Demons

8: Conclusion

All the perpetrated outrages and crimes were discovered extraordinarily quickly, far more quickly than Pyotr Stepanovich had supposed. It began with the unfortunate Marya Ignatievna, who woke up before dawn on the night of her husband's murder, found him missing, and became indescribably worried at not seeing him beside her. The servingwoman Arina Prokhorovna had hired then was spending the night with her. She simply could not calm her down and, as soon as day broke, went running for Arina Prokhorovna herself, assuring the sick woman that she would know where her husband was and when he would be back. Meanwhile, Arina Prokhorovna had troubles of her own: she had already learned from her husband about the night's exploit at Skvoreshniki. He had returned home past ten o'clock looking and feeling terrible; clasping his hands, he threw himself facedown on the bed and kept repeating, shaking with convulsive sobs: "This isnot it, this is not it; this is not it at all!" Arina Prokhorovna accosted him and, of course, he ended by confessing everything to her—though to her alone in the whole house. She left him in bed, sternly impressing upon him that "if he wanted to blubber, he should do his howling into the pillow so that no one would hear, and that he'd be a fool if he showed any such appearance tomorrow." She did become a bit pensive and immediately began tiding things up just in case: she managed to hide or destroy completely any unnecessary papers, books, perhaps even tracts. Yet, for all that, she in fact considered that she, her sister, her aunt, the girl student, and perhaps even her lop-eared brother, had nothing much to fear. When the nurse came running for her in the morning, she went to Marya Ignatievna without hesitation. However, she wanted terribly to find out all the sooner whether it was true what her husband had told her yesterday, in a frightened and insane whisper resembling delirium, about Pyotr Stepanovich's counting, with a view to common usefulness, on Kirillov.

But she was too late in coming to Marya Ignatievnas, who, once she had sent the servant off and was left alone, was unable to stand it, got out of bed, and, throwing on herself whatever clothing came to hand, evidently something very light and inappropriate to the season, went to the wing herself to see Kirillov, figuring that he perhaps could tell her most surely about her husband. One can imagine how this woman who had just given birth was affected by what she saw there. Remarkably, she did not read Kirillov's death note, which lay in full view on the table, being so frightened, of course, as to overlook it completely. She ran to her room, seized the infant, and went with him out of the house and down the street. The morning was damp, there was mist. No passers-by were to be met on such an out-of-the-way street. She kept running, breathless, through the cold and oozy mud, and finally began knocking on house doors; at one house they did not open, at another they refused to open for a long time; she left in impatience and began knocking at a third house. This was the house of our merchant Titov. Here she raised a great clamor, shouted, insisted incoherently that "her husband had been killed." Shatov and something of his story were partly known to the Titovs; they were horror-struck that she, having, in her own words, given birth just the day before, was running around the streets in such clothes and in such cold, with a barely covered infant in her arms. At first they thought she was simply raving, the more so as they were unable to make out who had been killed— Kirillov or her husband? Realizing that they did not believe her, she rushed to run farther, but was stopped by force, and they say she cried and struggled terribly. They went to Filippov's house, and in two hours Kirillov's suicide and his death note became known to the whole town. The police accosted the new mother, who was still conscious; and here it came to light that she had not read Kirillov's note, but precisely why she had concluded that her husband had been killed as well—this they could not get out of her. She only cried that "if the other one was killed, then my husband has been killed, too; they were together!" By noon she had fallen into unconsciousness, from which she never emerged, and some three days later she died. The baby caught cold and died even before her. Arina Prokhorovna, not finding Marya Ignatievna and the infant there, and realizing that things were bad, was about to rush home, but stopped at the gate and sent the nurse "to ask the gentleman in the wing if Marya Ignatievna was there or if, perchance, he knew anything about her?" The messenger came back wildly shouting for the whole street to hear. Having convinced her not to shout or tell anyone, employing the well-known argument that "they'll have the law on you," she slipped away from the premises.

It goes without saying that she was inconvenienced that same morning, as having been the new mother's midwife; but they found out little: she recounted very sensibly and coolly everything she herself had seen and heard at Shatov's, but concerning the story that had gone on she made plain that she knew and understood nothing of it.

One can imagine what a hubbub arose all over town. A new "story," another killing! But there was something else here now: it was becoming clear that there indeed existed a secret society of killers, of arsonist-revolutionaries, of rebels. The terrible death of Liza, the murder of Stavrogin's wife, Stavrogin himself, the arson, the ball for the governesses, the licentiousness surrounding Yulia Mikhailovna... People even insisted on seeing some mystery in Stepan Trofimovich's disappearance. There was a great, great deal of whispering about Nikolai Vsevolodovich. Towards the end of the day they also learned of Pyotr Stepanovich's absence, and, strangely, he was talked about least of all. What was talked about most of all that day was "the senator."^[206] A crowd stood almost all morning by Filippov's house. The authorities were indeed led astray by Kirillov's note. They believed both in Kirillov's killing of Shatov and in the "murderer's" suicide. However, if the authorities were at a loss, they were not entirely so. The word "park," for instance, so vaguely put into Kirillov's note, did not throw anyone off, as Pyotr Stepanovich had reckoned. The police rushed at once to Skvoreshniki, and not only because there is a park there, as there is not anywhere else in our town, but also even following some sort of instinct, since all the horrors of the recent days were either directly or partially connected with Skvoreshniki. So at least I surmise. (I will note that Varvara Petrovna had driven off to catch Stepan Trofimovich early in the morning and with no knowledge of anything.) The body was found in the pond towards evening of the same day, by certain clues; on the very spot of the murder, Shatov's peaked cap was found, forgotten with great light-mindedness by the murderers.^[207] The ocular and medical inspection of the corpse, along with certain surmises, awakened from the very first a suspicion that Kirillov must have had comrades. There came to light the existence of a Shatovo-Kirillovian secret society, connected with the tracts. But who were these comrades? On that day there was as yet no thought of our people. It was learned that Kirillov had lived as a recluse, and so solitarily that, as the note stated, Fedka had been able to lodge with him for many days, though he was being sought everywhere... Chiefly, everyone was tormented by the impossibility of drawing anything general and unifying from the whole tangle that presented itself. One can hardly imagine what conclusions and what mental anarchy our society, frightened to the point of panic, might have reached, if everything had not suddenly been explained all at once, the very next day, thanks to Lyamshin.

He could not stand it. What happened to him was something that even Pyotr Stepanovich had begun to anticipate towards the end. Entrusted to Tolkachenko, and then to Erkel, he spent the whole of the next day lying in bed, apparently placid, his face turned to the wall, and without saying a word, barely answering when spoken to. He thus learned nothing throughout the day of what was happening in town. But Tolkachenko, who learned everything that was happening, took it into his head towards evening to drop his role with Lyamshin and absent himself from our town to the district capital—that is, simply to run away: truly, they lost their minds, as Erkel had prophesied about them all. I will note incidentally that Liputin also disappeared from town that same day, before noon. But with this one it somehow happened that his disappearance became known to the authorities only the next day, towards evening, when his family, all frightened by his absence but silent out of fear, were directly accosted with questions. But to continue about Lyamshin. As soon as he was left alone (Erkel, relying on Tolkachenko, had gone home even earlier), he at once ran out of the house and, of course, very soon learned how matters stood. Without even stopping at home, he took to his heels and ran wherever his legs would carry him. But the night was so dark, and the undertaking so terrible and toilsome, that having gone down two or three streets, he returned home and locked himself in for the whole night. It seems he made an attempt at suicide towards morning; but nothing came of it. He sat locked in until almost noon, however, and then— suddenly ran to the authorities. It is said that he crawled on his knees, sobbed and shrieked, kissed the floor, shouting that he was unworthy even to kiss the boots of the dignitaries who stood before him. He was calmed down and even treated benignly. The interrogation lasted, they say, about three hours. He declared everything, everything, told the innermost secrets, everything he knew, all the details; he rushed ahead of himself, hastened with his confessions, even told what was unnecessary and without being asked. It turned out that he knew quite enough and had enough sense to present it well: the tragedy of Shatov and Kirillov, the fire, the death of the Lebyadkins, etc., were all put in the background. To the forefront came Pyotr Stepanovich, the secret society, the organization, the network. To the question of why so many murders, scandals, and abominations had been perpetrated, he replied with burning haste that it was all "for the systematic shaking of the foundations, for the systematic corrupting of society and all principles; in order to dishearten everyone and make a hash of everything, and society being thus loosened, ailing and limp, cynical and unbelieving, but with an infinite yearning for some guiding idea and for self-preservation—to take it suddenly into their hands, raising the banner of rebellion, and supported by the whole network of fivesomes, which would have been active all the while, recruiting and searching for practically all the means and all the weak spots that could be seized upon." He said in conclusion that here, in our town, Pyotr Stepanovich had arranged only the first trial of such systematic disorder, the program, so to speak, for further actions, even for all the fivesomes— and that this was, in fact, his own (Lyamshin's) thought, his own surmise, and "that they must be sure to remember it, and that all this must be duly pointed out, how he had explained the matter so frankly and well-behavedly, and could therefore be very useful even in the future for services to the authorities." To the outright question: are there many fivesomes?—he answered that there was an endless multitude, that the whole of Russia was covered with a network, and, though he did not present any proofs, I think his answer was completely sincere. He presented only the printed program of the society, printed abroad, and a plan for developing a system of further actions, which, though only a rough draft, was written by Pyotr Stepanovich's own hand. It turned out that with regard to "shaking the foundations," Lyamshin had quoted the paper verbatim, not omitting even periods and commas, though he had insisted it was merely his own understanding. Of Yulia Mikhailovna he said in a surprisingly funny way, and without even being asked, but rushing ahead of himself, that "she was innocent and had simply been fooled." But, remarkably, he cleared Nikolai Stavrogin completely of any participation in the secret society, of any collusion with Pyotr Stepanovich. (Of the fond and quite ridiculous hopes Pyotr Stepanovich had in Stavrogin, Lyamshin was totally unaware.) The death of the Lebyadkins, according to him, was set up by Pyotr Stepanovich alone, with no participation from Nikolai Vsevolodovich, for the cunning purpose of drawing the latter into the crime and thus into dependence on Pyotr Stepanovich; but instead of the gratitude which Pyotr Stepanovich had undoubtedly and light-mindedly counted on, he had aroused only complete indignation and even despair in the "noble" Nikolai Vsevolodovich. He finished about Stavrogin, also hurrying and without being asked, with an obviously deliberate hint that the man was all but an extremely big wig, that there was some secret in it; that he lived among us, so to speak, incognito, that he had a commission, and that he would very possibly visit us again from Petersburg (Lyamshin was sure that Stavrogin was in Petersburg), only this time in a totally different way and in different circumstances and in the retinue of such persons as we might soon hear about, and that he had heard all this from Pyotr Stepanovich, "a secret enemy of Nikolai Vsevolodovich."

I will make a nota bene. Two months later, Lyamshin confessed that he had cleared Stavrogin on purpose then, hoping for his protection and that he would solicit for him a two-degree alleviation from Petersburg and supply him with money and letters of recommendation in exile.^[208] From this confession one can see that he indeed had a greatly exaggerated notion of Nikolai Stavrogin.

That same day, of course, Virginsky was also arrested, and, in the heat of the moment, his whole household as well. (Arina Prokhorovna, her sister, aunt, and even the girl student, have long been free; they even say that Shigalyov, too, is supposedly sure to be released in the nearest future, since he does not fit into any category of the accused; however, this is still just talk.) Virginsky admitted his guilt at once and in everything; he was sick in bed with a fever when he was arrested. They say he was almost glad: "A weight fell from my heart," he is supposed to have said. One hears of him that he is now giving evidence frankly, yet even with a certain dignity, and has not surrendered any of his "bright hopes," though at the same time he curses the political path (as opposed to the social one) onto which he had been so accidentally and light-mindedly drawn "by a whirlwind of concurrent circumstances."^[209] His behavior during the committing of the murder is explained in a mitigating way for him, and it seems that he, too, may count on a certain mitigation of his lot. So at least it is asserted among us.

But an alleviation of Erkel's fate will hardly be possible. This one, since his arrest, has either kept silent or distorted the truth as far as possible. Not one word of repentance has been obtained from him so far. And yet he has aroused a certain sympathy for himself even in the sternest judges—by his youth, by his defenselessness, by obvious indications that he was simply the fanatical victim of a political seducer; and most of all by what has been discovered about his behavior towards his mother, to whom he used to send almost half of his insignificant pay. His mother is now with us; she is a weak and ailing woman, grown old before her time; she weeps and literally grovels at their feet, pleading for her son. Come what may, there are many among us who feel sorry for Erkel.

Liputin was arrested in Petersburg, where he had already been living for two whole weeks. An almost incredible thing occurred with him, which is even difficult to explain. They say he had a passport in another name and every opportunity for successfully slipping abroad, and quite a considerable amount of money with him, and yet he stayed in Petersburg and did not go anywhere. He spent some time looking for Stavrogin and Pyotr Stepanovich, and then suddenly went on a binge and got into debauchery beyond all measure, like a man who has utterly lost all common sense and understanding of his position. And so he was arrested in Petersburg, in a house of ill fame somewhere, and none too sober. Rumor has it that he has by no means lost heart now, is lying in his testimony, and is preparing himself for the forthcoming trial with a certain solemnity and hope (?). He even intends to have some say at his trial. Tolkachenko, arrested somewhere in the district capital ten days after his flight, behaves with incomparably more politeness, does not lie, does not dodge, tells all he knows, does not justify himself, acknowledges his guilt in all modesty, but is also inclined to loquacity; he speaks much and willingly, and when it comes to a knowledge of the people and its revolutionary (?) elements, he even postures and desires to produce an effect. One hears that he, too, intends to have his say at the trial. Generally, he and Liputin are not very frightened, which is even strange.

I repeat, the affair is not yet over. Now, three months later, our society has rested, relaxed, recovered, acquired its own opinion, so much so that some even regard Pyotr Stepanovich himself almost as a genius, at least as having "abilities of genius." "Organization, sir!" they say in the club, raising a finger aloft. However, all this is quite innocent, and, besides, those who say it are not many. Others, on the contrary, do not deny him acuteness of abilities, but couple it with a total ignorance of reality, a terrible abstractedness, a dull and deformed one-sidedness of development, and, proceeding from all that, an extraordinary light-mindedness. Concerning his moral aspects everyone agrees; here there is no argument.

I really do not know who else to mention, so as not to forget anyone. Mavriky Nikolaevich has gone away somewhere altogether. The old Drozdov woman has lapsed into second childhood ... However, there remains one more very grim story to tell. I will confine myself to facts alone.

On her arrival, Varvara Petrovna stayed at her town house. All the accumulated news poured in on her at once and shook her terribly. She shut herself up alone. It was evening; everyone was tired and went to bed early.

In the morning the maid, with a mysterious air, handed Darya Pavlovna a letter. This letter, by her account, had come the day before, but late, when everyone had already retired, so that she dared not wake her up. It had come not in the mail, but through an unknown person, to Alexei Yegorych in Skvoreshniki. And Alexei Yegorych had at once delivered it himself, yesterday evening, into her hands, and had at once gone back to Skvoreshniki.

Darya Pavlovna, her heart pounding, looked at the letter for a long time without daring to open it. She knew who it was from: it had been written by Nikolai Stavrogin. She read the inscription on the envelope: "To Alexei Yegorych, to be given to Darya Pavlovna, in secret."

Here is this letter, word for word, without correcting the least mistake in style of a young Russian squire who never fully learned Russian grammar, in spite of all his European education:

My good Darya Pavlovna, You once wanted to be my "nurse" and made me promise to send for you when needed. I am going away in two days and will not come back. Want to go with me?

Last year, like Herzen, I registered as a citizen of canton Uri,^[210]and no one knows it. I have already bought a small house there. I have twelve thousand roubles left; we'll go and live there eternally. I don't want to move anywhere ever.

The place is very dull, a ravine; the mountains cramp sight and thought. Very grim. It was because there was a small house for sale. If you don't like it, I'll sell it and buy another in another place.

I'm not well, but I hope with the local air I'll get rid of my hallucinations. Physically, that is; and morally you know all; only is it all?

I've told you a lot of my life. But not all. Even to you—not all! Incidentally, I confirm that in my conscience I am guilty of my wife's death. I have not seen you since then and so I'm confirming it. I am also guilty before Lizaveta Nikolaevna; but here you do know; here you predicted almost everything.

Better don't come. The fact that I'm calling you to me is a terrible baseness. And why should you bury your life with me? You are dear to me, and when I was in anguish I felt good near you: only in your presence could I speak of myself aloud. Nothing follows from that. You yourself defined it as "nursing"—it's your expression; why sacrifice so much? Realize, also, that I do not pity you, since I'm calling you, and do not respect you, since I'm waiting for you to come. And yet I call and wait. In any case, I need your answer, because I must leave very soon. In such case, I'll go alone.

I have no hope from Uri; I'm simply going. I did not choose a gloomy place on purpose. Nothing binds me to Russia—everything in it is as foreign to me as everywhere else. True, I disliked living in it more than elsewhere; but even in it I was unable to come to hate anything!

I've tested my strength everywhere. You advised me to do that, "in order to know myself." This testing for myself, and for show, proved it to be boundless, as before all my life. In front of your very eyes I endured a slap from your brother; I acknowledged my marriage publicly. But what to apply my strength to—that I have never seen, nor do I see it now, despite your encouragements in Switzerland, which I believed. I am as capable now as ever before of wishing to do a good deed, and I take pleasure in that; along with it, I wish for evil and also feel pleasure. But both the one and the other, as always, are too shallow, and are never very much. My desires are far too weak; they cannot guide. One can cross a river on a log, but not on a chip. All this so that you don't think I'm going to Uri with any hopes.

As always, I do not blame anyone. I've tried great debauchery and exhausted my strength in it; but I don't like debauchery and I did not want it. You've been observing me lately. Do you know that I even looked at these negators of ours with spite, envying them their hopes? But your fears were empty: I could not be their comrade, because I shared nothing. Nor could I do it out of ridicule, for spite, and not because I was afraid of the ridiculous—I cannot be afraid of the ridiculous—but because, after all, I have the habits of a decent man and felt disgusted. Still, if I had more spite and envy for them, I might even have gone over to them. You can judge how easy it has been for me and how I've tossed about!

Dear friend, tender and magnanimous being whom I divined! Perhaps you dream of giving me so much love and of pouring upon me so much of the beautiful from your beautiful soul, that you hope in that way finally to set up some goal for me? No, you had better be more careful: my love will be as shallow as I myself am, and you will be unhappy. Your brother told me that he who loses his ties with his earth also loses his gods, that is, all his goals. One can argue endlessly about everything, but what poured out of me was only negation, with no magnanimity and no force. Or not even negation. Everything is always shallow and listless. Magnanimous Kirillov could not endure his idea and—shot himself; but I do see that he was magnanimous because he was not in his right mind. I can never lose my mind, nor can I ever believe an idea to the same degree as he did. I cannot even entertain an idea to the same degree. I could never, never shoot myself!

I know I ought to kill myself, to sweep myself off the earth like a vile insect; but I'm afraid of suicide, because I'm afraid of showing magnanimity. I know it will be one more deceit—the last deceit in an endless series of deceits. What's the use of deceiving oneself just so as to play at magnanimity? There never can be indignation or shame in me; and so no despair either.

Forgive me for writing so much. I've come to my senses, and this is accidental. This way a hundred pages are too little and ten lines are enough. To call for a "nurse," ten lines are enough.

Since I left, I've been living six stations away, in the stationmaster's house. I got to know him while I was on a spree in Petersburg five years ago. No one knows I'm living here. Write care of him. I enclose the address.

Nikolai Stavrogin.

Darya Pavlovna went at once and showed the letter to Varvara Petrovna. She read it and asked Dasha to step out so that she could read it again by herself; but she somehow very quickly called her again. "Will you go?" she asked, almost timidly.

"I will," Dasha replied.

"Get ready! We're going together."

Dasha looked at her questioningly.

"And what is there for me to do here now? Does it make any difference? I, too, will register in Uri and live in the ravine... Don't worry, I won't bother you."

They quickly began getting ready, in order to catch the noon train. But before half an hour had gone by, Alexei Yegorych came from Skvoreshniki. He reported that Nikolai Vsevolodovich had "suddenly" arrived that morning, on the early train, and was in Skvoreshniki, but "in such a state that he wouldn't answer any questions, walked through all the rooms, and locked himself in his half..."

"I concluded on coming to report without his orders," Alexei Yegorych added, with a very imposing air.

Varvara Petrovna gave him a piercing look and asked no questions. The carriage was readied instantly. She went with Dasha. On the way, it is said, she crossed herself frequently.

All the doors in "his half were open, and Nikolai Vsevolodovich was nowhere to be found.

"Maybe in the attic, ma'am?" Fomushka said cautiously.

Remarkably, several servants followed Varvara Petrovna into "his half; the rest of the servants all waited in the reception room. Never before would they have allowed themselves such a breach of etiquette. Varvara Petrovna noticed it but said nothing.

They went upstairs to the attic. There were three rooms there; no one was found in any of them.

"Could he maybe have gone up there?" someone pointed at the door to the garret. Indeed, the permanently closed door to the garret was now unlocked and standing wide open. It led to a long, very narrow, and terribly steep wooden stairway that went up almost under the roof. There was a sort of little room there, too.

"I won't go up there. Why on earth would he climb up there?" Varvara Petrovna turned terribly pale, looking around at the servants. They stared at her and said nothing. Dasha was trembling.

Varvara Petrovna rushed up the stairs; Dasha followed her; but as soon as she entered the garret, she cried out and fell unconscious.

The citizen of canton Uri was hanging just inside the door. On the table lay a scrap of paper with the penciled words: "Blame no one; it was I." With it on the table there also lay a hammer, a piece of soap, and a big nail, evidently prepared in reserve. The strong silk cord upon which Nikolai Vsevolodovich had hanged himself, evidently prepared and chosen beforehand, was heavily soaped. Everything indicated premeditation and consciousness to the last minute.

Our medical men, after the autopsy, completely and emphatically ruled out insanity.