Demons

6: A Toilsome Night

I

V'irginsky, in the course of the day, employed two hours in running around to see all our people and tell them that Shatov was certainly not going to denounce them, because his wife had come back to him and a child had been born, and, "knowing the human heart," it was impossible to suppose he could be dangerous at that moment. But, to his disconcertion, he found almost no one home except Erkel and Lyamshin. Erkel listened to him silently, gazing serenely into his eyes; and to the direct question: "Would he go at six o'clock or not?" replied, with the most serene smile, that "of course he would."

Lyamshin was in bed, apparently quite seriously sick, with his head wrapped in a blanket. When Virginsky came in, he got scared and, as soon as he began to speak, suddenly started waving his hands from under the blanket, pleading to be left alone. However, he listened to everything about Shatov; for some reason, the news that no one was home struck him greatly. It also turned out that he already knew (through Liputin) about Fedka's death, and hurriedly and incoherently told Virginsky about it himself, thereby striking him in his turn. And to Virginsky's direct question: "Should we go or not?" he again started pleading, waving his hands, that he was "not concerned, knew nothing, and to leave him alone."

Virginsky returned home dispirited and greatly alarmed; what made it hard for him was that he also had to conceal it from his family; he was used to revealing everything to his wife, and had it not been for a new thought, a certain new, conciliatory plan for further action which lit up in his inflamed brain at that moment, he might have taken to his bed like Lyamshin. But the new thought strengthened him; what's more, he even began waiting impatiently for the time, and set out for the gathering place even earlier than necessary.

It was a very dark place, at the end of the huge Stavrogin park. Afterwards I went there on purpose to have a look; how dismal it must have seemed on that harsh autumn evening! It was the edge of an old forest preserve; in the darkness, huge, century-old pines loomed as dark and dim shapes. It was so dark that it was almost impossible for them to make each other out from two steps away, but Pyotr Stepanovich, Liputin, and then Erkel brought lanterns with them. In time immemorial, no one knew why or when, a rather ridiculous sort of grotto had been built there from wild, unhewn stones. The table and benches inside the grotto had long since rotted and fallen apart. About two hundred paces to the right was the tip of the park's third pond. These three ponds, starting right from the house, followed one another, stretching over half a mile, right to the end of the park. It was hard to suppose that a noise, a cry, or even a shot, could reach the inhabitants of the abandoned Stavrogin house. Since Nikolai Vsevolodovich's departure the day before, and with the absence of Alexei Yegorych, there were no more than five or six inhabitants left in the whole house, of an invalid sort, so to speak. In any case, one could suppose with almost full probability that even if screams and cries for help were to be heard by one of these secluded inhabitants, they would evoke only fear, but not one of them would stir from their warm stoves and warmed-up benches to help.

At twenty minutes past six almost everyone except Erkel, who had been dispatched to bring Shatov, turned out to have gathered. This time Pyotr Stepanovich did not tarry; he arrived with Tolkachenko. Tolkachenko was scowling and preoccupied; all his affected and insolently boastful resolution had vanished. He almost never left Pyotr Stepanovich's side and seemed to have become boundlessly devoted to him; he kept coming at him, frequently and fussily, with his whisperings; but the latter scarcely replied, or vexedly muttered something to get rid of him.

Shigalyov and Virginsky arrived even somewhat earlier than Pyotr Stepanovich, and at his arrival immediately drew somewhat apart in profound and obviously deliberate silence. Pyotr Stepanovich raised his lantern and looked them over with unceremonious and insulting attentiveness. "They want to talk," flashed in his head.

"No Lyamshin?" he asked Virginsky. "Who said he was sick?"

"I'm here," Lyamshin responded, suddenly stepping from behind a tree. He was wearing a warm coat and was tightly wrapped in a plaid, so that it was hard to make out his physiognomy even with a lantern.

"So, just no Liputin?"

And Liputin silently came out of the grotto. Pyotr Stepanovich again raised the lantern.

"Why were you hiding in there, why didn't you come out?"

"I suppose we all retain the right to freedom ... of our movements," Liputin began to mutter, though probably not quite understanding what he wished to express.

"Gentlemen," Pyotr Stepanovich raised his voice, breaking the half-whisper for the first time, which produced its effect, "you understand very well, I believe, that there's no point in us smearing it around anymore. Everything was said and chewed over yesterday, directly and definitely. But perhaps, as I can see by your physiognomies, someone would like to state something; if so, I ask you to be quick. Devil take it, we don't have much time; Erkel may bring him any moment ..."

"He's certain to bring him," Tolkachenko put in for some reason.

"If I'm not mistaken, the handing over of the press will take place first?" Liputin inquired, again as if not understanding why he was asking the question.

"Well, of course, there's no point in losing things," Pyotr Stepanovich raised the lantern to his face. "But we did all agree yesterday that we needn't actually take it. Let him just show you the spot where he buried it; we'll dig it up later ourselves. I know it's somewhere ten paces from some corner of the grotto... But, devil take it, how could you forget, Liputin? It was agreed that you'd meet him alone, and we'd come out only after that... It's strange you're asking, or was it just so?"

Liputin kept gloomily silent. Everyone fell silent. The wind swayed the tops of the pines.

"I trust, however, gentlemen, that everyone will do his duty," Pyotr Stepanovich broke off impatiently.

"I know that Shatov's wife came and gave birth to a child," Virginsky suddenly started to speak, excitedly, hurriedly, barely enunciating the words, and gesticulating. "Knowing the human heart... we can be sure that he won't denounce us now... because he's in happiness... And so I called on everyone earlier and found no one home... and so maybe there's no need for anything now..."

He stopped: his breath failed him.

"If you, Mr. Virginsky, should suddenly become happy," Pyotr Stepanovich made a step towards him, "would you put off—not a denunciation, no one's talking about that, but some risky civic deed, which you had been planning before your happiness and which you considered your duty and responsibility, in spite of the risk and the loss of your happiness?"

"No, I wouldn't! I wouldn't put it off for anything!" Virginsky said, with some terribly absurd fervor, his body moving all over.

"You'd sooner wish to become unhappy again than be a scoundrel?"

"Yes, yes... Even completely the opposite ... I'd rather be a complete scoundrel... no, I mean... not a scoundrel at all, but the opposite, completely unhappy, than be a scoundrel."

"Let it be known to you, then, that Shatov regards this denunciation as his civic deed, his highest conviction, and the proof is that he himself is running some risk before the government, though much will certainly be forgiven him for the denunciation. Such a man will never retract. No happiness will prevail; within a day he'll come to his senses, reproach himself, and go and do it. Besides, I don't see any happiness in the fact that his wife has come to him, after three years, to give birth to a Stavrogin child."

"But no one has seen the denunciation," Shigalyov said suddenly and emphatically.

"I have seen the denunciation," cried Pyotr Stepanovich, "it exists, and all this is terribly stupid, gentlemen!"

"And I," Virginsky suddenly boiled up, "I protest... I protest with all my strength ... I want... This is what I want: I want, when he gets here, for us all to come out and ask him: if it's true, then make him repent, and if it's word of honor, then let him go. In any case—a trial; with a trial. And not all of us hiding and then falling on him."

"To risk the common cause on a word of honor—is the height of stupidity! Devil take it, gentlemen, now is such a stupid time for this! And what role are you assuming in the moment of danger?"

"I protest, I protest," Virginsky harped.

"Don't shout, at least, or we won't hear the signal. Shatov, gentlemen ... (Devil take it, now is such a stupid time for this!) I've already told you that Shatov is a Slavophil—that is, one of the stupidest people ... Ah, the devil, spit on it anyhow, it makes no difference! You just throw me off! ... Shatov, gentlemen, is an embittered man, but since he still belonged to the society, whether he liked it or not, I hoped till the last minute that he could be of use to the common cause and be employed as an embittered man. I kept him and spared him, in spite of the most precise instructions ... I spared him a hundred times more than he was worth! But he ended by denouncing us; well, the devil, so spit on it! ... Only just let anyone try slipping away now! None of you has the right to abandon the cause! You can go and kiss him if you like, but you have no right to betray the common cause on a word of honor! Only swine and people bought by the government act like that!"

"Who here has been bought by the government?" Liputin filtered again.

"You, maybe. Better keep still, Liputin, you're just saying it out of habit. The bought, gentlemen, are all those who turn coward in the moment of danger. Some fool will always come along who gets scared and at the last minute runs and shouts: 'Aie, forgive me, I'll sell everybody!' But know, gentlemen, that at this point you'll no longer be forgiven for any denunciation. Even if they knock off two degrees for you legally, it's still Siberia for each of you, and, besides, there's another sword you won't escape. And that other sword is sharper than the government's."

Pyotr Stepanovich was furious and said too much. Shigalyov firmly stepped three steps towards him.

"I have thought the matter over since yesterday evening," he began, confidently and methodically as always (and I believe that if the earth had given way under him, even then he would not have raised his tone or changed one iota in the methodicalness of his statement), "and having thought it over, I have decided that the intended murder is not only a waste of precious time that could be employed in a more immediate and essential way, but represents, moreover, that pernicious deviation from the normal path which has always done most harm to the cause and has obviated its successes for decades, being subject to the influence of light-minded and predominantly political men instead of pure socialists. I came here solely to protest against the intended undertaking, for general edification, and also—to remove myself from the present moment, which you, I do not know why, call your moment of danger. I am leaving—not from fear of this danger, or from any sentimentality over Shatov, whom I by no means wish to kiss, but solely because this entire affair, from beginning to end, literally contradicts my program. As regards denunciation or being bought by the government, for my part you may be perfectly at ease: there will be no denunciation."

He turned and started walking away.

"Devil take it, he'll meet them and warn Shatov!" Pyotr Stepanovich cried, and he snatched out his revolver. There was the click of the hammer being cocked.

"You may be assured," Shigalyov turned around again, "that if I meet Shatov on my way, I may still greet him, but I will not warn him."

"And do you know that you may have to pay for this, Mr. Fourier?"

"I beg you to note that I am not Fourier. By mixing me up with that sugary, abstract maunderer, you only prove that though my manuscript has been in your hands, it is completely unknown to you. And as regards your revenge, I will tell you that you should not have cocked the hammer; at the moment it is absolutely unprofitable for you. And if you are threatening me for tomorrow or the day after tomorrow, then once again, except for some extra trouble, you won't gain anything for yourself by shooting me: you will kill me, but sooner or later you will still arrive at my system. Good-bye."

At that moment there came a whistle from about two hundred paces away, from the park, in the direction of the pond. Liputin, still following yesterday's plan, responded at once by whistling back (for which purpose, not trusting in his rather toothless mouth, he had bought a child's clay whistle for a kopeck in the market that morning). Erkel had had time on the way to caution Shatov that there would be whistling, so that he would not conceive any suspicions.

"Don't worry, I'll go around them, they won't notice me at all," Shigalyov cautioned in an imposing whisper, and then, without hurrying or quickening his pace, he finally set off through the dark park for home.

How this terrible event took place is now fully known in the smallest detail. First, Liputin met Erkel and Shatov just at the grotto; Shatov did not greet him or offer his hand, but at once said hastily and loudly:

"Well, so where's your spade, and haven't you got another lantern? Don't be afraid, there's absolutely no one here; you could fire off cannons now, they wouldn't hear a thing in Skvoreshniki. It's here, this is the place, this very spot..."

And he stamped his foot, ten paces indeed from the far corner of the grotto, in the direction of the forest. At that same moment Tolkachenko rushed at his back from behind a tree, and Erkel seized him by the elbows, also from the back. Liputin threw himself at him from the front. The three of them knocked him down at once and pinned him to the ground. Here Pyotr Stepanovich sprang over with his revolver. It is said that Shatov had time to turn his head towards him and was still able to make him out and recognize him. Three lanterns lighted the scene. Shatov suddenly cried out a brief and desperate cry; but he was not to cry out again: Pyotr Stepanovich accurately and firmly put the revolver right to his forehead, hard point-blank, and—pulled the trigger. The shot, I suppose, was not very loud; at least nothing was heard at Skvoreshniki. Shigalyov, who had scarcely gone three hundred steps, heard it, of course—heard both the cry and the shot, but, as he himself later testified, did not turn or even stop. Death occurred almost instantly. Full efficiency—though not, I think, cold-bloodedness—was preserved only by Pyotr Stepanovich. Squatting down, he searched the murdered man's pockets hastily but with a firm hand. There was no money (the purse had remained under Marya Ignatievna's pillow). Two or three worthless scraps of paper were found: an office note, some book title, and an old foreign tavern bill which, God knows why, had survived in his pocket for two years.

Pyotr Stepanovich transferred the scraps of paper to his own pocket and, suddenly noticing that everyone was clustered around looking at the corpse and not doing anything, he began angrily and impolitely cursing and hustling them. Tolkachenko and Erkel, coming to their senses, ran to the grotto and instantly brought two stones put there in the morning, each weighing about twenty pounds, and already prepared—that is, with ropes tied tightly and securely around them. Since the intention was to carry the corpse to the nearest (the third) pond and sink it there, they began tying these stones to it, at the feet and neck. The tying was done by Pyotr Stepanovich, while Tolkachenko and Erkel merely stood holding the stones and handed them over in turn. Erkel handed over the first stone, and while Pyotr Stepanovich, grumbling and cursing, was tying the legs of the corpse together and tying this first stone to them, Tolkachenko, during all this rather long time, went on holding his stone out at arm's length, his whole body bent sharply and as if reverently forward, so as to hand it over without delay at the first asking, and never once thought of lowering his burden to the ground in the meantime. When both stones were finally tied on and Pyotr Stepanovich got up from the ground to examine the physiognomies of those present, a strange thing suddenly happened, which was totally unexpected and surprised almost everyone.

As has already been said, almost everyone was standing and not doing anything, with the partial exception of Tolkachenko and Erkel. Virginsky, though he had rushed to Shatov along with everyone else, had not seized him or helped to hold him. And Lyamshin got into the bunch only after the shot. Then, during the perhaps ten-minute-long pottering with the corpse, they all as if lost part of their consciousness. They grouped themselves around and, before any worry or alarm, felt as if only surprise. Liputin stood in front, just by the corpse. Virginsky was behind him, peeping over his shoulder with some particular and as if unrelated curiosity, even standing on tiptoe in order to see better. And Lyamshin hid behind Virginsky, only peeping out warily from behind him every now and then, and hiding again at once. But when the stones were tied on and Pyotr Stepanovich stood up, Virginsky suddenly started quivering all over, clasped his hands, and cried ruefully at the top of his voice:

"This is not it, this is not it! No, this is not it at all!"

He might have added something more to his so belated exclamation, but Lyamshin did not let him finish: suddenly, and with all his might, he clasped him and squeezed him from behind and let out some sort of incredible shriek. There are strong moments of fear, for instance, when a man will suddenly cry out in a voice not his own, but such as one could not even have supposed him to have before then, and the effect is sometimes even quite frightful. Lyamshin cried not with a human but with some sort of animal voice. Squeezing Virginsky from behind harder and harder with his arms, in a convulsive fit, he went on shrieking without stop or pause, his eyes goggling at them all, and his mouth opened exceedingly wide, while his feet rapidly stamped the ground as if beating out a drum roll on it. Virginsky got so scared that he cried out like a madman himself and tried to tear free of Lyamshin's grip in some sort of frenzy, so viciously that one even could not have expected it of Virginsky, scratching and punching him as well he was able to reach behind him with his arms. Erkel finally helped him to tear Lyamshin off. But when, in fear, Virginsky sprang about ten steps away, Lyamshin, seeing Pyotr Stepanovich, suddenly screamed again and rushed at him. Stumbling over the corpse, he fell across it onto Pyotr Stepanovich and now clenched him so tightly in his embrace, pressing his head against his chest, that for the first moment Pyotr Stepanovich, Tolkachenko, and Liputin were almost unable to do anything. Pyotr Stepanovich yelled, swore, beat him on the head with his fists; finally, having somehow torn himself free, he snatched out the revolver and pointed it straight into the open mouth of the still screaming Lyamshin, whom Tolkachenko, Erkel, and Liputin had already seized firmly by the arms; but Lyamshin went on shrieking even in spite of the revolver. Finally, Erkel somehow bunched up his foulard and stuffed it deftly into his mouth, and thus the shouting ceased. Meanwhile, Tolkachenko tied his hands with a leftover end of rope.

"This is very strange," Pyotr Stepanovich said, studying the madman in alarmed astonishment.

He was visibly struck.

"I had quite a different idea of him," he added pensively.

For the time being, Erkel was left with him. They had to hurry with the dead man: there had been so much shouting that it might have been heard somewhere. Tolkachenko and Pyotr Stepanovich raised their lanterns and picked up the corpse at the head; Liputin and Virginsky took hold of the feet and lifted. With the two stones, it was a heavy burden, and the distance was more than two hundred steps. Tolkachenko was the strongest of them. He tried to suggest that they walk in step, but no one responded to him, and they went on haphazardly. Pyotr Stepanovich walked on the right and, bent completely double, carried the dead man's head on his shoulder, supporting the stone from underneath with his left hand. Since Tolkachenko, for a good half of the way, never thought of helping to carry the stone, Pyotr Stepanovich finally shouted a curse at him. It was a sudden, solitary shout; they all went on silently carrying, and only at the very edge of the pond did Virginsky, bending under the burden and as if weary from its weight, suddenly exclaim again in the same loud, tearful voice:

"This is not it, no, no, this is not it at all!"

Where this third, quite large Skvoreshniki pond ended, and where they had brought the murdered man, was one of the most deserted and unfrequented places in the park, especially at such a late time of year. This end of the pond, near the bank, was overgrown with reeds. They set the lantern down, swung the corpse, and threw it into the water. There was a dull and long sound. Pyotr Stepanovich raised the lantern; after him they all stuck their heads out, peering curiously at how the dead man was sinking; but by then nothing could be seen: the body with the two stones went under at once. The big ripples that spread over the surface of the water were quickly dying away. The matter was ended.

"Gentlemen," Pyotr Stepanovich addressed them all, "we will now disperse. You undoubtedly must feel that free pride which is attendant upon the fulfillment of a free duty. And if, unhappily, you are now too alarmed for such emotions, you will undoubtedly feel it tomorrow, by which time it would be shameful not to feel it. As for Lyamshin's all too shameful agitation, I agree to regard it as delirium, all the more so in that they say he really has been sick since morning. And you, Virginsky, one moment of free reflection will show you that, in view of the interests of the common cause, it was not possible to act upon a word of honor, but precisely as we have done. The consequences will show that there had been a denunciation. I agree to forget your exclamations. As for danger, there is none to be expected. No one will even think of suspecting any of us, especially if you yourselves know how to behave; so the main thing still depends on you yourselves and on your full conviction, which I hope will grow firm in you by tomorrow. And that, incidentally, is precisely why you united together into a separate organization of the free assembly of the like-minded, so as in the common cause to share your energy among yourselves at a given moment and, if need be, to watch over and observe each other. Each of you owes a higher accounting. You are called to renew the cause, which is decrepit and stinking from stagnation; keep that always before your eyes for encouragement. In the meantime your whole step is towards getting everything destroyed: both the state and its morality. We alone will remain, having destined ourselves beforehand to assume power: we shall rally the smart ones to ourselves, and ride on the backs of the fools. You should not be embarrassed by it. This generation must be re-educated to make it worthy of freedom. There are still many thousands of Shatovs ahead of us. We will get organized so as to seize the tendency; it is shameful not to reach out and take what is lying there idly with its mouth gaping at us. I'm now going to Kirillov, and by morning there will be a document in which he, on dying, by way of an explanation to the government, will take everything upon himself. Nothing could be more plausible than such a combination. First of all, there was enmity between him and Shatov; they lived together in America, so they had time to quarrel. It is known that Shatov changed his convictions; the enmity, then, was because of convictions and the fear of denunciation—that is, the most unforgiving kind. All this will be written down just that way. Finally, it will be mentioned that Fedka lodged with him, in Filippov's house. Thus, all this will completely remove all suspicion from you, because it will throw all those muttonheads off. Tomorrow, gentlemen, we will not see each other; I'll be away in the district capital for a very short time. But the day after tomorrow you'll have reports from me. I would advise you, in fact, to spend tomorrow at home. We will now set out by twos on different routes. You, Tolkachenko, I ask to occupy yourself with Lyamshin and take him home. You may influence him and, above all, impress upon him the extent to which he will be harming himself first of all by his faintheartedness. Your relative Shigalyov, Mr. Virginsky, I do not wish to doubt, any more than I do you yourself: he will not denounce us. His action remains regrettable; but, all the same, he has not yet announced that he is leaving the society, so it is too early to bury him. Well—quick now, gentlemen; they may be muttonheads, but there's no harm in being prudent..."

Virginsky went with Erkel. In handing Lyamshin over to Tolkachenko, Erkel had managed to bring him to Pyotr Stepanovich and announce that he had come to his senses, repented, and begged forgiveness, and did not even remember what had happened to him. Pyotr Stepanovich went off alone, choosing a way around the other side of the ponds, skirting the park. This was the longest route. To his surprise, Liputin overtook him almost midway.

"Pyotr Stepanovich, you know, Lyamshin's sure to denounce us!"

"No, he'll come to his senses and realize that if he denounces us, he'll be the first to go to Siberia. Nobody will denounce us now. You won't either."

"And you?"

"No question, I'll have you all tucked away the minute you make a move to betray, and you know it. But you won't betray anything. Is that why you ran more than a mile after me?"

"Pyotr Stepanovich, Pyotr Stepanovich, you know, we may never see each other again!"

"What gives you that idea?"

"Tell me just one thing."

"Well, what? I wish you'd clear off, though."

"One answer, but the right one: are we the only fivesome in the world, or is it true that there are several hundred fivesomes? I'm asking in a lofty sense, Pyotr Stepanovich."

"I can see that by your frenzy. And do you know that you are more dangerous than Lyamshin, Liputin?"

"I know, I know, but—the answer, your answer!"

"What a foolish man you are! One would think it should make no difference now—one fivesome, or a thousand."

"So it's one! I just knew it!" Liputin cried out. "I knew all along it was one, right up to this very moment..."

And without waiting for any other reply, he turned and quickly vanished into the darkness.

Pyotr Stepanovich pondered a little.

"No, no one will denounce us," he said resolutely, "but—the crew must remain a crew and obey, otherwise I'll... What trash these people are, though!"

II

He first stopped at his place and neatly, unhurriedly, packed his suitcase. The express train was leaving at six o'clock in the morning. This early express train came only once a week and had been scheduled very recently, just as a trial for the time being. Though Pyotr Stepanovich had warned our people that he was supposedly going to the district capital, his intentions, as it turned out later, were quite different. After finishing with the suitcase, he settled accounts with the landlady, whom he had notified ahead of time, and moved in a hired carriage to Erkel's place, which was near the station. And only after that, at approximately one o'clock in the morning, did he go to Kirillov's, where he again penetrated through Fedka's secret passage. The state of Pyotr Stepanovich's mind was terrible. Apart from other discontents quite important for him (he was still unable to find out anything about Stavrogin), he had, it seems—for I cannot confirm it with certainty—received during the course of the day, from somewhere (most likely Petersburg), secret notification of a certain danger awaiting him in the near future. Of course, there are now a great many legends going around town about that time; but even if something is known with certainty, it is known only to those who ought to know of it. And I simply suppose, in my own opinion, that Pyotr Stepanovich might have had doings elsewhere than in our town, so that he might indeed have received notifications. I am even convinced, contrary to Liputin's cynical and desperate doubt, that he could indeed have had two or three fivesomes besides ours, in the capitals, for instance; or, if not fivesomes, then connections and relations—perhaps even very curious ones. No more than three days after his departure, an order from the capital was received in our town for his immediate arrest—for what actual doings, ours or some others, I do not know. The order arrived just in time to increase the staggering, almost mystical sense of fear that took possession of our authorities and our hitherto stubbornly frivolous society on the discovery of the mysterious and highly portentous murder of the student Shatov—a murder that filled the measure of our absurdities—and of the extremely enigmatic circumstances that accompanied this event. But the order came too late: Pyotr Stepanovich was already in Petersburg by then, under an assumed name, and from there, having sniffed out what was going on, he instantly slipped abroad... But I am getting terribly far ahead of myself.

He entered Kirillov's room with a spiteful and provocative look. As if he wished, along with the main business, also to work off something personal on Kirillov, to vent something on him. Kirillov seemed glad he had come; it was obvious that he had been waiting for him terribly long, and with morbid impatience. His face was paler than usual, the expression of his black eyes heavy and fixed.

"I thought you wouldn't come," he said heavily from the corner of the sofa, though not stirring to greet him. Pyotr Stepanovich stood in front of him and, before saying a word, peered closely into his face.

"So everything's in order, and we're not going back on our intention. Good boy!" he smiled an offensively patronizing smile. "Well, so what," he added with vile jocularity, "if I'm late, it's not for you to complain: you got a gift of three hours."

"I don't want any extra hours from you, and you can't give me gifts—fool!"

"What?" Pyotr Stepanovich jumped, but instantly controlled himself. "How touchy! We're in a rage, eh?" he rapped out with the same air of offensive superciliousness. "At such a moment one rather needs to be calm. Best of all is to regard yourself as Columbus and look at me as a mouse and not be offended at me. I recommended that yesterday."

"I don't want to look at you as a mouse."

"What's that, a compliment? Anyhow, the tea is cold, too—so everything's upside down. No, something untrustworthy is going on here. Hah! What's this I see on the windowsill, on a plate" (he went over to the window). "Oho, a boiled chicken with rice! ... But why hasn't it been touched yet? So we were in such a state of mind that even a chicken ..."

"I ate, and it's none of your business; keep still!"

"Oh, certainly, and besides it makes no difference. But it does make a difference to me: imagine, I had hardly any dinner at all, so if this chicken is now, as I suppose, no longer needed... eh?"

"Eat, if you can."

"Much obliged, and tea to follow."

He instantly settled down to the table at the other end of the sofa and with extraordinary greediness fell upon the food; but at the same time he observed his victim every moment. Kirillov, with spiteful loathing, looked fixedly at him, as if unable to tear himself away.

"However," Pyotr Stepanovich suddenly heaved himself up, continuing to eat, "however, about this business? We're not going to back out, eh? And the little note?"

"I determined tonight that it makes no difference to me. I'll write it. About the tracts?"

"Yes, also about the tracts. Anyhow, I'll dictate it. It really makes no difference to you. Can you possibly worry about the contents at such a moment?"

"None of your business."

"Of course not. Anyhow, just a few lines: that you and Shatov distributed the tracts—with the help of Fedka, incidentally, who was hiding out in your apartment. This last point about Fedka and the apartment is quite important, even the most important. You see, I'm being completely frank with you."

"And Shatov? Why Shatov? Not Shatov, not for anything."

"Come on, what is it to you? You can't harm him now."

"His wife came to him. She woke up and sent to ask me where he is."

"She sent to find out where he is from you? Hm, that's not good. She might send again; no one must know I'm here..."

Pyotr Stepanovich became worried.

"She won't find out, she's asleep again; the midwife is with her, Arina Virginsky."

"That's just... and she won't hear, I suppose? You know, why don't we lock the front door?"

"She won't hear anything. And if Shatov comes, I'll hide you in that room."

"Shatov won't come; and you are going to write that you quarreled over his betrayal and denunciation... this night. . . and the cause of his death."

"He died!" Kirillov cried out, jumping up from the sofa.

"Today, between seven and eight in the evening, or, rather, yesterday between seven and eight in the evening, since it's now past midnight."

"You killed him! ... And I foresaw it yesterday!"

"How could you not foresee it! With this revolver" (he pulled out the revolver, ostensibly to show it, after which he did not put it away again, but went on holding it in his right hand, as if in readiness). "You, however, are a strange man, Kirillov, you yourself knew it would have to end this way with that foolish man. What else was there to foresee? I chewed it all over for you several times. Shatov was preparing a denunciation: I was watching him; there was no way to let it go at that. And you, too, had instructions to watch him; you told me so yourself three weeks ago..."

"Keep still! You did it because he spat in your face in Geneva!"

"For that, and for other things. For many other things; though without any malice. Why jump up like that? What's this posturing? Oho! So that's how we are! ..."

He jumped up and raised the revolver in front of him. The thing was that Kirillov had suddenly snatched his revolver from the windowsill, loaded and ready since morning. Pyotr Stepanovich positioned himself and aimed his weapon at Kirillov. The latter laughed spitefully.

"Confess, scoundrel, that you took out the revolver because I'm going to shoot you... But I'm not going to shoot you ... although... although ..."

And again he aimed his revolver at Pyotr Stepanovich as if trying it out, as if unable to deny himself the pleasure of imagining how it would be to shoot him. Pyotr Stepanovich, still positioned, was biding, biding his time until the last moment without pulling the trigger, running the risk of getting a bullet in his own head first: one might well expect it from a "maniac." But the "maniac" finally lowered his arm, gasping and trembling, unable to speak.

"We've had our play and that's enough," Pyotr Stepanovich also lowered his weapon. "I just knew you were playing; only, you know, you were taking a risk: I might have pulled the trigger."

And he sat down rather calmly on the sofa and poured himself some tea, though with a slightly trembling hand. Kirillov put his revolver on the table and started pacing back and forth.

"I won't write that I killed Shatov and ... I won't write anything now. There won't be any document!"

"There won't?"

"There won't."

"What meanness and what foolishness!" Pyotr Stepanovich turned green with anger. "I anticipated it, though. Let me tell you that you haven't caught me unawares. However, as you wish. If I could force you, I would. You are a scoundrel, though," Pyotr Stepanovich became more and more unable to stand it. "You asked us for money that time and made a whole cartload of promises ... Only I still won't leave without the result, I'll still see at least how you blow your head off."

"I want you to leave here now," Kirillov stopped firmly in front of him.

"No, sir, that I won't," Pyotr Stepanovich grabbed his revolver again. "You might decide now, from spite and cowardice, to put it all off and go and denounce us tomorrow, to procure a bit of cash again— they do pay for such things. Devil take you, paltry people like you are ripe for anything! Only don't worry, I foresaw it all: I won't leave before I've blown your brains out with this revolver, like that scoundrel Shatov's, if you turn coward and put off your intention, devil take you!"

"You absolutely want to see my blood, too?"

"It's not out of malice, you understand; it makes no difference to me. It's so as not to worry about our cause. One can't rely on people, you see that yourself. I don't understand a thing about your fantasy of killing yourself. I didn't think it up for you, you did yourself even before me, and you originally announced it not to me but to the members abroad. And, notice, none of them tried to elicit anything, none of them even knew you at all, but you yourself came with your confidences, out of sentimentality. So what's to be done if, right then, on that basis, with your own consent and offer (make note of that: your offer!), a certain plan for local actions was made, which it is now quite impossible to change. You put yourself in such a position that you now know too much. If you turn tail and go tomorrow with a denunciation, that might prove rather unprofitable for us, don't you think? No, sir, you committed yourself, you gave your word, you took the money. There's no way you can deny that..."

Pyotr Stepanovich was greatly excited, but Kirillov had long since stopped listening. He was again thoughtfully pacing the room.

"I'm sorry for Shatov," he said, stopping in front of Pyotr Stepanovich again.

"Yes, well, maybe I'm sorry, too, but can it be..."

"Quiet, scoundrel!" Kirillov bellowed, making a terrible and unambiguous movement, "I'll kill you!"

"Well, well, well, so I lied, I agree, I'm not sorry at all; well, enough, enough now!" Pyotr Stepanovich jumped up apprehensively, holding out his hand.

Kirillov suddenly subsided and began pacing again.

"I won't put it off; I want to kill myself precisely now: men are all scoundrels!"

"Well, that's the idea; of course, men are all scoundrels, and since it's loathsome for a decent man to be in the world..."

"Fool, I am a scoundrel the same as you, as all of them, not a decent man. There has not been a decent man anywhere."

"He's finally figured it out. Can it be, Kirillov, that you, with your intelligence, have only now understood that everyone's the same, that no one's better or worse, but just smarter or stupider, and that if men are all scoundrels (which is nonsense, however), then it follows that there even oughtn't to be any non-scoundrels?"

"Ah! So you're really not laughing?" Kirillov looked at him with some surprise. "You're excited and simply ... Can it be that your kind have convictions?"

"Kirillov, I never could understand why you want to kill yourself. I know only that it's from conviction... firm conviction. But if you feel a need, so to speak, to pour yourself out, I'm at your service... Only we must consider the time..."

"What time is it?"

"Oho, the stroke of two," Pyotr Stepanovich looked at his watch and lit a cigarette.

"It seems we can still come to terms," he thought to himself.

"I have nothing to tell you," Kirillov muttered.

"I remember there was something about God... you did explain it to me once—twice, even. If you shoot yourself, you'll become God, is that right?"

"Yes, I will become God."

Pyotr Stepanovich did not even smile; he was waiting; Kirillov gave him a subtle look.

"You are a political crook and intriguer, you want to bring me down to philosophy and ecstasy and produce a reconciliation, to disperse wrath, and, once I'm reconciled, to extort a note that I killed Shatov."

Pyotr Stepanovich answered with an almost natural simpleheartedness:

"Well, suppose I am such a scoundrel, only in these last minutes what difference does it make, Kirillov? Why are we quarreling, tell me, please: you're this sort of man, I'm that sort of man—what of it? And besides, we're both..."

"Scoundrels."

"Yes, scoundrels, maybe. You know these are only words."

"All my life I did not want it to be only words. This is why I lived, because I kept not wanting it. And now, too, every day I want it not to be words."

"Well, each of us seeks a better place. A bug in a rug ... I mean, each of us seeks comfort of some sort; that's all. It's been known for an extremely long time."

"Comfort, you say?"

"Well, we're not going to quarrel over words."

"No, you said it well; let it be comfort. God is necessary, and therefore must exist."

"Well, that's wonderful."

"But I know that he does not and cannot exist."

"That's more like it."

"Don't you understand that a man with these two thoughts cannot go on living?"

"Must shoot himself, you mean?"

"Don't you understand that a man can shoot himself for that alone? You don't understand that there may be such a man, one man out of the thousands of your millions, one, who will not want it and will not endure it."

"I understand only that you seem to be hesitating... That's very bad."

"Stavrogin was also eaten by an idea." Kirillov, sullenly pacing the room, did not mark his remark.

"What?" Pyotr Stepanovich pricked up his ears. "What idea? Did he tell you something himself?"

"No, I myself guessed it: if Stavrogin believes, he does not believe that he believes. And if he does not believe, he does not believe that he does not believe."

"Well, Stavrogin also has other things more intelligent than that. . ." Pyotr Stepanovich muttered peevishly, watching with alarm the turn of the conversation and the pale Kirillov.

"Devil take it, he won't shoot himself," he thought. "I always suspected it; it's a kink in his brain and nothing more. What trash!"

"You're the last to be with me; I wouldn't like to part badly with you," Kirillov suddenly bestowed.

Pyotr Stepanovich did not answer at once. "Devil take it, what's this now?" he thought again.

"Believe me, Kirillov, I have nothing against you personally as a man, and I've always..."

"You are a scoundrel and a false mind. But I am the same as you are, and I will shoot myself, while you remain alive."

"That is, you mean to say I'm so base as to want to remain alive."

He still could not tell whether it was profitable or unprofitable for him to continue such a conversation at such a moment, and decided to "give himself up to circumstances." But Kirillov's tone of superiority and ever undisguised contempt for him had always annoyed him before, and now for some reason even more than before. Perhaps because Kirillov, who was going to die in an hour or so (Pyotr Stepanovich still kept that in mind), appeared to him as something like a half-man, something of such kind as could no longer be allowed any haughtiness.

"You seem to be boasting to me about shooting yourself?"

"I've always been surprised that everyone remains alive." Kirillov did not hear his remark.

"Hm, that's an idea, I suppose, but..."

"Ape! You yes me to win me over. Keep still, you won't understand anything. If there is no God, then I am God."

"Now, there's the one point of yours that I could never understand: why are you God then?"

"If there is God, then the will is all his, and I cannot get out of his will. If not, the will is all mine, and it is my duty to proclaim self-will."

"Self-will? And why is it your duty?"

"Because the will has all become mine. Can it be that no one on the whole planet, having ended God and believed in self-will, dares to proclaim self-will to the fullest point? It's as if a poor man received an inheritance, got scared, and doesn't dare go near the bag, thinking he's too weak to own it. I want to proclaim self-will. I may be the only one, but I'll do it."

"Do it, then."

"It is my duty to shoot myself because the fullest point of my self-will is—for me to kill myself."

"But you're not the only one to kill yourself; there are lots of suicides."

"For reasons. But without any reason, simply for self-will—only I."

"He won't shoot himself," flashed again in Pyotr Stepanovich.

"You know what," he observed irritably, "in your place, if I wanted to show self-will, I'd kill somebody else and not myself. You could become useful. I'll point out whom, if you're not afraid. Then maybe there's no need to shoot yourself today. We could come to terms."

"To kill someone else would be the lowest point of my self-will, and there's the whole of you in that. I am not you: I want the highest point, and will kill myself."

"Reasoned it all out for himself," Pyotr Stepanovich growled spitefully.

"It is my duty to proclaim unbelief," Kirillov was pacing the room. "For me no idea is higher than that there is no God. The history of mankind is on my side. Man has done nothing but invent God, so as to live without killing himself; in that lies the whole of world history up to now. I alone for the first time in world history did not want to invent God. Let them know once and for all."

"He won't shoot himself," Pyotr Stepanovich worried.

"Who is there to know?" he kept prodding. "There is you and me, and who—Liputin?"

"Everyone is to know; everyone will know. There is nothing hid that shall not be revealed.^[195] He said that."

And he pointed with feverish rapture to the icon of the Savior, before which an icon lamp was burning. Pyotr Stepanovich got thoroughly angry.

"So you still believe in Him, and keep the little lamp lit; what is it, 'just in case' or something?"

The other was silent.

"You know what, I think you believe maybe even more than any priest."

"In whom? In Him ? Listen," Kirillov stopped, gazing before him with fixed, ecstatic eyes. "Listen to a big idea: There was one day on earth, and in the middle of the earth stood three crosses. One on a cross believed so much that he said to another: 'This day you will be with me in paradise.'^[196] The day ended, they both died, went, and did not find either paradise or resurrection. What had been said would not prove true. Listen: this man was the highest on all the earth, he constituted what it was to live for. Without this man the whole planet with everything on it is—madness only. There has not been one like Him before or since, not ever, even to the point of miracle. This is the miracle, that there has not been and never will be such a one. And if so, if the laws of nature did not pity even This One, did not pity even their own miracle, but made Him, too, live amidst a lie and die for a lie, then the whole planet is a lie, and stands upon a lie and a stupid mockery. Then the very laws of the planet are a lie and a devil's vaudeville. Why live then, answer me, if you're a man."

"That's another turn of affairs. It seems to me you have two different causes mixed up here; and that is highly untrustworthy. But, excuse me, what if you are God? If the lie ended and you realized that the whole lie was because there had been this former God?"

"You've finally understood!" Kirillov cried out rapturously. "So it can be understood, if even someone like you understands! You understand now that the whole salvation for everyone is to prove this thought to them all. Who will prove it? I! I don't understand how, up to now, an atheist could know there is no God and not kill himself at once. To recognize that there is no God, and not to recognize at the same time that you have become God, is an absurdity, otherwise you must necessarily kill yourself. Once you recognize it, you are king, and you will not kill yourself but will live in the chiefest glory. But one, the one who is first, must necessarily kill himself, otherwise who will begin and prove it? It is I who will necessarily kill myself in order to begin and prove it. I am still God against my will, and I am unhappy, because it is my duty to proclaim self-will. Everyone is unhappy, because everyone is afraid to proclaim self-will. That is why man has been so unhappy and poor up to now, because he was afraid to proclaim the chief point of self-will and was self-willed only on the margins, like a schoolboy. I am terribly unhappy, because I am terribly afraid. Fear is man's curse... But I will proclaim self-will, it is my duty to believe that I do not believe. I will begin, and end, and open the door. And save. Only this one thing will save all men and in the next generation transform them physically; for in the present physical aspect, so far as I have thought, it is in no way possible for man to be without the former God. For three years I have been searching for the attribute of my divinity, and I have found it: the attribute of my divinity is—Self-will! That is all, by which I can show in the main point my insubordination and my new fearsome freedom. For it is very fearsome. I kill myself to show my insubordination and my new fearsome freedom."

His face was unnaturally pale, his look unbearably heavy. He was as if delirious. Pyotr Stepanovich thought he was going to collapse right there.

"Give me the pen!" Kirillov suddenly cried quite unexpectedly, in decided inspiration. "Dictate, I'll sign everything. I'll sign that I killed Shatov, too. Dictate while I'm laughing. I'm not afraid of the thoughts of arrogant slaves! You'll see yourself that all that is hid shall be revealed! And you will be crushed ... I believe! I believe!"

Pyotr Stepanovich snatched himself from his place and instantly gave him an inkstand, paper, and began to dictate, seizing the moment and trembling for his success.

“‘I, Alexei Kirillov, declare...’”

"Wait! I don't want to! Declare to whom?"

Kirillov was shaking as if in a fever. This declaration and some sudden, special thought about it seemed to have absorbed him entirely all at once, as if it were some outlet where, if only for a moment, his tormented spirit rushed precipitously:

"Declare to whom? I want to know whom!"

"To nobody, to everybody, to the first one who reads it. Why specify? To the whole world!"

"To the whole world? Bravo! And so there's no need for repentance. I don't want repentance; and not to any authorities!"

"No, no need, devil take the authorities! but write, if you're serious! ..." Pyotr Stepanovich yelled hysterically.

"Wait! I want a face at the top with its tongue sticking out."

"Ehh, nonsense!" Pyotr Stepanovich got furious. "All that can be expressed without any drawing, just by the tone."

"The tone? That's good. Yes, by the tone, the tone! Dictate with the tone."

“‘I, Alexei Kirillov,’” Pyotr Stepanovich dictated firmly and imperiously, leaning over Kirillov's shoulder and following every letter as he traced it with a hand trembling from excitement, “‘I, Kirillov, declare that today, the -th of October, in the evening, between seven and eight, I killed the student Shatov, for betrayal, in the park, and for his denunciation about the tracts and about Fedka, who secretly lodged with the two of us in Filippov's house, and spent ten days' nights there. And I kill myself today with my revolver not because I repent and am afraid of you, but because abroad I had the intention of ending my life.’”

"Only that?" Kirillov exclaimed with astonishment and indignation.

"Not a word more!" Pyotr Stepanovich waved his hand, trying to snatch the document from him.

"Wait!" Kirillov placed his hand firmly on the paper. "Wait, that's nonsense! I want who I killed him with. Why Fedka? And the fire? I want everything, and also more abuse, in the tone, in the tone!"

"Enough, Kirillov, I assure you it's enough!" Pyotr Stepanovich almost implored, trembling lest he tear the paper up. "So that they'll believe you, you must be as obscure as possible, precisely like that, with just hints. You must show only a little corner of the truth, exactly enough to get them excited. They'll always heap up more lies for themselves, and will certainly believe themselves better than us, and that's the best thing, the best of all! Give it to me; it's splendid as it is; give it to me, give it to me!"

And he kept trying to snatch the paper away. Kirillov, his eyes popping out, listened as if trying to make sense of it, but it seemed he was ceasing to understand.

"Eh, the devil!" Pyotr Stepanovich suddenly got furious, "but he hasn't even signed it yet! Why are you popping your eyes out— sign it!"

"I want more abuse..." Kirillov muttered, though he did take the pen and sign. "I want more abuse..."

"Sign: Vive la république, and enough."

"Bravo!" Kirillov almost bellowed with rapture. "Vive la république démocratique, sociale et universelle ou la mort! ... No, no, not that! Liberté, égalité, fraternité ou la mort!^[clix] There, that's better, that's better," he wrote it delightedly under his signature.

"Enough, enough," Pyotr Stepanovich kept repeating.

"Wait, a little bit more... You know, I'll sign it again in French: 'de Kirilloff, gentilhomme russe et citoyen du monde.'^[clx] Ha, ha, ha!"^[197] he dissolved in laughter. "No, no, no, wait, I've got the best one, eureka: gentilhomme-séminariste russe et citoyen du monde civilisé!^[clxi]—that's better than any..." he jumped up from the sofa and suddenly, with a quick gesture, snatched the revolver from the windowsill, ran into the other room with it, and closed the door tightly behind him. Pyotr Stepanovich stood for a moment pondering, looking at the door.

"If it's right now, maybe he'll really shoot, but if he starts thinking— nothing will happen."

Meanwhile, he took the paper, sat down, and looked it over once more. He was pleased, again, with the wording of the declaration.

"What's needed meanwhile? What's needed is to throw them off completely for a time, and so distract them. The park? There's no park in town, so they'll figure out for themselves that it's Skvoreshniki. While they're figuring it out, time will pass; while they search—more time; and once they find the corpse—it means what's written here is true, and so it's also true about Fedka. And what is Fedka? Fedka is the fire, he's the Lebyadkins; so everything was coming from here, from Filippov's house, and they didn't see a thing, they overlooked it all—now, that will put them into a real whirl! It won't even enter their minds about our people; it's Shatov, and Kirillov, and Fedka, and Lebyadkin; as for why they killed each other—there's another little question for them. Eh, the devil, no sound of a shot yet! ..."

Though he was reading and admiring the wording, he still kept listening every moment with tormenting alarm and—suddenly got furious. He glanced worriedly at his watch; it was a bit late; and it was a good ten minutes since the man had gone out... Grabbing the candle, he made for the door of the room where Kirillov had shut himself up. Just at the door it occurred to him that the candle was also burning down and in another twenty minutes would go out entirely, and there was no other. He put his hand on the latch and listened cautiously; not the slightest sound could be heard; he suddenly opened the door and raised the candle: something bellowed and rushed at him. He slammed the door with all his might and leaned on it again, but everything was already quiet—again dead silence.

For a long time he stood indecisively, candle in hand. In that second as he had opened the door, he had been able to make out very little, and yet there had been a flash of the face of Kirillov standing at the back of the room by the window, and of the beastly rage with which the man had suddenly flown at him. Pyotr Stepanovich gave a start, quickly placed the candle on the table, readied his revolver, and sprang on tiptoe to the opposite corner, so that if Kirillov were to open the door and rush at the table with his revolver, he would still have time to aim and pull the trigger ahead of him.

Pyotr Stepanovich had now lost all belief in the suicide! "He was standing in the middle of the room and thinking," went like a whirlwind through Pyotr Stepanovich's mind. "A dark, horrible room, besides... He bellowed and rushed—two possibilities here: either I hindered him the very second he was pulling the trigger, or ... or he was standing and thinking about how to kill me. Yes, right, he was thinking about it. . . He knows I won't leave without killing him, if he turns coward himself—so he must kill me first, to keep me from killing him ... And again, again the silence in there! It's even frightening: he may suddenly open the door... The swinishness is that he believes in God worse than any priest. . . He won't shoot himself for anything! ... These ones that 'reason it out for themselves' have been multiplying lately! Scum! Pah, devil take it, the candle, the candle! It'll certainly burn out in a quarter of an hour... This has got to be finished; finished at all costs ... Well, so I could kill him now ... With this paper, they'll never think I killed him. I could arrange him and adjust him on the floor with the discharged revolver in his hand so they'd certainly think he himself... Ahh, the devil, how am I going to kill him? I'll open the door, and he'll rush again and shoot first. Eh, the devil, he's bound to miss!"

So he agonized, trembling at the necessity of the plan and at his own indecision. Finally, he took the candle and again went up to the door, his revolver raised and ready; with his left hand, in which he was holding the candle, he pressed down on the handle of the latch. But the result was clumsy: the handle clicked, there was a noise and a creak. "He'll just go ahead and shoot!" flashed in Pyotr Stepanovich. He shoved the door as hard as he could with his foot, raised the candle, and thrust out the revolver; but there was no shot, no cry... No one was in the room.

He gave a start. It was an end room, there was no other door, no way of escape. He raised the candle higher and peered more attentively: exactly no one. He called Kirillov in a low voice, then once more, louder; no one answered.

"Can he have escaped through the window?"

Indeed, the vent pane was open in one window. "Absurd, he couldn't have escaped through the vent." Pyotr Stepanovich walked all the way across the room right to the window: "He simply couldn't have." All at once he turned quickly, and something extraordinary jolted him.

Against the wall opposite the windows, to the right of the door, stood a wardrobe. To the right of this wardrobe, in the corner formed by the wardrobe and the wall, Kirillov was standing, and standing very strangely—motionless, drawn up, his arms flat at his sides, his head raised, the back of his head pressed hard to the wall, in the very corner, as if he wished to conceal and efface all of himself. By all tokens, he was hiding, yet it was somehow not possible to believe it. Pyotr Stepanovich was standing slightly at an angle to the corner and could observe only the protruding parts of the figure. He did not yet dare move to the left so as to make out the whole of Kirillov and understand the riddle. His heart began to pound... And suddenly he was possessed by utter fury: he tore from his place, shouted, and, stamping his feet, rushed fiercely at the dreadful place.

But, coming close, he stopped again as if rooted, still more struck with horror. What struck him, above all, was that the figure, despite his shout and furious lunge, did not even move, did not even stir one of its members—as if it were made of stone or wax. The pallor of its face was unnatural, the black eyes were completely immobile, staring at some point in space. Pyotr Stepanovich moved the candle from up to down and up again, lighting it from all points and studying this face. He suddenly noticed that, although Kirillov was staring somewhere ahead, he could see him out of the corner of his eye, and was perhaps even watching him. Then it occurred to him to bring the flame right up to the face of "this blackguard," to burn it, and see what he would do. Suddenly he fancied that Kirillov's chin moved and a mocking smile seemed to flit over his lips—as though he had guessed his thought. He trembled and, beside himself, seized Kirillov hard by the shoulder.

Then there occurred something so hideous and quick that afterwards Pyotr Stepanovich could never bring his recollections into any kind of order. The moment he touched Kirillov, the man quickly bent his head down, and with his head knocked the candle from his hands; the candlestick fell to the floor with a clang, and the candle went out. At the same instant, he felt a terrible pain in the little finger of his left hand. He cried out, and all he could remember was that, beside himself, he had struck as hard as he could three times with the revolver on the head of Kirillov, who had leaned to him and bitten his finger. He finally tore the finger free and rushed headlong to get out of the house, feeling his way in the darkness. Terrible shouts came flying after him from the room:

"Now, now, now, now..."

Ten times or so. But he kept running and had already reached the front hall when there suddenly came a loud shot. At that he stopped, in the front hall, in the dark, and for about five minutes stood reflecting; finally, he went back to the rooms again. But he had to get himself a candle. It would be no trouble finding the candlestick that had been knocked out of his hands on the floor to the right of the wardrobe; but what would he light the candle end with? Suddenly a dim recollection flashed through his mind: he recalled that the day before, when he ran down to the kitchen to fall upon Fedka, he seemed to have glimpsed in passing, in the corner, on a shelf, a big red box of matches. He groped his way left towards the kitchen door, found it, crossed the landing, and went down the stairs. On the shelf, right in the very spot he had just recalled, his hand came in the darkness upon a full, as yet unopened box of matches. Without striking a light, he hastily went back upstairs, and only near the wardrobe, on the very spot where he had hit Kirillov with the revolver as he was biting him, did he suddenly remember his bitten finger and in that same instant felt an almost unbearable pain in it. Clenching his teeth, he managed somehow to light the candle end, put it back in the candlestick, and looked around: near the window with the open vent, feet towards the right-hand corner of the room, lay the corpse of Kirillov. The shot had gone into the right temple, and the bullet had come out higher up on the left side, piercing the skull. Spatters of blood and brains could be seen. The revolver had remained in the suicide's hand, which lay on the floor. Death must have occurred instantly. After examining everything carefully, Pyotr Stepanovich stood up and tiptoed out, closed the door, set the candle on the table in the front room, thought a minute, and decided not to put it out, judging that it would not cause a fire. Glancing once more at the document lying on the table, he grinned mechanically, and only then, still tiptoeing for some reason, left the house. He again got through Fedka's passage, and again carefully closed it up behind him.

III

Exactly at ten minutes to six, at the railway station, along the rather long, strung-out line of cars, Pyotr Stepanovich and Erkel were strolling. Pyotr Stepanovich was leaving, and Erkel was saying good-bye to him. His luggage had been checked, his bag taken to a second-class car, to the seat he had chosen. The first bell had already rung, they were waiting for the second. Pyotr Stepanovich looked openly all around him, observing the passengers entering the cars. But he did not meet any close acquaintances; only twice did he have to nod his head—to a merchant he knew distantly, and then to a young village priest, who was leaving for his parish two stations away. Erkel evidently would have liked to talk about something more serious during these last moments—though perhaps he himself did not know precisely what—but he did not dare begin. He kept fancying that Pyotr Stepanovich was as if burdened by him and was waiting impatiently for the remaining bells.

"You look so openly at everybody," he commented with a certain timidity, as though wishing to warn him.

"And why not? I shouldn't be hiding yet. It's too soon. Don't worry. I'm only afraid the devil may send Liputin; he'll get wind of things and come running."

"Pyotr Stepanovich, they're unreliable," Erkel spoke out resolutely.

"Liputin?"

"All of them, Pyotr Stepanovich."

"Nonsense, they're all bound by yesterday now. None of them will betray us. Who would face obvious ruin, unless he's lost his mind?"

"But, Pyotr Stepanovich, they will lose their minds."

This thought apparently had already entered Pyotr Stepanovich's head, and therefore Erkel's comment made him still more angry:

"You haven't turned coward, too, Erkel? I'm trusting in you more than all the rest of them. I see now what each of them is worth. Tell them everything today orally, I put them directly in your charge. Run around and see them in the morning. Read them my written instructions tomorrow or the day after, collectively, when they've become capable of listening again... but, believe me, they'll be capable by tomorrow, because they'll be terribly afraid and become obedient, like wax... Above all, don't you lose heart."

"Ah, Pyotr Stepanovich, it would be better if you weren't leaving!"

"But it's only for a few days; I'll be back in no time."

"Pyotr Stepanovich," Erkel uttered cautiously but firmly, "even if it's to Petersburg. Since I know you only do what's necessary for the common cause."

"I expected no less of you, Erkel. If you've guessed that I'm going to Petersburg, then you can understand that it was impossible for me to tell them yesterday, at that moment, that I was going so far, lest I frighten them. You saw for yourself how they were. But you understand that it's for the cause, for the main and important cause, for the common cause, and not to slip away, as some Liputin might think."

"But, Pyotr Stepanovich, even if it's abroad, I'd understand, sir; I'd understand that you must preserve your person, because you're— everything, and we're—nothing. I'd understand, Pyotr Stepanovich."

The poor boy's voice even trembled.

"Thank you, Erkel... Ow, you touched my bad finger" (Erkel had pressed his hand clumsily; the bad finger was attractively bandaged in black taffeta). "But I tell you once again positively that I'll just sniff things out in Petersburg, maybe even just overnight, and be back at once. On my return I'll stay at Gaganov's estate, for the sake of appearances. If they think there's danger anywhere, I'll be the first at their head to share it. And if I'm delayed in Petersburg, I'll let you know that same moment... in our usual way, and you can tell them."

The second bell rang.

"Ah, so it's five minutes to departure. You know, I wouldn't like the crew here to fall apart. I'm not afraid, don't worry about me; I have enough of these knots in the general net, and there's nothing to value especially; but an extra knot won't hurt anything. However, I'm at ease about you, though I'm leaving you almost alone with these freaks: don't worry, they won't inform, they won't dare ... Ahh, you're going today, too?" he cried suddenly in quite a different, cheerful voice to a very young man who cheerfully came up to greet him. "I didn't know you were also taking the express. Where to, your mama's?"

The young man's mama was a very wealthy landowner of the neighboring province, and the young man was a distant relation of Yulia Mikhailovna's and had spent about two weeks visiting our town.

"No, a bit farther, to R——. I'll be living on the train for a good eight hours. Off to Petersburg?" the young man laughed.

"What makes you think right away that I'm going to Petersburg?" Pyotr Stepanovich also laughed still more openly.

The young man shook a begloved finger at him.

"Well, so you've guessed it," Pyotr Stepanovich began whispering to him mysteriously. "I have Yulia Mikhailovna's letters, and must run around and see three or four persons, you know what sort—devil take them, frankly speaking. The devil of a job!"

"But, tell me, why has she turned such a coward?" the young man also began whispering. "She didn't even let me in yesterday; in my view, she needn't fear for her husband; on the contrary, he made quite an attractive fall there at the fire, even sacrificed his life, so to speak."

"Well, so it goes," Pyotr Stepanovich laughed. "You see, she's afraid they've already written from here ... I mean, certain gentlemen ... In short, there's mainly Stavrogin; Prince K., I mean... Eh, there's a whole story here; maybe I'll tell you a thing or two on the way—no more than chivalry allows, however... This is my relative, Ensign Erkel, from the district capital."

The young man, who had been glancing sideways at Erkel, touched his hat; Erkel made him a bow.

"You know, Verkhovensky, eight hours on a train—it's a terrible fate. There's this Berestov going with us in first class, a very funny man, a colonel, from the estate next to mine; he's married to a Garin (née de Garine), and, you know, he's a decent sort. Even has ideas. Only spent two days here. A desperate lover of bezique. How about it, eh? I've already got my eye on a fourth-—Pripukhlov, our bearded T—— merchant, a millionaire, a real one, that is, take my word for it. . . I'll introduce you, a very interesting bag of goods, we'll have a real laugh."

"Bezique, with the greatest pleasure, and I'm terribly fond of it on the train, but I'm going second-class."

"Eh, come, not a word of it! Get in with us. I'll tell them right now to shift you to first class. The head conductor does as I say. What have you got—a bag? a rug?"

"Wonderful! Let's go!"

Pyotr Stepanovich took his bag, rug, and book, and with the greatest readiness moved at once to first class. Erkel helped. The third bell sounded.

"Well, Erkel," Pyotr Stepanovich hastily, and with a busy look, held out his hand to him for the last time through the car window, "here I am sitting down to play cards with them."

"But why explain to me, Pyotr Stepanovich, I understand, I understand everything, Pyotr Stepanovich!"

"Well, so, it's been a pleasure," the latter suddenly turned away at the call of the young man, who invited him to meet his partners. And that was the last Erkel ever saw of his Pyotr Stepanovich!

He returned home quite sad. It was not that he was afraid at Pyotr Stepanovich's abandoning them so suddenly, but... but he had turned away from him so quickly when that young fop called him, and ... he might have found something else to say to him besides "it's been a pleasure," or ... or might at least have pressed his hand more firmly.

This last was the main thing. Something else was beginning to scratch at his poor little heart, something he himself did not yet understand, something connected with the previous evening.