Demons, p.66
Demons, page 66
"Do you or do you not want to have a proper passport and good money to travel where you were told. Yes or no?"
"You see, Pyotr Stepanovich, you began deceiving me from the very first beginning, whereby you come out to me as a real scoundrel. The same as a vile human louse—that's what I count you as. You promised me big money for innocent blood, and swore an oath for Mr. Stavrogin, though what comes out is nothing but your own uncivility. I got no share of it, as I live, not a drop, to say nothing of fifteen hundred, and Mr. Stavrogin slapped your face the other day, which is already known to me. Now you're threatening me again and promising money—for what business, you won't say. And I have doubts in my mind that you're sending me to Petersburg to revenge your wickedness with whatever you've got on Mr. Stavrogin, Nikolai Vsevolodovich, trusting in my gullibility. And by that you come out as the foremost murderer. And do you know what you deserve now by this sole point that in your depravity you've ceased to believe in God himself, the true creator? The same thing as an idolater, and on the same lines as a Tartar or a Mordovian. Alexei Nilych, being a philosopher, has manifoldly explained to you the true God, the creator and maker, and about the creation of the world, and equally about the future destinies and transfiguration of every creature and every beast from the book of the Apocalypse. But you, like a witless idol, persist in your deafness and dumbness, and have brought Ensign Erkel to the same thing, like that same evildoer and seducer called the atheist..." "Ah, you drunken mug! You strip icons, and then preach God!" "You see, Pyotr Stepanovich, I'll tell you it's true that I stripped them; but I only took the pearlies off, and how do you know, maybe that same moment my tear, too, was transformed before the crucible of the Almighty, for some offense against me, since I'm just exactly that very same orphan, not even having any daily refuge. Do you know from the books that once upon some ancient times a certain merchant stoled a pearl from the nimbus of the Most Holy Mother of God with just exactly the same tearful sighing and praying, and afterwards returned the whole sum right at her feet, in public, on his knees, and our Mother and Intercessor overshadowed him with her veil before all the people, so that on this subject a miracle even came about at that time, and it was ordered by way of the authorities to write it down exactly into the state books. But you let the mouse in, and so you blasphemed against the very finger of God. And if you weren't my natural master, who I used to carry in my arms when I was still a youth, I'd do you in right now, as I live, without even moving from this spot!"
Pyotr Stepanovich became exceedingly wrathful.
"Speak, did you see Stavrogin today?"
"There's one thing you daren't ever to do—to question me. Mr. Stavrogin, as he lives, stands amazed before you, nor took part by his wishes, to say nothing of any orders or money. Me you dared."
"You'll get the money, and you'll also get the two thousand, in Petersburg, on the spot, the whole sum, and still more."
"You're lying, my gentle sir, and it's funny for me even to see such a gullible man as you are. Mr. Stavrogin stands before you like on a ladder, and you're yapping at him from below like a silly tyke, whereas he regards it as doing you a big honor even to spit on you from up there."
"And do you know," Pyotr Stepanovich flew into a rage, "that I won't let you take a step out of here, you scoundrel, and will hand you straight over to the police?"
Fedka jumped to his feet and flashed his eyes furiously. Pyotr Stepanovich snatched out his revolver. Here a quick and repulsive scene took place: before Pyotr Stepanovich could aim the revolver, Fedka instantly swerved and struck him in the face with all his might. At the same moment another terrible blow was heard, then a third, a fourth, all in the face. Crazed, his eyes goggling, Pyotr Stepanovich muttered something and suddenly crashed full-length to the floor.
"There he is, take him!" Fedka cried with a victorious flourish, instantly grabbed his cap, his bundle from under the bench, and made himself scarce. Pyotr Stepanovich lay gasping, unconscious. Liputin even thought a murder had taken place. Kirillov rushed headlong down to the kitchen.
"Water on him!" he cried, and scooping some from a bucket with an iron dipper, he poured it over his head. Pyotr Stepanovich stirred, raised his head, sat up, and looked senselessly in front of him.
"Well, how's that?" asked Kirillov.
The man went on looking at him intently and still without recognition; but catching sight of Liputin, who stuck himself out from the kitchen, he smiled his nasty smile and suddenly jumped up, snatching the revolver from the floor.
"If you decide to run away tomorrow like that scoundrel Stavrogin," he flew at Kirillov in a frenzy, all pale, stammering and articulating his words imprecisely, "I'll hang you like a fly... squash you ... at the other end of the globe... understand!"
And he pointed the revolver straight at Kirillov's forehead; but at almost the same moment, recovering his senses completely at last, he jerked his hand back, shoved the revolver into his pocket, and, without another word, went running out of the house. And Liputin after him. They climbed through the same hole and again went along the slope holding on to the fence. Pyotr Stepanovich began striding quickly down the lane, so that Liputin could barely keep up with him. At the first intersection, he suddenly stopped.
"Well?" he turned to Liputin with a challenge.
Liputin remembered the revolver and was still trembling all over from the scene that had taken place; but the answer somehow suddenly and irrepressibly jumped off his tongue of itself:
"I think ... I think that 'from Smolensk to far Tashkent they're not so impatiently awaiting the student.’”
"And did you see what Fedka was drinking in the kitchen?"
"What he was drinking? He was drinking vodka."
"Well, know that he was drinking vodka for the last time in his life. I recommend that you remember that for your further considerations. And now, go to the devil, you're not needed until tomorrow... But watch out: no foolishness!"
Liputin rushed headlong for home.
IV
He had long kept ready a passport in a different name. It is wild even to think that this precise little man, a petty family tyrant, a functionary in any case (though a Fourierist), and, finally, before all else, a capitalist and moneylender—had long, long ago conceived within himself the fantastic notion of readying this passport just in case, so as to slip abroad with its help if. . . so he did allow for the possibility of this if! though, of course, he himself was never able to formulate precisely what this if might signify...
But now it suddenly formulated itself, and in the most unexpected way. That desperate idea with which he had come to Kirillov's, after hearing Pyotr Stepanovich's "moron" on the sidewalk, consisted in abandoning everything tomorrow at daybreak and expatriating abroad! Whoever does not believe that such fantastic things happen in our everyday reality even now, may consult the biographies of all real Russian émigrés abroad. Not one of them fled in a more intelligent or realistic way. It is all the same unbridled kingdom of phantoms, and nothing more.
Having run home, he began by locking himself in, getting a valise, and beginning to pack convulsively. His main concern was about money, what amount and how he would be able to secure it. Precisely to secure, because, according to his notion, he could not delay even an hour, and had to be on the highway at daybreak. He also did not know how he would get on the train; he vaguely resolved to get on somewhere at the second or even third big station from town, and to get there even if by foot. In this way, instinctively and mechanically, with a whole whirl of thoughts in his head, he stood pottering over his valise and—suddenly stopped, abandoned it all, and with a deep moan stretched out on the sofa.
He clearly felt and suddenly became conscious of the fact that he might indeed be running away, but that to resolve the question of whether he was to run away before or after Shatov was now already quite beyond his power; that he was now only a crude, unfeeling body, an inert mass, but that he was being moved by some external, terrible power, and that though he did have a passport for abroad, though he could run away from Shatov (otherwise why such a hurry?), he would run away not before Shatov, not from Shatov, but precisely after Shatov, and that it had been thus decided, signed, and sealed. In unbearable anguish, trembling and astonished at himself every moment, groaning and going numb alternately, he somehow survived, locked in and lying on his sofa, until eleven o'clock the next morning, and it was then suddenly that the expected push came which suddenly directed his decision. At eleven o'clock, as soon as he unlocked his door and went out to his family, he suddenly learned from them that a robber, the escaped convict Fedka, who terrorized everyone, a pilferer of churches, a recent murderer and arsonist, whom our police had been after but kept failing to catch, had been found murdered that morning at daybreak, some four miles from town, at the turnoff from the highway to the road to Zakharyino, and that the whole town was already talking about it. He at once rushed headlong out of the house to learn the details, and learned first that Fedka, found with his head smashed in, had by all tokens been robbed, and second, that the police already had strong suspicions and even some firm evidence for concluding that his murderer was the Shpigulin man Fomka, the same one with whom he had undoubtedly killed and set fire to the Lebyadkins, and that a quarrel had already taken place between them on their way, because Fedka had supposedly hidden a big sum of money stolen from Lebyadkin... Liputin also ran to Pyotr Stepanovich's place and managed to learn at the back door, on the sly, that although Pyotr Stepanovich had returned home yesterday at, say, around one o'clock in the morning, he had been pleased to spend the whole night there quietly asleep until eight o'clock. Of course, there could be no doubt that the death of the robber Fedka contained nothing at all extraordinary in itself, and that such denouements precisely happen most often in careers of that sort, but the coincidence of the fatal words that "Fedka had drunk vodka that evening for the last time," with the immediate justification of the prophecy, was so portentous that Liputin suddenly ceased to hesitate. The push was given; it was as if a stone had fallen on him and crushed him forever. Returning home, he silently shoved his valise under the bed with his foot, and that evening, at the appointed time, was the first of them all to come to the place fixed for meeting Shatov—true, with his passport still in his pocket...
5: A Traveler
I
The catastrophe with Liza and the death of Marya Timofeevna produced an overwhelming impression on Shatov. I have already mentioned that I saw him that morning in passing; he seemed to me as if he were not in his right mind. He told me, incidentally, that the evening before, at around nine o'clock (that is, some three hours before the fire), he had been at Marya Timofeevna's. He went in the morning to have a look at the corpses, but as far as I know he did not give any evidence anywhere that morning. Meanwhile, towards the end of the day, a whole storm arose in his soul and... and I believe I can say positively that there was a certain moment at dusk when he wanted to get up, go, and—declare all. What this all was—he himself well knew. Of course, he would have achieved nothing, and would simply have betrayed himself. He had no proofs to expose the just-committed evildoing; and what he did have were only vague guesses about it, which for him alone were equal to full conviction. But he was ready to ruin himself just in order to "crush the scoundrels"—his own words. Pyotr Stepanovich had in part correctly divined this impulse in him and knew he was running a great risk in postponing his new, terrible design until the next day. Here, as usual, there was on his part much presumption and disdain for all this "trash," and for Shatov especially. He had long disdained Shatov for his "tearful idiocy," as he had said about him while still abroad, and firmly trusted that he could handle such an unclever man—that is, not lose sight of him all that day and stop him at the first sign of danger. And yet the "scoundrels" were spared a little longer only through a completely unexpected and, by them, totally unforeseen circumstance.
Somewhere between seven and eight in the evening (it was precisely the time when our people were gathered at Erkel's, waiting indignantly and anxiously for Pyotr Stepanovich), Shatov, with a headache and a slight chill, was lying stretched out on his bed, in the dark, without a candle, tormented by perplexity, angry, deciding and then unable to decide finally, and anticipating with a curse that anyhow it would all lead nowhere. Gradually he dozed off into a momentary, light sleep, and in his dreams had something like a nightmare; he dreamed he was on his bed all tangled up in ropes, bound and unable to move, and meanwhile the whole house was resounding from a terrible knocking on the fence, on the gate, on his door, in Kirillov's wing, so that the whole house was trembling, and some distant, familiar, but, for him, tormenting voice was piteously calling him. He suddenly came to his senses and raised himself on his bed. To his surprise, the knocking on the gate continued, and though it was hardly as strong as it had seemed in his dream, it was rapid and persistent, and the strange and "tormenting" voice, though not piteous but, on the contrary, impatient and irritable, still came from below at the gate, alternating with another more restrained and ordinary voice. He jumped up, opened the vent window, and stuck his head out.
"Who's there?" he called, literally going stiff with fright.
"If you are Shatov," the answer came sharply and firmly from below, "then please be so good as to announce directly and honestly whether you agree to let me in or not?"
Right enough; he recognized the voice!
"Marie! ... Is it you?"
"It's me, me, Marya Shatov, and I assure you that I cannot keep the coachman any longer."
"Wait ... let me ... a candle..." Shatov cried weakly. Then he rushed to look for matches. The matches, as usual on such occasions, refused to be found. He dropped the candlestick and candle on the floor, and as soon as the impatient voice came again from below, he abandoned everything and flew headlong down his steep stairway to open the gate.
"Kindly hold the bag till I finish with this blockhead," Mrs. Marya Shatov met him below and shoved into his hands a rather light, cheap canvas handbag with brass studs, of Dresden manufacture. And she herself irritably fell upon the coachman:
"I venture to assure you that you are charging too much. If you dragged me for a whole extra hour around your dirty streets, it's your own fault, because it means you yourself did not know where this stupid street and asinine house were. Be so good as to accept your thirty kopecks, and rest assured that you will not get any more."
"Eh, little lady, wasn't it you who jabbed at Voznesensky Street, and this here is Bogoyavlensky: Voznesensky Lane is way over that way. You just got my gelding all in a stew."
"Voznesensky, Bogoyavlensky—you ought to know all these stupid names more than I,[188] since you're a local inhabitant, and, besides, you're wrong: I told you first thing that it was Filippov's house, and you precisely confirmed that you knew it. In any case, you can claim from me tomorrow at the justice of the peace, and now I ask you to leave me alone."
"Here, here's another five kopecks!" Shatov impetuously snatched out a five-kopeck piece from his pocket and gave it to the coachman.
"Be so good, I beg you, don't you dare do that!" Madame Shatov began to seethe, but the coachman started his "gelding," and Shatov, seizing her by the hand, drew her through the gate.
"Quick, Marie, quick... it's all trifles and—how soaked you are! Careful, there are steps up—sorry there's no light—the stairs are steep, hold on tighter, tighter, well, so here's my closet. Excuse me, I have no light... wait!"
He picked up the candlestick, but the matches took a long time to be found. Mrs. Shatov stood waiting in the middle of the room, silent and motionless.
"Thank God, at last!" he cried out joyfully, lighting up the closet. Marya Shatov took a cursory look around the place.
"I was told you lived badly, but still I didn't think it was like this," she said squeamishly, and moved towards the bed.
"Oh, I'm tired!" and with a strengthless air she sat on the hard bed. "Please put the bag down, and take a chair yourself. As you wish, however; you're sticking up in front of me. I'll stay with you for a time, until I find work, because I know nothing here and have no money. But if I'm cramping you, be so good, I beg you, as to announce it to me, which is your duty if you're an honest man. I can still sell something tomorrow and pay at the hotel, but you must be so good as to take me there yourself... Oh, only I'm so tired!"
Shatov simply started shaking all over.
"No need, Marie, no need for the hotel! What hotel? Why? Why?"
He pressed his hands together imploringly.
"Well, if it's possible to do without the hotel, it's still necessary to explain matters. Remember, Shatov, that you and I lived maritally in Geneva for two weeks and a few days; we separated three years ago, though without any special quarrel. But don't think I've come back to resume any of the former foolishness. I've come back to look for work, and if I've come directly to this town, it's because it makes no difference to me. I did not come to repent of anything; kindly don't think of that stupidity either."
"Oh, Marie! There's no need, no need at all!" Shatov was muttering vaguely.
"And if so, if you're developed enough to be able to understand that as well, then I'll allow myself to add that if I've now turned directly to you and come to your apartment, it's partly because I've always regarded you as far from a scoundrel, and perhaps a lot better than other... blackguards! ..."
Her eyes flashed. She must have endured her share of one thing and another from certain "blackguards."
"And please rest assured that I was by no means laughing at you just now when I declared that you are good. I spoke directly, without eloquence, which, besides, I can't stand. However, it's all nonsense. I always hoped you'd be intelligent enough not to be a nuisance ... Oh, enough, I'm tired!"
