notion was a false one, and it all rested on his having invented Andrei Antonovich as a perfect simpleton, from the very start, once and for all.

Like every morbidly insecure man, Andrei Antonovich, each time he emerged from uncertainty, was for the first moment extremely and joyfully trustful. The new turn of affairs presented itself to him at first in a rather agreeable way, despite certain newly emerging, troublesome complications. The old doubts, at least, were reduced to dust. Besides, he had grown so tired in the last few days, felt himself so worn out and helpless, that his soul involuntarily longed for peace. But, alas, once again he was not at peace. Long life in Petersburg had left indelible traces on his soul. He was rather well informed of the official and even the secret history of the "new generation"—he was a curious man and collected tracts—but he never understood the first word of it. And now he was as if in a forest: all his instincts told him that there was something utterly incongruous in Pyotr Stepanovich's words, something outside all forms and conventions—"though devil knows what may go on in this 'new generation,' and devil knows how things are done among them!" he pondered, losing himself in reflections.

And here, as if by design, Blum again stuck his head into the room. Throughout Pyotr Stepanovich's visit, he had bided his time not far away. This Blum was even a relation of Andrei Antonovich's, but a distant one, carefully and timorously concealed all his life. I ask the reader's pardon for granting at least a few words here to this insignificant person. Blum belonged to the strange breed of "unfortunate" Germans—not at all owing to his extreme giftlessness, but precisely for no known reason. "Unfortunate" Germans are not a myth, they really exist, even in Russia, and have their own type. All his life Andrei Antonovich had nursed a most touching sympathy for him, and wherever he could, as he himself succeeded in the service, kept promoting him to subordinate positions within his jurisdiction, but the man had no luck anywhere. Either the position would be abolished, or the superior would be replaced, or else he was once almost put on trial along with some others. He was precise, but somehow excessively, needlessly, and to his own detriment, gloomy; red-haired, tall, stooping, doleful, even sentimental, yet, for all his downtroddenness, stubborn and persistent as an ox, though always at the wrong time. He and his wife, with their numerous children, nursed a long-standing and reverential affection for Andrei Antonovich. Except for Andrei Antonovich, no one had ever loved him. Yulia Mikhailovna discarded him at once, but proved unable to overcome her husband's tenacity. This was their first family quarrel, and it took place just after their wedding, in the very first honey days, when Blum suddenly came to light, after having been carefully hidden from her, along with the offensive secret of his being her relation. Andrei Antonovich entreated her with clasped hands, recounted feelingly the whole story of Blum and of their friendship from very childhood, but Yulia Mikhailovna considered herself disgraced forever and even resorted to swooning. Von Lembke did not yield an inch to her and declared that he would not abandon Blum for anything in the world, nor distance him from himself, so that she was finally surprised and was forced to permit Blum. Only it was decided that their relation must be concealed still more carefully than before, if that were possible, and that Blum's name and patronymic would be changed, because for some reason he, too, was named Andrei Antonovich. Among us Blum made no acquaintances, except with the German pharmacist, paid no calls, and, as was his wont, lived his niggardly and solitary life. He had long known, too, about Andrei Antonovich's literary peccadilloes. He was mainly summoned to listen to his novels in secret, intimate readings, would sit it out like a post for six hours on end; sweated, exerted all his strength to smile and not fall asleep; on coming home would lament, together with his long-legged and lean-fleshed wife, over their benefactor's unfortunate weakness for Russian literature.

Andrei Antonovich looked with suffering at the entering Blum.

"Leave me alone, Blum, I beg you," he began in an alarmed patter, obviously wishing to deflect any renewal of their previous conversation, interrupted by Pyotr Stepanovich's arrival.

"And yet it could be arranged in the most delicate way, quite privately; you do have full authority," Blum respectfully but stubbornly insisted on something, hunching his shoulders and approaching Andrei Antonovich more and more closely on small steps.

"Blum, you are devoted to me and obliging to such a degree that I get beside myself with fear each time I look at you."

"You always say sharp things and sleep peacefully feeling pleased with what you've said, but you do yourself harm that way."

"Blum, I've just become convinced that it's not that, not that at all."

"Is it from the words of this false, depraved young man whom you yourself suspect? He won you over by his flattering praise of your talent for literature."

"Blum, you understand nothing; your project is an absurdity, I tell you. We won't find anything, and there will be a terrible outcry, then laughter, and then Yulia Mikhailovna..."

"We will unquestionably find everything we are looking for," Blum took a firm step towards him, placing his right hand on his heart. "We will make the inspection suddenly, early in the morning, observing all delicacy regarding the person, and all the prescribed strictness of legal form. The young men, Lyamshin and Telyatnikov, insist all too much that we will find everything we want. They have visited there many times. No one is attentively disposed towards Mr. Verkhovensky. The general's widow Stavrogin has clearly denied him her patronage, and every honest man, if there be such in this rude town, is convinced that there has always been concealed there a source of disbelief and social teaching. He keeps all the forbidden books, Ryleev's Ponderings,^[134]all of Herzen's works ... I have an approximate catalogue just in case..."

"Oh, God, everyone has those books; how simple you are, my poor Blum!"

"And many tracts," Blum went on without heeding the reproof. "We will certainly finish by finding the trail of actual local tracts. This young Verkhovensky I find quite, quite suspicious."

"But you're mixing up the father and the son. They're not on good terms; the son laughs openly at the father."

"That is just a mask."

"Blum, you're sworn to be the death of me! Think, he's a notable person here, after all. He used to be a professor, he's a well-known man, he'll make an outcry, and there will be jeering all over town, and the whole thing will go amiss... and think what will happen with Yulia Mikhailovna!"

Blum barged ahead without listening.

"He was just an assistant professor, just only an assistant professor, and is only a mere retired collegiate assessor in rank,"^[135] he kept beating his breast, "he has no distinctions, he was fired from his post on suspicion of plotting against the government. He was under secret surveillance, and no doubt still is. And in view of the newly discovered disorders, your duty no doubt obliges you. And yet you, on the contrary, are letting your distinction slip, by conniving with the real culprit."

"Yulia Mikhailovna! Get ou-u-ut, Blum!" von Lembke suddenly cried, hearing his spouse's voice in the next room.

Blum gave a start, but did not yield.

"Permit me, do permit me," he edged forward, pressing both hands still more tightly to his breast.

"Get ou-u-ut!" Andrei Antonovich gnashed. "Do what you like... later... Oh, my God!"

The portière was raised, and Yulia Mikhailovna appeared. She stopped majestically on seeing Blum, looked him over haughtily and offendedly, as if the man's very presence there were an insult to her. Blum silently and respectfully made her a low bow and, stooping with respect, went to the door on tiptoe, his hands spread slightly.

Whether he indeed took Andrei Antonovich's last hysterical exclamation as direct permission to act as he had requested, or whether he played it false in this case for the direct good of his benefactor, being only too certain that the end would crown the affair—in any case, as we shall see below, this conversation between the superior and his subordinate produced a most unexpected result, which made many laugh, became publicly known, aroused the bitter wrath of Yulia Mikhailovna, and with all that left Andrei Antonovich finally bewildered, having thrown him, at the hottest moment, into the most lamentable indecision.

V

For Pyotr Stepanovich the day proved a bustling one. From von Lembke he quickly ran over to Bogoyavlensky Street, but going down Bykov Street, past the house where Karmazinov was lodging, he suddenly halted, grinned, and went into the house. "You are expected, sir," he was told, which highly intrigued him, because he had given no notice of his coming.

But the great writer was indeed expecting him, and had been even yesterday, and the day before. Three days earlier he had handed him the manuscript of his Merci (which he wanted to read at the literary matinée on the day of Yulia Mikhailovna's fête), and had done so as a favor, quite certain that he would pleasantly flatter the man's vanity by letting him acquaint himself with the great work beforehand. Pyotr Stepanovich had long ago noticed that this gentleman, conceited, spoiled, and insultingly unapproachable for the non-elect, this "all but statesmanly mind," was quite simply fawning on him, even eagerly so. I believe the young man finally realized that the older one considered him, if not the ringleader of everything covertly revolutionary in the whole of Russia, at least one of those most deeply initiated into the secrets of the Russian revolution and with an unquestionable influence on the young. The state of mind of "the most intelligent man in Russia" interested Pyotr Stepanovich, but up to now, for certain reasons, he had avoided any explanations.

The great writer lodged in the house of his sister, a court chamberlain's wife and a landowner; the two of them, husband and wife, stood in awe of their famous relation, but, to their great regret, during his present visit they were both in Moscow, so that the honor of receiving him went to a little old lady, a very distant and poor relation of the chamberlain's, who lived in their house and had long looked after all the housekeeping. With the arrival of Mr. Karmazinov, the household all began to go around on tiptoe. The little old lady notified Moscow almost daily of how he had reposed and upon what he had been pleased to dine, and once sent a telegram with the news that he had been obliged, after a formal dinner at the mayor's, to take a spoonful of a certain medication. She rarely ventured into his room, though he treated her politely, if dryly, and spoke with her only if there was some need. When Pyotr Stepanovich entered, he was eating his little morning cutlet with half a glass of red wine. Pyotr Stepanovich had visited him before and always found him over this little morning cutlet, which he went on eating in his presence without ever offering him anything. After the little cutlet, a small cup of coffee was served. The valet who brought the food wore a tailcoat, soft inaudible boots, and gloves.

"Ahh!" Karmazinov rose from the sofa, wiping his mouth with a napkin, and with an air of the purest joy came at him with his kisses—a habit characteristic of Russians if they are indeed so famous. But Pyotr Stepanovich recalled from previous experience that while he would come at you with his kisses, he would then let you have his cheek, and so this time he did the same; the two cheeks met.^[136] Karmazinov, without showing that he had noticed it, sat down on the sofa and affably pointed Pyotr Stepanovich to the armchair facing him, in which the latter proceeded to sprawl.

"You wouldn't... Would you care for some lunch?" the host asked, abandoning his habit this time, but, of course, with an air that clearly prompted a polite refusal. Pyotr Stepanovich at once did care to have lunch. A shadow of hurt amazement darkened his host's face, but only for a moment; he nervously rang for the servant and, in spite of all his good breeding, raised his voice squeamishly as he ordered a second lunch to be served.

"What will you have, a cutlet or coffee?" he inquired once more.

"A cutlet and coffee, and have them bring more wine, I'm hungry," Pyotr Stepanovich replied, studying his host's attire with calm attention. Mr. Karmazinov was wearing a little quilted jerkin, a sort of jacket, with little mother-of-pearl buttons, but much too short, and which was not at all becoming to his rather well fed tummy and the solidly rounded beginnings of his legs; but tastes vary. The checkered woolen plaid on his knees unfolded to the floor, though the room was warm.

"Are you sick or something?" Pyotr Stepanovich remarked.

"No, not sick, but afraid of becoming sick in this climate," the writer replied in his sharp voice, though with a pleasantly aristocratic lisp, lovingly scanning each word. "I expected you yesterday."

"But why? I didn't promise."

"No, but you do have my manuscript. Have you... read it?"

"Manuscript? What manuscript?"

Karmazinov was terribly surprised.

"But, anyhow, you did bring it with you?" he suddenly grew so alarmed that he even left off eating and looked at Pyotr Stepanovich with frightened eyes.

"Ah, this Bonjour you mean ..."

"Merci.”

"Well, all right. I completely forgot, and I haven't read it, I have no time. I don't know, really, it's not in my pockets... must be on my desk. Don't worry, it'll turn up."

"No, better if I send to your place for it now. It may disappear, or get stolen, finally."

"But, who needs it! And why are you so frightened? Yulia Mikhailovna says you always have several copies stashed away, one abroad with a notary, another in Petersburg, a third in Moscow, then you send one to the bank, or whatever."

"But Moscow can also burn down, and my manuscript with it. No, I'd better send right now."

"Wait, here it is!" Pyotr Stepanovich took a bundle of writing paper from his back pocket. "It got a bit crumpled. Imagine, it's been there in my back pocket all this time, along with my handkerchief, just as I took it from you then; I forgot."

Karmazinov greedily snatched the manuscript, carefully looked it over, counted the pages, and placed it respectfully beside him for the time being, on a special little table, but so as to keep it in view at all times.

"It seems you don't read so much," he hissed, unable to restrain himself.

"No, not so much."

"And in the line of Russian belles lettres—nothing?"

"In the line of Russian belles lettres? Let me see, I did read something ... On the Way ... or Make Way... or By the Wayside,^[137] possibly—I don't remember. I read it long ago, five years or so. I have no time."

Some silence ensued.

"I assured them all, as soon as I arrived, that you are a great mind, and now it seems they've all lost their minds over you."

"Thank you," Pyotr Stepanovich replied calmly.

Lunch was brought. Pyotr Stepanovich fell upon the little cutlet with great appetite, ate it instantly, drank the wine, and gulped down the coffee.

"This ignoramus," Karmazinov studied him pensively out of the corner of his eye as he finished the last little morsel and drank the last little sip, "this ignoramus probably understood all the sharpness of my phrase just now... and he certainly read the manuscript eagerly and is just lying with something in mind. Yet it may also be that he's not lying, but is quite genuinely stupid. I like it when a man of genius is somewhat stupid. Isn't he really some sort of genius hereabouts? Devil take him, anyway."

He got up from the sofa and began pacing the room slowly, from corner to corner, for exercise—something he performed every day after lunch.

"Leaving soon?" Pyotr Stepanovich asked from the armchair, having lighted a cigarette.

"I came to sell my estate, actually, and am now entirely dependent on my manager."

"But it seems you came because an epidemic was expected there after the war?"

"N-no, it wasn't quite that," Mr. Karmazinov continued, scanning his words benignly, and kicking his right leg out briskly, though only slightly, each time he turned back from a corner. "Indeed," he grinned, not without venom, "I intend to live as long as possible. There is something in the Russian gentry that very quickly wears out, in all respects. But I want to wear out as late as possible, and am now moving abroad for good; the climate is better there, and they build in stone, and everything is stronger. Europe will last my lifetime, I think. What do you think?"

"How should I know?"

"Hm. If their Babylon is indeed going to collapse, and great will be its fall^[138] (in which I fully agree with you, though I do think it will last my lifetime), here in Russia there is nothing to collapse, comparatively speaking. We won't have stones tumbling down, everything will dissolve into mud. Holy Russia is least capable in all the world of resisting anything. Simple people still hang on somehow by the Russian God; but the Russian God, according to the latest reports, is rather unreliable and even barely managed to withstand the peasant reform; anyway he tottered badly. And what with the railroads, and what with your... no, I don't believe in the Russian God at all."

"And in the European one?"

"I don't believe in any. I've been slandered to the Russian youth. I've always sympathized with every movement of theirs. I was shown these local tracts. They're regarded with perplexity because everyone is frightened by the form, but everyone is nonetheless certain of their power, though they may not be aware of it. Everyone has long been falling, and everyone has long known that there is nothing to cling to. I'm convinced of the success of this mysterious propaganda even owing to this alone, that Russia now is preeminently the place in the whole world where anything you like can happen without the least resistance. I understand only too well why the moneyed Russians have all been pouring abroad, more and more of them every year. It's simple instinct. If a ship is about to sink, the rats are the first to leave it. Holy Russia is a wooden country, a beggarly and... dangerous one, a country of vainglorious beggars in its upper strata, while the vast majority live in huts on chicken legs.^[139] She'll be glad of any way out, once it has been explained to her. The government alone still wants to resist, but it brandishes its cudgel in the dark and strikes its own. Everything is doomed and sentenced here. Russia as she is has no future. I've become a German and count it an honor."

"No, but you began about the tracts; tell me everything, how do you look at them?"

"Everyone is afraid of them, which means they're powerful. They openly expose deceit and prove that we have nothing to cling to and nothing to lean on. They speak out, while everyone is silent. The most winning thing about them (despite the form) is this hitherto unheard-of boldness in looking truth straight in the face. This ability to look truth straight in the face belongs only to the Russian generation. No, in Europe they are still not so bold: theirs is a kingdom of stone, they still have something to lean on. As far as I can see and am able to judge, the whole essence of the Russian revolutionary idea consists in a denial of honor. I like the way it is so boldly and fearlessly expressed. No, in Europe they still won't understand it, but here it is precisely what they will fall upon. For the Russian, honor is simply a superfluous burden. And it has always been a burden, throughout his history. He can be all the sooner carried away by an open 'right to dishonor."^[140] I am of the old generation and, I confess, still stand for honor, but only from habit. I simply like the old forms, say it's from faintheartedness; I do have to live my life out somehow."

He suddenly paused.

"I talk and talk, however," he thought, "and he says nothing and keeps an eye on me. He came so that I'd ask him a direct question. And I will ask it."

"Yulia Mikhailovna asked me to trick you somehow into telling what this surprise is that you're preparing for the ball the day after tomorrow," Pyotr Stepanovich said suddenly.

"Yes, it will indeed be a surprise, and I will indeed amaze..." Karmazinov assumed a dignified air, "but I won't tell you what the secret is."

Pyotr Stepanovich did not insist.

"There's some Shatov here," the great writer inquired, "and, imagine, I haven't seen him."

"A very nice person. So?"

"That's all. He's talking about something. Was he the one who slapped Stavrogin in the face?"

"Yes."

"And what do you think of Stavrogin?"

"I don't know—some sort of philanderer."

Karmazinov had come to hate Stavrogin, because he made a habit of taking no notice of him.

"This philanderer," he said, tittering, "will probably be the first to be hung from a limb, if what's preached in those tracts ever gets carried out."

"Maybe even sooner," Pyotr Stepanovich said suddenly.

"And so it should be," Karmazinov echoed, not laughing now, but somehow all too serious.

"You already said that once, and, you know, I told him so."

"What, you really told him?" Karmazinov laughed again.

"He said if it was hanging from a limb for him, a whipping would be enough for you, only not an honorary one, but painful, the way they whip a peasant."

Pyotr Stepanovich took his hat and got up from his place. Karmazinov held out both hands to him in farewell.

"And what," he peeped suddenly, in a honeyed little voice and with some special intonation, still holding his hands in his own, "what if all... that's being planned... were set to be carried out, then when... might it happen?"

"How should I know?" Pyotr Stepanovich replied, somewhat rudely. They gazed intently into each other's eyes.

"Roughly? Approximately?" Karmazinov peeped still more sweetly.

"You'll have time to sell the estate, and time to clear out as well," Pyotr Stepanovich muttered, still more rudely. They both gazed at each other still more intently.

There was a minute of silence.

"It will begin by the beginning of next May, and be all over by the Protection,"^[141] Pyotr Stepanovich said suddenly.

"I sincerely thank you," Karmazinov said in a heartfelt voice, squeezing his hands.

"You'll have time, rat, to leave the ship!" Pyotr Stepanovich thought as he came outside. "Well, if even this 'all but statesmanly mind' is inquiring so confidently about the day and the hour, and thanks one so respectfully for the information received, we cannot doubt ourselves after that." (He grinned.) "Hm. And he's really not stupid, and... just a migratory rat; that kind won't inform!"

He ran to Bogoyavlensky Street, to Filippov's house.

VI

Pyotr Stepanovich went first to Kirillov. He was alone, as usual, and this time was doing exercises in the middle of the room— that is, he was standing with his legs apart, whirling his arms above his head in some special way. A ball was lying on the floor. The morning tea, already cold, had not been cleared from the table. Pyotr Stepanovich paused on the threshold for a minute.

"You take good care of your health, though," he said loudly and gaily, stepping into the room. "What a nice ball, though; look how it bounces! Is this also for exercise?"

Kirillov put his jacket on.

"Yes, also for health," he muttered dryly, "sit down."

"It's just for a minute. Still, I'll sit down. Health is health, but I've come to remind you of our agreement. Our time, sir, is 'in a certain sense' approaching," he concluded with an awkward twist.

"What agreement?"

"You ask, what agreement?" Pyotr Stepanovich got fluttered up, even frightened.

"It's not an agreement, or a duty, I'm bound by nothing, there's a mistake on your part."

"Listen, what is this you're doing?" Pyotr Stepanovich jumped all the way up.

"My will."

"Which is?"

"The same."

"I mean, how am I to understand that? You're still of the same mind?"

"I am. Only there is not and was not any agreement, and I'm bound by nothing. There was just my will, and now there is just my will."

Kirillov was talking abruptly and squeamishly.

"I agree, I agree, let it be your will, as long as this will doesn't change," Pyotr Stepanovich settled down again with a satisfied air. "You get angry at words. You've somehow become very angry lately;

that's why I've avoided visiting. I was completely sure, by the way, that you wouldn't change."

"I dislike you very much; but you can be completely sure. Though I do not recognize changes and non-changes."

"You know, though," Pyotr Stepanovich got fluttered up again, "why don't we talk it all over properly, so as not to be confused. The matter requires precision, and you disconcert me terribly. Am I permitted to speak?"

"Speak," Kirillov said curtly, looking into the corner.

"You resolved long ago to take your own life ... I mean, you did have such an idea. Have I put it right? Is there any mistake?"

"I have such an idea now, too."

"Wonderful. And note, also, that no one has forced you into it."

"To be sure; how stupidly you talk."

"All right, all right, so I put it very stupidly. No doubt it would be very stupid to force such things. To go on: you were a member of the Society under the old organization, and it was then that you confided it to one member of the Society."

"I did not confide it, I simply told it."

"All right. It would be ridiculous to 'confide' such a thing—what sort of confession is it? You simply told it. Wonderful."

"No, not wonderful, because you maunder so. I don't owe you any accounting, and you're not capable of understanding my thoughts. I want to take my own life because I have this thought, because I do not want the fear of death, because ... because there's nothing here for you to know... What is it? Want some tea? It's cold. Let me get you another glass."

Indeed, Pyotr Stepanovich had grabbed the teapot and was looking for an empty receptacle. Kirillov went to the cupboard and brought a clean glass.

"I just had lunch with Karmazinov," the visitor observed, "listened to him talk, got sweaty, then ran here and again got sweaty, I'm dying of thirst."

"Drink. Cold tea is good."

Kirillov sat down on his chair again, and again stared into the corner.

"A thought occurred in the Society," he went on in the same voice, "that I could be useful if I killed myself, and that one day when you got into some kind of mischief and they were looking for culprits, I could suddenly shoot myself and leave a letter that I had done it all, so that they wouldn't suspect you for a whole year."

"Or at least a few days; even one day is precious."

"Very well. In that sense I was told to wait if I liked. I said I would, until I was told the time by the Society, because it makes no difference to me."

"Yes, but remember you pledged that when you wrote the dying letter it would not be without me, and that on my arrival in Russia you would be at my... well, in short, at my disposal, that is, for this occasion alone, of course, and in all others you are certainly free," Pyotr Stepanovich added, almost courteously.

"I did not pledge, I consented, because it makes no difference to me."

"Wonderful, wonderful, I don't have the slightest intention of dampening your pride, but..."

"This is not pride."

"But remember that a hundred and twenty thalers were collected for your trip, so you took money."

"Not at all," Kirillov flared up, "not for that. One does not take money for that."

"Sometimes one does."

"You're lying. I declared in a letter from Petersburg, and in Petersburg I paid you a hundred and twenty thalers, handed them to you... and they were sent there, unless you kept them."

"Very well, very well, I'm not disputing anything, they were sent. The main thing is that you're of the same mind as before."

"The same. When you come and say 'it's time,' I'll fulfill everything. What, very soon?"

"Not so many days... But remember, we compose the note together, that same night."

"Or day, even. You say I must take the blame for the tracts?"

"And something else."

"I won't take everything on myself."

"What won't you take?" Pyotr Stepanovich got fluttered up again.

"Whatever I don't want to; enough. I don't want to talk about it anymore."

Pyotr Stepanovich restrained himself and changed the subject.

"Here's another thing," he warned. "Will you join us this evening? It's Virginsky's name day, that's the pretext for the gathering."

"I don't want to."

"Do me a favor and come. You must. You must, to impress them with numbers, and with your face... Your face is... well, in short, you have a fatal face."

"You find it so?" laughed Kirillov. "Very well, I'll come. Only not for my face. When?"

"Oh, earlyish, half past six. And, you know, you can come in, sit down, and not speak to anyone, however many there are. Only, you know, don't forget to bring a pencil and paper with you."

"What for?"

"It makes no difference to you anyway; and it's my special request. You'll just sit without speaking to anyone at all, listen, and from time to time make as if you're taking notes; well, you can draw something."

"Nonsense, what for?"

"Since it makes no difference to you; you do keep saying that it makes no difference to you."

"No, but what for?"

"Because that member of our Society, the inspector, got stuck in Moscow, and I announced to someone or other here that the inspector might visit us; so they'll think the inspector is you, and since you've been here for three weeks already, they'll be all the more surprised."

"Flimflam! You have no inspector in Moscow."

"Well, suppose I haven't, devil take him, is that any business of yours? And why is it so hard for you to do it? You are a member of the Society."

"Tell them I'm the inspector; I'll sit and be silent, but the pencil and paper I don't want."

"But why?"

"I don't want it."

Pyotr Stepanovich became angry, even turned green, but again restrained himself, got up, and took his hat.

"Is he here?" he suddenly said in a half-whisper.

"Yes."

"Good. I'll have him out soon, don't worry."

"I don't worry. He just spends nights here. The old woman is in the hospital, the daughter-in-law died; for two days I've been alone. I showed him a place in the fence where a board can be removed; he gets in, no one sees him."

"I'll take him away soon."

"He says he has many places to spend the night."

"That's a lie, they're looking for him, and here so far it's inconspicuous. Do you really get to talking with him?"

"Yes, all night. He says very bad things about you. I read him the Apocalypse at night, with tea. He listened hard; even very, all night."

"Ah, the devil, you'll convert him to the Christian faith!"

"He's of Christian faith as it is. Don't worry, he'll use his knife. Whom do you want to put a knife into?"

"No, that's not what I'm keeping him for; he's for something else... And does Shatov know about Fedka?"

"I don't talk and never see Shatov."

"Is he angry, or what?"

"No, we're not angry, we just turn away. We spent too long lying together in America."

"I'll go to him now."

"As you like."

"Stavrogin and I may also come to you from there, somewhere around ten o'clock."

"Come."

"I have to talk with him about an important... You know, why don't you give me your ball? What do you need it for now? I, too, for exercise. I'll even pay money for it."

"Just take it."

Pyotr Stepanovich put the ball in his back pocket.

"And I won't give you anything against Stavrogin," Kirillov muttered behind him, letting his visitor out. The latter looked at him in surprise, but did not respond.

Kirillov's last words confused Pyotr Stepanovich greatly; he still had not had time to make sense of them, but going up the stairs to see Shatov he tried to recompose his displeased look into a benign physiognomy. Shatov was at home and slightly ill. He was lying on his bed, though dressed.

"What bad luck!" Pyotr Stepanovich cried out from the threshold. "Are you seriously ill?"

The benign expression on his face suddenly vanished; something spiteful flashed in his eyes.

"Not in the least," Shatov jumped up nervously, "I'm not ill at all, my head is a little..."

He was even at a loss; the sudden appearance of such a visitor decidedly frightened him.

"The matter I've come on is such that it would be better not to be sick," Pyotr Stepanovich began quickly and as if peremptorily. "Allow me to sit down" (he sat down), "and you sit back down on your cot, so. Today some of our people are getting together at Virginsky's, under the pretense of his birthday; there will be no other tinge—that's been seen to. I'll come with Nikolai Stavrogin. I certainly wouldn't drag you there, knowing your present way of thinking ... I mean, in the sense of not wanting to torment you there, and not because we think you'd inform. But it turns out that you'll have to go. You'll meet those people there with whom we will finally decide the manner of your leaving the Society, and to whom you will hand over what you have. We'll do it inconspicuously; I'll lead you to some corner; there will be a lot of people, and there's no need for everyone to know. I confess I did have to exercise my tongue on your behalf; but now it seems that they, too, agree, with the understanding, of course, that you hand over the press and all the papers. Then you can go to the four winds."

Shatov listened frowningly and spitefully. His recent nervous fright had left him altogether.

"I do not acknowledge any obligation to give an accounting to the devil knows whom," he stated flatly. "No one can set me free."

"Not quite so. A lot was entrusted to you. You had no right to break it off so directly. And, finally, you never announced it clearly, so you led them into an ambiguous position."

"As soon as I came here I announced it clearly in a letter."

"No, not clearly," Pyotr Stepanovich disputed calmly. "For instance, I sent you 'The Shining Light' to print here, and to keep the copies somewhere here with you until called for; and two tracts as well. You sent it all back with an ambiguous letter that meant nothing."

"I directly refused to print it."

"Yes, but not directly. You wrote: 'Am unable,' but did not explain for what reason. 'Unable' doesn't mean 'unwilling.' It could be supposed that you were unable simply for material reasons. In fact, they took it that way, and supposed that you still agreed to continue your connection with the Society, and so they might have entrusted you with something again, and thus have compromised themselves. Here they say you simply wanted to deceive, so that, having obtained important information, you could then denounce them. I defended you all I could, and showed your two-line written reply as a document in your favor. But I myself had to admit, on rereading it, that those two lines are vague and lead one into deception."

"And you've preserved this letter so carefully?"

"That I've preserved it is nothing; I have it even now."

"Who the devil cares! ..." Shatov cried out furiously. "Let your fools think I denounced them, it's not my business! I'd like to see what you can do to me."

"You'd be marked out and hanged at the first success of the revolution."

"That's when you seize supreme power and subjugate Russia?"

"Don't laugh. I repeat, I stood up for you. One way or another, I'd still advise you to come today. Why waste words because of some false pride? Isn't it better to part amicably? Because you'll have to hand over the press and the type and the old papers in any case, so we can talk about that."

"I'll come," Shatov growled, hanging his head in thought. Pyotr Stepanovich studied him out of the corner of his eye from where he sat.

"Will Stavrogin be there?" Shatov suddenly asked, raising his head.

"Quite certainly."

"Heh, heh!"

Again they were silent for about a minute. Shatov was grinning squeamishly and irritably.

"And that vile 'Shining Light' of yours, which I didn't want to print here, did it get printed?"

"It did."

"To persuade schoolboys that Herzen himself wrote it into your album?"

"Herzen himself."

Again they were silent for about three minutes. Shatov finally rose from the bed.

"Get out of here from me, I don't want to sit with you."

"I'm going," Pyotr Stepanovich said, even somehow gaily, rising at once. "Only one word: it seems Kirillov is all by himself in the wing now, without any maid?"

"All by himself. Get out, I can't stay in the same room with you."

"Well, aren't you in a fine state now!" Pyotr Stepanovich reflected gaily as he was going out, "and so you will be in the evening, and that's precisely how I want you now, I could wish for nothing better, nothing better! The Russian God himself is helping out!"

VII

He probably bustled about a good deal that day on various little errands—and it must have been with success—which reflected itself in the smug expression of his physiognomy when in the evening, at six o'clock sharp, he appeared at Nikolai Vsevolodovich's. But he was not shown in to him at once; Mavriky Nikolaevich had just shut himself up with Nikolai Vsevolodovich in the study. This news instantly worried him. He sat down right by the door of the study to wait until the visitor came out. The conversation could be heard, but he was unable to catch the words. The visit did not last long; soon there was noise, an unexpectedly loud and sharp voice was heard, then the door opened and out came Mavriky Nikolaevich with a completely pale face. He did not notice Pyotr Stepanovich and quickly walked past. Pyotr Stepanovich at once ran into the study.

I cannot avoid a detailed account of this extremely brief meeting of the two "rivals"—a meeting seemingly impossible under the circumstances, but which nonetheless took place.

It happened like this. Nikolai Vsevolodovich was dozing after dinner on the sofa in his study when Alexei Yegorovich reported the arrival of an unexpected visitor. On hearing the name announced, he even jumped up from his place and would not believe it. But soon a smile flashed on his lips—a smile of haughty triumph and at the same time of a certain dull, mistrustful amazement. The entering Mavriky Nikolaevich seemed struck by the expression of this smile; at least he paused suddenly in the middle of the room as if undecided whether to go on or turn back. The host at once managed to change his face, and with a look of earnest perplexity stepped forward to meet him. The man did not take the proffered hand, moved a chair out awkwardly, and, not saying a word, sat down even before the host, without waiting to be invited. Nikolai Vsevolodovich sat himself down sideways on the sofa and, scrutinizing Mavriky Nikolaevich, waited silently.

"If you can, then marry Lizaveta Nikolaevna," Mavriky Nikolaevich suddenly offered, and, what was most curious, it was quite impossible to tell by the tone of his voice whether it was a request, a recommendation, a concession, or an order.

Nikolai Vsevolodovich continued to be silent; but the visitor had evidently said all he had come for, and was staring at him point-blank, awaiting an answer.

"Unless I'm mistaken (though it's all too true), Lizaveta Nikolaevna is already engaged to you," Stavrogin said at last.

"Betrothed and engaged," Mavriky Nikolaevich firmly and clearly confirmed.

"You've... quarreled?... Excuse me, Mavriky Nikolaevich."

"No, she 'loves and respects' me—the words are hers. Her words are more precious than anything."

"There's no doubt of that."

"But you should know that if she were standing right at the altar, and you were to call her, she would drop me and everyone and go to you."

"From the altar?"

"And after the altar."

"You're not mistaken?"

"No. From behind her ceaseless, genuine, and most complete hatred for you, love flashes every moment, and... madness... the most genuine and boundless love and—madness! On the contrary, from behind the love she feels for me, also genuinely, hatred flashes every moment—the greatest hatred! I could never have imagined all these... metamorphoses... before."

"But still it surprises me, how could you come and dispose of Lizaveta Nikolaevna's hand? Do you have the right to do that? Or did she authorize you?"

Mavriky Nikolaevich frowned and cast down his head for a moment.

"These are only just words on your part," he said suddenly, "vengeful and triumphant words: I'm sure you understand what's been left unspoken between the lines, and is there any place here for petty vanity? Aren't you satisfied enough? Is there really any need to smear it around, to dot all the i's? As you wish, I will dot them, if you need my humiliation so much: I have no right, no authorization is possible; Lizaveta Nikolaevna doesn't know about anything, and her fiancé has lost his last wits and is fit for the madhouse, and to crown it all he comes himself to report it to you. You alone in the whole world can make her happy, and I alone—unhappy. You contend for her, you pursue her, but, I don't know why, you will not marry her. If it's some lovers' quarrel that happened abroad, and I must be sacrificed to end it—sacrifice me. She is too unhappy, and I cannot bear it. My words are not a permission, not a prescription, and so there is no insult to your pride. If you wanted to take my place at the altar, you could do it without any permission on my part, and there was certainly no point in my coming to you with my madness. Especially as our marriage is no longer possible at all after this step of mine. I can't lead her to the altar when I'm a scoundrel. What I am doing here and my handing her over to you, perhaps her most implacable enemy, is in my view the act of a scoundrel, which I, of course, will never be able to endure." "Will you shoot yourself as we're getting married?" "No, much later. Why stain her wedding garment with my blood. Maybe I won't shoot myself at all, either now or later." "You probably wish to set me at ease by saying so?" "You? What could one more splash of blood mean to you?" He turned pale and his eyes flashed. A minute of silence followed.

"Excuse me for the questions I've put to you," Stavrogin began again. "Some of them I had no right to put, but to one of them it seems to me I have every right: tell me what facts led you to conclude about my feelings for Lizaveta Nikolaevna? I mean with regard to the degree of those feelings, the certainty of which allowed you to come to me and... risk such a suggestion."

"What?" Mavriky Nikolaevich even gave a slight start. "But haven't you been seeking after her? You were not seeking and do not want to seek after her?"

"In general, I cannot speak aloud about my feelings for this or that woman to a third person, or to anyone at all except that one woman. Excuse me, it's an oddity of my organism. But instead of that I'll tell you the whole rest of the truth: I am married, and it is no longer possible for me to marry or 'to seek after.’”

Mavriky Nikolaevich was so amazed that he recoiled against the back of his armchair, and for a while stared fixedly at Stavrogin's face.

"Imagine, I somehow didn't think of that," he muttered. "You said then, that morning, that you weren't married ... and so I believed you weren't married..."

He was growing terribly pale; suddenly he banged his fist on the table with all his might.

"If after such a confession you do not leave Lizaveta Nikolaevna alone, and keep making her unhappy, I'll kill you with a stick like a dog in a ditch!"

He jumped up and quickly walked out of the room. Pyotr Stepanovich, running in, found the host in a most unexpected frame of mind.

"Ah, it's you!" Stavrogin guffawed loudly; he seemed to be guffawing only at the figure of Pyotr Stepanovich, who ran in with such impetuous curiosity.

"You were eavesdropping at the door? Wait, what is it you've arrived with? I promised you something, I know... Aha! I remember: to go to 'our' people! Let's go, I'm very glad, and you couldn't have thought of anything more appropriate right now."

He grabbed his hat, and the two men left the house without delay.

"You're laughing ahead of time at seeing 'our' people?" Pyotr Stepanovich fidgeted gaily, now trying to keep in stride with his companion on the narrow brick sidewalk, now even running down into the roadway, right into the mud, since his companion was completely unaware that he was walking in the very middle of the sidewalk and thus occupying the whole of it with his own person.

"Not laughing in the least," Stavrogin answered loudly and gaily, "on the contrary, I'm sure you've got some serious folk there."

“‘Gloomy dullards,' as you were pleased to put it once."

"There's nothing gayer than certain gloomy dullards."

"Ah, you mean Mavriky Nikolaevich! I'm sure he came just now to give up his fiancée to you, eh? Imagine, it was I who set him onto that, indirectly. And if he doesn't give her up, we'll take her ourselves—eh?"

Pyotr Stepanovich knew, of course, the risk of allowing himself such flourishes, but when he was excited he preferred sooner to risk everything than to leave himself in ignorance. Nikolai Vsevolodovich merely laughed.

"And you still count on helping me?" he asked.

"If you call me. But, you know what, there's one way that's best."

"I know your way."

"Ah, no, so far it's a secret. Only remember, secrets cost money."

"I even know how much," Stavrogin growled under his breath, but checked himself and fell silent.

"How much? What did you say?" Pyotr Stepanovich fluttered up.

"I said: to hell with you and your secret! Better tell me who you've got there. I know we're going to a name-day party, but who, namely, will be there?"

"Oh, all sorts of things, in the highest degree! Even Kirillov."

"All members of circles?"

"Devil take it, you rush so! Not even one circle has taken place here yet."

"Then how did you manage to spread so many tracts?"

"Where we're going only four of them are members of the circle. The rest, while they wait, are spying on each other as hard as they can and bringing everything to me. Trustworthy folk. It's all material for us to organize, and then we clear out. However, you wrote the rules yourself, there's no need to explain to you."

"So, what, the going's hard? Got stuck?"

"The going? Easy as could be. This'll make you laugh: what first of all affects them terribly is a uniform. There's nothing stronger than a uniform. I purposely invent ranks and positions: I have secretaries, secret stool pigeons, treasurers, chairmen, registrars, their adjuncts— it's all very much liked and has caught on splendidly. Then the next force, naturally, is sentimentality. You know, with us socialism spreads mostly through sentimentality. But the trouble here is with these biting lieutenants; you get burned every so often. Then come the out-and-out crooks; well, they can be nice folk, very profitable on occasion, but they take up a lot of time, require constant surveillance. Well, and finally the main force—the cement that bonds it all—is shame at one's own opinion. There is a real force! And who was it that worked, who was the 'sweetie'^[142] that labored so that there isn't a single idea of one's own left in anyone's head! They consider it shameful."

"But if so, why are you bustling about like this?"

"But if it's just lying there gaping at everybody, how can one help filching it! As if you don't seriously believe success is possible? Eh, the belief is there, it's the wanting that's needed. Yes, precisely with their sort success is possible. I tell you, I can get them to go through fire, if I just yell at them that they're not liberal enough. Fools reproach me for having hoodwinked everyone here with my central committee and 'numerous branches.' You yourself once reproached me with that, but where is there any hoodwinking: the central committee is you and me, and there can be as many branches as they like."

"And all with these dregs!"

"It's material. They, too, will come in useful."

"And you're still counting on me?"

"You are the chief, you are the force; I'll just be at your side, a secretary. You know, we shall board our bark, and her oars will be of maple, and her sails of silk, and in the stern there sits a beautiful maiden, the fair Lizaveta Nikolaevna ... or how the devil does the song go..."^[143]

"Muffed it!" Stavrogin burst out laughing. "No, I'd better give you the refrain. Here you're counting off on your fingers what forces make up a circle? All this officialdom and sentimentality—it's good glue, but there's one thing better still: get four members of a circle to bump off a fifth on the pretense of his being an informer, and with this shed blood you'll immediately tie them together in a single knot.^[144] They'll become your slaves, they won't dare rebel or call you to accounts. Ha, ha, ha!"

"You, though... you're going to pay for those words, my friend," Pyotr Stepanovich thought to himself, "and even this very night. You allow yourself too much."

Thus, or almost thus, Pyotr Stepanovich must have reflected. However, they were already coming up to Virginsky's house.

"You've no doubt presented me there as some sort of member from abroad, connected with the Internationale, maybe an inspector?" Stavrogin suddenly asked.

"No, not an inspector; the inspector won't be you; you are a founding member from abroad who knows the most important secrets— that's your role. You are, of course, going to speak?"

"What gives you that idea?"

"You're obliged to speak now."

Stavrogin even stopped in surprise in the middle of the street, not far from a streetlamp. Pyotr Stepanovich met his gaze boldly and calmly. Stavrogin spat and walked on.

"And are you going to speak?" he suddenly asked Pyotr Stepanovich.

"No, I'd rather listen to you."

"Devil take you! In fact, you're giving me an idea!"

"What idea?" Pyotr Stepanovich popped up.

"Maybe I will speak there, in fact, but then I'm going to give you a beating, and a good one, you know."

"By the way, I told Karmazinov about you this morning, that you supposedly said about him that he ought to get a whipping, and not just an honorary one, but painful, the way they whip a peasant."

"But I never said that, ha, ha!"

"Never mind. Se non è vero . . ."^[145]

"Well, thanks, I'm sincerely grateful."

"You know what else Karmazinov says? That essentially our teaching is a denial of honor, and that it's easiest of all to carry the Russian man with us by an open right to dishonor."

"Excellent words! Golden words!" Stavrogin cried. "He's put his finger on it! The right to dishonor—and everyone will come running to us, no one will stay there! Listen, Verkhovensky, you're not from the higher police, eh?"

"Whoever has such questions in his mind doesn't voice them."

"I understand, but we're among ourselves."

"No, so far I'm not from the higher police. Enough, we're here. Concoct your physiognomy, Stavrogin; I always do when I come to them. Add some extra gloom, that's all, no need for anything else; it's quite a simple thing."