The possessed or, The devils
suggests a system of spying. Every member of the society spies on the
others, and it's his duty to inform against them. Every one belongs to
all and all to every one. All are slaves and equal in their slavery. In
extreme cases he advocates slander and murder, but the great thing about
it is equality. To begin with, the level of education, science, and
talents is lowered. A high level of education and science is only
possible for great intellects, and they are not wanted. The great
intellects have always seized the power and been despots. Great
intellects cannot help being despots and they've always done more harm
than good. They will be banished or put to death. Cicero will have his
tongue cut out, Copernicus will have his eyes put out, Shakespeare will
be stoned--that's Shigalovism. Slaves are bound to be equal. There has
never been either freedom or equality without despotism, but in the herd
there is bound to be equality, and that's Shigalovism! Ha ha ha! Do you
think it strange? I am for Shigalovism."
Stavrogin tried to quicken his pace, and to reach home as soon as
possible. "If this fellow is drunk, where did he manage to get drunk?"
crossed his mind. "Can it be the brandy?"
"Listen, Stavrogin. To level the mountains is a fine idea, not an absurd
one. I am for Shigalov. Down with culture. We've had enough science!
Without science we have material enough to go on for a thousand years,
but one must have discipline. The one thing wanting in the world is
discipline. The thirst for culture is an aristocratic thirst. The moment
you have family ties or love you get the desire for property. We will
destroy that desire; we'll make use of drunkenness, slander, spying;
we'll make use of incredible corruption; we'll stifle every genius
in its infancy. We'll reduce all to a common denominator! Complete
equality! 'We've learned a trade, and we are honest men; we need nothing
more,' that was an answer given by English working-men recently.
Only the necessary is necessary, that's the motto of the whole world
henceforward. But it needs a shock. That's for us, the directors, to
look after. Slaves must have directors. Absolute submission, absolute
loss of individuality, but once in thirty years Shigalov would let them
have a shock and they would all suddenly begin eating one another up, to
a certain point, simply as a precaution against boredom. Boredom is an
aristocratic sensation. The Shigalovians will have no desires. Desire
and suffering are our lot, but Shigalovism is for the slaves."
"You exclude yourself?" Stavrogin broke in again.
"You, too. Do you know, I have thought of giving up the world to the
Pope. Let him come forth, on foot, and barefoot, and show himself to the
rabble, saying, 'See what they have brought me to!' and they will all
rush after him, even the troops. The Pope at the head, with us
round him, and below us--Shigalovism. All that's needed is that the
Internationale should come to an agreement with the Pope; so it will.
And the old chap will agree at once. There's nothing else he can do.
Remember my words! Ha ha! Is it stupid? Tell me, is it stupid or not?"
"That's enough!" Stavrogin muttered with vexation.
"Enough! Listen. I've given up the Pope! Damn Shigalovism! Damn the
Pope! We must have something more everyday. Not Shigalovism, for
Shigalovism is a rare specimen of the jeweller's art. It's an ideal;
it's in the future. Shigalov is an artist and a fool like every
philanthropist. We need coarse work, and Shigalov despises coarse work.
Listen. The Pope shall be for the west, and you shall be for us, you
shall be for us!"
"Let me alone, you drunken fellow!" muttered Stavrogin, and he quickened
his pace.
"Stavrogin, you are beautiful," cried Pyotr Stepanovitch, almost
ecstatically. "Do you know that you are beautiful! What's the most
precious thing about you is that you sometimes don't know it. Oh,
I've studied you! I often watch you on the sly! There's a lot of
simpleheartedness and naïveté about you still. Do you know that? There
still is, there is! You must be suffering and suffering genuinely from
that simple-heartedness. I love beauty. I am a nihilist, but I love
beauty. Are nihilists incapable of loving beauty? It's only idols they
dislike, but I love an idol. You are my idol! You injure no one, and
every one hates you. You treat every one as an equal, and yet every one
is afraid of you--that's good. Nobody would slap you on the shoulder.
You are an awful aristocrat. An aristocrat is irresistible when he goes
in for democracy! To sacrifice life, your own or another's is nothing
to you. You are just the man that's needed. It's just such a man as you
that I need. I know no one but you. You are the leader, you are the sun
and I am your worm."
He suddenly kissed his hand. A shiver ran down Stavrogin's spine, and he
pulled away his hand in dismay. They stood still.
"Madman!" whispered Stavrogin.
"Perhaps I am raving; perhaps I am raving," Pyotr Stepanovitch assented,
speaking rapidly. "But I've thought of the first step! Shigalov would
never have thought of it. There are lots of Shigalovs, but only one man,
one man in Russia has hit on the first step and knows how to take it.
And I am that man! Why do you look at me? I need you, you; without you
I am nothing. Without you I am a fly, a bottled idea; Columbus without
America."
Stavrogin stood still and looked intently into his wild eyes.
"Listen. First of all we'll make an upheaval," Verhovensky went on in
desperate haste, continually clutching at Stavrogin's left sleeve. "I've
already told you. We shall penetrate to the peasantry. Do you know that
we are tremendously powerful already? Our party does not consist only of
those who commit murder and arson, fire off pistols in the traditional
fashion, or bite colonels. They are only a hindrance. I don't accept
anything without discipline. I am a scoundrel, of course, and not a
socialist. Ha ha! Listen. I've reckoned them all up: a teacher who
laughs with children at their God and at their cradle is on our side.
The lawyer who defends an educated murderer because he is more cultured
than his victims and could not help murdering them to get money is one
of us. The schoolboys who murder a peasant for the sake of sensation are
ours. The juries who acquit every criminal are ours. The prosecutor who
trembles at a trial for fear he should not seem advanced enough is ours,
ours. Among officials and literary men we have lots, lots, and they
don't know it themselves. On the other hand, the docility of schoolboys
and fools has reached an extreme pitch; the schoolmasters are bitter
and bilious. On all sides we see vanity puffed up out of all proportion;
brutal, monstrous appetites.... Do you know how many we shall catch by
little, ready-made ideas? When I left Russia, Littre's dictum that crime
is insanity was all the rage; I come back and I find that crime is
no longer insanity, but simply common sense, almost a duty; anyway,
a gallant protest. 'How can we expect a cultured man not to commit a
murder, if he is in need of money.' But these are only the first fruits.
The Russian God has already been vanquished by cheap vodka. The peasants
are drunk, the mothers are drunk, the children are drunk, the churches
are empty, and in the peasant courts one hears, 'Two hundred lashes or
stand us a bucket of vodka.' Oh, this generation has only to grow up.
It's only a pity we can't afford to wait, or we might have let them get
a bit more tipsy! Ah, what a pity there's no proletariat! But there will
be, there will be; we are going that way...."
"It's a pity, too, that we've grown greater fools," muttered Stavrogin,
moving forward as before.
"Listen. I've seen a child of six years old leading home his drunken
mother, whilst she swore at him with foul words. Do you suppose I am
glad of that? When it's in our hands, maybe we'll mend things... if need
be, we'll drive them for forty years into the wilderness.... But one
or two generations of vice are essential now; monstrous, abject vice by
which a man is transformed into a loathsome, cruel, egoistic reptile.
That's what we need! And what's more, a little 'fresh blood' that we
may get accustomed to it. Why are you laughing? I am not contradicting
myself. I am only contradicting the philanthropists and Shigalovism,
not myself! I am a scoundrel, not a socialist. Ha ha ha! I'm only sorry
there's no time. I promised Karmazinov to begin in May, and to make an
end by October. Is that too soon? Ha ha! Do you know what, Stavrogin?
Though the Russian people use foul language, there's nothing cynical
about them so far. Do you know the serfs had more self-respect than
Karmazinov? Though they were beaten they always preserved their gods,
which is more than Karmazinov's done."
"Well, Verhovensky, this is the first time I've heard you talk, and I
listen with amazement," observed Stavrogin. "So you are really not a
socialist, then, but some sort of... ambitious politician?"
"A scoundrel, a scoundrel! You are wondering what I am. I'll tell you
what I am directly, that's what I am leading up to. It was not for
nothing that I kissed your hand. But the people must believe that we
know what we are after, while the other side do nothing but 'brandish
their cudgels and beat their own followers.' Ah, if we only had more
time! That's the only trouble, we have no time. We will proclaim
destruction.... Why is it, why is it that idea has such a fascination.
But we must have a little exercise; we must. We'll set fires going....
We'll set legends going. Every scurvy 'group' will be of use. Out of
those very groups I'll pick you out fellows so keen they'll not shrink
from shooting, and be grateful for the honour of a job, too. Well, and
there will be an upheaval! There's going to be such an upset as
the world has never seen before.... Russia will be overwhelmed with
darkness, the earth will weep for its old gods.... Well, then we shall
bring forward... whom?"
"Whom?"
"Ivan the Tsarevitch."
"Who-m?"
"Ivan the Tsarevitch. You! You!"
Stavrogin thought a minute.
"A pretender?" he asked suddenly, looking with intense surprise at his
frantic companion. "Ah! so that's your plan at last!"
"We shall say that he is 'in hiding,'" Verhovensky said softly, in a
sort of tender whisper, as though he really were drunk indeed. "Do you
know the magic of that phrase, 'he is in hiding'? But he will appear,
he will appear. We'll set a legend going better than the Skoptsis'. He
exists, but no one has seen him. Oh, what a legend one can set going!
And the great thing is it will be a new force at work! And we need that;
that's what they are crying for. What can Socialism do: it's destroyed
the old forces but hasn't brought in any new. But in this we have a
force, and what a force! Incredible. We only need one lever to lift up
the earth. Everything will rise up!"
"Then have you been seriously reckoning on me?" Stavrogin said with a
malicious smile.
"Why do you laugh, and so spitefully? Don't frighten me. I am like a
little child now. I can be frightened to death by one smile like that.
Listen. I'll let no one see you, no one. So it must be. He exists, but
no one has seen him; he is in hiding. And do you know, one might show
you, to one out of a hundred-thousand, for instance. And the rumour will
spread over all the land, 'We've seen him, we've seen him.'
"Ivan Filipovitch the God of Sabaoth,* has been seen, too, when he
ascended into heaven in his chariot in the sight of men. They saw
him with their own eyes. And you are not an Ivan Filipovitch. You are
beautiful and proud as a God; you are seeking nothing for yourself,
with the halo of a victim round you, 'in hiding.' The great thing is
the legend. You'll conquer them, you'll have only to look, and you will