Demons

4: The Last Decision

I

Many saw Pyotr Stepanovich that morning; those who did recall that he was extremely excited. At two o'clock in the afternoon he ran by to see Gaganov, who had arrived from the country just the day before, and where a whole house full of visitors had gathered who talked much and hotly about the events that had just transpired. Pyotr Stepanovich talked most of all and made himself heard. He was always regarded among us as a "garrulous student with a hole in his head," but now he was talking about Yulia Mikhailovna, and, considering the general turmoil, the topic was a gripping one. In his quality as her recent and most intimate confidant, he reported many quite new and unexpected details about her; inadvertently (and, of course, imprudently) he reported some of her personal opinions about people widely known in town, thereby instantly pricking some vanities. It all came out vague and muddled, as from a none-too-clever man who yet, as an honest person, was faced with the painful necessity of explaining all at once a whole heap of perplexities, and who, in his simplehearted awkwardness, did not know himself where to begin and where to end. He let slip, also rather imprudently, that Yulia Mikhailovna knew the whole of Stavrogin's secret and that she herself had conducted the whole intrigue. And she had also done him, Pyotr Stepanovich, a bad turn, because he himself had been in love with this unfortunate Liza, and yet he had been so "turned around" that he had almost taken her to Stavrogin in a carriage. "Yes, yes, gentlemen, it's all very well for you to laugh, but if only I'd known, if I'd known how it would end!" he concluded. To various anxious inquiries about Stavrogin, he declared directly that the catastrophe with Lebyadkin was, in his opinion, pure chance, and the one to blame for it all was Lebyadkin himself who displayed his money. He explained this particularly well. One of the listeners at some point observed to him that he had no business "playacting"; that he ate, drank, and all but slept in Yulia Mikhailovna's house, and was now the first to besmirch her, and that it was not at all as pretty a thing as he supposed. But Pyotr Stepanovich defended himself at once: "I ate and drank not because I had no money, and I'm not to blame if I was invited there. Allow me to judge for myself how grateful I ought to be for that."

Generally, the impression was in his favor: "Granted he's an absurd fellow and, of course, an empty one, but how is he to blame for Yulia Mikhailovna's follies? On the contrary, it appears he tried to stop her..."

At about two o'clock the news suddenly spread that Stavrogin, of whom there was so much talk, had unexpectedly left for Petersburg on the midday train. This was very interesting; many frowned. Pyotr Stepanovich was struck to such an extent that they say he even changed countenance and exclaimed strangely: "But who could have let him out?" He immediately left Gaganov's at a run. However, he was seen in two or three other houses.

Towards dusk he found an opportunity for penetrating to Yulia Mikhailovna, though with great difficulty, because she decidedly had no wish to receive him. I learned of this circumstance only three weeks later from the lady herself, before her departure for Petersburg. She did not go into detail, but observed with a shudder that he had "amazed her then beyond all measure." I suppose he simply frightened her with a threat of complicity in case she decided to "talk." This need to frighten was closely bound up with his designs at the time, certainly unknown to her, and only afterwards, about five days later, did she guess why he had so doubted her silence and so feared any new outbursts of indignation from her...

Before eight o'clock in the evening, when it was already quite dark, on the outskirts of town, in Fomin Lane, in a small lopsided house, in the apartment of Ensign Erkel, our people gathered in full complement, all five of them. The place of the general meeting had been appointed by Pyotr Stepanovich himself; but he was unpardonably late, and the members had already been waiting an hour for him. This Ensign Erkel was that same little visiting officer who had sat the whole time at Virginsky's party with a pencil in his hand and a notebook in front of him. He had arrived in town not long ago, rented a solitary place in a secluded lane from two sisters, old tradeswomen, and was due to leave soon; to gather at his place was most inconspicuous. This strange boy was distinguished by an extraordinary taciturnity; he could sit for ten evenings in a row, in noisy company and amid the most extraordinary conversations, without saying a word himself, but, on the contrary, with extreme attention, following the speakers with his child's eyes and listening. His face was very pretty and even as if intelligent. He did not belong to the fivesome; our people supposed he had special instructions of some sort and from somewhere, purely along executive lines. It is now known that he had no instructions, and that he hardly even understood his position. He simply bowed down before Pyotr Stepanovich, whom he had met not long before. Had he met some prematurely depraved monster who under some socio-romantic pretext egged him on to found a band of robbers and ordered him, as a test, to kill and rob the first peasant he came upon, he would certainly have gone and obeyed. He had a sick mother somewhere to whom he sent half of his scanty pay—and how she must have kissed that poor blond head, trembled for it, prayed for it! I enlarge upon him so much because I am very sorry for him.

Our people were excited. They had been struck by the events of the past night and, it seems, had gone cowardly. The simple but systematic scandal in which they had so zealously taken part so far, had had an outcome they did not expect. The night fire, the murder of the Lebyadkins, the crowd's violence over Liza—these were all surprises not envisioned in their program. They hotly accused the hand that moved them of despotism and disingenuousness. In short, while waiting for Pyotr Stepanovich, they incited each other so much that they again resolved finally to ask him for a categorical explanation, and if he evaded once more, as had already happened, even to break up the fivesome, but so as to found, in place of it, a new secret society for the

"propaganda of ideas," and that by themselves, on the principles of equal rights and democracy. Liputin, Shigalyov, and the knower of the people especially supported this idea; Lyamshin kept mum, though with an air of agreement. Virginsky hesitated and wished to hear out Pyotr Stepanovich first. It was resolved that they would hear out Pyotr Stepanovich; but he still did not come; such negligence added even more venom. Erkel was totally silent and merely arranged for tea to be served, which he brought with his own hands from his landladies, in glasses on a tray, without bringing in the samovar or letting the servingwoman enter.

Pyotr Stepanovich arrived only at half past eight. With quick steps he went up to the round table in front of the sofa, around which the company had placed themselves; he kept his hat in his hand and refused tea. His look was angry, stern, and haughty. He must have noticed at once by their faces that they were "rebellious."

"Before I open my mouth, you lay out your stuff, you've got yourselves all braced for it," he observed with a spiteful smile, looking around at their physiognomies.

Liputin began "on behalf of all" and, in a voice trembling with offense, announced "that if it goes on like this, one could smash one's own head, sir." Oh, they're not at all afraid to smash their heads, and are even ready to, but only for the common cause. (A general stirring and concurring.) And therefore let there be frankness with them as well, so that they would always know beforehand, "otherwise what will it come to?" (Again a stirring, some guttural sounds.) To act in this way is humiliating and dangerous... It's not at all because we're afraid, but if there's one who acts and the rest are mere pawns, then the one may bungle it, and all will get caught. (Exclamations: yes, yes! General support.)

"Devil take it, what do you want then?"

"And what relation to the common cause," Liputin began to seethe, "do Mr. Stavrogin's little intrigues have? Suppose he does belong in some mysterious way to the center, if this fantastic center really exists, but we don't want to know about that, sir. And meanwhile a murder has taken place, the police are aroused; by the string they'll find the ball."

"If you and Stavrogin get caught, we'll get caught, too," the knower of the people added.

"And quite uselessly for the common cause," Virginsky concluded dejectedly.

"What nonsense! The murder was a matter of chance, done by Fedka for the sake of robbery."

"Hm. A strange coincidence, though, sir," Liputin squirmed.

"And, if you wish, it came about through you."

"How, through us?"

"First of all, you, Liputin, took part in this intrigue yourself, and, second, and mainly, you were ordered to send Lebyadkin away, and money was provided, and what did you do? If you had sent him away, nothing would have happened."

"But wasn't it you who came up with the idea that it would be nice to let him out to recite poetry?"

"An idea isn't an order. The order was to send him away."

"Order. Rather a strange word... On the contrary, you precisely ordered the sending away to be stopped."

"You're mistaken and have shown stupidity and self-will. The murder was Fedka's doing, and he acted alone, from robbery. You heard bells ringing and believed it. You turned coward. Stavrogin isn't so stupid, and the proof is—he left at twelve noon today, after a meeting with the vice-governor; if there was anything, he wouldn't have been let out to Petersburg in broad daylight."

"But we by no means assert that Mr. Stavrogin himself did the killing," Liputin picked up venomously and unabashedly. "He may even know nothing at all, sir, just as I didn't; and you yourself know only too well that I knew nothing, sir, though I fell right into it like mutton into the pot."

"Whom are you accusing, then?" Pyotr Stepanovich gave him a dark look.

"The same ones who need to burn towns, sir."

"What's worst is that you're trying to wriggle out of it. However, kindly read this and show it to the others; it's just for your information."

He took Lebyadkin's anonymous letter to Lembke from his pocket and handed it to Liputin. He read it, was visibly surprised, and pensively handed it to the next man; the letter quickly made the circle.

"Is it really Lebyadkin's handwriting?" remarked Shigalyov.

"Yes, it's his," Liputin and Tolkachenko (that is, the knower of the people) declared.

"It's just for your information, seeing that you've waxed so sentimental over Lebyadkin," Pyotr Stepanovich repeated, taking the letter back. "Thus, gentlemen, quite by chance some Fedka rids us of a dangerous man. That is what chance can sometimes mean! Instructive, is it not?"

The members exchanged quick glances.

"And now, gentlemen, it comes my turn to ask questions," Pyotr Stepanovich assumed a dignified air. "Permit me to know why you were so good as to set fire to the town without permission?"

"What's that! We, we set fire to the town? That's really shifting the blame!" they exclaimed.

"I realize that you got caught up in the game," Pyotr Stepanovich stubbornly continued, "but this is not just some little scandal with Yulia Mikhailovna. I've gathered you here, gentlemen, to explain to you the degree of danger you have so stupidly heaped on yourselves, and which threatens all too many things besides you."

"I beg your pardon, but we, on the contrary, intended presently to declare to you the degree of despotism and inequality with which such a serious and at the same time strange measure had been taken over the members' heads," the heretofore silent Virginsky declared, almost with indignation.

"So you disclaim yourselves? Yet I insist that the burning was done by you, you alone, and no one else. Do not lie, gentlemen, I have precise information. By your self-will you have even exposed the common cause to danger. You are merely one knot in an infinite network of knots, and you owe blind obedience to the center. And meanwhile three of you incited the Shpigulin men to set the fire, not having the least instructions for that, and the fire has taken place."

"Which three? Which three of us?"

"The day before yesterday, between three and four in the morning, you, Tolkachenko, were inciting Fomka Zavyalov in the 'Forget-me-not.’”

"For pity's sake," the man jumped up, "I barely said a word, and that without any intention, but just so, because he got a whipping that morning, and I dropped it at once, I saw he was too drunk. If you hadn't reminded me, I'd never have remembered. It couldn't have caught fire from a word."

"You're like the man who is surprised that a tiny spark can blow a whole powder magazine sky-high."

"I was talking in a whisper, and in a corner, into his ear, how could you have found out?" Tolkachenko suddenly realized.

"I was sitting there under the table. Don't worry, gentlemen, I know all your steps. You're smiling craftily, Mr. Liputin? Yet I know, for example, that three days ago you pinched your wife all over, at midnight, in your bedroom, as you were going to bed."

Liputin gaped and went pale.

(Afterwards it became known that he had learned of Liputin's exploit from Agafya, Liputin's maid, whom he had paid money to spy for him from the very beginning, as came to light only later.)

"May I state a fact?" Shigalyov suddenly rose.

"State it."

Shigalyov sat down and braced himself.

"So far as I have understood, and one could hardly not understand, you yourself, at the beginning and then a second time, rather eloquently—albeit too theoretically—developed a picture of Russia covered with an infinite network of knots. For its own part, each of the active groups, while proselytizing and spreading its side-branchings to infinity, has as its task, by a systematic denunciatory propaganda, ceaselessly to undermine the importance of the local powers, to produce bewilderment in communities, to engender cynicism and scandal, complete disbelief in anything whatsoever, a yearning for the better, and, finally, acting by means of fires as the popular means par excellence, to plunge the country, at the prescribed moment, if need be, even into despair. Are these your words, which I have tried to recall verbatim? Is this your program of action, conveyed by you as a representative of the central—but hitherto completely unknown and, to us, almost fantastic—committee?"

"Correct, only you're dragging it out a lot."

"Everyone has the right to his own word. Allowing us to guess that there are now up to several hundred knots of the general net already covering Russia, and developing the suggestion that if each man does his work successfully, then the whole of Russia by the given time, at the signal ..."

"Ah, devil take it, there's enough to do without you!" Pyotr Stepanovich turned in his armchair.

"If you prefer, I'll shorten it and end simply with a question: we have already seen the scandals, seen the discontent of the populations, been present and taken part in the fall of a local administration, and, finally, with our own eyes, we have seen a fire. What, then, are you displeased with? Isn't this your program? What can you accuse us of?"

"Of self-will!" Pyotr Stepanovich shouted furiously. "While I am here, you dare not act without my permission. Enough. The denunciation is prepared, and perhaps tomorrow, or this very night, you'll all be seized. There you have it. The information is true."

This time everyone gaped.

"You'll be seized not only as inciters to arson, but as a fivesome. The informer knows the whole secret of the network. There's your mischief-making!"

"Stavrogin, for sure!" cried Liputin.

"How ... why Stavrogin?" Pyotr Stepanovich suddenly seemed to stop short. "Eh, the devil," he recollected himself at once, "it's Shatov! You all seem to know by now that in his time Shatov belonged to the cause. I must disclose that in keeping watch on him through persons he does not suspect, I have found out, to my surprise, that for him neither the organization of the network, nor ... in a word, nothing is secret. To save himself from being accused of former participation, he will denounce everyone. So far he has still hesitated, and I've been sparing him. Now you've unbound him with this fire: he's shaken and no longer hesitant. By tomorrow we'll be arrested as incendiaries and political criminals."

"Is it true? How does Shatov know?"

The agitation was indescribable.

"It's all perfectly true. I have no right to declare my ways to you, or how I discovered it, but here is what I can do for you meanwhile: there is one person through whom I can influence Shatov so that he, without suspecting, will hold back his denunciation—but for no longer than a day. More than a day I can't do. So you may consider yourselves safe until the morning of the day after tomorrow."

Everyone was silent.

"Send him to the devil, finally!" Tolkachenko shouted first.

"Should've been done long ago!" Lyamshin put in spitefully, banging his fist on the table.

"But how to do it?" Liputin muttered.

Pyotr Stepanovich immediately picked up the question and explained his plan. It consisted in luring Shatov, for the handing over of the secret press in his possession, to the solitary place where it was buried, the next day, at nightfall—and "taking care of it there." He went into much necessary detail, which we omit here, and thoroughly clarified those ambiguous present relations between Shatov and the central society of which the reader already knows.

"That's all very well," Liputin observed unsteadily, "but since it's again ... a new adventure of the same sort ... it will strike people's minds too much."

"Undoubtedly," Pyotr Stepanovich agreed, "but that, too, has been foreseen. There exists a means of averting suspicion completely."

And with the same precision he told them about Kirillov, his intention to shoot himself, and how he had promised to wait for a signal, and to leave a note before dying taking upon himself all that would be dictated to him. (In a word, all that the reader already knows.)

"His firm intention to take his life—philosophical and, in my opinion, mad—became known there " (Pyotr Stepanovich went on explaining). "There not the slightest hair, not a speck of dust is lost; everything goes to benefit the common cause. Foreseeing the benefit and becoming convinced that his intention was perfectly serious, he was offered the means to get to Russia (for some reason he wanted without fail to die in Russia), was charged with an assignment which he pledged himself to fulfill (and did fulfill), and, moreover, they pledged him to the promise, already known to you, to put an end to himself only when he was told to. He promised everything. Note that he belongs to the cause on special terms and wishes to be beneficial; I cannot reveal any more to you. Tomorrow, after Shatov, I'll dictate a note to him saying that the cause of Shatov's death was himself. This will be very probable: they used to be friends and went to America together, there they quarreled, and all this will be explained in the note... and... and depending on the circumstances, it may even be possible to dictate another thing or two to Kirillov, about the tracts, for example, and maybe partly about the fire. However, I'll have to think about that. Don't worry, he has no prejudices; he'll sign anything."

Doubts were voiced. The story seemed fantastic. However, everyone had more or less heard somewhat about Kirillov; Liputin more than any of them.

"What if he suddenly changes his mind and doesn't want to," said Shigalyov. "One way or another he's still a madman, so the hope is an uncertain one."

"Don't worry, gentlemen, he will want to," Pyotr Stepanovich snapped out. "According to our arrangement, I must warn him a day ahead, meaning today. I invite Liputin to go to him with me now, to make sure, and when he comes back, gentlemen, he will tell you, today if necessary, whether or not I've been speaking the truth. However," he suddenly broke off, with extreme irritation, as if he suddenly felt it was too much of an honor to persuade and bother so over such paltry people, "however, you can act as you please. If you don't decide on it, the union is dissolved—but owing solely to the fact of your disobedience and betrayal. So, then, from that moment on we're all separate. But know that in that case, along with the unpleasantness of Shatov's denunciation and its consequences, you are drawing upon yourselves yet another little unpleasantness, which was firmly stated when the union was formed. As for me, gentlemen, I am not very afraid of you... Don't think I'm connected with you all that much... However, it makes no difference."

"No, we're decided," Lyamshin declared.

"There's no other way out," Tolkachenko muttered, "and if Liputin confirms about Kirillov, then..."

"I'm against it; I protest with my whole soul against such a bloody solution!" Virginsky rose from his place.

"But?" Pyotr Stepanovich asked.

"What but?"

"You said but... so I'm waiting."

"I don't think I said but... I simply wanted to say that if it's decided on, then..."

"Then?"

Virginsky fell silent.

"I think one can disregard one's own safety of life," Erkel suddenly opened up his mouth, "but if the common cause may suffer, then I think one cannot dare to disregard one's own safety of life..."

He became confused and blushed. Preoccupied though each of them was with his own thing, they all glanced at him in astonishment, so unexpected was it that he, too, would begin to speak.

"I am for the common cause," Virginsky said suddenly.

They all got up from their places. It was decided to exchange news once more at noon the next day, though without all getting together, and then to make final arrangements. The place where the press was buried was announced, the roles and duties were distributed. Liputin and Pyotr Stepanovich immediately set off together to Kirillov.

II

That Shatov would denounce them our people all believed; but that Pyotr Stepanovich was playing with them like pawns they likewise believed. And, what's more, they all knew that they would still come in complement to the spot the next day, and that Shatov's fate was sealed. They felt they had suddenly been caught like flies in the web of a huge spider; they were angry but quaking with fear.

Pyotr Stepanovich was unquestionably guilty before them: it all could have been handled with much greater accord and ease, if he had only cared to brighten the reality at least a little. Instead of presenting the fact in a decent light, as something Roman and civic or the like, he had held up only crude fear and the threat to their own skins, which was simply impolite. Of course, there is the struggle for existence in everything, and there is no other principle, everybody knows that, but still...

But Pyotr Stepanovich had no time to stir up any Romans; he himself was thrown off his tracks. Stavrogin's flight stunned and crushed him. He lied that Stavrogin had seen the vice-governor; the thing was that he had left without seeing anyone, even his mother— and it was indeed strange that he had not even been inconvenienced.

(Afterwards the authorities had to answer especially for that.) Pyotr Stepanovich had spent the whole day making inquiries, but so far had found out nothing, and never before had he been so worried. And how could he, how could he renounce Stavrogin just like that, all at once! That was why he was unable to be very tender with our people. Besides, they kept his hands tied: he had already decided to go galloping after Stavrogin without delay, and yet Shatov detained him, the fivesome had to be finally cemented together, just in case. "I can't let it go for nothing, it might come in handy." So I suppose he reasoned.

And as for Shatov, he was quite certain that he would denounce them. What he had told our people about the denunciation was all lies: he had never seen this denunciation or heard of it, but he was as sure of it as two times two. It precisely seemed to him that Shatov would be unable to endure the present moment—the death of Liza, the death of Marya Timofeevna—and that precisely now he would finally decide. Who knows, perhaps he had some grounds for thinking so. It is also known that he hated Shatov personally; there had once been a quarrel between them, and Pyotr Stepanovich never forgave an offense. I am even convinced that this was the foremost reason.

Our sidewalks are narrow and made of brick, or else simply of planks. Pyotr Stepanovich was striding along the middle of the sidewalk, occupying it entirely, paying not the least attention to Liputin, who had no room left next to him, so that he had either to keep a step behind, or run down into the mud if he wanted to walk next to him and talk. Pyotr Stepanovich suddenly remembered how he had recently gone scurrying through the mud in the same way in order to keep up with Stavrogin, who, like him now, also strode down the middle, occupying the entire sidewalk. He recalled this scene and rage took his breath away.

But resentment also took Liputin's breath away. Let Pyotr Stepanovich treat our people as he liked, but him? He who was more in the know than any of our people, was closest to the cause, was most intimately connected with it, and up to now had constantly, though indirectly, participated in it! Oh, he knew that even now Pyotr Stepanovich could ruin him as a last resort. But he had begun hating Pyotr Stepanovich long ago, and not for the danger, but for the haughtiness of his treatment. Now, when he had to venture upon such a thing, he was more angry than all the rest of our people put together. Alas, he knew that "like a slave" he would certainly be the first on the spot tomorrow and, moreover, would bring all the rest with him, and if he could somehow have killed Pyotr Stepanovich now, before tomorrow, he would certainly have killed him.

Immersed in his feelings, he kept silent and trotted after his tormentor. The latter seemed to have forgotten about him; only every now and then he carelessly and impolitely shoved him with his elbow. Suddenly, on the most prominent of our streets, Pyotr Stepanovich stopped and went into a tavern.

"Why here?" Liputin boiled up. "This is a tavern."

"I want to have a beefsteak."

"For pity's sake, it's always full of people."

"Well, so what."

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

"One can never be late there."

"No, I'll be late! They're expecting me back."

"Well, so what; only it's stupid to go back to them. Because of all your bother, I haven't had dinner today. And with Kirillov, the later the surer."

Pyotr Stepanovich took a private room. Liputin, irate and resentful, sat down in an armchair to one side and watched him eat. Half an hour passed, and more. Pyotr Stepanovich did not hurry, ate with relish, rang, demanded a different mustard, then beer, and said not a word all the while. He was deep in thought. It was possible for him to do both things at once—to eat with relish and to be deep in thought. Liputin finally hated him so much that he could not tear himself away from him. It was something like a nervous fit. He counted every piece of steak the man sent into his mouth, hated him for the way he opened it, for the way he chewed, for the way he sucked savoringly on the fatter pieces, hated the beefsteak itself. Finally, things became as if confused in his eyes; he began to feel slightly dizzy; heat and chill ran alternately down his spine.

"You're not doing anything—read this," Pyotr Stepanovich suddenly tossed him a piece of paper. Liputin went over to a candle. The paper was covered with small writing, in a bad hand, with corrections on every line. By the time he managed to read it, Pyotr Stepanovich had already paid and was going out. On the sidewalk Liputin handed the paper back to him.

"Keep it; I'll say later. Anyhow, what do you say?"

Liputin shuddered all over.

"In my opinion... such a tract ... is nothing but a ridiculous absurdity."

The anger broke through; he felt as if he were being picked up and carried.

"If we decide to distribute such tracts," he was trembling all over, "we will make ourselves despised for our stupidity and incomprehension of things, sir."

"Hm. I think otherwise," Pyotr Stepanovich strode along firmly.

"And I think otherwise; can it be that you wrote it yourself?"

"That's none of your business."

"I also think the 'Shining Light' doggerel is the trashiest doggerel possible and could never have been written by Herzen."

"Lies; the poem's good."

"I'm also surprised, for instance," Liputin raced on, leaping and playing in spirit, "that it is suggested we act so that everything fails. In Europe it is natural to want everything to fail, because there's a proletariat there, but here we're just dilettantes and, in my opinion, are simply raising dust, sir."

"I thought you were a Fourierist."

"That's not Fourier, not at all, sir."

"He's nonsense, I know."

"No, Fourier is not nonsense... Excuse me, but I simply cannot believe there could be an uprising in May."

Liputin even unbuttoned his coat, he was so hot.

"Well, enough, and now, before I forget," Pyotr Stepanovich switched with terrible coolness, "you will have to typeset and print this leaflet with your own hands. We'll dig up Shatov's press, and you'll take charge of it tomorrow. In the shortest possible time, you will typeset and print as many copies as you can, to be distributed throughout the winter. The means will be indicated. We need as many copies as possible, because you'll have orders from other places."

"No, sir, excuse me, I cannot take upon myself such a ... I refuse."

"And yet take it you will. I'm acting on instructions from the central committee, and you must obey."

"And I think that our centers abroad have forgotten Russian reality and broken all connections, and are therefore simply raving... I even think that instead of many hundreds of fivesomes there is only our one in all Russia, and there isn't any network," Liputin finally choked.

"The more contemptible for you, that you ran after the cause without believing in it. . . and are running after me now like a mean little cur."

"No, sir, I'm not running. We have every right to leave off and to form a new society."

"Mor-ron!" Pyotr Stepanovich suddenly thundered menacingly, flashing his eyes.

The two stood facing each other for a time. Pyotr Stepanovich turned and confidently set off on his way again.

It flashed like lightning through Liputin's mind: "I'll turn and go back; if I don't turn now, I'll never go back." He thought thus for exactly ten steps, but at the eleventh a new and desperate thought lit up in his mind: he did not turn and did not go back.

They came to Filippov's house, but before reaching it went down a lane, or, better to say, an inconspicuous path by the fence, so that for some time they had to make their way along the sloping side of a ditch, where one had to hold on to the fence in order to keep one's footing. In the darkest corner of the tilting fence, Pyotr Stepanovich removed a board; an opening was formed, through which he promptly climbed. Liputin was surprised, but climbed through in his turn; then the board was put back. This was that secret way by which Fedka used to get to Kirillov.

"Shatov mustn't know we're here," Pyotr Stepanovich whispered sternly to Liputin.

III

Kirillov, as always at that hour, was sitting on his leather sofa having tea. He did not rise to meet them, but somehow heaved himself all up and looked with alarm at the entering people.

"You're not mistaken," said Pyotr Stepanovich, "I've come for that very thing."

"Today?"

"No, no, tomorrow... around this time."

And he hastily sat down at the table, observing the alarmed Kirillov somewhat anxiously. He, however, had already calmed down and looked as usual.

"These people still won't believe it. You're not angry that I brought Liputin?"

"Today I'm not, but tomorrow I want to be alone."

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

"I'd prefer not in your presence."

"You remember you promised to write out and sign everything I dictate."

"Makes no difference to me. Will you stay long now?"

"I must see a certain person, and I have half an hour till then, so whether you want it or not, I'll stay for that half hour."

Kirillov said nothing. Liputin, meanwhile, placed himself to one side, under the portrait of a bishop. The same desperate thought was taking hold of his mind more and more. Kirillov barely paid any attention to him. Liputin had known Kirillov's theory even before and had always laughed at him; but now he was silent and looked around gloomily.

"And I wouldn't mind having some tea," Pyotr Stepanovich stirred. "I've just had a beefsteak and was hoping to find your tea ready."

"Have some."

"You used to offer it yourself," Pyotr Stepanovich observed sourishly.

"Makes no difference. Liputin can have some, too."

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

"Can't, or won't?" Pyotr Stepanovich turned quickly.

"I won't do it here, sir," Liputin refused meaningly. Pyotr Stepanovich scowled.

"Smells of mysticism—devil knows what sort of people you all are!"

No one answered him; they were silent for a full minute.

"But I know one thing," he suddenly added sharply, "that no prejudice will stop any of us from doing his duty."

"Stavrogin left?" Kirillov asked.

"Yes."

"He did well."

Pyotr Stepanovich flashed his eyes, but kept hold of himself.

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

"I will keep my word."

"However, I have always been sure that you would do your duty as an independent and progressive man."

"You are ridiculous."

"So be it, I'm very glad to make you laugh. I'm always glad to be able to oblige."

"You want very much that I shoot myself, and are afraid if suddenly not?"

"I mean, you see, you yourself joined your plan with our actions. Counting on your plan, we've already undertaken something, so you simply cannot refuse, because you would let us down."

"No right at all."

"I understand, I understand, it's entirely as you will, and we are nothing, just as long as this entire will of yours gets carried out."

"And I'll have to take all your vileness on myself?"

"Listen, Kirillov, you haven't turned coward? If you want to refuse, say so right now."

"I haven't turned coward."

"It's because you're asking too many questions."

"Will you leave soon?"

"Another question?"

Kirillov looked him over with contempt.

"Here, you see," Pyotr Stepanovich went on, getting more and more angry, worried, unable to find the right tone, "you want me to leave, for solitude, in order to concentrate, but these are all dangerous signs for you, for you first of all. You want to think a lot. In my view, it's better not to think, but just to do it. You worry me, you really do."

"Only one thing is very bad for me, that at that moment there will be such a viper as you around me."

"Well, that makes no difference. Maybe when the time comes I'll go out and stand on the porch. If you're dying and show such a lack of indifference, then ... this is all very dangerous. I'll go out on the porch, and you can suppose that I understand nothing and am a man immeasurably lower than you."

"No, not immeasurably; you have abilities, but there is a lot you don't understand, because you are a low man."

"Very glad, very glad. I've already said I'm glad to provide diversion ... at such a moment."

"You understand nothing."

"I mean, I... anyway, I listen with respect."

"You can do nothing; even now you cannot hide your petty spitefulness, though it's unprofitable to show it. You will make me angry, and I will suddenly want half a year longer."

Pyotr Stepanovich looked at his watch.

"I've never understood a thing about your theory, but I do know that you didn't make it up for us, and so you'll carry it out without us. I also know that it was not you who ate the idea, but the idea that ate you, and so you won't put it off."

"What? The idea ate me?"

"Yes."

"Not me the idea? That's good. You have some small intelligence. Only you keep teasing, and I am proud."

"Wonderful, wonderful. That's precisely how it should be—that you should be proud."

"Enough; you've drunk, now go."

"Devil take it, I guess I'll have to," Pyotr Stepanovich stood up. "It's still early, though. Listen, Kirillov, will I find our man at Myasnichikha's, you know? Or was she lying, too?"

"You won't, because he's here, not there."

"How, here, devil take it, where?"

"He's sitting in the kitchen, eating and drinking."

"But how dared he?" Pyotr Stepanovich flushed wrathfully. "He was obliged to wait. . . nonsense! He's got no passport or money!"

"I don't know. He came to say good-bye; he's dressed and ready. He's leaving and won't come back. He said you're a scoundrel and he doesn't want to wait for your money."

"Ahh! He's afraid I'll... well, I might even now, if he... Where is he, in the kitchen?"

Kirillov opened a side door into a tiny, dark room; from this room three steps led down to the kitchen, directly into the partitioned-off closet where the cook's bed usually stood. It was here, in the corner, under the icons, that Fedka was now sitting at a bare wooden table. In front of him on the table were a small bottle, a plate with bread, and, on an earthenware dish, a cold piece of beef with potatoes. He was having a leisurely snack, and was already slightly tipsy, but had his sheepskin coat on and was apparently quite ready to set off. A samovar was beginning to boil behind the partition, but it wasn't for Fedka, though Fedka himself had made a point of lighting it and preparing it every night for a week or more, for "Alexei Nilych, sir, seeing as he's so ver-ry accustomed to having tea at night." I strongly suspect that the beef and potatoes had been roasted for Fedka that morning by Kirillov himself, for lack of a cook.

"What do you think you're doing?" Pyotr Stepanovich rolled into the downstairs. "Why didn't you stay where you were ordered to?"

And he swung and banged his fist on the table.

Fedka assumed a dignified air.

"You wait, Pyotr Stepanovich, you wait," he began to speak, jauntily emphasizing each word, "here firstly you must understand that you're at a noble visit with Mr. Kirillov, Alexei Nilych, whose boots are always there for you to polish, since he's an educated mind before you, and you're just—pfui!"

And he jauntily spat over his shoulder. One could see arrogance, resoluteness, and a certain rather dangerous, affected, calm casuistry before the first explosion. But Pyotr Stepanovich was beyond noticing any danger, which, besides, did not fit with his view of things. The events and failures of the day had him totally in a whirl... Liputin was peeking curiously down the three steps from the dark closet.

"Do you or do you not want to have a proper passport and good money to travel where you were told. Yes or no?"

"You see, Pyotr Stepanovich, you began deceiving me from the very first beginning, whereby you come out to me as a real scoundrel. The same as a vile human louse—that's what I count you as. You promised me big money for innocent blood, and swore an oath for Mr. Stavrogin, though what comes out is nothing but your own uncivility. I got no share of it, as I live, not a drop, to say nothing of fifteen hundred, and Mr. Stavrogin slapped your face the other day, which is already known to me. Now you're threatening me again and promising money—for what business, you won't say. And I have doubts in my mind that you're sending me to Petersburg to revenge your wickedness with whatever you've got on Mr. Stavrogin, Nikolai Vsevolodovich, trusting in my gullibility. And by that you come out as the foremost murderer. And do you know what you deserve now by this sole point that in your depravity you've ceased to believe in God himself, the true creator? The same thing as an idolater, and on the same lines as a Tartar or a Mordovian. Alexei Nilych, being a philosopher, has manifoldly explained to you the true God, the creator and maker, and about the creation of the world, and equally about the future destinies and transfiguration of every creature and every beast from the book of the Apocalypse. But you, like a witless idol, persist in your deafness and dumbness, and have brought Ensign Erkel to the same thing, like that same evildoer and seducer called the atheist..." "Ah, you drunken mug! You strip icons, and then preach God!" "You see, Pyotr Stepanovich, I'll tell you it's true that I stripped them; but I only took the pearlies off, and how do you know, maybe that same moment my tear, too, was transformed before the crucible of the Almighty, for some offense against me, since I'm just exactly that very same orphan, not even having any daily refuge. Do you know from the books that once upon some ancient times a certain merchant stoled a pearl from the nimbus of the Most Holy Mother of God with just exactly the same tearful sighing and praying, and afterwards returned the whole sum right at her feet, in public, on his knees, and our Mother and Intercessor overshadowed him with her veil before all the people, so that on this subject a miracle even came about at that time, and it was ordered by way of the authorities to write it down exactly into the state books. But you let the mouse in, and so you blasphemed against the very finger of God. And if you weren't my natural master, who I used to carry in my arms when I was still a youth, I'd do you in right now, as I live, without even moving from this spot!"

Pyotr Stepanovich became exceedingly wrathful.

"Speak, did you see Stavrogin today?"

"There's one thing you daren't ever to do—to question me. Mr. Stavrogin, as he lives, stands amazed before you, nor took part by his wishes, to say nothing of any orders or money. Me you dared."

"You'll get the money, and you'll also get the two thousand, in Petersburg, on the spot, the whole sum, and still more."

"You're lying, my gentle sir, and it's funny for me even to see such a gullible man as you are. Mr. Stavrogin stands before you like on a ladder, and you're yapping at him from below like a silly tyke, whereas he regards it as doing you a big honor even to spit on you from up there."

"And do you know," Pyotr Stepanovich flew into a rage, "that I won't let you take a step out of here, you scoundrel, and will hand you straight over to the police?"

Fedka jumped to his feet and flashed his eyes furiously. Pyotr Stepanovich snatched out his revolver. Here a quick and repulsive scene took place: before Pyotr Stepanovich could aim the revolver, Fedka instantly swerved and struck him in the face with all his might. At the same moment another terrible blow was heard, then a third, a fourth, all in the face. Crazed, his eyes goggling, Pyotr Stepanovich muttered something and suddenly crashed full-length to the floor.

"There he is, take him!" Fedka cried with a victorious flourish, instantly grabbed his cap, his bundle from under the bench, and made himself scarce. Pyotr Stepanovich lay gasping, unconscious. Liputin even thought a murder had taken place. Kirillov rushed headlong down to the kitchen.

"Water on him!" he cried, and scooping some from a bucket with an iron dipper, he poured it over his head. Pyotr Stepanovich stirred, raised his head, sat up, and looked senselessly in front of him.

"Well, how's that?" asked Kirillov.

The man went on looking at him intently and still without recognition; but catching sight of Liputin, who stuck himself out from the kitchen, he smiled his nasty smile and suddenly jumped up, snatching the revolver from the floor.

"If you decide to run away tomorrow like that scoundrel Stavrogin," he flew at Kirillov in a frenzy, all pale, stammering and articulating his words imprecisely, "I'll hang you like a fly... squash you ... at the other end of the globe... understand!"

And he pointed the revolver straight at Kirillov's forehead; but at almost the same moment, recovering his senses completely at last, he jerked his hand back, shoved the revolver into his pocket, and, without another word, went running out of the house. And Liputin after him. They climbed through the same hole and again went along the slope holding on to the fence. Pyotr Stepanovich began striding quickly down the lane, so that Liputin could barely keep up with him. At the first intersection, he suddenly stopped.

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

Liputin remembered the revolver and was still trembling all over from the scene that had taken place; but the answer somehow suddenly and irrepressibly jumped off his tongue of itself:

"I think ... I think that 'from Smolensk to far Tashkent they're not so impatiently awaiting the student.’”

"And did you see what Fedka was drinking in the kitchen?"

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

"Well, know that he was drinking vodka for the last time in his life. I recommend that you remember that for your further considerations. And now, go to the devil, you're not needed until tomorrow... But watch out: no foolishness!"

Liputin rushed headlong for home.

IV

He had long kept ready a passport in a different name. It is wild even to think that this precise little man, a petty family tyrant, a functionary in any case (though a Fourierist), and, finally, before all else, a capitalist and moneylender—had long, long ago conceived within himself the fantastic notion of readying this passport just in case, so as to slip abroad with its help if. . . so he did allow for the possibility of this if! though, of course, he himself was never able to formulate precisely what this if might signify...

But now it suddenly formulated itself, and in the most unexpected way. That desperate idea with which he had come to Kirillov's, after hearing Pyotr Stepanovich's "moron" on the sidewalk, consisted in abandoning everything tomorrow at daybreak and expatriating abroad! Whoever does not believe that such fantastic things happen in our everyday reality even now, may consult the biographies of all real Russian émigrés abroad. Not one of them fled in a more intelligent or realistic way. It is all the same unbridled kingdom of phantoms, and nothing more.

Having run home, he began by locking himself in, getting a valise, and beginning to pack convulsively. His main concern was about money, what amount and how he would be able to secure it. Precisely to secure, because, according to his notion, he could not delay even an hour, and had to be on the highway at daybreak. He also did not know how he would get on the train; he vaguely resolved to get on somewhere at the second or even third big station from town, and to get there even if by foot. In this way, instinctively and mechanically, with a whole whirl of thoughts in his head, he stood pottering over his valise and—suddenly stopped, abandoned it all, and with a deep moan stretched out on the sofa.

He clearly felt and suddenly became conscious of the fact that he might indeed be running away, but that to resolve the question of whether he was to run away before or after Shatov was now already quite beyond his power; that he was now only a crude, unfeeling body, an inert mass, but that he was being moved by some external, terrible power, and that though he did have a passport for abroad, though he could run away from Shatov (otherwise why such a hurry?), he would run away not before Shatov, not from Shatov, but precisely after Shatov, and that it had been thus decided, signed, and sealed. In unbearable anguish, trembling and astonished at himself every moment, groaning and going numb alternately, he somehow survived, locked in and lying on his sofa, until eleven o'clock the next morning, and it was then suddenly that the expected push came which suddenly directed his decision. At eleven o'clock, as soon as he unlocked his door and went out to his family, he suddenly learned from them that a robber, the escaped convict Fedka, who terrorized everyone, a pilferer of churches, a recent murderer and arsonist, whom our police had been after but kept failing to catch, had been found murdered that morning at daybreak, some four miles from town, at the turnoff from the highway to the road to Zakharyino, and that the whole town was already talking about it. He at once rushed headlong out of the house to learn the details, and learned first that Fedka, found with his head smashed in, had by all tokens been robbed, and second, that the police already had strong suspicions and even some firm evidence for concluding that his murderer was the Shpigulin man Fomka, the same one with whom he had undoubtedly killed and set fire to the Lebyadkins, and that a quarrel had already taken place between them on their way, because Fedka had supposedly hidden a big sum of money stolen from Lebyadkin... Liputin also ran to Pyotr Stepanovich's place and managed to learn at the back door, on the sly, that although Pyotr Stepanovich had returned home yesterday at, say, around one o'clock in the morning, he had been pleased to spend the whole night there quietly asleep until eight o'clock. Of course, there could be no doubt that the death of the robber Fedka contained nothing at all extraordinary in itself, and that such denouements precisely happen most often in careers of that sort, but the coincidence of the fatal words that "Fedka had drunk vodka that evening for the last time," with the immediate justification of the prophecy, was so portentous that Liputin suddenly ceased to hesitate. The push was given; it was as if a stone had fallen on him and crushed him forever. Returning home, he silently shoved his valise under the bed with his foot, and that evening, at the appointed time, was the first of them all to come to the place fixed for meeting Shatov—true, with his passport still in his pocket...