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p. 438Chapter 8

Ivan the Tsarevichlocked

p. 438Chapter 8

Ivan the Tsarevichlocked

  • Fyodor Dostoevsky

They went out. Peter Stepanovich was about to rush back to the ‘meeting’ to quell the chaos, but probably deciding it wasn’t worth the trouble he left it all and two minutes later was already rushing down the street after the other pair. Along the way he remembered the short cut to Filippov’s house; wading up to his knees in mud, he hurried along the lane, and indeed did arrive just as Stavrogin and Kirillov were entering the gates.

‘You’re here already?’ Kirillov observed. ‘That’s good. Come in.’

‘I thought you said you lived alone?’ asked Stavrogin as he passed a boiling samovar in the hallway.

‘You’ll soon see who I live with,’ Kirillov mumbled. ‘Come in.’

As soon as they entered Verkhovensky pulled from his pocket the anonymous letter he’d taken from von Lembke and set it before Stavrogin. All three of them sat down. Stavrogin read the letter in silence.

‘Well?’ he asked.

‘That scoundrel will do what he says here,’ Verkhovensky explained. ‘Since he’s under your control, you must tell us what to do about him. I can assure you that tomorrow he may very well go to see von Lembke.’

‘Well, let him go.’

‘What do you mean, “Let him go”? Especially if we can prevent it.’

‘You’re making a mistake; he doesn’t depend on me. Besides, I don’t care; he poses no threat to me. He only poses a threat to you.’

‘And to you.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘But others may not spare you, don’t you understand? Listen, Stavrogin, you’re merely playing with words: You don’t begrudge the money, do you?’

p. 439‘So it’ll take money, will it?’

‘Absolutely, two thousand roubles… fifteen hundred at least. Give it to me tomorrow or even today, and tomorrow evening I’ll send him off to Petersburg, which is exactly what he wants. If you like, even with Marya Timofeevna—note that.’

There was something distracted about him; he was speaking somewhat carelessly, without weighing his words. Stavrogin looked at him in astonishment.

‘I have no reason to send Marya Timofeevna away.’

‘Perhaps you don’t even want to?’ Peter Stepanovich said with a sarcastic smile.

‘Perhaps I don’t.’

‘In a word, will I get the money or not?’ he shouted at Stavrogin in furious impatience and rather imperiously. Stavrogin stared at him gravely.

‘There won’t be any money.’

‘Hey, Stavrogin! Do you know something or have you done something already? You’re just fooling around!’

His face was distorted, the corners of his mouth quivered, and he suddenly burst out laughing in a strange, inappropriate way.

‘But you just got some money from your father for your estate,’ Nikolai Vsevolodovich observed serenely. ‘Maman just paid you six or eight thousand roubles for Stepan Trofimovich. You can pay the fifteen hundred out of your own funds. I don’t want to pay for other people; I’ve given so much already, it’s rather annoying…’ he said, chuckling at his own words.

‘Ah, now you’re starting to make jokes…’

Stavrogin stood up; Verkhovensky jumped up at once and stood with his back against the door, as if trying to prevent him from leaving. Nikolai Vsevolodovich was about to push him away from the door and leave, but all of a sudden he stopped.

‘I won’t give you Shatov,’ he said. Peter Stepanovich started; they stared at each other.

‘I told you earlier why you need Shatov’s blood,’ said Stavrogin, his eyes flashing. ‘You want it to cement your p. 440little group together. Just now you managed very cleverly to drive Shatov away. You knew only too well he wouldn’t say, “I won’t inform”, and he’d consider it beneath him to tell you a lie. But me? What do you need me for now? You’ve been pestering me since we met abroad. Everything you’ve told me so far is pure nonsense. Meanwhile you suggest I hand fifteen hundred roubles over to Lebyadkin and provide Fedka with a reason to slit his throat. I know you think I’d like him to slit my wife’s throat, too. By involving me in the crime, you hope to gain power over me, isn’t that so? What do you need that power for? What the hell do you want me for? Once and for all have a good look at me: am I your man? And leave me alone.’

‘Did Fedka come to see you?’ Verkhovensky asked breathlessly.

‘Yes, he did; his price is also fifteen hundred roubles… He’ll tell you that himself, there he is…’ Stavrogin said, stretching out his hand.

Peter Stepanovich turned around quickly. On the threshold, out of the darkness, emerged a new figure—Fedka, wearing a sheepskin coat, but without a hat, as if at home. He stood there grinning, baring his even white teeth. His black eyes with their yellowish gleam darted cautiously around the room examining the gentlemen. There was something he didn’t understand; Kirillov had obviously brought him in just now and his questioning gaze returned to him. He stood on the threshold, but didn’t want to enter the room.

‘He’s probably here to listen to our business deal or even to see the money in our hands, isn’t that so?’ asked Stavrogin; without waiting for an answer, he left the house. Verkhovensky caught up with him at the gate almost in a mad frenzy.

‘Stop! Not one step!’ he cried, grabbing him by the elbow. Stavrogin tried to shake off his arm, but couldn’t. He was overcome with fury: seizing Verkhovensky by the hair with his left hand, he hurled him to the ground with all his might and went out of the gate. But he hadn’t gone thirty paces before Verkhovensky caught up with him.

p. 441‘Let’s make up, let’s make up,’ he said to him in a convulsive whisper.

Stavrogin shrugged, but didn’t stop or turn around.

‘Listen, tomorrow I’ll bring you Lizaveta Nikolaevna. Do you want her? No? Why don’t you answer? Tell me what you want and I’ll do it. Listen, I’ll give you Shatov if you like.’

‘Then it must be true you’re planning to murder him?’ cried Nikolai Vsevolodovich.

‘Why do you want Shatov? What for?’ the madman carried on, all out of breath and very rapidly, constantly running ahead and grabbing Stavrogin by the elbow, probably without noticing he did so. ‘Listen: I’ll give him to you. Let’s make up. Your price is very high, but… let’s make up!’

Stavrogin glanced at him at last and was astonished. This was not the same look, the same voice as Peter usually had, and had had back there in the room: now he saw a different face. The tone of the voice was different: Verkhovensky was imploring him, beseeching him. This was a man whose most precious possession was being taken away, or had been already, and he’d yet to recover from the shock.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ cried Stavrogin. He didn’t answer, but ran after him with the same imploring but at the same time relentless expression.

‘Let’s make it up!’ he whispered once again. ‘Listen, I have a knife hidden in my boot, just like Fedka, but I’ll still make up with you.’

‘What the hell do you need me for?’ Stavrogin cried in positive rage and amazement. ‘Is there some kind of mystery here or what? Am I to be your talisman?’

‘Listen, we’ll stir up trouble,’ the other muttered rapidly, almost deliriously. ‘You don’t think we can do it? We’ll stir up such trouble that everything will be shaken loose from its foundations. Karmazinov is right when he says there will be nothing to grab hold of. Karmazinov is very clever. Let there be only ten such groups in all Russia, and they can’t touch me.’

‘They’re all such fools,’ Stavrogin remarked involuntarily.

‘Oh, try to be more foolish yourself, Stavrogin, try to be more foolish! You know, you’re not so clever one can’t wish p. 442you that: you’re afraid, you lack faith, and you’re frightened by the magnitude of it all. Why are they fools? They’re not really such fools; nowadays no one has a mind of his own. There are very few original minds these days. Virginsky is a man with a pure heart, ten times purer than ours; well, so be it. Liputin is a scoundrel, but I know his weak spot. There’s not one scoundrel who doesn’t have a weak spot. Only Lyamshin has no weak spot; on the other hand, I hold him in my hand. A few more groups and I’ll have passports and money everywhere. Isn’t that good? Well, isn’t it? And hiding places—let them look. They may uproot one group, but they’ll miss others. We’ll make trouble… Don’t you really think two of us are enough?’

‘Take Shigalyov and leave me in peace…’

‘Shigalyov’s a genius! You know he’s a genius like Fourier? But he’s bolder than Fourier, stronger. I’ll look after him. He’s discovered “equality”.’

‘He’s feverish and raving; something very peculiar has happened to him,’ Stavrogin thought, looking at him again. They both walked on without stopping.

‘He’s got it all just right in that notebook of his,’ Verkhovensky continued. ‘He has a system for spying. Every member of the society spies on every other one and is obliged to inform. Everyone belongs to all the others and the others belong to each one. They’re all slaves and equal in their slavery. In extreme cases there’s slander and murder, but for the most part—equality. In the first place the level of education, science, and accomplishment is lowered. A high level of science and accomplishment is accessible only to those possessing the highest abilities; and who needs those abilities? Those with higher abilities have always seized power and become despots. Those with higher abilities can’t help being despots and have always done more harm than good; they’ll either be banished or executed. Cicero’s tongue will be cut out, Copernicus’s eyes will be gouged out, Shakespeare will be stoned—there’s Shigalyov’s system for you! Slaves must be equal: without despotism there’s never been any freedom or equality, but there must be equality in the herd. That’s Shigalyov’s system! Ha, ha, ha! Does it p. 443seem strange to you? I’m for Shigalyov!’

Stavrogin tried to quicken his pace and get home as soon as possible. ‘If this fellow’s drunk, how did he manage it?’ he wondered. ‘Surely not the brandy?’

‘Listen, Stavrogin: it’s a fine idea to level mountains—there’s nothing ridiculous in that. I’m for Shigalyov! There’s no need for education; we’ve had enough science! Even without science we have enough material for the next thousand years; but we must have obedience. The one thing the world needs is obedience. The desire for education is an aristocratic idea. As soon as a man experiences love or has a family, he wants private property. We’ll destroy that want: we’ll unleash drunkenness, slander, denunciation; we’ll unleash unheard-of corruption; we’ll suffocate every genius in its infancy. Everything will be reduced to a common denominator of complete equality. “We’ve learned a trade, we’re honest men, and we need nothing more”, that’s the answer provided recently by English workers. Only what’s necessary is necessary—that’s the motto of the whole world from now on. But an upheaval is necessary, too; we rulers will take care of that. Slaves must have rulers. Complete obedience, total loss of individuality, but once in thirty years Shigalyov permits an upheaval and everyone starts devouring one another, up to a certain point, just to avoid boredom. Boredom is an aristocratic sensation; in Shigalyov’s system there’ll be no desires. Desire and suffering are for us, while Shigalyov’s system is for slaves.’

‘Do you exclude yourself?’ Stavrogin asked, despite himself again.

‘And you too. You know, I was thinking of giving the whole world to the pope. Let him come out barefoot and show himself to the crowd: “See what they’ve driven me to!” he’ll say; everyone will follow him, even the army. The pope will be on top, we’ll be around him, and under us—Shigalyov’s system. All we need is for the Internationale to come to an agreement with the pope; that will happen, too. And the little old man will agree at once. He has no other choice; mark my words. Ha, ha, ha. Is it stupid? Tell me, is it stupid or not?’

p. 444‘That’s enough,’ muttered Stavrogin in annoyance.

‘Enough! Listen, I’ve given up the pope! And to hell with Shigalyov’s system! To hell with the pope! What we need is something more base, not Shigalyov’s system, because it’s too precious. It’s an ideal, something in the future. Shigalyov is a jeweller and he’s stupid, like any philanthropist. We need dirty work; Shigalyov despises dirty work. Listen: the pope will live in the West, while we here will have—you!’

‘Get away from me; you’re drunk!’ Stavrogin muttered, quickening his pace.

‘Stavrogin, you’re a very handsome man!’ cried Peter Stepanovich almost in ecstasy. ‘Do you know how handsome you are? The best thing about you is you sometimes don’t know it. Oh, I’ve studied you! Sometimes I look at you sideways on from the corner! There’s even something sincere and naive about you, do you know that? There is, really there is! You must suffer, suffer sincerely, as a result of that simplicity. I love beauty. I’m a nihilist, but I love beauty. Don’t nihilists love beauty? It’s only idols they don’t love, but I even love idols! You’re my idol! You never offend anyone, but everyone hates you; you regard everyone as your equal, but everyone’s afraid of you, and that’s good. No one ever comes to slap you on the shoulder. You’re a terrible aristocrat. When an aristocrat goes in for democracy, it’s irresistible. It means nothing to you to sacrifice life, whether yours or someone else’s. You’re just the sort of person needed. You’re just the sort I need. I know of no one else but you. You’re the leader, the sun, and I’m your worm…’

Verkhovensky suddenly kissed his hand. A chill ran down Stavrogin’s back and he withdrew his hand in alarm. They stopped walking.

‘You’re mad!’ whispered Stavrogin.

‘Perhaps I’m raving, perhaps I am!’ Verkhovensky said, speaking very quickly. ‘But I’ve thought up the first step. Shigalyov could never think up the first step. There are lots of Shigalyovs! But there’s only one man in all Russia who’s discovered the first step and who knows how to take it. I’m that man. Why are you staring at me? I need you, you’re p. 445necessary to me. Without you, I’m nothing. Without you I’m a fly, an idea in a glass bottle, Columbus without America.’

Stavrogin stood and stared intently into his mad eyes.

‘Listen, first we’ll stir up trouble,’ Verkhovensky said in terrible haste, constantly clutching at Stavrogin’s left sleeve. ‘I’ve told you already. We’ll get to the common herd. Do you know we’re already very powerful? Our people aren’t just those who slit throats and set fires, who use pistols in the classic manner and bite other people. Those people only interfere. I don’t understand anything without discipline. I’m a scoundrel, after all, not a socialist, ha, ha! Listen, I’ve counted them all over: a teacher who laughs with his children at their God over their cradle is already one of us. A lawyer who defends an educated murderer by arguing he’s more cultured than his victims, and couldn’t help murdering to acquire money, is one of us already. Schoolboys who murder a peasant just to experience the sensation are already with us. Juries who acquit criminals right and left are with us. The public prosecutor who trembles in court because he’s not sufficiently liberal is with us. Administrators, men of letters, oh, there are lots of them, lots, and they don’t even know they’re with us! On the other hand, the obedience of schoolboys and fools has reached the highest level; their teachers’ gall bladders overflow with bile; vanity has spread everywhere and bestial appetites have grown to enormous proportions… Do you know, do you really know how many people we’ll attract with our ready-made little ideas? When I went abroad, Littré’s theory* that crime is insanity was all the rage; now I return home to find crime is no longer insanity, but some kind of common sense, almost an obligation, at least a noble protest. “How can a murderer refrain from committing murder if he needs money?” But that’s only the beginning. The Russian God has already capitulated to cheap vodka. The common people are drunk, mothers are drunk, children are drunk, churches are empty, and in our courtrooms the choice is between “two hundred lashes or a bucketful of vodka”. Oh, just wait until this generation grows up! It’s a pity there’s no time to wait, or p. 446we might’ve let them get even drunker! Ah, what a pity there’s no proletariat! But there will be, there will be, it’s coming to that…’

‘It’s also a pity we’ve grown more stupid,’ Stavrogin muttered and resumed his way home.

‘Listen, I myself saw a six-year-old child leading his drunken mother home, while she was swearing at him, using foul language. Do you think I’m happy about that? When she falls into our hands we’ll cure her… if it’s necessary we’ll drive them into the desert for forty years… But one or two generations of vice are essential now; frightful, disgusting vice, turning man into filthy, cowardly, cruel, selfish scum—that’s what we need! What’s more, a little “fresh blood” so we can get used to it. What are you laughing at? I’m not contradicting myself. I’m merely contradicting the philanthropists and proponents of Shigalyov’s system, not myself. I’m a scoundrel, not a socialist. Ha, ha, ha! It’s a pity there’s so little time. I promised Karmazinov it would begin in May and end in October. Is that too soon? Ha, ha! Do you know what I’ll tell you, Stavrogin: although Russians use foul language, there’s been no cynicism among them up to now. You know the peasant slave had more self-respect than Karmazinov? They may have beaten him up, but he always stood up for his gods; Karmazinov didn’t.’

‘Well, Verkhovensky, this is the first time I’ve listened to you, and I’m really astounded,’ muttered Nikolai Vsevolodovich. ‘You’re not really a socialist at all, but some kind of ambitious… politician.’

‘A scoundrel, a scoundrel. Are you worried about who I am? I’ll tell you who I am; I was just coming to that. I had a reason for kissing your hand. People must believe we know what we want and that others are merely “swinging their cudgels and clubbing their own followers”. Hey, if only there were more time! The great misfortune is there’s no time. We’ll proclaim destruction… why, why again is this little idea so fascinating? But we must get some exercise. We’ll spread fires… We’ll spread legends… Every mangy little group of five will prove useful. I’ll find you such devoted followers in these groups that they’ll be willing to p. 447shoot at anyone and will even be grateful for the honour. Well, sir, then the trouble will begin! There’ll be an upheaval such as the world has never seen… Rus’* will be shrouded in mist and the land will weep for its old gods…. Well, sir, then we’ll unleash… do you know who?’

‘Who?’

‘Ivan the Tsarevich.’*

Who?

‘Ivan the Tsarevich; you, you!’

Stavrogin thought for a moment.

‘The Pretender?’ he asked suddenly, staring at the madman in astonishment. ‘Ah, so that’s your plan at last.’

‘We’ll say he’s been “in hiding”,’ Verkhovensky said quietly in a tender whisper, as if really drunk. ‘Do you know what that little phrase means, “He’s in hiding”? But he’ll appear, he will. We’ll put about a legend even better than the one the Castrates have. He exists, but no one’s ever seen him. Oh, what a fine legend we could put about! The main thing is—a new force is imminent. That’s what they need, that’s what they’re weeping for. And what is there in socialism anyway? It destroyed the old forces, but failed to introduce any new ones. But here’s a force, a tremendous, unbelievable force! We need only one lever to lift the earth. Everything will be moved!’

‘So you’ve been counting on me in earnest,’ Stavrogin said with a malicious laugh.

‘Why are you laughing and why so maliciously? Don’t frighten me. I’m like a child now and I can be scared to death by just one little smile like that. Listen, I’ll show you to no one, no one: that’s how it must be. He exists, but no one’s seen him; he’s in hiding. You know, it would be possible, even, to show him to one man, say, in a hundred thousand. And it would go all round the earth: “We’ve seen him, we’ve seen him.” Ivan Filippovich, God of Sabaoth,* was seen too, ascending to heaven in a chariot before a multitude of his followers who saw him “with their own eyes”. And you’re no Ivan Filippovich; you’re a handsome man, proud as a god, seeking nothing for yourself, with an aura of sacrifice, who’s “in hiding”. The main thing is the p. 448legend! You’ll conquer them; you’ll need only look, and you’ll conquer them. He’s bearing a new truth, but he’s “in hiding”. We’ll hand down two or three judgements of Solomon at this point. Our little groups, our groups of five—we don’t need any newspapers! If you grant only one petition out of ten thousand, everyone will come forward with them. In each district every peasant will know there’s a hollow tree where petitions are to be deposited. The earth will resound with the cry: “A new, just law is coming.” The oceans will seethe, the whole show will come crashing down, and then we’ll plan to set up a stone structure. For the first time! We shall build it, we alone!’

‘Madness,’ said Stavrogin.

‘Why, why don’t you want it? Are you afraid? I’ve seized upon you because I thought you were afraid of nothing. Is that unreasonable? I’m still Columbus without America; is Columbus without America really reasonable?’

Stavrogin was silent. Meanwhile they’d come to his house and stopped at the front door.

‘Listen,’ said Verkhovensky, bending down to his ear. ‘I’ll do it for you without money. I’ll finish with Marya Timofeevna tomorrow… without money; and tomorrow I’ll bring you Liza. Do you want Liza tomorrow?’

‘Has he really gone mad?’ Stavrogin wondered with a smile. The front door opened.

‘Stavrogin, is America ours?’ Verkhovensky asked, seizing his sleeve for the last time.

‘What for?’ Nikolai Vsevolodovich replied earnestly and severely.

‘You have no desire—I knew it!’ he cried in a burst of furious spite. ‘You’re lying, you worthless, lecherous, perverted little aristocrat, I don’t believe you, you’ve the appetite of a wolf!… You must know your bill’s already been run up too high—I can’t give you up now! There’s no one else on earth like you! I invented you when I was abroad; looking at you, I invented it all. If I hadn’t watched you from my corner, none of it would ever have come into my head!’

Stavrogin climbed the stairs without answering.

p. 449‘StavroginP Verkhovensky shouted after him. ‘I’ll give you a day… well, two days… three; I can’t give you more than three. And then—your answer!’