The possessed or, The devils
"I'll take him away soon."
"He says he has got plenty of places to stay the night in."
"That's rot; they are looking for him, but here he wouldn't be noticed.
Do you ever get into talk with him?"
"Yes, at night. He abuses you tremendously. I've been reading the
'Apocalypse' to him at night, and we have tea. He listened eagerly, very
eagerly, the whole night."
"Hang it all, you'll convert him to Christianity!"
"He is a Christian as it is. Don't be uneasy, he'll do the murder. Whom
do you want to murder?"
"No, I don't want him for that, I want him for something different....
And does Shatov know about Fedka?"
"I don't talk to Shatov, and I don't see him."
"Is he angry?"
"No, we are not angry, only we shun one another. We lay too long side by
side in America."
"I am going to him directly."
"As you like."
"Stavrogin and I may come and see you from there, about ten o'clock."
"Do."
"I want to talk to him about something important.... I say, make me
a present of your ball; what do you want with it now? I want it for
gymnastics too. I'll pay you for it if you like."
"You can take it without."
Pyotr Stepanovitch put the ball in the back pocket of his coat.
"But I'll give you nothing against Stavrogin," Kirillov muttered after
his guest, as he saw him out. The latter looked at him in amazement but
did not answer.
Kirillov's last words perplexed Pyotr Stepanovitch extremely; he had not
time yet to discover their meaning, but even while he was on the stairs
of Shatov's lodging he tried to remove all trace of annoyance and to
assume an amiable expression. Shatov was at home and rather unwell. He
was lying on his bed, though dressed.
"What bad luck!" Pyotr Stepanovitch cried out in the doorway. "Are you
really ill?"
The amiable expression of his face suddenly vanished; there was a gleam
of spite in his eyes.
"Not at all." Shatov jumped up nervously. "I am not ill at all... a
little headache..."
He was disconcerted; the sudden appearance of such a visitor positively
alarmed him.
"You mustn't be ill for the job I've come about," Pyotr Stepanovitch
began quickly and, as it were, peremptorily. "Allow me to sit down." (He
sat down.) "And you sit down again on your bedstead; that's right. There
will be a party of our fellows at Virginsky's to-night on the pretext of
his birthday; it will have no political character, however--we've seen
to that. I am coming with Nikolay Stavrogin. I would not, of course,
have dragged you there, knowing your way of thinking at present...
simply to save your being worried, not because we think you would betray
us. But as things have turned out, you will have to go. You'll meet
there the very people with whom we shall finally settle how you are
to leave the society and to whom you are to hand over what is in your
keeping. We'll do it without being noticed; I'll take you aside into a
corner; there'll be a lot of people and there's no need for every one to
know. I must confess I've had to keep my tongue wagging on your behalf;
but now I believe they've agreed, on condition you hand over the
printing press and all the papers, of course. Then you can go where you
please."
Shatov listened, frowning and resentful. The nervous alarm of a moment
before had entirely left him.
"I don't acknowledge any sort of obligation to give an account to the
devil knows whom," he declared definitely. "No one has the authority to
set me free."
"Not quite so. A great deal has been entrusted to you. You hadn't the
right to break off simply. Besides, you made no clear statement about
it, so that you put them in an ambiguous position."
"I stated my position clearly by letter as soon as I arrived here."
"No, it wasn't clear," Pyotr Stepanovitch retorted calmly. "I sent you
'A Noble Personality' to be printed here, and meaning the copies to be
kept here till they were wanted; and the two manifestoes as well. You
returned them with an ambiguous letter which explained nothing."
"I refused definitely to print them."
"Well, not definitely. You wrote that you couldn't, but you didn't
explain for what reason. 'I can't' doesn't mean 'I don't want to.' It
might be supposed that you were simply unable through circumstances.
That was how they took it, and considered that you still meant to keep
up your connection with the society, so that they might have entrusted
something to you again and so have compromised themselves. They say here
that you simply meant to deceive them, so that you might betray them
when you got hold of something important. I have defended you to the
best of my powers, and have shown your brief note as evidence in your
favour. But I had to admit on rereading those two lines that they were
misleading and not conclusive."
"You kept that note so carefully then?"
"My keeping it means nothing; I've got it still."
"Well, I don't care, damn it!" Shatov cried furiously. "Your fools may
consider that I've betrayed them if they like--what is it to me? I
should like to see what you can do to me?"
"Your name would be noted, and at the first success of the revolution
you would be hanged."
"That's when you get the upper hand and dominate Russia?"
"You needn't laugh. I tell you again, I stood up for you. Anyway, I
advise you to turn up to-day. Why waste words through false pride?
Isn't it better to part friends? In any case you'll have to give up the
printing press and the old type and papers--that's what we must talk
about."
"I'll come," Shatov muttered, looking down thoughtfully.
Pyotr Stepanovitch glanced askance at him from his place.
"Will Stavrogin be there?" Shatov asked suddenly, raising his head.
"He is certain to be."
"Ha ha!"
Again they were silent for a minute. Shatov grinned disdainfully and
irritably.
"And that contemptible 'Noble Personality' of yours, that I wouldn't
print here. Has it been printed?" he asked.
"Yes."
"To make the schoolboys believe that Herzen himself had written it in
your album?"
"Yes, Herzen himself."
Again they were silent for three minutes. At last Shatov got up from the
bed.
"Go out of my room; I don't care to sit with you."
"I'm going," Pyotr Stepanovitch brought out with positive alacrity,
getting up at once. "Only one word: Kirillov is quite alone in the lodge
now, isn't he, without a servant?"
"Quite alone. Get along; I can't stand being in the same room with you."
"Well, you are a pleasant customer now!" Pyotr Stepanovitch reflected
gaily as he went out into the street, "and you will be pleasant this
evening too, and that just suits me; nothing better could be wished,
nothing better could be wished! The Russian God Himself seems helping
me."
VII
He had probably been very busy that day on all sorts of errands and
probably with success, which was reflected in the self-satisfied
expression of his face when at six o'clock that evening he turned up at
Stavrogin's. But he was not at once admitted: Stavrogin had just locked
himself in the study with Mavriky Nikolaevitch. This news instantly made
Pyotr Stepanovitch anxious. He seated himself close to the study door
to wait for the visitor to go away. He could hear conversation but could
not catch the words. The visit did not last long; soon he heard a noise,
the sound of an extremely loud and abrupt voice, then the door opened
and Mavriky Nikolaevitch came out with a very pale face. He did not
notice Pyotr Stepanovitch, and quickly passed by. Pyotr Stepanovitch
instantly ran into the study.
I cannot omit a detailed account of the very brief interview that had
taken place between the two "rivals"--an interview which might well
have seemed impossible under the circumstances, but which had yet taken
place.
This is how it had come about. Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch had been enjoying
an after-dinner nap on the couch in his study when Alexey Yegorytch had
announced the unexpected visitor. Hearing the name, he had positively
leapt up, unwilling to believe it. But soon a smile gleamed on his
lips--a smile of haughty triumph and at the same time of a blank,
incredulous wonder. The visitor, Mavriky Nikolaevitch, seemed struck by
the expression of that smile as he came in; anyway, he stood still in
the middle of the room as though uncertain whether to come further in or
to turn back. Stavrogin succeeded at once in transforming the expression
of his face, and with an air of grave surprise took a step towards him.
The visitor did not take his outstretched hand, but awkwardly moved a
chair and, not uttering a word, sat down without waiting for his host to
do so. Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch sat down on the sofa facing him obliquely
and, looking at Mavriky Nikolaevitch, waited in silence.
"If you can, marry Lizaveta Nikolaevna," Mavriky Nikolaevitch brought
out suddenly at last, and what was most curious, it was impossible
to tell from his tone whether it was an entreaty, a recommendation, a
surrender, or a command.
Stavrogin still remained silent, but the visitor had evidently said all
he had come to say and gazed at him persistently, waiting for an answer.
"If I am not mistaken (but it's quite certain), Lizaveta Nikolaevna is
already betrothed to you," Stavrogin said at last.
"Promised and betrothed," Mavriky Nikolaevitch assented firmly and
clearly.
"You have... quarrelled? Excuse me, Mavriky Nikolaevitch."
"No, she 'loves and respects me'; those are her words. Her words are
more precious than anything."
"Of that there can be no doubt."
"But let me tell you, if she were standing in the church at her wedding
and you were to call her, she'd give up me and every one and go to you."
"From the wedding?"
"Yes, and after the wedding."
"Aren't you making a mistake?"
"No. Under her persistent, sincere, and intense hatred for you love is
flashing out at every moment... and madness... the sincerest infinite
love and... madness! On the contrary, behind the love she feels for me,
which is sincere too, every moment there are flashes of hatred... the
most intense hatred! I could never have fancied all these transitions...
before."
"But I wonder, though, how could you come here and dispose of the hand
of Lizaveta Nikolaevna? Have you the right to do so? Has she authorised
you?"
Mavriky Nikolaevitch frowned and for a minute he looked down.
"That's all words on your part," he brought out suddenly, "words of
revenge and triumph; I am sure you can read between the lines, and is
this the time for petty vanity? Haven't you satisfaction enough? Must I
really dot my i's and go into it all? Very well, I will dot my i's, if
you are so anxious for my humiliation. I have no right, it's impossible
for me to be authorised; Lizaveta Nikolaevna knows nothing about it
and her betrothed has finally lost his senses and is only fit for a
madhouse, and, to crown everything, has come to tell you so himself. You
are the only man in the world who can make her happy, and I am the one
to make her unhappy. You are trying to get her, you are pursuing her,
but--I don't know why--you won't marry her. If it's because of a lovers'
quarrel abroad and I must be sacrificed to end it, sacrifice me. She is
too unhappy and I can't endure it. My words are not a sanction, not a
prescription, and so it's no slur on your pride. If you care to take
my place at the altar, you can do it without any sanction from me, and
there is no ground for me to come to you with a mad proposal, especially
as our marriage is utterly impossible after the step I am taking now. I
cannot lead her to the altar feeling myself an abject wretch. What I am
doing here and my handing her over to you, perhaps her bitterest foe, is
to my mind something so abject that I shall never get over it."
"Will you shoot yourself on our wedding day?"