The possessed or, The devils
fellow ready for anything of any kind you like, and absolutely at
your service.... Hullo! are you reaching for your stick. Oh no... only
fancy... I thought you were looking for your stick."
Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch was looking for nothing and said nothing.
But he had risen to his feet very suddenly with a strange look in his
face.
"If you want any help about Mr. Gaganov either," Pyotr Stepanovitch
blurted out suddenly, this time looking straight at the paper-weight,
"of course I can arrange it all, and I'm certain you won't be able to
manage without me."
He went out suddenly without waiting for an answer, but thrust his
head in at the door once more. "I mention that," he gabbled hurriedly,
"because Shatov had no right either, you know, to risk his life last
Sunday when he attacked you, had he? I should be glad if you would make
a note of that." He disappeared again without waiting for an answer.
IV
Perhaps he imagined, as he made his exit, that as soon as he was left
alone, Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch would begin beating on the wall with his
fists, and no doubt he would have been glad to see this, if that
had been possible. But, if so, he was greatly mistaken. Nikolay
Vsyevolodovitch was still calm. He remained standing for two minutes in
the same position by the table, apparently plunged in thought, but soon
a cold and listless smile came on to his lips. He slowly sat down again
in the same place in the corner of the sofa, and shut his eyes as though
from weariness. The corner of the letter was still peeping from under
the paperweight, but he didn't even move to cover it.
He soon sank into complete forgetfulness.
When Pyotr Stepanovitch went out without coming to see her, as he had
promised, Varvara Petrovna, who had been worn out by anxiety during
these days, could not control herself, and ventured to visit her son
herself, though it was not her regular time. She was still haunted by
the idea that he would tell her something conclusive. She knocked at
the door gently as before, and again receiving no answer, she opened
the door. Seeing that Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch was sitting strangely
motionless, she cautiously advanced to the sofa with a throbbing heart.
She seemed struck by the fact that he could fall asleep so quickly and
that he could sleep sitting like that, so erect and motionless, so
that his breathing even was scarcely perceptible. His face was pale and
forbidding, but it looked, as it were, numb and rigid. His brows were
somewhat contracted and frowning. He positively had the look of a
lifeless wax figure. She stood over him for about three minutes,
almost holding her breath, and suddenly she was seized with terror. She
withdrew on tiptoe, stopped at the door, hurriedly made the sign of the
cross over him, and retreated unobserved, with a new oppression and a
new anguish at her heart.
He slept a long while, more than an hour, and still in the same rigid
pose: not a muscle of his face twitched, there was not the faintest
movement in his whole body, and his brows were still contracted in the
same forbidding frown. If Varvara Petrovna had remained another three
minutes she could not have endured the stifling sensation that this
motionless lethargy roused in her, and would have waked him. But he
suddenly opened his eyes, and sat for ten minutes as immovable as
before, staring persistently and curiously, as though at some object
in the corner which had struck him, although there was nothing new or
striking in the room.
Suddenly there rang out the low deep note of the clock on the wall.
With some uneasiness he turned to look at it, but almost at the same
moment the other door opened, and the butler, Alexey Yegorytch came in.
He had in one hand a greatcoat, a scarf, and a hat, and in the other a
silver tray with a note on it.
"Half-past nine," he announced softly, and laying the other things on a
chair, he held out the tray with the note--a scrap of paper unsealed and
scribbled in pencil. Glancing through it, Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch took
a pencil from the table, added a few words, and put the note back on the
tray.
"Take it back as soon as I have gone out, and now dress me," he said,
getting up from the sofa.
Noticing that he had on a light velvet jacket, he thought a minute,
and told the man to bring him a cloth coat, which he wore on more
ceremonious occasions. At last, when he was dressed and had put on his
hat, he locked the door by which his mother had come into the room, took
the letter from under the paperweight, and without saying a word went
out into the corridor, followed by Alexey Yegorytch. From the corridor
they went down the narrow stone steps of the back stairs to a passage
which opened straight into the garden. In the corner stood a lantern and
a big umbrella.
"Owing to the excessive rain the mud in the streets is beyond anything,"
Alexey Yegorytch announced, making a final effort to deter his master
from the expedition. But opening his umbrella the latter went without
a word into the damp and sodden garden, which was dark as a cellar. The
wind was roaring and tossing the bare tree-tops. The little sandy
paths were wet and slippery. Alexey Yegorytch walked along as he was,
bareheaded, in his swallow-tail coat, lighting up the path for about
three steps before them with the lantern.
"Won't it be noticed?" Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch asked suddenly.
"Not from the windows. Besides I have seen to all that already," the old
servant answered in quiet and measured tones.
"Has my mother retired?"
"Her excellency locked herself in at nine o'clock as she has done the
last few days, and there is no possibility of her knowing anything. At
what hour am I to expect your honour?"
"At one or half-past, not later than two."
"Yes, sir."
Crossing the garden by the winding paths that they both knew by heart,
they reached the stone wall, and there in the farthest corner found
a little door, which led out into a narrow and deserted lane, and was
always kept locked. It appeared that Alexey Yegorytch had the key in his
hand.
"Won't the door creak?" Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch inquired again.
But Alexey Yegorytch informed him that it had been oiled yesterday "as
well as to-day." He was by now wet through. Unlocking the door he gave
the key to Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch.
"If it should be your pleasure to be taking a distant walk, I would warn
your honour that I am not confident of the folk here, especially in
the back lanes, and especially beyond the river," he could not resist
warning him again. He was an old servant, who had been like a nurse to
Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch, and at one time used to dandle him in his arms;
he was a grave and severe man who was fond of listening to religious
discourse and reading books of devotion.
"Don't be uneasy, Alexey Yegorytch."
"May God's blessing rest on you, sir, but only in your righteous
undertakings."
"What?" said Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch, stopping short in the lane.
Alexey Yegorytch resolutely repeated his words. He had never before
ventured to express himself in such language in his master's presence.
Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch locked the door, put the key in his pocket, and
crossed the lane, sinking five or six inches into the mud at every step.
He came out at last into a long deserted street. He knew the town like
the five fingers of his hand, but Bogoyavlensky Street was a long way
off. It was past ten when he stopped at last before the locked gates of
the dark old house that belonged to Filipov. The ground floor had stood
empty since the Lebyadkins had left it, and the windows were boarded up,
but there was a light burning in Shatov's room on the second floor. As
there was no bell he began banging on the gate with his hand. A window
was opened and Shatov peeped out into the street. It was terribly dark,
and difficult to make out anything. Shatov was peering out for some
time, about a minute.
"Is that you?" he asked suddenly.
"Yes," replied the uninvited guest.
Shatov slammed the window, went downstairs and opened the gate. Nikolay
Vsyevolodovitch stepped over the high sill, and without a word passed by
him straight into Kirillov's lodge.
V
There everything was unlocked and all the doors stood open. The passage
and the first two rooms were dark, but there was a light shining in the
last, in which Kirillov lived and drank tea, and laughter and strange
cries came from it. Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch went towards the light, but
stood still in the doorway without going in. There was tea on the table.
In the middle of the room stood the old woman who was a relation of the
landlord. She was bareheaded and was dressed in a petticoat and a
hare-skin jacket, and her stockingless feet were thrust into slippers.
In her arms she had an eighteen-months-old baby, with nothing on but its
little shirt; with bare legs, flushed cheeks, and ruffled white hair. It
had only just been taken out of the cradle. It seemed to have just been
crying; there were still tears in its eyes. But at that instant it was
stretching out its little arms, clapping its hands, and laughing with a
sob as little children do. Kirillov was bouncing a big red india-rubber
ball on the floor before it. The ball bounced up to the ceiling, and back
to the floor, the baby shrieked "Baw! baw!" Kirillov caught the "baw",
and gave it to it. The baby threw it itself with its awkward little hands,
and Kirillov ran to pick it up again.
At last the "baw" rolled under the cupboard. "Baw! baw!" cried the
child. Kirillov lay down on the floor, trying to reach the ball with his
hand under the cupboard. Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch went into the room. The
baby caught sight of him, nestled against the old woman, and went off
into a prolonged infantile wail. The woman immediately carried it out of
the room.
"Stavrogin?" said Kirillov, beginning to get up from the floor with the
ball in his hand, and showing no surprise at the unexpected visit. "Will
you have tea?"
He rose to his feet.
"I should be very glad of it, if it's hot," said Nikolay
Vsyevolodovitch; "I'm wet through."
"It's hot, nearly boiling in fact," Kirillov declared delighted. "Sit
down. You're muddy, but that's nothing; I'll mop up the floor later."
Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch sat down and emptied the cup he handed him
almost at a gulp.
"Some more?" asked Kirillov.
"No, thank you."
Kirillov, who had not sat down till then, seated himself facing him, and
inquired:
"Why have you come?"
"On business. Here, read this letter from Gaganov; do you remember, I
talked to you about him in Petersburg."
Kirillov took the letter, read it, laid it on the table and looked at
him expectantly.
"As you know, I met this Gaganov for the first time in my life a month
ago, in Petersburg," Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch began to explain. "We
came across each other two or three times in company with other people.
Without making my acquaintance and without addressing me, he managed to
be very insolent to me. I told you so at the time; but now for something
you don't know. As he was leaving Petersburg before I did, he sent me
a letter, not like this one, yet impertinent in the highest degree, and
what was queer about it was that it contained no sort of explanation of
why it was written. I answered him at once, also by letter, and said,
quite frankly, that he was probably angry with me on account of the
incident with his father four years ago in the club here, and that I for
my part was prepared to make him every possible apology, seeing that my
action was unintentional and was the result of illness. I begged him to
consider and accept my apologies. He went away without answering, and
now here I find him in a regular fury. Several things he has said about