Demons, p.71
Demons, page 71
"This is not it, this is not it! No, this is not it at all!"
He might have added something more to his so belated exclamation, but Lyamshin did not let him finish: suddenly, and with all his might, he clasped him and squeezed him from behind and let out some sort of incredible shriek. There are strong moments of fear, for instance, when a man will suddenly cry out in a voice not his own, but such as one could not even have supposed him to have before then, and the effect is sometimes even quite frightful. Lyamshin cried not with a human but with some sort of animal voice. Squeezing Virginsky from behind harder and harder with his arms, in a convulsive fit, he went on shrieking without stop or pause, his eyes goggling at them all, and his mouth opened exceedingly wide, while his feet rapidly stamped the ground as if beating out a drum roll on it. Virginsky got so scared that he cried out like a madman himself and tried to tear free of Lyamshin's grip in some sort of frenzy, so viciously that one even could not have expected it of Virginsky, scratching and punching him as well he was able to reach behind him with his arms. Erkel finally helped him to tear Lyamshin off. But when, in fear, Virginsky sprang about ten steps away, Lyamshin, seeing Pyotr Stepanovich, suddenly screamed again and rushed at him. Stumbling over the corpse, he fell across it onto Pyotr Stepanovich and now clenched him so tightly in his embrace, pressing his head against his chest, that for the first moment Pyotr Stepanovich, Tolkachenko, and Liputin were almost unable to do anything. Pyotr Stepanovich yelled, swore, beat him on the head with his fists; finally, having somehow torn himself free, he snatched out the revolver and pointed it straight into the open mouth of the still screaming Lyamshin, whom Tolkachenko, Erkel, and Liputin had already seized firmly by the arms; but Lyamshin went on shrieking even in spite of the revolver. Finally, Erkel somehow bunched up his foulard and stuffed it deftly into his mouth, and thus the shouting ceased. Meanwhile, Tolkachenko tied his hands with a leftover end of rope.
"This is very strange," Pyotr Stepanovich said, studying the madman in alarmed astonishment.
He was visibly struck.
"I had quite a different idea of him," he added pensively.
For the time being, Erkel was left with him. They had to hurry with the dead man: there had been so much shouting that it might have been heard somewhere. Tolkachenko and Pyotr Stepanovich raised their lanterns and picked up the corpse at the head; Liputin and Virginsky took hold of the feet and lifted. With the two stones, it was a heavy burden, and the distance was more than two hundred steps. Tolkachenko was the strongest of them. He tried to suggest that they walk in step, but no one responded to him, and they went on haphazardly. Pyotr Stepanovich walked on the right and, bent completely double, carried the dead man's head on his shoulder, supporting the stone from underneath with his left hand. Since Tolkachenko, for a good half of the way, never thought of helping to carry the stone, Pyotr Stepanovich finally shouted a curse at him. It was a sudden, solitary shout; they all went on silently carrying, and only at the very edge of the pond did Virginsky, bending under the burden and as if weary from its weight, suddenly exclaim again in the same loud, tearful voice:
"This is not it, no, no, this is not it at all!"
Where this third, quite large Skvoreshniki pond ended, and where they had brought the murdered man, was one of the most deserted and unfrequented places in the park, especially at such a late time of year. This end of the pond, near the bank, was overgrown with reeds. They set the lantern down, swung the corpse, and threw it into the water. There was a dull and long sound. Pyotr Stepanovich raised the lantern; after him they all stuck their heads out, peering curiously at how the dead man was sinking; but by then nothing could be seen: the body with the two stones went under at once. The big ripples that spread over the surface of the water were quickly dying away. The matter was ended.
"Gentlemen," Pyotr Stepanovich addressed them all, "we will now disperse. You undoubtedly must feel that free pride which is attendant upon the fulfillment of a free duty. And if, unhappily, you are now too alarmed for such emotions, you will undoubtedly feel it tomorrow, by which time it would be shameful not to feel it. As for Lyamshin's all too shameful agitation, I agree to regard it as delirium, all the more so in that they say he really has been sick since morning. And you, Virginsky, one moment of free reflection will show you that, in view of the interests of the common cause, it was not possible to act upon a word of honor, but precisely as we have done. The consequences will show that there had been a denunciation. I agree to forget your exclamations. As for danger, there is none to be expected. No one will even think of suspecting any of us, especially if you yourselves know how to behave; so the main thing still depends on you yourselves and on your full conviction, which I hope will grow firm in you by tomorrow. And that, incidentally, is precisely why you united together into a separate organization of the free assembly of the like-minded, so as in the common cause to share your energy among yourselves at a given moment and, if need be, to watch over and observe each other. Each of you owes a higher accounting. You are called to renew the cause, which is decrepit and stinking from stagnation; keep that always before your eyes for encouragement. In the meantime your whole step is towards getting everything destroyed: both the state and its morality. We alone will remain, having destined ourselves beforehand to assume power: we shall rally the smart ones to ourselves, and ride on the backs of the fools. You should not be embarrassed by it. This generation must be re-educated to make it worthy of freedom. There are still many thousands of Shatovs ahead of us. We will get organized so as to seize the tendency; it is shameful not to reach out and take what is lying there idly with its mouth gaping at us. I'm now going to Kirillov, and by morning there will be a document in which he, on dying, by way of an explanation to the government, will take everything upon himself. Nothing could be more plausible than such a combination. First of all, there was enmity between him and Shatov; they lived together in America, so they had time to quarrel. It is known that Shatov changed his convictions; the enmity, then, was because of convictions and the fear of denunciation—that is, the most unforgiving kind. All this will be written down just that way. Finally, it will be mentioned that Fedka lodged with him, in Filippov's house. Thus, all this will completely remove all suspicion from you, because it will throw all those muttonheads off. Tomorrow, gentlemen, we will not see each other; I'll be away in the district capital for a very short time. But the day after tomorrow you'll have reports from me. I would advise you, in fact, to spend tomorrow at home. We will now set out by twos on different routes. You, Tolkachenko, I ask to occupy yourself with Lyamshin and take him home. You may influence him and, above all, impress upon him the extent to which he will be harming himself first of all by his faintheartedness. Your relative Shigalyov, Mr. Virginsky, I do not wish to doubt, any more than I do you yourself: he will not denounce us. His action remains regrettable; but, all the same, he has not yet announced that he is leaving the society, so it is too early to bury him. Well—quick now, gentlemen; they may be muttonheads, but there's no harm in being prudent..."
Virginsky went with Erkel. In handing Lyamshin over to Tolkachenko, Erkel had managed to bring him to Pyotr Stepanovich and announce that he had come to his senses, repented, and begged forgiveness, and did not even remember what had happened to him. Pyotr Stepanovich went off alone, choosing a way around the other side of the ponds, skirting the park. This was the longest route. To his surprise, Liputin overtook him almost midway.
"Pyotr Stepanovich, you know, Lyamshin's sure to denounce us!"
"No, he'll come to his senses and realize that if he denounces us, he'll be the first to go to Siberia. Nobody will denounce us now. You won't either."
"And you?"
"No question, I'll have you all tucked away the minute you make a move to betray, and you know it. But you won't betray anything. Is that why you ran more than a mile after me?"
"Pyotr Stepanovich, Pyotr Stepanovich, you know, we may never see each other again!"
"What gives you that idea?"
"Tell me just one thing."
"Well, what? I wish you'd clear off, though."
"One answer, but the right one: are we the only fivesome in the world, or is it true that there are several hundred fivesomes? I'm asking in a lofty sense, Pyotr Stepanovich."
"I can see that by your frenzy. And do you know that you are more dangerous than Lyamshin, Liputin?"
"I know, I know, but—the answer, your answer!"
"What a foolish man you are! One would think it should make no difference now—one fivesome, or a thousand."
"So it's one! I just knew it!" Liputin cried out. "I knew all along it was one, right up to this very moment..."
And without waiting for any other reply, he turned and quickly vanished into the darkness.
Pyotr Stepanovich pondered a little.
"No, no one will denounce us," he said resolutely, "but—the crew must remain a crew and obey, otherwise I'll... What trash these people are, though!"
II
He first stopped at his place and neatly, unhurriedly, packed his suitcase. The express train was leaving at six o'clock in the morning. This early express train came only once a week and had been scheduled very recently, just as a trial for the time being. Though Pyotr Stepanovich had warned our people that he was supposedly going to the district capital, his intentions, as it turned out later, were quite different. After finishing with the suitcase, he settled accounts with the landlady, whom he had notified ahead of time, and moved in a hired carriage to Erkel's place, which was near the station. And only after that, at approximately one o'clock in the morning, did he go to Kirillov's, where he again penetrated through Fedka's secret passage. The state of Pyotr Stepanovich's mind was terrible. Apart from other discontents quite important for him (he was still unable to find out anything about Stavrogin), he had, it seems—for I cannot confirm it with certainty—received during the course of the day, from somewhere (most likely Petersburg), secret notification of a certain danger awaiting him in the near future. Of course, there are now a great many legends going around town about that time; but even if something is known with certainty, it is known only to those who ought to know of it. And I simply suppose, in my own opinion, that Pyotr Stepanovich might have had doings elsewhere than in our town, so that he might indeed have received notifications. I am even convinced, contrary to Liputin's cynical and desperate doubt, that he could indeed have had two or three fivesomes besides ours, in the capitals, for instance; or, if not fivesomes, then connections and relations—perhaps even very curious ones. No more than three days after his departure, an order from the capital was received in our town for his immediate arrest—for what actual doings, ours or some others, I do not know. The order arrived just in time to increase the staggering, almost mystical sense of fear that took possession of our authorities and our hitherto stubbornly frivolous society on the discovery of the mysterious and highly portentous murder of the student Shatov—a murder that filled the measure of our absurdities—and of the extremely enigmatic circumstances that accompanied this event. But the order came too late: Pyotr Stepanovich was already in Petersburg by then, under an assumed name, and from there, having sniffed out what was going on, he instantly slipped abroad... But I am getting terribly far ahead of myself.
He entered Kirillov's room with a spiteful and provocative look. As if he wished, along with the main business, also to work off something personal on Kirillov, to vent something on him. Kirillov seemed glad he had come; it was obvious that he had been waiting for him terribly long, and with morbid impatience. His face was paler than usual, the expression of his black eyes heavy and fixed.
"I thought you wouldn't come," he said heavily from the corner of the sofa, though not stirring to greet him. Pyotr Stepanovich stood in front of him and, before saying a word, peered closely into his face.
"So everything's in order, and we're not going back on our intention. Good boy!" he smiled an offensively patronizing smile. "Well, so what," he added with vile jocularity, "if I'm late, it's not for you to complain: you got a gift of three hours."
"I don't want any extra hours from you, and you can't give me gifts—fool!"
"What?" Pyotr Stepanovich jumped, but instantly controlled himself. "How touchy! We're in a rage, eh?" he rapped out with the same air of offensive superciliousness. "At such a moment one rather needs to be calm. Best of all is to regard yourself as Columbus and look at me as a mouse and not be offended at me. I recommended that yesterday."
"I don't want to look at you as a mouse."
"What's that, a compliment? Anyhow, the tea is cold, too—so everything's upside down. No, something untrustworthy is going on here. Hah! What's this I see on the windowsill, on a plate" (he went over to the window). "Oho, a boiled chicken with rice! ... But why hasn't it been touched yet? So we were in such a state of mind that even a chicken ..."
"I ate, and it's none of your business; keep still!"
"Oh, certainly, and besides it makes no difference. But it does make a difference to me: imagine, I had hardly any dinner at all, so if this chicken is now, as I suppose, no longer needed... eh?"
"Eat, if you can."
"Much obliged, and tea to follow."
He instantly settled down to the table at the other end of the sofa and with extraordinary greediness fell upon the food; but at the same time he observed his victim every moment. Kirillov, with spiteful loathing, looked fixedly at him, as if unable to tear himself away.
"However," Pyotr Stepanovich suddenly heaved himself up, continuing to eat, "however, about this business? We're not going to back out, eh? And the little note?"
"I determined tonight that it makes no difference to me. I'll write it. About the tracts?"
"Yes, also about the tracts. Anyhow, I'll dictate it. It really makes no difference to you. Can you possibly worry about the contents at such a moment?"
"None of your business."
"Of course not. Anyhow, just a few lines: that you and Shatov distributed the tracts—with the help of Fedka, incidentally, who was hiding out in your apartment. This last point about Fedka and the apartment is quite important, even the most important. You see, I'm being completely frank with you."
"And Shatov? Why Shatov? Not Shatov, not for anything."
"Come on, what is it to you? You can't harm him now."
"His wife came to him. She woke up and sent to ask me where he is."
"She sent to find out where he is from you? Hm, that's not good. She might send again; no one must know I'm here..."
Pyotr Stepanovich became worried.
"She won't find out, she's asleep again; the midwife is with her, Arina Virginsky."
"That's just... and she won't hear, I suppose? You know, why don't we lock the front door?"
"She won't hear anything. And if Shatov comes, I'll hide you in that room."
"Shatov won't come; and you are going to write that you quarreled over his betrayal and denunciation... this night. . . and the cause of his death."
"He died!" Kirillov cried out, jumping up from the sofa.
"Today, between seven and eight in the evening, or, rather, yesterday between seven and eight in the evening, since it's now past midnight."
"You killed him! ... And I foresaw it yesterday!"
"How could you not foresee it! With this revolver" (he pulled out the revolver, ostensibly to show it, after which he did not put it away again, but went on holding it in his right hand, as if in readiness). "You, however, are a strange man, Kirillov, you yourself knew it would have to end this way with that foolish man. What else was there to foresee? I chewed it all over for you several times. Shatov was preparing a denunciation: I was watching him; there was no way to let it go at that. And you, too, had instructions to watch him; you told me so yourself three weeks ago..."
"Keep still! You did it because he spat in your face in Geneva!"
"For that, and for other things. For many other things; though without any malice. Why jump up like that? What's this posturing? Oho! So that's how we are! ..."
He jumped up and raised the revolver in front of him. The thing was that Kirillov had suddenly snatched his revolver from the windowsill, loaded and ready since morning. Pyotr Stepanovich positioned himself and aimed his weapon at Kirillov. The latter laughed spitefully.
"Confess, scoundrel, that you took out the revolver because I'm going to shoot you... But I'm not going to shoot you ... although... although ..."
And again he aimed his revolver at Pyotr Stepanovich as if trying it out, as if unable to deny himself the pleasure of imagining how it would be to shoot him. Pyotr Stepanovich, still positioned, was biding, biding his time until the last moment without pulling the trigger, running the risk of getting a bullet in his own head first: one might well expect it from a "maniac." But the "maniac" finally lowered his arm, gasping and trembling, unable to speak.
"We've had our play and that's enough," Pyotr Stepanovich also lowered his weapon. "I just knew you were playing; only, you know, you were taking a risk: I might have pulled the trigger."
And he sat down rather calmly on the sofa and poured himself some tea, though with a slightly trembling hand. Kirillov put his revolver on the table and started pacing back and forth.
"I won't write that I killed Shatov and ... I won't write anything now. There won't be any document!"
"There won't?"
"There won't."
"What meanness and what foolishness!" Pyotr Stepanovich turned green with anger. "I anticipated it, though. Let me tell you that you haven't caught me unawares. However, as you wish. If I could force you, I would. You are a scoundrel, though," Pyotr Stepanovich became more and more unable to stand it. "You asked us for money that time and made a whole cartload of promises ... Only I still won't leave without the result, I'll still see at least how you blow your head off."
