Demons

7: With Our People

I

Virginsky lived in his own house, that is, in his wife's house, on Muravyiny Street. It was a one-story wooden house, and there were no other lodgers in it. Under the pretense of the host's birthday about fifteen guests had gathered; but the party in no way resembled an ordinary provincial name-day party. From the very beginning of their cohabitation, the Virginsky spouses mutually resolved once and for all that to invite guests for one's name day was perfectly stupid, and besides "there's nothing at all to be glad about." In a few years they had somehow managed to distance themselves completely from society. He, though a man of ability, and by no means a "poor sort," for some reason seemed to everyone an odd man who loved solitude and, moreover, spoke "arrogantly." While Madame Virginsky herself, who practiced the profession of midwife, by that alone stood lowest of all on the social ladder, even lower than the priest's wife, despite her husband's rank as an officer. As for the humility befitting her station, this could not be observed in her at all. And after a most stupid and unforgivably open liaison, on principle, with a certain crook, one Captain Lebyadkin, even the most lenient of our ladies turned away from her with remarkable disdain. Yet Madame Virginsky took it all as if it were just what she wanted. Remarkably, the very same severe ladies, should they happen to be in an interesting condition, turned if possible to Arina Prokhorovna (Virginsky, that is), bypassing the other three accoucheuses of our town. She was summoned even by country landowners' wives—so great was everyone's belief in her knowledge, luck, and adroitness in critical cases. The end was that she began to practice solely in the wealthiest houses; and she loved money to the point of greed. Having fully sensed her power, she finally stopped restraining her character altogether. Perhaps it was even on purpose that, while working in the most distinguished houses, she would frighten a nervous woman in childbed with some unheard-of nihilistic forgetting of decency, or, finally, with her mockery of "all that's holy," precisely at moments when "the holy" might have been most useful. Our army doctor, Rozanov, an accoucheur himself, bore positive witness that once, when a woman in labor was howling in pain and calling on the almighty name of God, it was precisely one of these freethinking outbursts from Arina Prokhorovna, sudden "like a rifle shot," that, by affecting the patient with fright, contributed to a most speedy delivery. But, though a nihilist, in case of necessity Arina Prokhorovna would not shrink at all, not only from social, but even from age-old, most prejudiced customs, if they could be of use to her. Not for anything would she miss, for example, the baptism of a baby she had delivered, and she would appear wearing a green silk dress with a train, and with her chignon combed into curls and ringlets, while at all other times she reached the point of reveling in her own slovenliness. And though she always maintained "a most insolent air" during the performance of the sacrament, to the embarrassment of the clergy, once the rite had been performed, it was she who unfailingly brought out the champagne (this was why she came, and got so dressed up), and woe to anyone who tried to take a glass from her without paying something "into the pot."

The guests who gathered at Virginsky's this time (almost all men) had some sort of accidental and urgent look.^[146] There were no refreshments or cards. In the middle of the big drawing room, papered with supremely old blue wallpaper, two tables had been moved together and covered with a big tablecloth, not quite clean, incidentally, and on them two samovars were boiling. A huge tray with twenty-five glasses and a basket of ordinary French bread cut up into many slices, somewhat as in upper-class male and female children's boarding schools, occupied the end of the table. Tea was poured by a thirty-year-old maiden lady, the hostess's sister, browless and pale-haired, a silent and venomous being, but who shared in the new views, and of whom Virginsky, in his domestic existence, was terribly afraid. All together there were three ladies in the room: the hostess herself, her browless sister, and Virginsky's sister, the young Miss Virginsky, who had just got in from Petersburg. Arina Prokhorovna, an imposing lady of about twenty-seven, not bad-looking, somewhat unkempt, in a non-festive woolen dress of a greenish shade, was sitting and looking over her guests with a dauntless gaze, as if hastening to say with her eyes: "See how I'm not afraid of anything at all." The visiting Miss Virginsky, also not bad-looking, a student and a nihilist, well fed and well packed, like a little ball, with very red cheeks, and of short stature, had placed herself next to Arina Prokhorovna, still almost in her traveling clothes, with some bundle of papers in her hand, and was studying the guests with impatient, leaping eyes. Virginsky himself was somewhat unwell that evening, but he nevertheless came out and sat in an armchair at the tea table. The guests were all sitting down as well, and this decorous disposition on chairs around a table gave the suggestion of a meeting. Obviously they were all waiting for something, and, while waiting, engaged each other in loud but as if irrelevant conversation. When Stavrogin and Verkhovensky appeared, everything suddenly became hushed.

But I will allow myself some comments by way of clarification.

I believe that all these gentlemen had indeed gathered then in the pleasant hope of hearing something especially curious, and had been so informed before they gathered. They represented the flower of the most bright red liberalism in our ancient town and had been quite carefully selected by Virginsky for this "meeting." I will also note that some among them (though very few) had never visited him before. Of course, the majority of the guests had no clear notion of why they had been so informed. True, at that time they all took Pyotr Stepanovich for a visiting foreign emissary with plenary powers; this idea had somehow immediately taken root and, naturally, was flattering. And yet in this bunch of citizens gathered under the pretense of a name-day celebration, there were some to whom certain proposals had already been made. Pyotr Verkhovensky had managed to slap up a "fivesome" in our town, similar to the one he already had going in Moscow and also, as it now turns out, among the officers in our district. They say he had one in Kh—— province as well. These five elect were now sitting at the general table and managed to feign quite skillfully the look of the most ordinary people, so that no one could recognize them. These were—since it is no longer a secret—first, Liputin, then Virginsky himself, long-eared Shigalyov (Mrs. Virginsky's brother), Lyamshin, and, finally, a certain Tolkachenko—a strange character, already a man of forty, and famous for his vast study of the people, predominantly crooks and robbers, for which purpose he frequented the pot-houses (not only to study the people, however), and who flaunted among us his bad clothing, tarred boots, squintingly sly look, and frilly folk expressions. Lyamshin had already brought him once or twice to Stepan Trofimovich's evenings, where, however, he had produced no special effect. He would appear in town every so often, mostly when he was out of a job, and he used to work for the railroad. All five of these activists made up this first crew in the warm belief that it was just one unit among hundreds and thousands of fivesomes of the same sort scattered all over Russia, and that they all depended on some central, enormous, but secret place, which in turn was organically linked with Europe's world revolution. But, unfortunately, I must confess that even then there had begun to be discord among them. The thing was that though they had been expecting Pyotr Verkhovensky since spring, as had been announced to them first by Tolkachenko and then by the newly arrived Shigalyov, though they were expecting extraordinary miracles from him, and though they had all come at once, without the slightest criticism and at his first call, to join the circle, yet they had no sooner made up the fivesome than they all at once became offended, as it were, and precisely, I suppose, because of the quickness of their consent. They had joined, of course, out of a magnanimous sense of shame, so that no one could say later that they had not dared to join; but, still, Pyotr Verkhovensky ought really to have appreciated their noble deed and at least have told them some foremost anecdote as a reward. But Verkhovensky did not have the slightest wish to satisfy their legitimate curiosity, and would not tell them anything unnecessary; generally, he treated them with remarkable sternness and even casualness. This was decidedly irritating, and member Shigalyov was already instigating the others "to demand an accounting," but, of course, not now, at Virginsky's, where so many outsiders had gathered.

Speaking of outsiders, I also have an idea that the above-named members of the first fivesome were inclined to suspect that among Virginsky's guests that evening there were members of other groups unknown to them, also started in town from the same secret organization, and by the selfsame Verkhovensky, so that in the end all of those gathered suspected each other, and assumed various postures in front of each other, which indeed lent the whole gathering a rather incoherent and even partly romantic appearance. However, there were also people there who were beyond any suspicion. Such, for example, was one active army major, Virginsky's close relative, a completely innocent man, who had not even been invited, but had come on his own to celebrate the name day, so that it was simply impossible not to receive him. But anyhow Virginsky was not worried, because the major "simply could not denounce them"; for, despite all his stupidity, he had been fond throughout his life of scurrying around all those places where extreme liberals are to be found; did not sympathize himself, but liked very much to listen. Moreover, he had even been compromised once: it so happened that in his youth whole warehouses of The Bell^[147] and various tracts had passed through his hands, and though he had been afraid even to unfold them, he would still have regarded the refusal to disseminate them as perfect baseness—and there are some Russians of his sort even to this day. The remainder of the guests represented either the type of noble amour-propre crushed to the point of bile, or the type of the first and noblest impulse of fervent youth. These were two or three teachers, one of whom was lame, already about forty-five, an instructor in the high school, an extremely venomous and remarkably vain man, and two or three officers. Of the latter, one was a very young artillerist who had arrived just the other day from some military school, a silent boy who had not yet had time to make acquaintances, and who now suddenly turned up at Virginsky's with a pencil in his hand and, almost without taking part in the conversation, kept jotting things down in his notebook. Everyone saw this, but for some reason everyone tried to make it seem as if they had not noticed. There was also the loaf-about seminarian who together with Lyamshin had slipped the vile photographs into the book-hawker's bag, a big fellow with a free and easy but at the same time mistrustful manner, with a perpetually accusatory smile, and along with that a calm look of triumphant perfection contained within himself. There was, I have no idea why, also the son of our mayor, that same nasty boy, dissipated beyond his years, whom I have already mentioned while telling the story of the lieutenant's little wife. He was silent all evening. And finally, in conclusion, there was a high-school student, a very hot-headed and disheveled boy of about eighteen, who sat with the glum look of a young man whose dignity has been insulted, and suffered visibly on account of his eighteen years. This mite of a lad was already the head of an independent crew of conspirators formed in the upper grade of the high school, which fact was discovered afterwards to general amazement. I have not mentioned Shatov: he was sitting right there at the far corner of the table, his chair moved slightly out of line; he looked down, was gloomily silent, refused tea and bread, and would not let go of his peaked cap all the while, as if wishing thereby to declare that he was not a guest but had come on business, and could get up and leave whenever he liked. Not far from him sat Kirillov, also quite silent, though he did not look down but, on the contrary, examined each speaker point-blank with his fixed, lusterless stare, and listened to everything without the least emotion or surprise. Some of the guests who had never seen him before studied him stealthily and pensively. It is not known whether Madame Virginsky herself knew anything about the existence of the fivesome. I suppose she knew everything, and precisely from her husband. The girl student, of course, did not participate in any way, but she had her own concern: she intended to stay only for a day or two, and then go on farther and farther, to all the university towns, to "share the suffering lot of the poor students and arouse them to protest." She was bringing with her several hundred lithographed copies of an appeal— of her own composition, it would seem. Remarkably, the high-school boy hated her from first sight almost to the point of blood vengeance, though it was the first time he had seen her in his life, and she him. The major was her uncle, and met her that day for the first time in ten years. When Stavrogin and Verkhovensky entered, her cheeks were as red as cranberries: she had just had a spat with her uncle over their views of the woman question.

II

Verkhovensky sprawled himself with remarkable casualness on a chair at the upper corner of the table, greeting almost no one. His look was squeamish, and even arrogant. Stavrogin politely made his bows, but, despite the fact that everyone had been waiting only for them, everyone, as if on command, pretended that they had scarcely noticed them. The hostess sternly addressed Stavrogin as soon as he sat down.

"Stavrogin, you want tea?"

"Thanks," he replied.

"Tea for Stavrogin," she commanded the pouring woman, "and what about you?" (this was now to Verkhovensky).

"Of course I do, what a thing to ask a guest! And give me cream, too. You always serve such vileness instead of tea—and for a name-day party at that."

"What, you also recognize name days?" the girl student suddenly laughed. "We were just talking about that."

"It's old hat," the high-school boy grumbled from the other end of the table.

"What is old hat? To forget prejudices, innocent though they may be, isn't old hat but, on the contrary, to everyone's shame, is so far still new," the girl student instantly declared, simply lunging forward from her chair. "Besides, there are no innocent prejudices," she added bitterly.

"I just wanted to state," the high-school boy became terribly excited, "that although prejudices are, of course, old and need to be wiped out, yet concerning name days everybody already knows they're stupid and too old hat to waste precious time on, which has been wasted by the whole world even without that, so as to use one's wits for some object more in need of..."

"Too dragged out, can't understand a thing," the girl student shouted.

"It seems to me that everybody has the right to speak equally with everybody else, and if I wish to state my opinion, like anybody else, then..."

"No one is taking away your right to speak," the hostess herself now cut in sharply, "you are simply being invited to stop maundering, because no one can understand you."

"Allow me to observe, however, that you do not respect me; if I was unable to finish my thought, it's not from having no thoughts, but rather from an excess of thoughts..." the high-school boy muttered, all but in despair, and became finally confused.

"If you don't know how to talk, shut up," the girl student swatted.

The high-school boy even jumped on his chair.

"I just wished to state," he shouted, all burning with shame, and afraid to look around, "that you just wanted to pop up with your cleverness because Mr. Stavrogin came in—that's what!"

"Your thought is dirty and immoral, and indicates the utter insignificance of your development. I beg you not to advert to me again," the girl student rattled out.

"Stavrogin," the hostess began, "they were shouting about family rights just before you came—this officer here" (she nodded at her relative, the major). "And I'm most certainly not going to be the one to bother you with such old, long-disposed-of nonsense. All the same, where on earth could family rights and duties have come from, in the sense of the prejudice in which they now appear? That's the question. Your opinion?"

"What do you mean, where on earth?" Stavrogin asked in turn.

"That is, we know, for instance, that the prejudice about God originated in thunder and lightning," the girl student suddenly ripped out again, all but leaping on Stavrogin with her eyes. "It is known only too well that original mankind, being scared of thunder and lightning, deified the invisible enemy, feeling their weakness before him. But how did the prejudice about the family arise? Where on earth could the family itself have come from?"

"That is not quite the same..." the hostess tried to stop her.

"I suppose the answer to such a question would be immodest," Stavrogin answered.

"How's that?" the girl student lunged forward.

But a tittering came from the teachers' group, echoed at once from the other end by Lyamshin and the high-school boy, and followed by the husky guffaw of the major-relative.

"You should write vaudevilles," the hostess remarked to Stavrogin.

"That adverts all too little to your honor, whatever your name is," the girl student cut off in decided indignation.

"And you shouldn't pop up!" the major blurted out. "You are a young lady, you should behave modestly, and it's as if you're sitting on pins."

"Kindly keep still, and do not dare to address me familiarly with your nasty comparisons. It's the first time I've seen you and I care nothing about our family connection."

"But I'm your uncle! I used to tote you around in my arms when you were still an infant!"

"What do I care what you used to tote around. I didn't ask you to tote me around, which means, mister impolite officer, that you got pleasure from it. And allow me to remark that you dare not use a familiar tone with me, unless it's from civic feeling, and that I forbid it once and for all."

"They're all like that!" the major banged his fist on the table, addressing Stavrogin, who was sitting opposite him. "No, sir, excuse me, I like liberalism and modernity, and I like listening to intelligent conversation, but—mind you—from men. From women, from these modern dithery things—no, sir, it pains me! Don't you fidget!" he cried to the girl student, who was hopping up and down on her chair. "No, I demand to speak, too; I have been offended, sirs."

"You only hinder others, and can't say anything yourself," the hostess grumbled indignantly.

"No, I will have my say," the excited major addressed Stavrogin. "I'm counting on you, Mr. Stavrogin, as one who has only just arrived, though I do not have the honor of knowing you. Without men they'll perish like flies—that is my opinion. This whole woman question of theirs is just merely a lack of originality. I assure you that this whole woman question was invented for them by men, out of foolishness, and it has blown up in their faces—thank God I'm not married! Not the least diversity, sir, they cannot even invent a simple pattern; men even invent their patterns for them! Look here, sir, I used to carry her in my arms, danced the mazurka with her when she was ten years old, she came in today, naturally I flew to embrace her, and she announces to me from the second word that there is no God. If it had been from the third word, not from the second—but no, she's in a hurry! Well, suppose intelligent people don't believe, but that's from intelligence, and you, I say, squirt that you are, what do you understand about God? You were taught by some student, and if he'd taught you to light icon lamps, you'd do it."

"That's all lies, you are a very wicked man, and I conclusively expressed your groundlessness to you just now," the girl student replied disdainfully, as if scorning too many explanations with such a man. "I precisely told you just now that we were all taught by the catechesis: 'If you honor your father and your parents, you'll live a long life and be granted wealth.' It's in the ten commandments.^[148] If God found it necessary to offer a reward for love, it means your God is immoral. These are the words in which I gave you my proof today, and not from the second word, but because you declared your rights. Whose fault is it if you're dumb and don't understand even now. You feel offended and you're angry—that's the whole clue to your generation."

"Ninny!" said the major.

"And you are a nincompoop."

"Go on, abuse me!"

"I beg your pardon, Kapiton Maximovich, but didn't you tell me that you yourself don't believe in God?" Liputin peeped from the other end of the table.

"What if I did, it's a different matter with me! Maybe I do believe, but not quite. Though I don't fully believe, still I'm not going to say that God should be shot. Back when I was serving with the hussars, I kept reflecting about God. It's an accepted fact in all poems that a hussar drinks and carouses; so, sir, maybe I did drink, but, would you believe, I used to jump out of bed in the middle of the night, just in my socks, and start crossing myself in front of the icon, asking God to send me faith, because even then I couldn't be at peace: is there God, or not? I really had a hot time of it! In the morning I'd get distracted, of course, and faith would seem to disappear again, and generally I've noticed that faith always disappears somewhat during the day."

"You wouldn't happen to have a deck of cards?" Verkhovensky, with a gaping yawn, addressed the hostess.

"I am altogether, altogether in sympathy with your question!" the girl student ripped out, aglow with indignation at the major's words.

"Precious time is being wasted listening to stupid talk," the hostess cut off, looking demandingly at her husband.

The girl student drew herself up.

"I wanted to declare to the meeting about the suffering and protest of the students, but since time is being wasted on immoral talk..."

"There's no such thing as moral or immoral!" the high-school boy could not bear it, once the girl student started.

"I knew that, mister high-school student, way before you were taught such things."

"And I maintain," the boy flew into a frenzy, "that you are a child come from Petersburg to enlighten us all, when we know it ourselves. About the commandment: 'Honor thy father and mother,' which you didn't know how to recite, and its being immoral—since Belinsky everyone in Russia has known that."

"Will this never end?" Madame Virginsky said determinedly to her husband. As hostess, she blushed at the worthlessness of the talk, especially when she noticed a few smiles and even some perplexity among the first-time visitors.

"Gentlemen," Virginsky suddenly raised his voice, "if anyone wished to begin on something more pertinent, or has something to state, I suggest he set about it without wasting time."

"I venture to make a question," the lame teacher, who had hitherto been silent and was sitting especially decorously, gently said. "I should like to know whether we here and now constitute some sort of meeting, or are a gathering of ordinary mortals who have come as guests? I ask more for the sake of order, and so as not to be in ignorance."

This "cunning" question produced its effect; everyone exchanged glances, each apparently expecting another to answer, and suddenly, as if on command, they all turned their eyes to Verkhovensky and Stavrogin.

"I simply suggest we vote on how to answer the question: 'Are we a meeting, or not?’“ said Madame Virginsky.

"I join fully in the suggestion," echoed Liputin, "though it is somewhat vague."

"I join, too." "So do I," came other voices.

"And it seems to me there would indeed be more order," Virginsky clinched.

"So, then, let's vote!" the hostess announced. "Lyamshin, I ask that you sit down at the piano: you can give your vote from there, when the voting starts."

"Again!" cried Lyamshin. "I've banged enough for you."

"I urgently ask you, sit down and play; don't you want to be of use to the cause?"

"But I assure you, Arina Prokhorovna, no one is eavesdropping. It's just your fantasy. And the windows are high, and, besides, who'd understand anything even if he was eavesdropping?"

"We don't understand what it's about ourselves," someone's voice grumbled.

"And I tell you that precaution is always necessary. It's in case there are spies," she turned to Verkhovensky with her interpretation, "let them hear from the street that we're having a party and music."

"Eh, the devil!" Lyamshin swore, sat down at the piano, and started banging out a waltz, striking the keys randomly and all but with his fists.

"I suggest that those who wish it to be a meeting raise their right hand," Madame Virginsky suggested.

Some raised their hand, others did not. There were some who raised it and then took it back. Took it back and then raised it again.

"Pah, the devil! I didn't understand a thing," one officer shouted.

"I don't either," shouted another.

"No, I understand," a third one shouted, "hand up if it's yes.”

"Yes, but what does yes mean?"

"It means a meeting."

"No, not a meeting."

"I voted a meeting," the high-school boy shouted, addressing Madame Virginsky.

"Then why didn't you raise your hand?"

"I kept looking at you, you didn't raise yours, so I didn't either."

"How stupid, it's because I made the suggestion, that's why I didn't raise mine. Gentlemen, I suggest we do it again the other way round: whoever wants a meeting can sit and not raise his hand, and whoever doesn't, raise his right hand."

"Whoever doesn't?" the high-school boy repeated.

"Are you doing it on purpose, or what?" Madame Virginsky shouted wrathfully.

"No, excuse me, is it whoever wants or whoever doesn't—because it needs to be defined more precisely," came two or three voices.

"Whoever does not, does not.”

"Very well, but what should one do, raise it or not raise it, if one does not want?" shouted an officer.

"Ehh, we're not really used to a constitution yet," the major observed.

"Mr. Lyamshin, if you don't mind, you're pounding so that no one can hear anything," observed the lame teacher.

"But, by God, Arina Prokhorovna, nobody's eavesdropping," Lyamshin jumped up. "I simply don't want to play! I came here as a guest, not a banger on pianos!"

"Gentlemen," Virginsky suggested, "answer by voice: are we a meeting, or not?"

"A meeting, a meeting!" came from all sides.

"If so, there's no point in voting, it's enough. Is it enough, gentlemen, or need we also vote?"

"No need, no need, we understand!"

"Maybe there's someone who doesn't want a meeting?"

"No, no, we all want it."

"But what is a meeting?" shouted a voice. It went unanswered.

"We must elect a president," the shout came from all sides.

"Our host, certainly, our host!"

"If so, gentlemen," the elected Virginsky began, "then I suggest my original suggestion from earlier: if anyone wished to begin on something more pertinent, or has something to state, let him set about it without wasting time."

General silence. The eyes of all again turned to Stavrogin and Verkhovensky.

"Verkhovensky, do you have anything to state?" the hostess asked directly.

"Precisely nothing," he stretched himself, yawning, on his chair. "I would like a glass of cognac, though."

"Stavrogin, what about you?"

"Thanks, I don't drink."

"I'm asking whether or not you wish to speak, not about cognac."

"Speak? About what? No, I don't wish to."

"You'll get your cognac," she answered Verkhovensky.

The girl student stood up. She had already tried to jump up several times.

"I came to declare about the sufferings of the unfortunate students and about arousing them everywhere to protest ..."

But she stopped short; at the other end of the table another competitor had appeared, and all eyes turned to him. Long-eared Shigalyov, with a gloomy and sullen air, slowly rose from his seat and melancholically placed a fat notebook, filled with extremely small writing, on the table. He remained standing and was silent. Many looked at the notebook in bewilderment, but Liputin, Virginsky, and the lame teacher seemed pleased with something.

"I ask for the floor," Shigalyov declared sullenly but firmly.

"You have it," Virginsky permitted.

The orator sat down, was silent for about half a minute, then said in an important voice:

"Gentlemen..."

"Here's the cognac!" the relative who had been pouring tea chopped off squeamishly and scornfully, returning with the cognac and now setting it in front of Verkhovensky, along with a glass which she brought in her fingers without a tray or plate.

The interrupted orator paused with dignity.

"Never mind, go on, I'm not listening," cried Verkhovensky, filling his glass.

"Gentlemen, addressing myself to your attention," Shigalyov began again, "and, as you will see further on, requesting your assistance on a point of paramount importance, I must pronounce a preface."

"Arina Prokhorovna, have you got scissors?" Pyotr Stepanovich suddenly asked.

"What do you want scissors for?" she goggled her eyes at him.

"I forgot to cut my nails, it's three days now I've been meaning to cut them," he uttered, serenely studying his long and none-too-clean nails.

Arina Prokhorovna flushed, but Miss Virginsky seemed to like something.

"I think I saw them here on the windowsill earlier." She got up from the table, went, found the scissors, and brought them back with her at once. Pyotr Stepanovich did not even glance at her, took the scissors, and began pottering with them. Arina Prokhorovna realized that this was actually a method, and was ashamed of her touchiness. The gathering silently exchanged glances. The lame teacher spitefully and enviously watched Verkhovensky. Shigalyov began to go on:

"Having devoted my energy to studying the question of the social organization of the future society which is to replace the present one, I have come to the conclusion that all creators of social systems from ancient times to our year 187 - have been dreamers, tale-tellers, fools who contradicted themselves and understood precisely nothing of natural science or of that strange animal known as man. Plato, Rousseau, Fourier, aluminum columns^[149]—all this is fit perhaps for sparrows, but not for human society. But since the future social form is necessary precisely now, when we are all finally going to act, so as to stop any further thinking about it, I am suggesting my own system of world organization. Here it is!" he struck the notebook. "I wanted to explain my book to the gathering in the briefest possible way; but I see that I will have to add a great deal of verbal clarification, and therefore the whole explanation will take at least ten evenings, according to the number of chapters in my book." (Laughter was heard.) "Besides that, I announce ahead of time that my system is not finished." (More laughter.) "I got entangled in my own data, and my conclusion directly contradicts the original idea from which I start. Starting from unlimited freedom, I conclude with unlimited despotism. I will add, however, that apart from my solution of the social formula, there can be no other."

The laughter was increasing more and more, but it was mostly the young and, so to speak, less initiated guests who laughed. The faces of the hostess, Liputin, and the lame teacher expressed a certain vexation.

"If you yourself weren't able to hold your system together, and arrived at despair, what are we supposed to do?" one officer observed cautiously.

"You're right, mister active officer," Shigalyov turned abruptly to him, "and most of all in having used the word 'despair.' Yes, I kept arriving at despair; nevertheless, everything expounded in my book is irreplaceable, and there is no other way out; no one can invent anything. And so I hasten, without wasting time, to invite the whole society, having heard my book in the course of ten evenings, to state its opinion. And if the members do not want to listen to me, let us break up at the very beginning—the men to occupy themselves with state service, the women to go to their kitchens, for, having rejected my book, they will find no other way out. None what-so-ever! And by losing time, they will only harm themselves, because later they will inevitably come back to the same thing."

People began to stir. "Is he crazy, or what?" voices asked.

"So it all comes down to Shigalyov's despair," Lyamshin concluded, "and the essential question is whether he is to be or not to be in despair?"

"Shigalyov's proximity to despair is a personal question," the high-school boy declared.

"I suggest we vote on how far Shigalyov's despair concerns the common cause, and along with that, whether it's worth listening to him or not," the officer gaily decided.

"That's not the point here," the lame man finally mixed in. Generally, he spoke with a certain mocking smile, as it were, so that it might have been difficult to tell whether he was speaking sincerely or joking. "That's not the point here, gentlemen. Mr. Shigalyov is all too seriously devoted to his task, and, what's more, is too modest. I know his book. He suggests, as a final solution of the question, the division of mankind into two unequal parts. One tenth is granted freedom of person and unlimited rights over the remaining nine tenths.^[150] These must lose their person and turn into something like a herd, and in unlimited obedience, through a series of regenerations, attain to primeval innocence, something like the primeval paradise—though, by the way, they will have to work. The measures proposed by the author for removing the will from nine tenths of mankind and remaking them into a herd, by means of a re-educating of entire generations—are quite remarkable, based on natural facts, and extremely logical. One may disagree with certain conclusions, but it is difficult to doubt the author's intelligence and knowledge. It's a pity the stipulation of ten evenings is totally incompatible with the circumstances, otherwise we might hear a great many interesting things."

"Are you really serious?" Madame Virginsky turned to the lame man even somewhat alarmed. "If this man, not knowing what to do about the people, turns nine tenths of them into slavery? I've long suspected him."

"Your own dear brother, you mean?" the lame man asked.

"Family ties? Are you laughing at me or not?"

"And, besides, to work for the aristocrats and obey them as if they were gods is vileness!" the girl student observed furiously.

"What I propose is not vileness but paradise, earthly paradise, and there can be no other on earth," Shigalyov concluded imperiously.

"Instead of paradise," Lyamshin shouted, "I'd take these nine tenths of mankind, since there's really nothing to do about them, and blow them sky-high, and leave just a bunch of learned people who would then start living happily in an educated way."^[151]

"Only a buffoon could talk like that," the girl student flared up.

"He is a buffoon, but he's useful," Madame Virginsky whispered to her.

"And that might be the best solution of the problem," Shigalyov turned hotly to Lyamshin. "You, of course, don't even know what a profound thing you've managed to say, mister funny fellow. But since your idea is almost unrealizable, we must limit ourselves to the earthly paradise, if that's what we're calling it."

"That's a lot of nonsense, however!" escaped, as it were, from Verkhovensky. Nevertheless he went on cutting his nails with complete indifference and without raising his eyes.

"Why nonsense, sir?" the lame man picked up at once, as if he had just been waiting for his first word in order to seize upon it. "Why nonsense precisely? Mr. Shigalyov is somewhat of a fanatic in his love of mankind; but remember that in Fourier, in Cabet, and even in Proudhon himself,^[152] there are many quite despotic and fantastic pre-resolutions of the problem. Mr. Shigalyov perhaps resolves the matter even far more soberly than they do. I assure you that after reading his book, it is almost impossible to disagree with some things. He is perhaps least distant of all from realism, and his earthly paradise is almost the real one, the very one mankind sighs for the loss of, if indeed it ever existed."

"Well, I just knew I was letting myself in for it," Verkhovensky muttered again.

"Excuse me, sir," the lame man was seething more and more, "conversations and judgments about the future social organization are an almost imperative necessity of all modern thinking people. Herzen spent his whole life worrying about just that. Belinsky, as I know for certain, passed whole evenings with his friends debating and pre-resolving beforehand even the pettiest kitchen details, so to speak, in the future social arrangement."

"Some even lose their minds," the major suddenly remarked.

"Still, it's possible to agree on something at least, rather than sit looking like dictators and say nothing," Liputin hissed, as if finally daring to begin an attack.

"When I said it was nonsense, I didn't mean Shigalyov," mumbled Verkhovensky. "You see, gentlemen," he raised his eyes a bit, "I think all these books, these Fouriers, Cabets, all these 'rights to work,' Shigalyovism^[153]—it's all like novels, of which a hundred thousand can be written. An aesthetic pastime. I understand that you're bored in this wretched little town, so you fall on any paper with writing on it."

"Excuse me, sir," the lame man was twitching on his chair, "though we are provincials, and are most certainly deserving of pity for that, nevertheless we know that so far nothing so new has happened in the world that we should weep over having missed it. Now it is being suggested to us, through various strewn-about leaflets of foreign manufacture, that we close ranks and start groups with the sole purpose of universal destruction, under the pretext that however you try to cure the world, you're not going to cure it, but by radically lopping off a hundred million heads, thereby relieving ourselves, we can more assuredly jump over the little ditch. A beautiful thought, no doubt, but one at least as incompatible with reality as 'Shigalyovism,' to which you adverted just now with such disdain."

"Well, I really didn't come here for discussions," Verkhovensky let slip this significant little phrase and, as if not noticing the slip at all, moved the candle towards him to have more light.

"It's a pity, sir, a great pity, that you didn't come here for discussions, and a great pity that you're so occupied now with your toilette."

"And what is my toilette to you?"

"A hundred million heads are as hard to realize as remaking the world by propaganda. Maybe even harder, especially if it's in Russia," Liputin ventured again.

"It's Russia they've now set their hopes on," an officer said.

"We've heard about those hopes, too," the lame man picked up. "It is known to us that the mysterious index is pointed at our beautiful fatherland as the country most capable of fulfilling the great task. Only here's the thing, sir: in the event of a gradual resolution of the task by propaganda, I at least gain something personally, well, even if it's just pleasant chitchat, and I might indeed get a promotion from the authorities for services to the social cause. But in the other event—that is, this quick resolution by means of a hundred million heads—what in fact will be my reward? Once you start propagandizing, you may well have your tongue cut off."

"Yours will certainly be cut off," said Verkhovensky.

"You see, sir. And since under the most favorable circumstances it would take fifty, or, say, thirty years to finish such a slaughter, because they're not sheep, they may not just let themselves be slaughtered— isn't it better to pack bag and baggage and move somewhere beyond the peaceful seas to some peaceful islands and there serenely close your eyes? Believe me, sir," he tapped the table significantly with his finger, "you'll only provoke emigration with such propaganda, and nothing else, sir!"

He finished, visibly triumphant. Here was one of the powerful intellects of the province. Liputin was smiling insidiously, Virginsky was listening somewhat glumly, the rest followed the argument with great attention, especially the ladies and officers. Everyone realized that the agent of a hundred million heads had been driven into a corner, and waited to see what would come of it.

"That was well put, by the way," Verkhovensky mumbled with still greater indifference than before, and even as if with boredom. "Emigration is a good idea. But if, in spite of all the obvious disadvantages you anticipate, there are still more and more soldiers coming to the common cause every day, then it can do without you. Here, my dear, a new religion is on its way to replace the old one, that's why so many fighters are coming, and this is a big thing. Go ahead and emigrate! And, you know, I'd advise you to go to Dresden, not to any peaceful islands. First, it's a city that has never seen an epidemic, and you, being a developed man, are surely afraid of death; second, it's close to the Russian border, so that one can the sooner receive one's income from the beloved fatherland; third, it contains so-called treasures of art, and you are an aesthetic man, a former teacher of literature, I believe; well, and, finally, it contains its own pocket Switzerland—this now is for poetic inspiration, because you surely must scribble verses. In short, a treasure in a snuffbox!"

There was movement; the officers especially stirred. Another moment and everyone would start talking at once. But the lame man irritably fell upon the bait:

"No, sir, perhaps we won't leave the common cause yet! This must be understood, sir..."

"What, you mean you'd really join a fivesome if I offered it?" Verkhovensky suddenly blurted out and laid the scissors down on the table.

Everyone started, as it were. The mysterious man had suddenly disclosed himself too much. Had even spoken directly about a "five-some."

"Everyone feels himself an honest man and will not shirk the common cause," the lame man went all awry, "but..."

"No, sir, it's not a matter of any but, " Verkhovensky interrupted imperiously and curtly. "I declare to you, gentlemen, that I want a direct answer. I understand only too well that, having come here and gathered you all together myself, I owe you explanations" (again an unexpected disclosure), "but I cannot give you any before I know what way of thinking you hold with. Talking aside—for we can't babble for another thirty years as we've been babbling for the past thirty—I ask you which is dearer to you: the slow way that consists in the writing of social novels and the bureaucratic predetermining of human destinies on paper for thousands of years to come, with despotism meanwhile gobbling up the roasted hunks that are flying into your mouths of themselves, but that you let go past your mouths; or do you hold with a quick solution, whatever it may consist in, which will finally untie all hands and give mankind the freedom to organize socially by itself, and that in reality, not on paper? 'A hundred million heads,' they shout, and maybe that's just a metaphor, but why be afraid of them if, with these slow paper reveries, despotism in some hundred years will eat up not a hundred but five hundred million heads? Note, too, that the incurable patient is not going to be cured anyway, no matter what prescriptions are given it on paper, and, on the contrary, if there's a delay, it will turn so rotten that it will infect us as well, and corrupt all the fresh forces which can still be counted on now, so that we'll all finally go under. I fully agree that babbling liberally and eloquently is extremely pleasant, while acting is a bit rough... Well, anyhow, I'm not a good speaker; I came here with communications, and therefore I ask the whole honorable company not even to vote but to declare directly and simply which is more fun for you: a snail's pace through the swamp, or full steam across it?"

"I'm positively for steaming across!" the high-school boy shouted in rapture.

"Me, too," echoed Lyamshin.

"There is certainly no doubt about the choice," one officer muttered, and another after him, and someone else after that one. Above all, everyone was struck that Verkhovensky had "communications" and had himself promised to speak presently.

"Gentlemen, I see that you almost all decide in the spirit of the tracts," he said, scanning the company.

"All, all," came a majority of voices.

"I confess I rather adhere to a humane solution," the major said, "but since it's all, I'll be with all the rest."

"So it turns out that you're not against it either?" Verkhovensky addressed the lame man.

"It's not that I..." the latter seemed to blush somewhat, "but if I do agree with you all now, it's solely so as not to disrupt..."

"You're all like that! The man is ready to argue for half a year for the sake of liberal eloquence, and then winds up voting with all the rest! Consider, however, gentlemen: is it true that you are all ready?" (Ready for what?—his question was a vague but terribly tempting one.)

"Of course, all..." declarations were heard. They all nevertheless kept glancing at each other.

"And maybe afterwards you'll be offended for having agreed so quickly? Because that's almost always what happens with you."

There was agitation of various sorts, great agitation. The lame man flew at Verkhovensky.

"Allow me to observe to you, however, that the answers to such questions depend on certain things. Even if we've given a decision, observe all the same that a question asked in such a strange way..."

"What strange way?"

"A way in which such questions are not asked."

"Teach me, please. And, you know, I was just sure you'd be the first to get offended."

"You dragged an answer out of us about readiness for immediate action, but what right did you have to do so? On what authority do you ask such questions?"

"You should have thought of asking that earlier! Why did you answer, then? First you consent, and now you repent."

"And in my opinion the light-minded frankness of your main question gives me the idea that you have no authority or rights, but were just curious for yourself."

"But what is this, what is this?" Verkhovensky cried, as if he were beginning to be greatly alarmed.

"It's that recruiting, whatever it is, is in any case done in private, and not in an unknown company of twenty people!" the lame man blurted out. He spoke his mind, but he was much too irritated. Verkhovensky quickly turned to the company with a superbly feigned look of alarm.

"Gentlemen, I consider it my duty to announce to you all that this is all foolishness and our talk has gone too far. I have not yet recruited anyone whatsoever, and no one has the right to say of me that I am recruiting, when we were simply talking about opinions. Right? But, whether it's right or not, you alarm me greatly," he again turned to the lame man. "I never thought one had to speak of such all but innocent things in private here. Or are you afraid someone will inform on you? Can it be that there's an informer among us?"

Extreme agitation set in; everyone started talking.

"If it were so, gentlemen," Verkhovensky continued, "I would be the most compromised of all, and therefore I propose that you answer one question—if you wish, of course. You're all entirely free."

"What question? what question?" everyone squawked.

"The sort of question after which it will become clear whether we stay together, or silently put on our hats and go our separate ways."

"The question, the question?"

"If any of us knew of a planned political murder, would he go and inform, foreseeing all the consequences, or would he stay home and await events? Views may differ here. The answer to the question will tell clearly whether we are to separate or stay together, and for much longer than this one evening. Allow me to address you first," he turned to the lame man.

"Why me first?"

"Because you started it all. Kindly don't evade, dodging won't help here. However, as you wish; you are entirely free."

"Excuse me, but such a question is even offensive."

"No, no, be more precise please."

"I've never been an agent of the secret police, sir," the man went even more awry.

"Kindly be more precise, don't keep us waiting."

The lame man was so angry he even stopped answering. Silently, with spiteful eyes, he stared point-blank at his tormentor from behind his spectacles.

"Yes or no? Would you inform or would you not?" Verkhovensky shouted.

"I certainly would not inform!" the lame man shouted twice as loudly.

"And no one would inform, of course, no one would," came many voices.

"Allow me to address you, mister Major, would you inform?" Verkhovensky continued, "and note that I'm addressing you on purpose."

"I won't inform, sir."

"Well, and if you knew that someone wanted to kill and rob someone else, an ordinary mortal, you would inform and give warning?"

"Of course, sir, but that would be a civil case, while here it's a political denunciation. I've never been a secret police agent, sir."

"And no one here has ever been," voices came again. "An empty question. We all have the same answer. There are no informers here!"

"Why is that gentleman getting up?" shouted the girl student.

"It's Shatov. Why did you get up, Shatov?" shouted the hostess.

Shatov had indeed gotten up; he was holding his hat in his hand and looking at Verkhovensky. It seemed he wanted to tell him something, but hesitated. His face was pale and spiteful, but he controlled himself, did not say a word, and silently started out of the room.

"Shatov, this is not to your advantage!" Verkhovensky shouted after him mysteriously.

"But it is to yours, spy and scoundrel that you are!" Shatov shouted at him from the doorway and left altogether.

Again shouts and exclamations.

"So that's the test!" shouted a voice.

"Proved useful!" shouted another.

"But didn't it prove useful too late?" observed a third.

"Who invited him? Who let him in? Who is he? Who is this Shatov? Will he inform or won't he?" the questions came pouring out.

"If he was an informer he'd have pretended, but he just spat and left," someone observed.

"Now Stavrogin's getting up, too; Stavrogin hasn't answered the question either," shouted the girl student.

Stavrogin indeed got up, and together with him, from the other end of the table, Kirillov also rose.

"Excuse me, Mr. Stavrogin," the hostess addressed him sharply, "all of us here have answered the question, while you're leaving without a word?"

"I see no need to answer the question that interests you," Stavrogin muttered.

"But we've compromised ourselves, and you haven't," several voices shouted.

"What do I care if you've compromised yourselves?" Stavrogin laughed, but his eyes were flashing.

"What? He doesn't care? He doesn't care?" exclamations came. Many jumped up from their chairs.

"Excuse me, gentlemen, excuse me," the lame man shouted, "but Mr. Verkhovensky also didn't answer the question, he only asked it."

The observation produced a striking effect. They all exchanged glances. Stavrogin laughed loudly in the lame man's face and walked out, followed by Kirillov. Verkhovensky ran out after them to the entryway.

"What are you doing to me?" he murmured, seizing Stavrogin's hand and clenching it as hard as he could in his own. The latter silently jerked it free.

"Go to Kirillov's now, I'll come... It's necessary for me, it's necessary!"

"It's not necessary for me," Stavrogin cut him short.

"Stavrogin will," Kirillov put an end to it. "Stavrogin, it is necessary for you. I'll show you there."

They left.