The possessed or, The devils

deeply. Liputin loathed him so intensely at last that he could not tear himself away. It was like a nervous obsession. He counted every morsel of beefsteak that Pyotr Stepanovitch put into his mouth; he loathed him for the way he opened it, for the way he chewed, for the way he smacked his lips over the fat morsels, he loathed the steak itself. At last things began to swim before his eyes; he began to feel slightly giddy; he felt hot and cold run down his spine by turns. "You are doing nothing; read that," said Pyotr Stepanovitch suddenly, throwing him a sheet of paper. Liputin went nearer to the candle. The paper was closely covered with bad handwriting, with corrections in every line. By the time he had mastered it Pyotr Stepanovitch had paid his bill and was ready to go. When they were on the pavement Liputin handed him back the paper. "Keep it; I'll tell you afterwards.... What do you say to it, though?" Liputin shuddered all over. "In my opinion... such a manifesto... is nothing but a ridiculous absurdity." His anger broke out; he felt as though he were being caught up and carried along. "If we decide to distribute such manifestoes," he said, quivering all over, "we'll make ourselves, contemptible by our stupidity and incompetence." "H'm! I think differently," said Pyotr Stepanovitch, walking on resolutely. "So do I; surely it isn't your work?" "That's not your business." "I think too that doggerel, 'A Noble Personality,' is the most utter trash possible, and it couldn't have been written by Herzen." "You are talking nonsense; it's a good poem." "I am surprised, too, for instance," said Liputin, still dashing along with desperate leaps, "that it is suggested that we should act so as to bring everything to the ground. It's natural in Europe to wish to destroy everything because there's a proletariat there, but we are only amateurs here and in my opinion are only showing off." "I thought you were a Fourierist." "Fourier says something quite different, quite different." "I know it's nonsense." "No, Fourier isn't nonsense.... Excuse me, I can't believe that there will be a rising in May." Liputin positively unbuttoned his coat, he was so hot. "Well, that's enough; but now, that I mayn't forget it," said Pyotr Stepanovitch, passing with extraordinary coolness to another subject, "you will have to print this manifesto with your own hands. We're going to dig up Shatov's printing press, and you will take it to-morrow. As quickly as possible you must print as many copies as you can, and then distribute them all the winter. The means will be provided. You must do as many copies as possible, for you'll be asked for them from other places." "No, excuse me; I can't undertake such a... I decline." "You'll take it all the same. I am acting on the instructions of the central committee, and you are bound to obey." "And I consider that our centres abroad have forgotten what Russia is like and have lost all touch, and that's why they talk such nonsense.... I even think that instead of many hundreds of quintets in Russia, we are the only one that exists, and there is no network at all," Liputin gasped finally. "The more contemptible of you, then, to run after the cause without believing in it... and you are running after me now like a mean little cur." "No, I'm not. We have a full right to break off and found a new society." "Fool!" Pyotr Stepanovitch boomed at him threateningly all of a sudden, with flashing eyes. They stood facing one another for some time. Pyotr Stepanovitch turned and pursued his way confidently. The idea flashed through Liputin's mind, "Turn and go back; if I don't turn now I shall never go back." He pondered this for ten steps, but at the eleventh a new and desperate idea flashed into his mind: he did not turn and did not go back. They were approaching Filipov's house, but before reaching it they turned down a side street, or, to be more accurate, an inconspicuous path under a fence, so that for some time they had to walk along a steep slope above a ditch where they could not keep their footing without holding the fence. At a dark corner in the slanting fence Pyotr Stepanovitch took out a plank, leaving a gap, through which he promptly scrambled. Liputin was surprised, but he crawled through after him; then they replaced the plank after them. This was the secret way by which Fedka used to visit Kirillov. "Shatov mustn't know that we are here," Pyotr Stepanovitch whispered sternly to Liputin. III Kirillov was sitting on his leather sofa drinking tea, as he always was at that hour. He did not get up to meet them, but gave a sort of start and looked at the new-comers anxiously. "You are not mistaken," said Pyotr Stepanovitch, "it's just that I've come about." "To-day?" "No, no, to-morrow... about this time." And he hurriedly sat down at the table, watching Kirillov's agitation with some uneasiness. But the latter had already regained his composure and looked as usual. "These people still refuse to believe in you. You are not vexed at my bringing Liputin?" "To-day I am not vexed; to-morrow I want to be alone." "But not before I come, and therefore in my presence." "I should prefer not in your presence." "You remember you promised to write and to sign all I dictated." "I don't care. And now will you be here long?" "I have to see one man and to remain half an hour, so whatever you say I shall stay that half-hour." Kirillov did not speak. Liputin meanwhile sat down on one side under the portrait of the bishop. That last desperate idea gained more and more possession of him. Kirillov scarcely noticed him. Liputin had heard of Kirillov's theory before and always laughed at him; but now he was silent and looked gloomily round him. "I've no objection to some tea," said Pyotr Stepanovitch, moving up. "I've just had some steak and was reckoning on getting tea with you." "Drink it. You can have some if you like." "You used to offer it to me," observed Pyotr Stepanovitch sourly. "That's no matter. Let Liputin have some too." "No, I... can't." "Don't want to or can't?" said Pyotr Stepanovitch, turning quickly to him. "I am not going to here," Liputin said expressively. Pyotr Stepanovitch frowned. "There's a flavour of mysticism about that; goodness knows what to make of you people!" No one answered; there was a full minute of silence. "But I know one thing," he added abruptly, "that no superstition will prevent any one of us from doing his duty." "Has Stavrogin gone?" asked Kirillov. "Yes." "He's done well." Pyotr Stepanovitch's eyes gleamed, but he restrained himself. "I don't care what you think as long as every one keeps his word." "I'll keep my word." "I always knew that you would do your duty like an independent and progressive man." "You are an absurd fellow." "That may be; I am very glad to amuse you. I am always glad if I can give people pleasure." "You are very anxious I should shoot myself and are afraid I might suddenly not?" "Well, you see, it was your own doing--connecting your plan with our work. Reckoning on your plan we have already done something, so that you couldn't refuse now because you've let us in for it." "You've no claim at all." "I understand, I understand; you are perfectly free, and we don't come in so long as your free intention is carried out." "And am I to take on myself all the nasty things you've done?" "Listen, Kirillov, are you afraid? If you want to cry off, say so at once." "I am not afraid." "I ask because you are making so many inquiries." "Are you going soon?" "Asking questions again?" Kirillov scanned him contemptuously. "You see," Pyotr Stepanovitch went on, getting angrier and angrier, and unable to take the right tone, "you want me to go away, to be alone, to concentrate yourself, but all that's a bad sign for you--for you above all. You want to think a great deal. To my mind you'd better not think. And really you make me uneasy." "There's only one thing I hate, that at such a moment I should have a reptile like you beside me." "Oh, that doesn't matter. I'll go away at the time and stand on the steps if you like. If you are so concerned about trifles when it comes to dying, then... it's all a very bad sign. I'll go out on to the steps and you can imagine I know nothing about it, and that I am a man infinitely below you." "No, not infinitely; you've got abilities, but there's a lot you don't understand because you are a low man." "Delighted, delighted. I told you already I am delighted to provide entertainment... at such a moment." "You don't understand anything." "That is, I... well, I listen with respect, anyway." "You can do nothing; even now you can't hide your petty spite, though it's not to your interest to show it. You'll make me cross, and then I may want another six months." Pyotr Stepanovitch looked at his watch. "I never understood your theory, but I know you didn't invent it for our sakes, so I suppose you would carry it out apart from us. And I know too that you haven't mastered the idea but the idea has mastered you, so you won't put it off." "What? The idea has mastered me?" "Yes." "And not I mastered the idea? That's good. You have a little sense. Only you tease me and I am proud." "That's a good thing, that's a good thing. Just what you need, to be proud." "Enough. You've drunk your tea; go away." "Damn it all, I suppose I must"--Pyotr Stepanovitch got up--"though it's early. Listen, Kirillov. Shall I find that man--you know whom I mean--at Myasnitchiha's? Or has she too been lying?" "You won't find him, because he is here and not there." "Here! Damn it all, where?" "Sitting in the kitchen, eating and drinking." "How dared he?" cried Pyotr Stepanovitch, flushing angrily. "It was his duty to wait... what nonsense! He has no passport, no money!" "I don't know. He came to say good-bye; he is dressed and ready. He is going away and won't come back. He says you are a scoundrel and he doesn't want to wait for your money." "Ha ha! He is afraid that I'll... But even now I can... if... Where is he, in the kitchen?" Kirillov opened a side door into a tiny dark room; from this room three steps led straight to the part of the kitchen where the cook's bed was usually put, behind the partition. Here, in the corner under the ikons, Fedka was sitting now, at a bare deal table. Before him stood a pint bottle, a plate of bread, and some cold beef and potatoes on an earthenware dish. He was eating in a leisurely way and was already half drunk, but he was wearing his sheep-skin coat and was evidently ready for a journey. A samovar was boiling the other side of the screen, but it was not for Fedka, who had every night for a week or more zealously blown it up and got it ready for "Alexey Nilitch, for he's such a habit of drinking tea at nights." I am strongly disposed to believe that, as Kirillov had not a cook, he had cooked the beef and potatoes that morning with his own hands for Fedka. "What notion is this?" cried Pyotr Stepanovitch, whisking into the room. "Why didn't you wait where you were ordered?" And swinging his fist, he brought it down heavily on the table. Fedka assumed an air of dignity. "You wait a bit, Pyotr Stepanovitch, you wait a bit," he began, with a swaggering emphasis on each word, "it's your first duty to understand here that you are on a polite visit to Mr. Kirillov, Alexey Nilitch, whose boots you might clean any day, because beside you he is a man of culture and you are only--foo!" And he made a jaunty show of spitting to one side. Haughtiness and