- Fyodor Dostoevsky
1
The date for the fête was agreed upon and von Lembke became even more depressed and pensive. He was filled with strange and sinister forebodings, and this disturbed Yulia Mikhailovna. True, not everything was quite right. Our former governor had left the administration of the province in some disarray; an epidemic of cholera was threatening; serious outbreaks of cattle plague had appeared in some places; fires had raged all that summer in towns and villages, and stupid rumours of arson were gaining strength among the people. The number of robberies had more than doubled. But all this, of course, would have been perfectly normal, had there not been other, weightier things disturbing the serenity of Andrei Antonovich, who, up to then had been a happy man.
What struck Yulia Mikhailovna most of all was that with each passing day he was becoming more taciturn and, strange to say, more secretive. Indeed, why should he have anything to hide? It’s true, he rarely opposed her; for the most part he obeyed her wishes entirely. At her insistence, for example, two or three very risky, almost illegal measures were implemented with the aim of strengthening the governor’s powers. For the same purpose a number of sinister actions were condoned; for instance, certain people who deserved prison sentences or even exile to Siberia were recommended for decorations, purely at her insistence. In addition, some enquiries and complaints were systematically ignored. All this came to light afterwards. Von Lembke not only put his signature to everything, but never even questioned the role assumed by his wife in the execution of his official duties. On the other hand, he suddenly began tc make a fuss over ‘mere trifles’, much to Yulia Mikhailovna’s surprise. No doubt he felt the need to reward himself for his days of obedience by brief moments of rebellion p. 364↵Unfortunately, Yulia Mikhailovna, for all her perspicacity, was unable to fathom this subtlety in her husband’s noble character. Alas! She had no time for it and that was the cause of many of their misunderstandings.
There are certain things which it is inappropriate for me to discuss; besides, there are some that I simply can’t talk about. Nor is it my business to describe in detail administrative errors; therefore I will omit entirely that aspect of the affair. When I undertook this chronicle, I had a very different set of tasks in mind. Besides, a great deal will soon be brought to light by the Commission of Inquiry which has been appointed in our province—it’s only a matter of waiting a little while. Some explanations, however, cannot possibly be avoided.
Now I’ll return to Yulia Mikhailovna. The poor woman (I feel sorry for her) could really have achieved all that attracted and beckoned her (fame and so on), without any of the violent and eccentric efforts she decided on from the very beginning. But whether as a result of excessive poetic feeling or the sad and repeated failures of her youth, suddenly, with the change in her fortune, she felt specially selected, almost anointed, one of those ‘upon whom a tongue of flame* had descended’; and all the trouble was in that tongue. After all, it wasn’t like a chignon that could sit on any woman’s head. But it’s virtually impossible to convince a woman of the truth; on the other hand, anyone wanting to egg her on will always succeed, and people were falling over themselves to encourage her. The poor woman suddenly turned out to be the plaything of the most diverse influences, while at the same time imagining herself to be extremely original. Many experts feathered their nests and took advantage of her simplicity during her brief tenure as governor’s wife. And what a mess she got herself into, all under the guise of independence! She favoured large agricultural estates, the aristocratic element, the strengthening of the governor’s powers, the democratic element, new institutions, law and order, free-thinking, socialist notions, strict decorum in the aristocratic salon, and the free-and-easy, p. 365↵almost tavern-like manners of the young people surrounding her. She dreamt of bestowing happiness and reconciling the irreconcilable, or, to be more precise, unifying everything and everyone in adoration of her own person. She had her favourites; she was very fond of Peter Stepanovich, who, by the way, flattered her unabashedly. But she was fond of him for another reason as well, a bizarre reason, very characteristic of the poor woman: she kept hoping he’d reveal a conspiracy against the government to her! As difficult as it is to imagine, this was indeed the case. For some reason she believed a plot against the government was being hatched in our very own province. Peter Stepanovich, by his silence at certain moments and hints at others, encouraged this strange idea. She imagined he was in contact with everyone connected with the revolutionary movement in Russia, but at the same time, thought he was absolutely devoted to her to the point of adoration. The discovery of the conspiracy, gratitude from Petersburg, a future career, the influence of her ‘kindness’ on our youth, which would save them from the abyss—all these ideas coexisted quite happily in that fantasizing brain of hers. After all, she’d saved Peter Stepanovich, conquered him (for some reason she was absolutely certain of that), and she would save the others as well; she’d straighten them out; she’d report on them accurately; she’d act in the highest interests of justice, and perhaps even history; all of Russian liberalism would bless her name; and nevertheless the conspiracy would be discovered. All advantages in one fell swoop!
Still it was essential that Andrei Antonovich’s mood improve before the fête. He must absolutely be cheered up and calmed down. With this aim in mind she sent Peter Stepanovich in to see him, in the hope that he’d relieve his depression by some reassuring means known only to him. Perhaps he’d even provide some special information, straight from the horse’s mouth, so to speak. She had implicit faith in his ability. Peter Stepanovich hadn’t been in von Lembke’s study for some time. He dropped in on him just when the patient was in a rather difficult mood.
p. 3662
There had occurred a particular combination of circumstances with which Mr von Lembke was quite unable to cope. In the district in which Peter Stepanovich had been having such a good time of late, a second lieutenant had been reprimanded by his superior officer. This took place in front of the entire company. The second lieutenant was a young man, recently arrived from Petersburg, taciturn and morose, of dignified appearance, although small, stout, and red-cheeked. He couldn’t bear the reprimand; lowering his head in a savage way, he suddenly threw himself on his commander with an unexpected scream that astonished the entire company. He struck him with all his might and hit him on the shoulder; they had difficulty dragging him away. There was no doubt he’d gone mad; at least, it turned out that certain peculiarities in his behaviour had been observed during the last few weeks. For example, he’d thrown two of his landlady’s icons out of his apartment and destroyed one of them with an axe; in his own room he’d placed on three lecterns the works of Vogt, Moleschott, and Büchner,* and in front of each he used to burn wax church tapers. From the quantity of books found in his apartment, it was clear he was well read. If he’d possessed fifty thousand francs he might have sailed to the Marquesas Islands like that ‘cadet’ whom Mr Herzen describes* with such good humour in one of his works. When he was arrested they found a large bundle of the most reckless political pamphlets in his pockets and in his apartment.
The political pamphlets in and of themselves were a trivial matter and, in my opinion, nothing to worry about. We’ve seen quite a few of them. Besides, they weren’t even the latest ones: they were the same as those distributed in Kh— province, as we later learned, and Liputin, who’d been travelling in our district and the neighbouring province some six weeks earlier, assured us he’d seen the same ones there. But what most struck Andrei Antonovich was the fact that the manager of Shpigulin’s factory had just handed over to the police two or three bundles of the same pamphlets p. 367↵found in the second lieutenant’s apartment. They’d been left at the factory during the night and hadn’t been opened yet, so not one of the workers had managed to read a word. The facts were ridiculous, but it made Andrei Antonovich reflect deeply. He felt the incident was unpleasantly complicated.
In the factory belonging to the Shpigulins the so-called ‘Shpigulin affair’ was just beginning; this occasioned a great deal of talk among us and in certain variants it even appeared in the Moscow and Petersburg papers. Three weeks before, one of the workers had fallen ill with Asiatic cholera and died; then a few more men became ill. Everyone in town was in a panic because cholera was moving in from the neighbouring province. I must note that satisfactory sanitary precautions had been taken, as far as possible, to meet this uninvited guest. But the factory belonging to the Shpigulins, millionaires and people with connections, had somehow been overlooked. And then, all of a sudden, came a hue and cry that it was the sole source and a hotbed of the infection, that the factory itself and especially the workers’ quarters were so incredibly filthy that even had there been no cholera epidemic an outbreak would have occurred there anyway. Precautionary measures were adopted of course, and Andrei Antonovich energetically insisted on their immediate implementation. The factory was cleaned up within three weeks, but for some reason the Shpigulins closed it down anyway. One of the Shpigulin brothers had always lived in Petersburg; another left for Moscow after the authorities had ordered the factory cleaned up. The manager proceeded to pay off the workers and, as it now turns out, swindled them mercilessly. The workers complained and demanded a fair settlement; stupidly they went to the police, but without much fanfare or getting too agitated. It was just at that moment that Andrei Antonovich was handed the political pamphlets discovered by the manager.
Peter Stepanovich rushed into the study without being announced, just like an old friend of the family; besides, he had a commission from Yulia Mikhailovna. When he saw him, von Lembke frowned gloomily and stopped by the table p. 368↵in a most unfriendly way. He’d just been pacing up and down in his study discussing some private business with an office clerk named Blum, an extremely awkward and morose German he’d brought with him from Petersburg in the face of his wife’s vehement opposition. At Peter Stepanovich’s entrance, the clerk headed toward the door, but didn’t leave. Peter Stepanovich thought he exchanged a meaningful glance with his superior.
‘Aha, so I’ve caught you, the secretive town governor!’ cried Peter Stepanovich, laughing and placing his hand on the political pamphlet lying on the table. ‘This will be added to your collection, won’t it?’
Andrei Antonovich flushed. His face suddenly seemed distorted.
‘Stop it, stop it at once!’ he cried, shaking with rage. ‘How dare you, sir…’
‘What’s the matter? You seem angry!’
‘Let me tell you, my good sir, I have no intention of putting up with your sans façon1 any longer. I ask you to recall…’
‘Well, I’ll be damned! He really is angry!’
‘Shut up, shut up!’ von Lembke cried, stamping his feet on the carpet. ‘How dare you…’
God knows how it all might have ended. Alas, there was another circumstance here in addition to all the others, known neither to Peter Stepanovich nor even to Yulia Mikhailovna. The unfortunate Andrei Antonovich had been so upset that during the last few days he’d even begun to be jealous of his wife’s affection for Peter Stepanovich. In solitude, especially at night, he experienced some very unpleasant moments.
‘Well, I thought that if a man reads you his novel in private for two days straight until long after midnight and wants to hear your opinion of it, then he’s moved beyond official formalities at least… Yulia Mikhailovna receives me like a friend; what am I to make of you?’ Peter Stepanovich asked, not without dignity. ‘Incidentally, here’s your novel p. 369↵back,’ he said, placing on the table a large, heavy, rolled-up notebook wrapped in blue paper.
Von Lembke blushed and looked embarrassed.
‘Where did you find it?’ he asked cautiously with a burst of joy he could not control, but attempted to with all his might.
‘Just imagine, all rolled up as it is, it had slid under the chest of drawers. When I came in I must have tossed it down carelessly. It was found the day before yesterday when the floors were being scrubbed; you gave me quite a bit of work to do, though!’
Von Lembke dropped his eyes sternly.
‘I haven’t slept a wink the last two nights, all thanks to you. It was discovered the day before yesterday, and I held on to it, reading; I have no time during the day, so I read at night. Well, sir, it’s not to my liking: not really my way of looking at things. But that doesn’t matter. I’ve never considered myself much of a literary critic; but I couldn’t tear myself away from it, my dear man, even though it really wasn’t to my liking! The fourth and fifth chapters are… are… are… the devil knows what they are! And what humour you’ve crammed into it; I simply roared with laughter. How you’ve managed to make fun of things sans que cela paraisse!1 And then in the ninth and tenth chapters, all that stuff about love; it’s not my cup of tea, but it’s very effective. I almost started to snivel reading Igrenev’s letter, though it’s a very clever portrait…. You know, it’s very moving, while at the same time you display his sort of false side, isn’t that so? Have I guessed correctly? And I could simply give you a good beating for that ending. What are you trying to say? Why, it’s the same old deification of domestic bliss, childbearing, acquiring capital, and living happily ever after. Good Lord! You’ll enchant your readers, since even I couldn’t tear myself away from it, but that makes it worse. Readers are stupid as ever; that’s why intelligent people have a duty to rouse them, while you… Well, enough is enough. Goodbye. Don’t get angry again. I came to tell you a few important things, but you’re in such a strange mood that…’
p. 370↵Meanwhile Andrei Antonovich took his novel and locked it up in the oak book-case, managing incidentally to give Blum a wink, indicating that he should make himself scarce. He disappeared with a long, mournful face.
‘My mood isn’t all that strange, it’s just that… all these unpleasantries,’ he muttered, frowning but not angry, and sat down by the table. ‘Have a seat and tell me what you came to say. I haven’t seen you in a long time, Peter Stepanovich, but you can’t come rushing in here with such bad manners… especially when I have business to attend to…’
‘My manners never change…’
‘I know that, sir, and I realize you didn’t intend anything, but there are times when one has other worries… Have a seat.’
Peter Stepanovich sprawled on the sofa and in a flash tucked his legs up under him.
3
‘What other worries do you have? It’s not this nonsense, is it?’ he asked, nodding at the political pamphlets. ‘I can bring you as many as you like; I first encountered them in Kh— province.’
‘You mean when you were there?’
‘Well, of course, not when I wasn’t there. There was one pamphlet with a little illustration—an axe drawn on top. Allow me’ (he picked up the pamphlet). ‘Why, yes, there’s an axe drawn here, too. It’s the same one, the very same.’
‘Yes, it’s an axe. Look—an axe.’
‘Well, does the axe frighten you?’
‘It’s not the axe, sir… and I’m not frightened, but this affair… this entire affair is so… there are certain circumstances.’
‘What circumstances? That the pamphlets came from the factory? Ha, ha! You know, don’t you, the workers in that factory will soon be writing their own pamphlets!’
‘What do you mean?’ von Lembke asked sternly.
‘Just what I said. You’d better keep an eye on them. You’re much too kind a man, Andrei Antonovich; you even p. 371↵write novels. You really should deal with it in the good, old-fashioned way.’
‘What do you mean by that? What sort of advice are you giving me? The factory’s been cleaned up; I gave the order and it was cleaned up.’
‘There’s a rebellion among the workers. You should have them all flogged; that would put an end to it.’
‘A rebellion? Nonsense; I gave the order and it was cleaned up.’
‘Hey, Andrei Antonovich, you’re much too kind a man!’
‘In the first place, I’m not all that kind; and in the second place…’ von Lembke said, taking offence yet again. He was speaking to the young man without restraint, out of curiosity, to see if he’d learn something new.
‘Aha, here’s another old friend!’ Peter Stepanovich said, interrupting him, seizing another document that lay under a paperweight. It was like a political pamphlet, apparently published abroad, but written in verse. ‘Well, I know this one by heart: “A Noble Character”!* Let’s see. Sure enough, “A Noble Character” it is. I first became acquainted with this character when I was living abroad. Where did you come across it?’
‘You encountered it abroad?’ von Lembke asked in astonishment.
‘Indeed I did, four or even five months ago.’
‘It seems you saw a great deal abroad,’ von Lembke said, casting a shrewd glance at him. Without even listening, Peter Stepanovich unfolded the piece of paper and read the poem aloud:
A Noble Character
He was a man of common birth, Raised by the humble, close to earth, Of tsarist fury soon he knew, Boyars’ unfailing malice too; He chose a life of suffering, grief, Tortures fierce beyond belief, In hope of making the people see: All should be brothers, equal, free! p. 372↵And when he had stirred a band to rise, He managed to flee to foreign skies, Escaping from under the bastions Of the tsar, from knouts and chains and guns, While from Smolensk to far Tashkent The masses, awakened, fully bent On ending a tyranny so malign, Waited for the student’s sign. United now, they waited his call, Waited his coming to lead them all To put an end at last to tsars, To do away with proud boyars, To give the land back to the folk, And smash that vilest triple yoke, Family, Marriage, a Church that ‘saves’— Lies of the past that keep us slaves!
‘You must have got it from that officer, didn’t you?’ Peter Stepanovich asked.
‘So, you’re also acquainted with that officer?’
‘Of course I am. I spent two days carousing with him. He must have lost his mind.’
‘Perhaps he didn’t lose his mind.’
‘Why, because he started biting people?’
‘But, if you first saw these verses abroad and then, as it turns out, here in that officer’s hands…’
‘So what? Very mysterious! Andrei Antonovich, I can see you’re interrogating me. You see, sir,’ he began suddenly with unusual solemnity, ‘when I returned from abroad I informed certain people about what I’d seen there. My explanations were deemed satisfactory, or else I’d never have honoured this town with my presence. I consider my duty in this matter has been done, and I owe no further explanations to anyone. And my duty was done not because I’m an informer, but because I could act in no other way. Those who wrote to Yulia Mikhailovna understood the matter and described me as an honest man… But to hell with all that! I’ve come to tell you something very serious and it’s a good thing you sent away that chimneysweep of yours. It’s an important matter to me, Andrei Antonovich; I have a very great favour to ask of you.’
p. 373↵‘A favour? Hmm, go on, I’m waiting and, I must confess, with considerable curiosity. In general I must admit you rather surprise me, Peter Stepanovich.’
Von Lembke was somewhat agitated. Peter Stepanovich crossed his legs.
‘In Petersburg’, he began, ‘I spoke openly about many things, but about some, this one, for example’ (he tapped ‘A Noble Character’ with his finger), ‘I said nothing; in the first place, it wasn’t worth talking about, and in the second place, because I answered only those questions I was asked. I don’t like getting ahead of them in this regard; that’s precisely how I see the difference between a scoundrel and an honest man who’s simply compelled by circumstances… But that’s neither here nor there. Well, sir, and now… now that these fools… well, since it’s all come to light and is already in your hands, and, I can see, it can’t be concealed from you—because you’re a man with eyes in his head and it’s impossible to know what you intend to do—while these idiots go on, I… I… well, in a word, I’ve come to ask you to save one man, he’s an idiot, too, perhaps he’s even insane, but to save him on account of his youth, his misfortune, in the name of your own humanity… Surely your humanity is not confined just to those novels you produce!’ he said, suddenly breaking off with rude sarcasm and impatience.
In a word, here was a straightforward man, but awkward and tactless from an overflow of humane feelings and perhaps even an excess of sensitivity; above all, he appeared to be not all that clever, as von Lembke recognized at once with extraordinary shrewdness. He’d suspected this was true for some time, especially last week while sitting alone in his study, particularly late at night, cursing him inwardly with all his might for his inexplicable success in winning Yulia Mikhailovna’s favour.
‘For whom are you pleading and what does all this mean?’ he asked in exalted fashion, trying to conceal his curiosity.
‘It’s… it’s… damn it! It’s not my fault I believe you! Is it my fault if I take you to be an honourable man and above all a sensible one… that is, able to understand… oh, damn it all.’
p. 374↵The poor fellow, apparently, couldn’t gain control of himself.
‘You must understand, of course,’ he continued, ‘you must understand that in telling you his name, I’ll be betraying him to you. I am betraying him, isn’t that so? Isn’t it?’
‘But how on earth can I possibly guess who it is, if you’re not willing to say his name?’
‘That’s precisely what I mean. You can always lay a fellow low with that logic of yours, damn it… damn it all… the “noble character”, the “student”—is Shatov… and that’s all there is to it!’
‘Shatov? What do you mean, Shatov?’
‘Shatov is the “student” referred to in the pamphlet. He lives here; he’s a former serf, the one who gave Stavrogin that slap.’
‘I know, I know!’ said von Lembke, screwing up his eyes. ‘But what exactly, may I ask, is he accused of, and above all, what are you seeking from me?’
I want you to save him, don’t you see? I used to know him eight years ago; I might even have been his friend,’ Peter Stepanovich cried, now beside himself. ‘But I’m not obliged to give you an account of my past life,’ he said, waving his arms. ‘It’s all so insignificant, a total of three and a half men, and if you include those living abroad, it doesn’t even add up to ten. But the main thing is—I’m relying on your humanity, your intelligence. You’ll understand and immediately see the matter in its true light as the absurd dream of someone who’s insane, and not as God knows what… It’s a result of misfortune, you see, prolonged misfortune, and not the devil knows what unheard of conspiracy against the government!…’
He was almost out of breath.
‘Hmmm. I now see he’s responsible for the pamphlets with the axe,’ von Lembke concluded, almost majestically. ‘But how, may I ask, if he was acting alone, did he manage to distribute them here, in the provinces, even in Kh— province and… and, above all, where on earth did he get them?’
‘But I’m telling you there aren’t more than five of them in all, well, maybe ten, how do I know?’
‘How on earth would I know, damn it all!’
‘But you knew Shatov was one of the conspirators, didn’t you?’
‘Oh!’ cried Peter Stepanovich with a wave of his arm, as if fending off his interrogator’s overwhelming perspicacity. ‘Well, listen, I’ll tell you the whole truth: I don’t know anything about the pamphlets, that is, not one thing, damn it all, do you understand, not one thing!… Well, of course that second lieutenant, someone else, and another person here… well, maybe Shatov, and someone else as well, that’s all—such a wretched lot! I came to plead for Shatov; he has to be saved because it’s his poem, his own composition, and it was published abroad through him. That’s what I know for sure; but I don’t know anything about the pamphlets.’
If the verses are his, surely the pamphlets are, too. What grounds do you have for suspecting Mr Shatov?’
With the look of a man who’s lost all patience, Peter Stepanovich took out his wallet from his pocket and extracted a note.
‘Here are the grounds!’ he shouted, tossing the note on the table. Von Lembke unfolded it; it had been written about six months ago and sent abroad; it was very brief, consisting of only a few words:
I can’t print ‘A Noble Character’ here; in fact, I can’t do anything. Print it abroad.
I. Shatov
Von Lembke stared at Peter Stepanovich intently. Varvara Petrovna was right in saying he had the expression of a sheep, sometimes especially so.
‘What I mean is’, Peter Stepanovich burst out suddenly, ‘he wrote these verses about six months ago, but he couldn’t print them here at some secret printing press—therefore he asks to have them printed abroad… That’s clear, isn’t it?’
Yes, it’s clear, but who’s he writing to? That’s still not clear,’ von Lembke observed with subtle irony.
‘To Kirillov, of course; the note was written to Kirillov when he was living abroad… Didn’t you know that? What’s p. 376↵so annoying is you may be only pretending, and in fact you knew all about these verses some time ago, and about everything else as well! How did they turn up here on your desk? It happened somehow! And if so, why are torturing me like this?’
He feverishly wiped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief.
‘I may know a little something…’ von Lembke conceded shrewdly, ‘but who’s this Kirillov?’
‘An engineer who arrived here not long ago; he was Stavrogin’s second. He’s a maniac, a madman. That second lieutenant of yours may only be suffering from d.t.’s, but this fellow’s completely insane—completely, I guarantee it. Oh, Andrei Antonovich, if the government only knew what sort of people they all are, it wouldn’t need to take action against them. Every one should be locked up in an insane asylum; I had my fill of them at various congresses in Switzerland.’
‘Is it from there they direct the movement over here?’
‘Who directs it? Three and a half men. It’s a crashing bore just to look at them. What movement here? Political pamphlets? What kind of people have been recruited: a second lieutenant with d.t.’s and two or three students! You’re a clever man—so here’s a question for you: why can’t they win over more important people to their cause? Why only students and minors with an average age of twenty-two? And not even very many of them! There must be a million bloodhounds out looking for them. How many have been found? Seven. I tell you, it’s a crashing bore.’
Von Lembke listened attentively, but with an expression that said, ‘Don’t expect me to believe these tall tales of yours!’
‘But permit me… you just claimed this note was sent from abroad; there’s no address. How do you know the note was addressed to Mr Kirillov, and above all, how do you know it was sent from abroad and… and… that it really was written by Mr Shatov?’
‘Get a sample of Shatov’s handwriting and compare it. You must have his signature on some document in your p. 377↵office. As for the fact that it was addressed to Kirillov, he himself showed it to me at the time.’
‘Then you yourself must have…’
‘Well, yes, of course. And that wasn’t all I was shown there. As for these verses, they’re supposed to have been written for Shatov by the late Herzen when he was still wandering abroad, in commemoration of their meeting, by way of praise, as a recommendation—damn it all… And now Shatov circulates it among young people as if to say, “This is what Herzen himself thought of me.” ’
‘Aha, now I see,’ said von Lembke, understanding at last. ‘That’s what I was wondering about: I understand about the pamphlet, but why the poem?’
‘Of course you understand! The devil knows why I’ve told you so much. Listen, let me have Shatov, and to hell with the rest of them, even Kirillov who’s locked himself up and is now hiding in Filippov’s house where Shatov also lives. They don’t like me because I’ve made an about-face… but promise me I can have Shatov and I’ll serve you up all the rest of them on a platter. I’ll prove useful, Andrei Antonovich! I reckon the whole wretched lot of them numbers only about nine or ten. I keep an eye on them myself, for my own reasons. We know the identity of three of them already: Shatov, Kirillov, and that second lieutenant. As for the rest—I’m still only keeping my eye on them… but I have a pretty keen eye. It’s the same as in Kh— province—they arrested two students with leaflets, one schoolboy, two twenty-year-old noblemen, a teacher, and a retired major aged sixty who was stupefied with drink. That was all there was to it; and believe me, that mas all. They were even surprised there was no more than that. But we need six days. I’ve got it all worked out—six days, no less. If you want results—don’t bother them for another six days, and I’ll wrap them all up in one bundle for you. If you make a move before then—the birds will fly away. But hand Shatov over to me. I’ve come for him… The best thing would be to summon him secretly, in a friendly way, here to your study, even, and interrogate him after letting him see you know everything already… He’ll probably throw himself at p. 378↵your feet and burst into tears! He’s an extremely nervous man and very unhappy; his wife is having an affair with Stavrogin. Be nice to him and he’ll tell you everything; but we need six days… And above all, above all—not one word to Yulia Mikhailovna. It’s a secret. Can you keep a secret?’
‘What?’ von Lembke said, his eyes bulging. ‘You mean you’ve said nothing at all to Yulia Mikhailovna?’
‘To her? Good Lord, no! You see, Andrei Antonovich, I value her friendship too much and have such high regard for her… and so on… but I won’t make that mistake! I don’t contradict her because, as you well know, it’s dangerous to do so. I may have dropped a hint or two because she’s so fond of it, but I certainly would never dream of providing her with a list of names or anything else, as I’ve just done for you, good Lord, no! Why have I turned to you now? Because you’re a man after all, a serious person, with old-fashioned, reliable experience in the civil service. You’ve been around. I imagine that as a result of your Petersburg days you know by heart every step of the way in matters such as these. But if I were to mention these two names to her, she’d blurt them out all over the place… You know, then she’d really like to astonish all Petersburg. No, sir, she’s too hot-headed, that’s what.’
‘Yes, there’s something of that fougue1 in her,’ Andrei Antonovich muttered not without some satisfaction, at the same time finding it deplorable that this ignoramus dared express himself so freely about Yulia Mikhailovna. Peter Stepanovich, however, probably thought he hadn’t gone far enough and needed to redouble his efforts both to flatter and vanquish von Lembke once and for all.
‘That’s it precisely: fougue,’ he concurred. ‘She may be a brilliant, cultured woman, but—she’ll scare away the birds. She couldn’t keep a secret for six hours, let alone six days. Hey, Andrei Antonovich, don’t try to impose any six-day silence on a woman! You’ll admit I have some experience, in this sort of thing, I mean; well, I know a thing or two about it and you know I do. I’m not asking for these six days just for fun, but because there’s a good reason.’
p. 379↵‘I’ve heard,’ von Lembke said, uncertain whether to utter his thought, ‘I’ve heard that when you returned from abroad, you expressed your… repentance in the appropriate places. Is that so?’
‘Well, something of that sort may have occurred.’
‘Of course, I wouldn’t dream of prying… but you’ve always seemed to me to have been talking in quite a different style here, up to now—about Christianity, for example, social institutions, and even the government…’
‘I’ve said quite a few things. I’m still saying some of them, but there’s no reason to implement these ideas in the same way those idiots do—that’s the whole point. What’s the use of biting someone’s shoulder? You agreed with me yourself, but you said it was too early.’
‘That’s not what I meant when I agreed with you or when I said it was too early.’
‘You certainly weigh each and every word you say, don’t you? You’re a very cautious man!’ Peter Stepanovich remarked cheerfully. ‘Listen, old friend, I needed to get to know you; that’s why I spoke like that. I get to know lots of people that way, not only you. Perhaps I needed to find out about your character.’
‘Why did you need to find out about my character?’
‘Well, how should I know,’ he said, laughing again. ‘You see, my dear, much esteemed Andrei Antonovich, you’re a sly fellow, but it still hasn’t come to that and probably never will, do you understand? Perhaps you do understand. Even though I provided explanations in the appropriate quarter when I returned from abroad, I still don’t know why a person with certain convictions shouldn’t act on the basis of those convictions to further certain ends… But no one there asked me to investigate your character; nor have I undertaken any such mission on my own. Consider the following: instead of revealing those two names to you as I just did, I could’ve gone straight to them, that is, where I first provided those explanations; and if I’d been trying to improve my own finances or gain any other advantage, of course it wouldn’t really benefit me, since now they’ll be grateful to you, not me. I’ve done it solely for Shatov,’ Peter p. 380↵Stepanovich added nobly, ‘solely for Shatov, because of our previous friendship… Well, perhaps when you pick up your pen to write to them, you’ll put in a kind word for me, if you like… I won’t object, ha, ha! Adieu, though; I’ve stayed too long and shouldn’t have said so much!’ he added pleasantly, getting up from the sofa.
‘On the contrary, I’m very glad this matter is being resolved, as it were,’ said von Lembke, standing up, also with an amiable expression, obviously under the influence of Peter’s last words. ‘I’m most grateful for your services; rest assured I’ll do everything in my power to draw attention to your zeal…’
‘Six days, I need above all six days; don’t make a move during the next six days, that’s all I need!’
‘So be it.’
‘Of course, I can’t tie your hands and wouldn’t dare try. You’ll need to keep an eye on them; but don’t disturb the nest before it’s time—that’s where I’m relying on your intelligence and experience. I imagine you have plenty of bloodhounds and sleuth-hounds in reserve, ha, ha!’ Peter Stepanovich blurted out cheerfully, without thinking (like a young man).
‘Not exactly,’ von Lembke said, amiably avoiding a direct answer. ‘That’s the sort of thing young people think—bloodhounds in reserve… Incidentally, allow me to add just this: if Kirillov was Stavrogin’s second, then in that case Mr Stavrogin is…’
‘What about Stavrogin?’
I mean, if they’re such good friends?’
‘Oh, no, no, no! Clever as you are, you’ve missed the point. You surprise me. I thought you had certain information about that. Hmmm, Stavrogin—it’s quite the opposite, I mean, quite… Avis au lecteur.’*!
‘Really? Is that so?’ von Lembke asked in disbelief. ‘Yulia Mikhailovna told me that according to her sources in Petersburg, he was a person with certain… instructions, so to speak.’
‘I know nothing, nothing at all, absolutely nothing. Adieu. Avis au lecteur! Peter Stepanovich said all of a sudden, obviously avoiding the question.
p. 381↵He rushed towards the door.
‘Wait a minute, Peter Stepanovich, wait a minute,’ cried von Lembke. ‘There’s one other little matter; then I won’t keep you any longer.’
He took an envelope from his desk drawer.
‘Here’s a little example of the kind of thing we’ve been talking about. In showing it to you, I’m demonstrating the great trust I place in you. Here it is. What do you think of it?’
In the envelope was a letter—a curious, anonymous letter addressed to von Lembke, received only yesterday. To his intense annoyance, Peter Stepanovich read the following:
Your Excellency:
For that’s who you are by rank. I hereby inform you that an attempt is being made on the lives of certain generals and against the fatherland; that’s where it’s all leading. I myself have been distributing things for many years. And then there’s atheism. A rebellion is in the making; there are several thousand political pamphlets, and for each one of them, a hundred people will come running, their tongues hanging out, if it’s not stopped in time by the authorities, since they’ve been promised great rewards. The common folk are stupid, and there’s vodka besides. People are looking for the guilty party and are destroying both sides, afraid of both one and the other; I repent, but I haven’t really participated in it, in view of my circumstances. If you’d like me to inform to save the fatherland, and the churches and icons as well, I’m the only one who can do it. But only on the condition I receive a pardon from the Third Section* by telegraph immediately, for me alone. Let the others answer for it. Place a candle every evening in the porter’s window at seven o’clock as a signal. When I’ve seen it, I’ll believe it and come and kiss the magnanimous hand from the capital city, but only on condition that I receive a pension, or else, how will I live? You won’t regret it because they’ll give you a medal. We must keep this a secret, or else they’ll wring my neck.
Your excellency’s desperate servant,
Falls at your feet
A repentant free-thinker Incognito
Von Lembke said the letter had turned up yesterday in the porter’s lodge when no one was there.
p. 382↵‘So what do you think?’ Peter Stepanovich asked almost rudely.
‘I’m assuming it’s an anonymous lampoon, meant as a joke.’
‘That’s probably what it is. There’s no hoodwinking you.’
‘What makes me think so is that it’s so stupid.’
‘Have you received any other lampoons like this?’
‘Twice, both anonymous.’
‘Well, of course they wouldn’t be signed. In a different style? Different handwriting?’
‘Different style and handwriting.’
‘As facetious as this one?’
‘Yes, just as facetious, and, you know… quite contemptible.’
‘Well, since there were others, this one must be the same thing.’
‘What makes me think so is that’s it’s so stupid. Those people are educated and probably wouldn’t write such nonsense.’
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘But what if there’s someone who really wants to inform the authorities?’
‘It’s unlikely,’ Peter Stepanovich said dryly, cutting him off. ‘What does he mean by a telegram from the Third Section and a pension? It’s obviously a lampoon.’
‘Yes, yes,’ von Lembke said, embarrassed.
‘You know what? Leave it with me. I’ll find out who wrote it. I’ll find out before the others do.’
‘Take it,’ said von Lembke, agreeing, but with some hesitation.
‘Have you shown it to anyone?’
‘No, of course not. No one.’
‘Not even Yulia Mikhailovna?’
‘Oh, God forbid! And for God’s sake, don’t you show it to her!’ cried von Lembke in a fright. ‘She’d be so upset… and terribly angry with me.’
‘Yes, you’d be the first to catch it; she’d say if people wrote such things, then you deserve it. We know what female logic is like. Well, goodbye. I might even present you with the author of this letter in two or three days. Above all, remember our agreement!’
p. 3834
Peter Stepanovich might not have been a stupid man, but Fedka the convict was right when he used to say, ‘First he gets his own picture of a man, then that’s the man he sees.’ He left von Lembke fully convinced he’d put the latter’s mind at ease for the next six days at least, and he desperately needed that amount of time. But this idea was false and based solely on the assumption that he’d created for himself once and for all an Andrei Antonovich who was an absolute moron.
Like any other morbidly suspicious individual, Andrei Antonovich was always extremely and cheerfully trustful the moment he left uncertainty behind. This new turn of events appeared to him in a rather pleasant light at first, despite the return of certain bothersome complications. At least his old doubts had been laid to rest. Besides, he’d been feeling so tired the last few days, so exhausted and helpless, his soul involuntarily longed for peace and quiet. But alas, once again he was troubled. His prolonged residence in Petersburg had left indelible traces on his soul. The official, even confidential history of the ‘new generation’ was rather familiar to him—he was an inquisitive person and collected political pamphlets—but he never really understood anything about it. Now he felt he was lost in a forest: all his instincts told him that Peter Stepanovich’s words contained something completely and utterly unintelligible—although ‘the devil only knows what could happen with this “younger generation” and what’s going on with them!’ he mused, lost in perplexity.
Then, at that very moment, as if deliberately, Blum stuck his head in the door. Throughout Peter Stepanovich’s visit he’d been waiting close by. Blum was actually a distant relative of von Lembke’s, but this fact had been carefully and fearfully concealed. I must ask the reader’s indulgence for wasting a few words on this insignificant character. Blum belonged to the strange class of ‘unfortunate Germans’—not because he lacked talent, but for no good reason whatever. These ‘unfortunate Germans’ are no myth; they really do p. 384↵exist, even in Russia, and they are a special type. All his life Andrei Antonovich had the most touching sympathy for him and always, wherever he could, as he moved up in the civil service, promoted him to a subordinate post within his own jurisdiction; but Blum had no luck anywhere. Either the post was abolished or someone else was appointed as his superior; once he was almost put on trial with some other people. He was conscientious, but excessively gloomy, with no reason and to his own disadvantage. He had red hair and was tall, stooping, cheerless, even sensitive; but in spite of his low standing, he was insistent and stubborn as an ox, always on the wrong occasion. He and his wife and their numerous children had for many years felt a deep attachment for Andrei Antonovich. Except for Andrei Antonovich, no one had ever liked him. Yulia Mikhailovna had tried to get rid of him at once, but was unable to overcome her husband’s resistance. It was the first quarrel of their married life and it occurred right after their wedding, during their honeymoon, when Blum suddenly showed up. He’d been carefully concealed from her up to then, along with the embarrassing secret of their relationship. Andrei Antonovich implored her with clasped hands, relating with emotion the whole story of Blum and of their friendship since childhood, but Yulia Mikhailovna felt humiliated for ever and even resorted to fainting. Von Lembke didn’t yield an inch and declared he’d never abandon Blum for anything on earth and never part with him. She was very surprised and finally agreed to let Blum stay. But they resolved that the relationship should be concealed even more carefully than before, if that were possible, and that even Blum’s first name and patronymic should be changed, since he was also called Andrei Antonovich. Blum knew nobody in our town except the German pharmacist, and he didn’t visit anyone; as was his custom, he led a meagre and lonely existence. For a long time he’d known about Andrei Antonovich’s literary peccadilloes. He was usually summoned to private readings from the novel, and would have to sit for six hours at a time; he perspired and expended great effort not to fall asleep and to keep smiling; upon returning home he’d complain to his p. 385↵long-legged, lanky wife about his benefactor’s unfortunate proclivity for Russian literature.
Andrei Antonovich gave Blum an anguished look.
‘I beg you to leave me in peace, Blum,’ he began in agitated haste, obviously hoping to avoid any resumption of their previous conversation interrupted by Peter Stepanovich’s arrival.
‘But it could be arranged in a most delicate manner, with no publicity whatsoever; you have all the power you need,’ Blum was insisting on something respectfully, but obstinately, bending forward, moving closer and closer to Andrei Antonovich with tiny steps.
‘Blum, you’re so devoted to me and so eager to serve that every time I look at you I’m overcome by panic.’
‘You always say caustic things and then, feeling so pleased with yourself, you fall asleep peacefully; but by doing that you’re only hurting yourself.’
‘Blum, I’ve just become convinced that we’ve made quite a mistake, quite a mistake.’
‘Surely not as a result of what that false, vicious young man just said to you, someone you yourself have been so suspicious about? He’s won you over by flattering your literary talent.’
‘Blum, you don’t understand a thing; your idea is stupid, I’m telling you. We won’t find anything; there’ll be an awful outcry, then people will laugh, then Yulia Mikhailovna will…’
‘We’ll undoubtedly find everything we’re looking for,’ Blum said, advancing firmly towards him and placing his right hand over his heart. ‘We’ll conduct the search suddenly, early in the morning, maintaining utmost courtesy towards the person involved, observing the letter of the law precisely. The young men, Lyamshin and Telyatnikov, positively insist we’ll find everything we want. They’ve been there many times. No one is well disposed toward Stepan Trofimovich. General Stavrogin’s widow has openly refused to continue as his benefactress; every honest man, if there are any to be found in this vulgar little town, is convinced that the root and source of godlessness and social criticism p. 386↵has always been hidden there. He has all sorts of prohibited books, Ryleev’s Meditations* all Herzen’s works… I’ve drawn up a rough list, just in case…’
‘Good Lord! Everyone has those books. You’re so naive, my poor Blum!’
‘And quite a few political pamphlets,’ Blum went on without hearing his remark. ‘We’ll end by discovering the person who’s been producing the pamphlets here. That young Verkhovensky looks extremely suspicious to me.’
‘But you’re confusing the father with the son. They’re not on good terms; the son laughs openly at his father.’
‘That’s only a front.’
‘Blum, you must have taken an oath to torment me! Just think, he’s a prominent person around here. He was a professor; he’s well known and will raise hell. People all over town will make fun of us and we’ll lose everything… Just think what Yulia Mikhailovna will say!’
Blum carried on without listening.
‘He was only a lecturer, a mere lecturer, and only a collegiate assessor when he retired from the civil service,’ he said, striking his chest. ‘He has no awards for distinction; he was dismissed from the service on suspicion of participating in plots against the government. He was placed under secret surveillance and probably still is. In view of the disorders which have recently come to light here, you’re certainly obligated to act. In fact, you’re missing a chance to earn yourself distinction by sheltering the real criminal.’
‘Yulia Mikhailovna’s coming! Get out of here, Blum!’ von Lembke cried all of a sudden, hearing his wife’s voice in the next room.
Blum gave a start, but didn’t relent.
‘Please, sir, allow me,’ he persisted, pressing both hands even more firmly to his chest.
‘Get out of here!’ Andrei Antonovich cried, grinding his teeth. ‘Do whatever you want… afterwards… Oh, my God!’
The curtain parted and Yulia Mikhailovna entered. She paused majestically at the sight of Blum, giving him a haughty, insulting glance, as if the man’s presence alone offended her. Blum silently and respectfully made a deep p. 387↵bow and, stooping from respect, he headed for the door on tiptoe, holding his arms a little away from his body.
Whether he really took Andrei Antonovich’s last hysterical exclamation as direct authorization to do as he asked, or whether he merely pretended to do so for his benefactor’s own good, feeling all too certain that success would crown his efforts—still, as we’ll see later, as a result of this conversation between the governor and his subordinate, a most unexpected event occurred. It amused many people, received considerable publicity, aroused Yulia Mikhailovna’s wrath, and utterly disconcerted Andrei Antonovich, throwing him into a state of deplorable indecision at a most critical moment.
5
It turned out to be a very busy day for Peter Stepanovich. After seeing von Lembke, he hurried off to Bogoyavlenskaya Street, but as he was going along Bykova Street past the place where Karmazinov* was staying, he suddenly stopped, smiled, and entered the house. He was informed that he was expected, a fact that interested him very much, since he’d never even indicated he might come.
But the great writer really was expecting him, and had been expecting him the day before and even the day before that. Three days earlier he’d entrusted him with the manuscript of ‘Merci’ (which he planned to read at the literary matinée on the day of Yulia Mikhailovna’s fête); he’d done it out of generosity, certain the young man’s vanity would be pleasantly flattered by the chance to read the great work in advance. Peter Stepanovich had long since noticed that this vain, spoiled gentleman, who held himself so offensively aloof from all but a few, this man of ‘almost statesmanlike intellect’, was simply trying to ingratiate himself with him, and was all too eager to do so. I think the young man finally guessed that even if Karmazinov didn’t consider him to be the leader of the secret revolutionary movement in all Russia, then at least he considered him one of those most fully initiated into the secrets of that movement and possessing indisputable influence over the younger generation. p. 388↵The state of mind of this ‘cleverest man in all Russia’ interested Peter Stepanovich, but up to then, for various reasons, he’d avoided any serious conversation with him.
The great writer was residing in the home of his sister, the wife of a court chamberlain and a landowner in our district. Both of them, husband and wife, stood in awe of their distinguished relative, but, to their great regret, at the time of this present visit they were both away in Moscow, and the honour of receiving him passed to an old woman, a very distant and poor relative of the court chamberlain’s, who lived in their house and had been in charge of housekeeping for quite some time. After Karmazinov’s arrival, the entire household moved about on tiptoe. The old woman reported almost daily to Moscow how well he slept and what he deigned to eat; once she’d even dispatched a telegram with the news that after a certain dinner party at the mayor’s house, he was obliged to swallow a teaspoon of a particular kind of medicine. She entered his room only on very rare occasions when his manner to her was polite but dry, and he would speak to her only when absolutely necessary. When Peter Stepanovich arrived, Karmazinov was eating his morning cutlet and drinking half a glass of red wine. Peter Stepanovich had visited him before and every time found him partaking of his morning cutlet which he would consume in his presence, without ever offering him anything. After the cutlet he was brought a small cup of coffee. The footman who served the food was wearing a frock-coat, soft-soled boots, and gloves.
‘Aha!’ Karmazinov said, rising from the sofa, wiping his mouth with a napkin, and with an expression of pure joy came forward to exchange kisses—a characteristic habit of Russians if they’re really very famous. But Peter Stepanovich recalled from his own experience that although Karmazinov would indicate a willingness to exchange kisses, he merely extended his own cheek to be kissed; so this time he did exactly the same thing. Their two cheeks met. Karmazinov gave no indication he noticed anything; he sat down on the sofa and gestured amiably to an armchair, into which Peter Stepanovich promptly slumped.
p. 389↵‘Would you… you wouldn’t like anything to eat, would you?’ his host enquired, forsaking his usual practice this once, but with an air indicating that, of course, a polite refusal was clearly expected. Peter Stepanovich immediately expressed a desire to have lunch. A shadow of offended surprise flitted across the host’s face, but only for a moment; he nervously summoned his servant, and, in spite of his good breeding, raised his voice disdainfully as he ordered another meal.
‘What do you want, a cutlet or some coffee?’ he asked again.
‘A cutlet and some coffee, and tell him to bring some wine too—I’m famished,’ Peter Stepanovich replied, scrutinizing his host’s apparel with calm attention. Mr Karmazinov was wearing an indoor quilted jacket with mother-of-pearl buttons, but the jacket was too short and therefore most unbecoming to his rather prominent belly and well-padded hips; but tastes can certainly differ. A checkered woollen blanket covered his knees and hung down to the floor even though it was quite warm in the room.
‘Are you ill, or what?’ Peter Stepanovich enquired.
‘No, I’m not ill, but I’m afraid of falling ill in this climate,’ the writer replied in his shrill voice, though stressing each syllable very tenderly and lisping in a pleasant, aristocratic manner. ‘I’ve been expecting you since yesterday.’
‘Why? I made no promises.’
‘Yes, but you have my manuscript. Have you… read it?’
‘Manuscript? What manuscript?’
Karmazinov was terribly surprised.
‘Surely you’ve brought it with you?’ he asked, so disturbed all of a sudden that he actually stopped eating and stared at Peter Stepanovich with a look of alarm.
‘Ah, you mean that “Bonjour” piece of yours…?’
‘ “Merci”.’
‘Well, whatever: I forgot all about it and haven’t read it. I haven’t had the time. Well, I don’t know, it’s not in any of my pockets… it must be at home on my table. Don’t worry, it’ll turn up.’
p. 390↵‘No, I’ll send someone to fetch it immediately. It might disappear, or even be stolen.’
‘Oh, who’d want it? Why are you so worried? Yulia Mikhailovna says you always have several copies—one abroad with your notary, another in Petersburg, a third in Moscow, and you also send one to your bank, don’t you?’
‘But Moscow could burn down again, my manuscript with it. No, I’ll send for it at once.’
‘Wait a moment, here it is!’ said Peter Stepanovich, pulling a bundle of paper from his back pocket. ‘It got a little crumpled. Just think, ever since I took it from you it’s been stashed away in my back pocket with my handkerchief; I forgot all about it.’
Karmazinov snatched the manuscript greedily, carefully examining it, counting the pages, and placing it with respect on a special little table next to him so he could keep his eye on it all the time.
‘Apparently you don’t do much reading,’ he hissed, unable to restrain himself.
‘No, not much.’
‘And, as far as Russian literature is concerned—none at all?’
‘Russian literature? Wait a moment, I did read something… Along the Road, or On the Road, or At the Crossroads* I don’t remember exactly what it was. I read it a long time ago, maybe five years. I don’t have much time.’
A brief silence followed.
‘As soon as I arrived I assured everyone here you were an extremely intelligent young man; now, it seems, they’re all crazy about you.’
‘Thank you,’ Peter Stepanovich replied calmly.
His lunch was served. Peter Stepanovich pounced on the cutlet with great gusto, devoured it in an instant, drank the wine and gulped down the coffee.
‘This boor,’ thought Karmazinov, glancing at him as he finished off his own cutlet and swallowed the last of his coffee, ‘this boor probably grasped the full meaning of my caustic remark… and I’m sure he read my manuscript eagerly; now he’s lying just to show off. But what if he’s p. 391↵not lying and really is quite stupid? I prefer men of genius to be a little stupid. Isn’t he considered to be some sort of genius among them here?… But to hell with him.’
He got up from the sofa and began pacing the room from corner to corner, to aid digestion, as he did every day after lunch.
‘Are you leaving soon?’ asked Peter Stepanovich from his armchair, lighting a cigarette.
‘I really came here to sell my estate and now everything depends on my manager.’
‘Didn’t you come here because they were expecting an epidemic over there after the war?’
‘N-no, that’s not entirely why,’ Mr Karmazinov continued, emphasizing his words in a good-natured way, and giving a jaunty little kick with his right foot each time he rounded the corner as he paced the room. ‘I really intend’, he said with a laugh, not without venom, ‘to go on living as long as possible. There’s something in our Russian gentry that makes it wear out very quickly, in all respects. But I intend to wear out as late as possible and now I’m going to live abroad for good; the climate is better there, the buildings are made of stone, and everything is sturdier. I think Europe will last through my lifetime. What do you think?’
‘How should I know?’
‘Hmmm. If Babylon* really came crashing down there and its collapse was very great (I’m in complete agreement with you about that, although I think it’ll last my lifetime), there’s really nothing to come crashing down here in Russia, comparatively speaking. We have no stones to fall; everything will merely dissolve into dust. Holy Russia is less capable of offering resistance than any place on earth. Simple people still manage to carry on with their Russian God; but this Russian God, according to latest accounts, is extremely unreliable and has barely survived the emancipation of the serfs; He was badly shaken up, at least. And now there’re railways, and here you are… I don’t believe in the Russian God any more.’
‘And in the European one?’
p. 392↵‘I don’t believe in any god. I’ve been slandered in the face of Russia’s younger generation. I’ve always sympathized with all its movements. I’ve been shown the political pamphlets circulating here. People regard them with astonishment, because the form frightens them, but everyone’s convinced of their power, even if they don’t admit it. Everything’s been going downhill for some time now, and everyone knows there’s nothing to grab hold of. For that reason I’m already convinced of the success of the mysterious propaganda maintaining that for the most part Russia is now the only place in the whole world where anything at all can happen without any opposition. I understand all too well why wealthy Russians have been hastening to go abroad, and with every year the number grows larger and larger. It’s merely a matter of instinct. If a ship starts to sink, the rats are the first to leave. Holy Russia is a land of wooden huts, a poor country and… a dangerous one, a country with ambitious paupers in its upper classes, while the majority of people live in ramshackle huts. Russia would welcome any way of escape—just show it to her. Only the government still tries to resist, but it merely waves its cudgel around in the darkness and strikes its own supporters. Everything here is doomed and condemned. Russia, as it is now, has no future. I’ve become a German and I’m proud of it.’
‘But you started to say something about the pamphlets. Tell me everything: what do you think of them?’
‘Everyone’s afraid of them, so they must be very powerful. They openly expose deceit and prove there’s nothing here to grab hold of and nothing to rely upon. They speak out, while everyone else remains silent. The most impressive thing about them (in spite of their form) is their unprecedented capacity to look truth straight in the eye. Only Russians of the younger generation have this ability. No, in Europe people aren’t that bold: there, the kingdom is a rock and there’s still something to rely on. As much as I can see and as far as I can judge, the essence of the Russian revolutionary idea consists in the negation of honour. I like the fact that it’s expressed so boldly and fearlessly. No, in Europe it wouldn’t be understood yet, but here it’s just p. 393↵what we can latch on to. For Russians honour is merely an unnecessary burden. It always was a burden, throughout our history. The frank “right to dishonour” will attract Russians more than anything else. I belong to the older generation; I confess, I’m still in favour of honour, but only out of habit. I simply prefer old forms, let’s say, out of cowardice; still, one must live out one’s life.’
He stopped suddenly.
‘But I’m doing all the talking,’ he thought to himself, ‘while he keeps silent and watches me. He came here so I’d ask him a direct question. I will.’
‘Yulia Mikhailovna asked me to find out from you by using some subterfuge what sort of surprise you’re planning for the ball the day after tomorrow?’ Peter Stepanovich asked suddenly.
‘Yes, it really will be a surprise, and I shall indeed astonish…’ Karmazinov began with great dignity. ‘But I won’t tell you what the secret is.’
Peter Stepanovich didn’t insist.
‘A man by the name of Shatov lives around here, I believe?’ the great writer enquired. ‘Just think, I haven’t seen him yet.’
‘He’s a very nice person. What of it?’
‘Nothing. He’s going around saying things. Wasn’t he the one who slapped Stavrogin’s face?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what do you think of Stavrogin?’
‘I don’t know; he’s a womanizer, I hear.’
Karmazinov hated Stavrogin because he had the habit of taking no notice of him whatever.
‘If what these political pamphlets predict ever happens here,’ he said with a giggle, ‘that womanizer will probably be the first to be strung up on a tree.’
‘Perhaps even sooner than that,’ Peter Stepanovich replied suddenly.
‘Serve him right,’ Karmazinov said, no longer laughing and agreeing rather too earnestly.
‘You said that once before, you know, and I told him.’
‘What? Did you really?’ Karmazinov said, laughing again.
p. 394↵‘He said that if he were to be hanged, it would suffice for you to be flogged, not merely as a formality, but so it really hurt, the way a peasant is flogged.’
Peter Stepanovich took his hat and stood up. Karmazinov held out both hands to him on parting.
‘And what if,’ he squeaked suddenly in a voice sweet as honey and with a special intonation, hanging on to Peter’s hands, ‘what if everything that’s being planned… were to come about… when would it occur?’
‘How should I know?’ Peter Stepanovich answered somewhat rudely. They both looked intently into each other’s eyes.
‘Roughly? Approximately?’ Karmazinov squeaked even more weakly.
‘You’ll have time to sell your estate and get out of here,’ Peter Stepanovich muttered even more rudely. They were glaring at each other.
There was a moment of silence.
‘It’ll start at the beginning of May and will all be over by October,’ Peter Stepanovich said all of a sudden.
‘Thank you. Thank you very much,’ Karmazinov said in an emotional voice, clasping his hands.
‘You’ll have time, you rat, to leave the ship!’ Peter Stepanovich thought to himself as he reached the street. ‘Well, if this “almost statesmanlike intellect” enquires so confidently about the day and hour, and then thanks me so respectfully for the information, there’s no reason for us to doubt ourselves.’ He smiled. ‘Hmmm. And he really isn’t all that stupid… he’s merely an escaping rat; he won’t inform on us!’
He ran over to Filippov’s house on Bogoyavlenskaya Street.
6
Peter Stepanovich went first to see Kirillov. He was alone, as usual, and doing his exercises in the middle of his room, that is, standing with his legs spread apart, having his arms above his head in some special way. A ball lay on the floor. His morning tea stood on the table, cold and not yet cleared away. Peter Stepanovich paused on the threshold for a moment.
p. 395↵‘I see you’re very concerned about your health,’ he said in a loud, cheerful voice as he entered the room. ‘And what a fine ball you have. Look at it bounce! Is it also part of your exercises?’
Kirillov put on his jacket.
‘Yes, it’s also for my health,’ he muttered drily. ‘Sit down.’
‘I’ve only come for a minute. But I’ll sit down. Your health is one thing, but I’ve come to remind you about our agreement. “In a certain sense” the time is approaching,’ he concluded, making an awkward movement.
‘What agreement?’
‘What do you mean, what agreement?’ Peter Stepanovich asked in dismay; he was quite alarmed.
‘It’s not an agreement and not an obligation; in no way am I obligated. That’s a mistake on your part.’
‘Look here, what are you doing?’ Peter Stepanovich leapt to his feet.
‘Just as I like.’
‘Which is?’
‘Just as before.’
‘How am I supposed to take that? Does it mean you’re still of the same mind?’
‘Yes. But there’s no agreement and never was, and I’m in no way obligated. It was my own free will then and it’s my own free will now.’
Kirillov explained himself in a curt tones of disgust.
‘I agree, I agree, your own free will, fine, as long as you don’t change your mind.’ Peter Stepanovich sat down again with a satisfied expression. ‘You’re getting angry over a word. You’ve become very bad-tempered lately, that’s why I haven’t been to see you. Besides, I was sure you wouldn’t change your mind.’
‘I don’t like you at all, but you can be absolutely sure. Even though I really don’t believe in betrayal or loyalty.’
‘But look,’ Peter Stepanovich said, alarmed once again, ‘we must try to talk sense so nothing goes wrong. This matter demands precision, but you keep startling me. Can we talk about it?’
p. 396↵‘Speak,’ Kirillov snapped, looking away into the corner.
‘Some time ago you decided to take your own life… that is, such was your idea. Am I expressing myself correctly? Am I mistaken?’
‘I still have the same idea.’
‘Splendid. Note: no one forced it upon you.’
‘Of course not; now you’re being stupid.’
‘All right, I said something very stupid. Undoubtedly it would be stupid to force you to do it. I’ll continue: you were a member of the Society under its old form of organization and you revealed this idea to one of its members.’
‘I didn’t reveal it, I merely told him.’
‘All right. It would be funny to “reveal” it—it’s no confession, is it? You merely told him. Fine.’
‘No, it’s not fine because you keep on mumbling. I’m not obliged to provide you with any explanation; besides you’re incapable of understanding any of my ideas. I want to take my own life because that’s my idea, because I don’t want to be in fear of death, because… because it’s none of your business… What do you want? Would you like some tea? That’s cold. I’ll get you another glass.’
Peter Stepanovich had actually picked up the teapot and was looking for an empty glass. Kirillov went to the cupboard and brought him a clean one.
I just had lunch at Karmazinov’s house,’ the guest remarked. ‘I listened to him talking, got in quite a sweat, and then came running over here. I got in a sweat again, and I’m dying for something to drink.’
‘Go on then. Cold tea’s nice.’
Kirillov sat down on the chair again and looked away into the comer.
‘The idea has occurred to the Society’, he continued in the same voice, ‘that if I kill myself I could be useful to them: after you create a disturbance and they come looking for the guilty party, I’ll suddenly shoot myself and leave a letter saying I did it and then they won’t suspect you for a whole year.’
‘For a few days at least; even one day is valuable.’
‘Good. In that connection I was told that if I agreed, I p. 397↵should wait. I said I’d wait until the time was determined by the Society because it makes no difference to me.’
‘Yes, but remember, when you write your last letter, you’re under an obligation to confer with me; since your arrival in Russia, you were to be… well, in short, at my disposal, I mean only in this respect, of course; in every other way you’d be free, naturally,’ Peter Stepanovich added almost amiably.
‘I’m not under any obligation, but I did agree because it makes no difference to me.’
‘Fine, fine, I have no intention of wounding your pride, but…’
‘It’s not a matter of pride.’
‘Remember that a hundred and twenty thalers was collected for your travel expenses, and you took the money.’
‘Not at all,’ Kirillov said, flushing. ‘That’s not what the money was for. People don’t take money for that sort of thing.’
‘Some do.’
‘You’re lying. I made a statement in a letter from Petersburg and gave you back the hundred and twenty thalers in Petersburg—right into your hands… the money was sent from there, if you didn’t keep it all for yourself.’
‘Fine, fine, I won’t argue with you; the money was sent. The main thing is you’re still of the same mind as you were then.’
‘I am. When you come to tell me “It’s time”, I’ll do it. Well, will it be soon?’
‘Not long at all… Remember, we’ll compose the note together, that very night.’
‘Or that day. You said I’d have to claim responsibility for the political pamphlets, didn’t you?’
‘And something else as well.’
‘I won’t take responsibility for everything.’
‘What won’t you take responsibility for?’ Peter Stepanovich looked startled again.
‘Anything I don’t want to; that’s enough. I don’t wish to talk about it any more.’
Peter Stepanovich took a grip on himself and changed the subject.
p. 398↵‘There’s something else,’ he began. ‘Will you be with us this evening? It’s Virginsky’s birthday and that’s a pretext for gathering.’
I don’t want to.’
‘Do me a favour and come. You must. We have to impress them with our number and the way we look… You have… well, in a word, you have a fateful face.’
‘You think so?’ Kirillov asked with a laugh. ‘Fine, I’ll come, but not because of the way I look. What time?’
‘Oh, as early as possible—half-past six. And you know, you can come in and sit down; you don’t have to talk to anyone, however many there are. But don’t forget to bring paper and pencil.’
‘What for?’
‘It makes no difference to you, does it? It’s my special request. You’ll merely sit there, without talking to anyone, listen, and pretend to take a few notes now and then; you can even draw if you like.’
‘What nonsense. What for?’
‘Well, it makes no difference to you; you keep saying it makes no difference.’
‘No, what for?’
‘Here’s why: one member of the Society, the inspector, remained in Moscow, but I told someone here that an inspector might come to visit. They’ll think you’re the inspector, and since you’ve already been here for three weeks, they’ll be even more surprised.’
‘Silly tricks. You have no inspector in Moscow.’
‘All right, so we don’t, to hell with him! What business is that of yours and what trouble is it to you? You’re a member of the Society.’
‘Tell them I’m the inspector; I’ll sit there in silence, but I don’t like the idea of the paper and pencil.’
‘Why not?’
I don’t like it.’
Peter Stepanovich lost his temper, even turned green with anger, but he got control of himself again, rose and picked up his hat.
‘Is he here?’ he asked suddenly in a whisper.
‘That’s good. I’ll take him away soon, don’t worry.’
‘I’m not worried. He merely spends the night here. The old woman is in the hospital; her daughter-in-law died. I’ve been alone the last two days. I showed him the place in the fence where the board can be removed; he crawls through and no one sees him.’
‘I’ll take him away soon.’
‘He says there are many places where he could spend the night.’
‘He’s lying. They’re looking for him, but he won’t be noticed here. You don’t talk with him, do you?’
‘Yes, all night He abuses you a great deal. At night I read to him from Revelation and we drink tea. He listens very, very carefully, all night long.’
‘Oh, hell, you’ll turn him into a Christian!’
‘He’s already a Christian. Don’t worry, he’ll still slit throats. Whose throats do you want him to slit?’
‘No, that’s not why I want him; it’s for something else… Does Shatov know about Fedka?’
‘I don’t talk to Shatov and don’t see him.’
‘Is he angry, or what?’
‘No, we’re not angry with one another, we just avoid each other. We lived together in America for too long.’
‘I’m going to see him right now.’
‘That’s up to you.’
‘Stavrogin and I might also come to see you later, sometime around ten o’clock.’
‘All right.’
‘I have to talk to him about some important… I say, can I have your ball? What use is it to you now? I’ll use it for my exercises, too. I’ll pay you for it, if you like.’
‘Take it.’
Peter Stepanovich put the ball in his back pocket.
I won’t give you anything against Stavrogin,’ Kirillov muttered as he showed his visitor out. Peter looked at him in astonishment, but said nothing.
Kirillov’s last words troubled Peter Stepanovich a great deal; he still hadn’t managed to make sense of them when he started up the stairs to Shatov’s room, trying to replace p. 400↵his dissatisfied expression with a pleasant smile. Shatov was at home, not feeling very well. He lay on his bed, fully clothed.
‘Oh, bad luck!’ cried Peter Stepanovich from the threshold. ‘Are you seriously ill?’
The pleasant smile suddenly disappeared from his face; a malicious gleam appeared in his eyes.
‘Not at all,’ Shatov replied, nervously jumping up. ‘I’m not ill; a bit of a headache…’
He became quite flustered; the sudden appearance of such a visitor had definitely frightened him.
‘I’ve come to see you about a matter that won’t allow for any illness,’ Peter Stepanovich began quickly and almost peremptorily. ‘May I sit down.’ He did so. ‘You sit back down on the bed. That’s it. Today, on the pretext of marking Virginsky’s birthday, some of our group are meeting at his place. There won’t be any hidden agenda; I’ve seen to that. I’m coming with Nikolai Stavrogin. Of course I wouldn’t have dragged you there, knowing your present state of mind… wouldn’t, I mean, have inflicted it on you, it’s not that we think you might inform on us. But as it turns out, you need to be there. You’ll meet the very people who have to decide how you can leave the Society and to whom you can turn over what you’ve got. We’ll do it without being noticed; I’ll take you off into a corner. There’ll be a lot of people, and there’s no reason for everyone to know. I must confess I had to do a lot of talking on your behalf; but now, it seems, they’re all agreed, as long as you turn over the printing press and all the papers. Then you’ll be free to go wherever you like.’
Shatov heard him out, frowning and resentful. His previous nervous alarm had left him entirely.
‘I recognize no obligation whatever to account to you in any damned way,’ he said abruptly. ‘No one has any right to set me free.’
‘Not exactly. You were entrusted with a great many things. You had no right to break with us like that. And, finally, you’ve never explained your position clearly; that put them into an ambiguous situation.’
p. 401↵‘As soon as I came here I stated my position clearly in a letter.’
‘No, not very clearly,’ Peter Stepanovich calmly demurred. ‘For example, I sent you “A Noble Character” to print here and asked you to keep the copies until they were needed; the same with those two political leaflets. You sent everything back to us with an ambiguous letter which didn’t mean anything.’
‘I simply refused to print it.’
‘Yes, but not simply. You wrote, “I can’t”, but you didn’t explain why. “I can’t” doesn’t mean “I don’t want to.” One might have concluded that you couldn’t do it simply for financial reasons. That’s how it was understood; they thought you were still willing to continue your association with the Society and they could entrust you with other matters. As a result, they might have compromised themselves. What they’re saying here is that you simply meant to deceive them: you’d receive some important communication and would then inform on them. I defended you with all my might and showed them your brief letter as evidence in your favour. But, after rereading those two lines of yours, I had myself to acknowledge the letter was unclear and possibly misleading.’
‘You’ve kept that letter so carefully all this time?’
‘It makes no difference if I’ve kept it all this time; I still have it.’
‘Well, the hell with it!’ Shatov cried furiously. ‘Let your friends think I informed on them! What do I care? I’d like to see what you can do to me!’
‘Your name might be noted and when the revolution has its first success you could be hanged.’
‘Will that be when you seize power and control all Russia?’
‘No need to laugh. I tell you, I stood up for you. But whatever you think I’m still advising you to show up today. Why waste words from false pride? Wouldn’t it be better to part as friends? In any case, you have to turn over the printing press, the type, and old papers—that’s what we’ll talk about.’
p. 402↵‘I’ll come,’ Shatov muttered, head bent in thought. Peter Stepanovich looked askance at him from where he sat.
‘Will Stavrogin be there?’ Shatov asked suddenly, raising his head.
‘He certainly will.’
‘Ha, ha!’
They were silent for another moment. Shatov had a scornful, irritable grin on his face.
‘And what about that disgusting “Noble Character” of yours—the thing I refused to print here? Has it been published?’
‘Yes.’
‘To make schoolboys think that Herzen himself wrote in your album?’
‘Herzen himself.’
They were silent for about, three minutes. At last Shatov got up from the bed.
‘Get out of here! I don’t want to be here with you any longer.’
‘I’m going,’ Peter Stepanovich replied, quite cheerfully even, standing up slowly. ‘One thing more: does Kirillov live all alone in the annexe, without any servants?’
‘All alone. Get out, I can’t stand being in the same room with you.’
‘Well, what a splendid fellow you are!’ Peter Stepanovich mused cheerfully as he went out into the street. ‘And you’ll be just as splendid this evening, and that’s just what I need; it couldn’t possibly be better. The Russian God Himself must be helping us!’
7
He’d probably been very busy that day running all sorts of errands—and, apparently, he’d been very successful, judging from the self-satisfied expression on his face when he arrived precisely at six o’clock that evening at Nikolai Stavrogin’s house. But he was not admitted immediately; Maurice Nikolaevich had just entered and was closeted in the study with Nikolai Vsevolodovich. This bit of news disturbed Peter Stepanovich. He sat down very close to the door p. 403↵waiting for the guest to leave. They could be heard conversing, but it was impossible to make out what they said. The visit didn’t last very long; soon a noise could be heard, then the sound of a very loud, sharp voice, after which the study door opened and Maurice Nikolaevich came out looking pale as a ghost. He didn’t notice Peter Stepanovich and walked past him quickly. Peter rushed straight into the study.
I can’t omit a fairly detailed account of this very brief encounter between the two ‘rivals’—an encounter which seemed inconceivable in the circumstances, but which had nevertheless taken place.
This is what happened: Nikolai Vsevolodovich was dozing on the sofa in his study after dinner when Aleksei Yegorevich announced the arrival of an unexpected visitor. When he heard the visitor’s name, Stavrogin jumped up from the sofa and could scarcely believe it. But a smile soon appeared on his lips—a smile of arrogant triumph and, at the same time, of vague, incredulous astonishment. As he entered, Maurice Nikolaevich was apparently struck by what this smile expressed; at least he stopped suddenly and froze in the middle of the room, as if unable to decide whether to proceed or turn back. His host then managed to alter his expression and went forward to greet him with an appearance of earnest wonder. The visitor didn’t shake his host’s outstretched hand, pulled up a chair awkwardly and without saying a word sat down before his host did, not waiting to be asked. Nikolai Vsevolodovich sat on the sofa half-facing him, and waited in silence.
‘Marry Lizaveta Nikolaevna, if you can,’ Maurice Nikolaevich said suddenly. He made this sudden offer, and what was so curious was that it was impossible to tell from his tone what he really meant: whether it was a request, a recommendation, a surrender, or a command.
Nikolai Vsevolodovich remained silent. Obviously the visitor hadn’t said all he’d come to say; he looked straight at Stavrogin, waiting for an answer.
‘If I’m not mistaken (and I’m sure I’m not), Lizaveta Nikolaevna is already engaged to you,’ Stavrogin said at last.
p. 404↵‘Promised and betrothed,’ Maurice Nikolaevich attested firmly and clearly.
‘Have you… quarrelled? Forgive my asking, Maurice Nikolaevich.’
‘No, she “loves and respects” me, in her own words. Her words are more precious to me than anything.’
‘No doubt about that.’
‘But you should know that even if she were standing at the altar during our wedding, and you were to call her, she’d abandon me and everyone else and go running to you.’
‘In the middle of your wedding?’
‘And afterwards, even.’
‘You’re not mistaken?’
‘No. Through her persistent, sincere, and intense hatred of you come frequent bursts of love and… madness… the most sincere and immeasurable love and—madness! On the other hand, through the love she feels for me, which is also sincere, come frequent bursts of hatred—such intense hatred! Never before could I have conceived of such… metamorphoses. ’
‘But I’m astonished you can come here and dispose of Lizaveta Nikolaevna’s hand? Do you have any right to do so? Or has she authorized you?’
Maurice Nikolaevich frowned and looked down for a moment.
‘You’re just saying that,’ he said suddenly. ‘Saying it in revenge and triumph. I’m sure you can read between the lines, and is this the place for petty vanity? Aren’t you quite satisfied? Is it really necessary to spell it out and dot all the i’s? I will dot them, if you so much need to humiliate me. I have no right whatever—there’s no question of authorization. Lizaveta Nikolaevna knows nothing, but her fiancé has lost his mind and is ready for the lunatic asylum; to crown it all, he’s come here to tell you that himself. You’re the only one on earth who can make her happy, and I’m the only one who can make her unhappy. You run after her, pursue her, but won’t marry her, I don’t know why. If it’s a lovers’ quarrel you had abroad, and if you need to sacrifice me to end it—then do so. She’s too unhappy, I can’t stand p. 405↵it. What I said doesn’t constitute permission or instruction, so there’s no insult to your pride. If you wanted to take my place at the altar, you could’ve done so without my permission, and I wouldn’t have come to you with my madness. All the more so since our wedding is no longer possible after these steps I’m now taking. I can’t lead her to the altar if I’m a scoundrel, can I? What I’m doing here and the fact that I’m giving her to you, perhaps her worst enemy, is, in my opinion, such a despicable act that I’ll never get over it.’
‘Will you shoot yourself on our wedding day?’
‘No, much later. Why should I soil her wedding dress with my blood? Perhaps I won’t shoot myself at all, neither now, nor later.’
‘I suppose you’re saying that just to put my mind at ease.’
‘You? What could shedding a few more drops of blood mean to you?’
He turned pale and his eyes glinted. There followed a moment of silence.
‘Excuse me for asking you these questions,’ Stavrogin began again. ‘I had no right to ask some of them, but it seems to me I have every right to ask you one thing: tell me, what basis have you for coming to such a conclusion about my feelings for Lizaveta Nikolaevna? I mean your assumption about the strength of my feelings, such that you’d come and… risk making such a proposal.’
‘What?’ cried Maurice Nikolaevich with a slight shudder. ‘Haven’t you been trying to win her? Aren’t you trying to win her now and don’t you want her?’
‘In general I don’t discuss my feelings for one or another woman with anyone, whoever it might be, except the woman herself. Forgive me, but that’s a peculiarity of my temperament. But I’ll tell you the truth about everything else: I’m already married. Therefore it would be impossible for me to marry or even to try to “win” someone else.’
Maurice Nikolaevich was so astonished that he fell back in his chair and stared into Stavrogin’s face for some time without moving a muscle.
‘Imagine, I never thought of that,’ he muttered. ‘You said that morning you weren’t married… so I took it that you weren’t…’
p. 406↵He turned terribly pale; suddenly he banged his fist on the table with all his might.
‘If, after such a confession, you don’t leave Lizaveta Nikolaevna alone and if you make her unhappy, I’ll beat your brains out with a stick, like a dog in a ditch!’
He jumped up and left the room quickly. When Peter Stepanovich came running in he found his host in a most unexpected frame of mind.
‘Oh, so it’s you!’ Stavrogin cried and burst into loud laughter; he seemed to be laughing only at the sudden appearance of Peter Stepanovich, who’d come running in so full of curiosity.
‘Were you eavesdropping at the door? Wait a moment, why have you come? I promised you something or other… Oh, yes! I remember: The meeting of “our” group! Let’s go. I’m very glad. You couldn’t have thought of anything more appropriate to the moment.’
He grabbed his hat and the two of them left the house at once.
‘You’re laughing in anticipation of meeting “our” group?’ Peter Stepanovich cried cheerfully, fawning over him, first trying to keep pace beside his companion on the narrow brick pavement, and then even running alongside in the street, right in the mud, because his companion was completely unaware he was walking in the middle of the pavement and hogging it all to himself.
‘I’m not laughing at all,’ Stavrogin replied loudly and cheerfully. ‘On the contrary, I’m sure they’ll be very serious people there.’
‘ “Dismal dunces”, as you were once kind enough to call them.’
‘There’s nothing more amusing than dismal dunces.’
‘Ah, you must be thinking of Maurice Nikolaevich! I’m sure he came to cede his fiancée to you, right? It was I who urged him to do it, indirectly, of course. And if he doesn’t give her up, we’ll take her ourselves, won’t we?’
Peter Stepanovich knew, of course, he was taking a risk by broaching such a subject, but once he was excited, he preferred to risk everything rather than remain in ignorance. Nikolai Vsevolodovich merely laughed.
p. 407↵‘So you’re still planning to help me out?’ he asked.
‘If you call on me. But you know there’s a better way.’
‘I know your way.’
‘No, you don’t, it’s still a secret. But remember, the secret costs money.’
‘I know how much it costs,’ muttered Stavrogin, but he controlled himself and fell silent.
‘How much? What did you say?’ Peter Stepanovich asked with a start.
‘I said, “The hell with you and your secret!” You’d do better to tell me who’ll be there. I know we’re going to a birthday party, but who exactly will be there?’
‘Oh, all sorts of people! Even Kirillov will be there.’
‘Are they all members of circles?’
‘The devil take it, you’re in such a rush! We’ve yet to form one circle here.’
‘How did you manage to distribute so many pamphlets?’
‘There are only four members of the circle where we’re heading now. The rest are waiting to get in; they spy on one another and come running to me with their reports. They’re a reliable lot. They’re raw material that must be organized, and then we can clear out. But you wrote the rules yourself—there’s no need to explain any of it to you.’
‘Well, is it hard going? Any problems?’
‘Hard going? Couldn’t be better. Let me tell you something amusing: the first thing that impresses people is a uniform. There’s nothing more powerful. I’ve devised titles and duties: we have secretaries, secret emissaries, treasurers, chairmen, registrars and their deputies—they like it and it’s working very well. The next powerful force is, of course, sentimentality. In this country socialism spreads chiefly as a result of sentimentality, you know. The trouble is second lieutenants who bite; try as you may, you run up against them. Then there’s the out-and-out swindlers; but they’re ; not really such a bad lot. Sometimes it’s even quite useful to have them around, but they take up so much time and require constant supervision. Last of all, the most important force—the cement that holds everything else together—is their being ashamed to possess their own opinions. Now p. 408↵that’s a real force! And who’s worked so hard, who’s the “dear man”* who’s laboured so diligently that not one single idea of their own has been left in their heads? They’d consider it a disgrace.’
‘But if it’s like that, why are you fussing around?’
‘Well, if you see someone lolling around gaping, you’ve got to grab him! You don’t seem seriously to believe we’ll succeed? Oh, there’s faith enough, but what’s wanted is the will. Oh yes, it’s precisely with people like that we can succeed. I tell you they’ll go through fire for me, I only have to keep shouting at them that they’re not sufficiently liberal. The fools reproach me with having deceived them about the central committee and its “innumerable branches”. You blamed me for that once yourself: but I’m not deceiving them, am I? You and I are the central committee—and soon there’ll be as many branches as you like!’
‘They’re all scum, nevertheless!’
‘They’re raw material. Even they will prove useful.’
‘And are you still counting on me?’
‘You’re the head, you’re a force; I’ll merely be at your side, your secretary. We’ll board our little boat, you know, oars of maple, sails of silk,* a fair maiden sitting at the helm, the lovely Lizaveta Nikolaevna… or however the hell that song goes…’
‘You’re stuck!’ Stavrogin laughed. ‘No, let me provide a little introduction for your tale. Are you counting up on your fingers all the forces that make circles? All your bureaucracy and sentimentality—it’s all good cement. But there’s one thing that’s even better: persuade four members of a circle to finish off a fifth on the pretext that he’s an informer, and you’ll immediately bind them together with the blood that’s been shed. They’ll become your slaves; they won’t dare rebel or call you to account. Ha, ha, ha!’
‘Well, well, well,’ thought Peter Stepanovich to himself, ‘you’ll have to pay for those words—perhaps as soon as this evening. You let yourself go too far.’
That’s what, or approximately what, Peter Stepanovich must have been thinking to himself. But they were already approaching Virginsky’s house.
p. 409↵‘You’ve probably described me as some sort of member from abroad in contact with the Internationale, perhaps even as an inspector?’ Stavrogin asked suddenly.
‘No, not an inspector: you won’t be the inspector. But you’re a founding-member from abroad who knows the most important secrets—that’s your role. You’ll speak, won’t you?’
‘Where did you get that idea?’
‘You’re obliged to speak now,’
Stavrogin stopped in amazement in the middle of the street, not far from a street-lamp. Peter Stepanovich met his stare with brazen calm. Stavrogin spat and walked on.
‘And are you going to speak?’ he asked Peter Stepanovich suddenly.
‘No, I’m going to listen to you.’
‘Damn you! In fact you’ve given me a good idea!’
‘What’s that?’ Peter Stepanovich cried in alarm.
‘Perhaps I will speak, but afterwards I’ll beat you up, and, I tell you, beat you up properly.’
‘By the way, I told Karmazinov this morning that you said he should he flogged, and not merely for form’s sake, but the way a peasant is flogged, so it hurt.’
‘I never said anything like that, ha, ha!’
‘Never mind. Se non è vero…’*
‘Well, thank you. I’m very grateful.’
‘Do you know what Karmazinov said? That our creed is essentially the negation of honour and that the surest way to get a Russian to follow you is to promise him the right to dishonour.’
‘Splendid words! Golden words!’ cried Stavrogin. ‘It gets right to the heart of the matter! The right to dishonour—why, they’ll all come running to us, not one would be left behind! Listen here, Verkhovensky, you’re not working for the secret police are you?’
‘Surely anyone who thinks of questions like that wouldn’t dare utter them aloud.’
I understand, but we’re alone.’
‘No, for the time being I’m not working for the secret police. Hold on, we’re here. Compose yourself, Stavrogin; I always do before I enter. Look as gloomy as you can, p. 410↵that’s all. You don’t need to do anything else; it’s really quite simple.’