Текст книги "Demons"
Автор книги: Федор Достоевский
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"Is this true?" Stepan Trofimovich turned to Alexei Nilych.
"I wish not to speak of it," Alexei Nilych replied, suddenly raising his head and flashing his eyes. "I want to contest your right, Liputin. You have no right to this occurrence about me. I by no means told my whole opinion. Though I was acquainted in Petersburg, that was long ago, and though I met him now, I still know Nikolai Stavrogin very little. I ask that you remove me and... and this all resembles gossip."
Liputin spread his arms in the guise of oppressed innocence.
"A gossip, am I! And maybe also a spy? It's easy for you to criticize, Alexei Nilych, since you remove yourself from everything. But you wouldn't believe it, Stepan Trofimovich, take even Captain Lebyadkin, sir, one might think he's stupid as a... that is, it's even shameful to say as what—there's a Russian comparison signifying the degree– but he, too, considers himself offended from Nikolai Vsevolodovich, though he bows to his sharp wits. 'The man amazes me,' he says, 'a wise serpent' (his very words). So I asked him (still under yesterday's same influence and after talking with Alexei Nilych), 'And what do you think for your own part, Captain, is your wise serpent crazy, or not?' And, can you believe, it was as if I'd given him a lash from behind without asking permission; he simply jumped in his seat. 'Yes,' he says... 'Yes,' he says, 'only that,' he says, 'cannot affect. . .' but affect what—he didn't finish saying; and then he turned so ruefully thoughtful, so thoughtful that even his drunkenness dropped off him. We were sitting in Filippov's tavern, sir. And only maybe half an hour later he suddenly banged his fist on the table: 'Yes,' he says, 'maybe he is crazy, only that cannot affect...' and again he didn't finish saying what it couldn't affect. Of course, I'm telling you only an extract of the conversation, but the thought is clear; whoever you ask, they all come up with the same thought, even if it never entered anybody's head before: 'Yes,' they say, 'crazy—very intelligent, but maybe also crazy.’”
Stepan Trofimovich sat deep in thought, his mind working intensely.
"And why does Lebyadkin know?"
"Be so good as to make that inquiry of Alexei Nilych, who has just called me a spy. I am a spy, yet I don't know—while Alexei Nilych knows all the innermost secrets and keeps silent, sir."
"I know nothing, or little," the engineer replied, with the same irritation. "You pour drink into Lebyadkin in order to find out. You also brought me here in order to find out, and to get me to say. So you are a spy!"
"I've never yet poured any drink into him, sir, and he's not worth the money, with all his secrets—that's how much he means to me, I don't know about you. On the contrary, he's throwing money around, though twelve days ago he came to beg me for fifteen kopecks, and he's pouring champagne into me, not I into him. But you've given me an idea, and if need be I will get him drunk, precisely in order to find things out, and perhaps I will learn, sir... all your little secrets, sir," Liputin snarled back spitefully.
Bewildered, Stepan Trofimovich observed the two quarreling men. They were giving themselves away and, moreover, were being quite unceremonious about it. It occurred to me that Liputin had brought this Alexei Nilych to us precisely so as to draw him into the conversation he wanted through a third person—his favorite maneuver.
"Alexei Nilych knows Nikolai Vsevolodovich only too well," he went on irritably, "but he conceals it. And as for your question about Captain Lebyadkin, he met him before any of us, in Petersburg, five or six years ago, in that little-known epoch, if I may put it so, of Nikolai Vsevolodovich's life when he had not yet even thought of doing us the happiness of coming here. Our prince, one can only conclude, surrounded himself at that time in Petersburg with a very odd choice of acquaintances. It was then, I believe, that he became acquainted with Alexei Nilych."
"Beware, Liputin, I warn you that Nikolai Vsevolodovich is intending to be here in person soon, and he knows how to stand up for himself."
"And how do I deserve this, sir? I am the first one to shout that he's a man of the most refined and elegant mind, and I set Varvara Petrovna completely at ease yesterday in that regard. 'Only,' I said to her, 'I cannot vouch for his character.' Yesterday Lebyadkin said it in so many words: 'I've suffered from his character,' he said. Ah, Stepan Trofimovich, it's fine for you to shout about gossiping and spying, and that, notice, when you yourself have already extorted everything from me, and with such exceeding curiosity besides. And Varvara Petrovna, she really put her finger on it yesterday: 'You had a personal interest in the matter,' she says, 'that's why I'm turning to you.' And what else, sir! Why talk about purposes, when I swallowed a personal offense from His Excellency in front of a whole gathering! It would seem I have reasons to be interested, not just for the sake of gossip. Today he shakes your hand, and tomorrow, for no reason at all, to repay your hospitality, he slaps your face in front of a whole honorable gathering, the moment he pleases. From fat living, sir! And the main thing with them is the female sex: butterflies and strutting roosters! Landowners with little wings like antique cupids, lady-killer Pechorins! [51]It's easy for you, Stepan Trofimovich, an inveterate bachelor, to talk this way and call me a gossip on account of His Excellency. But if you, being the fine fellow you still are, were to marry a pretty and young one, you might just keep your door bolted against our prince, and build barricades in your own house! But why go far: if this Mademoiselle Lebyadkin, who gets whipped with knouts, weren't mad and bow-legged, by God, I'd think it was she who was the victim of our general's passions, and that this is what Captain Lebyadkin has suffered 'in his familial dignity,' as he himself puts it. Only maybe it contradicts his refined taste, but that's no great trouble to him. Any berry will do, so long as it comes his way while he's in a certain mood. You talk about gossip, but I'm not shouting about it, the whole town is clattering, while I just listen and yes them—yessing's not forbidden, sir." "The town is shouting? What is it shouting about?" "That is, it's Captain Lebyadkin, in a drunken state, who's shouting for the whole town to hear—well, and isn't that the same as if the whole marketplace was shouting? How am I to blame? I'm interested only as among friends, sir, because I still consider myself among friends here." He looked around at us with an innocent air. "There was an incident here, sirs, just think: it seems His Excellency, while still in Switzerland, supposedly sent three hundred roubles by a most noble girl and, so to speak, humble orphan, whom I have the honor of knowing, to be given to Captain Lebyadkin. But a little later Lebyadkin received most precise information, I won't say from whom, but also from a most noble and therefore most reliable person, that the sum sent was not three hundred roubles, but a thousand! ... 'That means,' Lebyadkin is shouting, 'that the girl filched seven hundred roubles from me,' and he wants to demand it back even if it's through the police, at least he's threatening to, and he's clattering all over town..."
"That is mean, mean of you!" the engineer suddenly jumped up from his chair.
"But you yourself are that most noble person who confirmed to Lebyadkin on Nikolai Vsevolodovich's behalf that it was not three hundred but a thousand roubles that were sent. The captain himself told me in a drunken state."
"That... that is an unfortunate misunderstanding. Someone made a mistake and it came out... that is nonsense, and you are mean! ..."
"But I also want to believe that it's nonsense, and I listen to it with regret, because, whether you like it or not, a most noble girl is mixed up, first of all, with the seven hundred roubles and, second, in some obvious intimacy with Nikolai Vsevolodovich. It's nothing for His Excellency to disgrace the noblest girl or to defame another man's wife, just as in that mishap with me, sir! He'll come across some man full of magnanimity and make him cover up someone else's sins with his honorable name. Just the same way as I suffered, sir; I'm talking about myself, sir..."
"Beware, Liputin!" Stepan Trofimovich rose from his chair and turned pale.
"Don't believe it, don't believe it! Someone made a mistake, and Lebyadkin is drunk..." the engineer exclaimed in inexpressible agitation. "It will all be made clear, but I can no longer... it's baseness... and enough, enough!"
He ran out of the room.
"What's the matter? I'm going with you!" Liputin, all aflutter, jumped up and ran after Alexei Nilych.
VII
Stepan Trofimovich stood in thought for a moment, glanced at me somehow without looking, took his hat and stick, and slowly walked out of the room. I went after him as before. Passing through the gate, he noticed that I was following him and said:
"Ah, yes, you can serve as a witness ... de l'accident. Vous m'accompagnerez; n'est-ce pas?" [xlv]
"Stepan Trofimovich, are you really going there again? Think what may come of it!"
With a pathetic and lost smile—a smile of shame and utter despair, and at the same time of some strange rapture—he whispered to me, stopping for a moment:
"I really cannot marry 'someone else's sins'!"
This was just the phrase I had been waiting for. At last this little phrase, cherished, concealed from me, had been spoken, after a whole week of hedging and contortions. I decidedly lost my temper.
"And such a dirty, such a... base thought could come to you, to Stepan Verkhovensky, to your lucid mind, to your kind heart, and... even prior to Liputin!"
He looked at me, made no reply, and continued on his way. I did not want to lag behind. I wanted to testify before Varvara Petrovna. I would have forgiven him if, in his womanish faintheartedness, he had simply believed Liputin, but it was clear now that he had conceived it all even long before Liputin, and Liputin had merely confirmed his suspicions and added fat to the fire. He had not hesitated to suspect the girl from the very first day, still without any grounds, not even Liputin's. He had explained Varvara Petrovna's despotic actions to himself only by her desperate wish to paint over the aristocratic peccadilloes of her priceless Nicolas by a marriage with an honorable man! I certainly wanted to see him punished for it.
"O Dieu qui est si grand et si bon! [xlvi] Oh, who will comfort me!" he exclaimed, having gone another hundred steps or so and suddenly stopped.
"Let's go home now, and I'll explain everything to you!" I cried out, forcing him to turn back towards his house.
"It's him! Stepan Trofimovich, is it you? You?" a fresh, playful young voice, like a sort of music, was heard beside us.
We had not noticed anything, but suddenly there beside us was Lizaveta Nikolaevna, on horseback, with her usual companion. She stopped her horse.
"Come, come quickly!" she called loudly and gaily. "I haven't seen him for twelve years and I recognized him, but he... Don't you recognize me?"
Stepan Trofimovich seized the hand she offered him and kissed it reverently. He looked at her as if in prayer and could not utter a word.
"He recognizes me, and he's glad! Mavriky Nikolaevich, he's delighted to see me! Then why haven't you come for two whole weeks? Auntie kept persuading us you were sick and couldn't be disturbed; but I know auntie lies. I stamped my feet and abused you, but I absolutely, absolutely wanted you to be the first to come, that's why I didn't send for you. God, he hasn't changed in the least!" she examined him, leaning down from her saddle, "It's funny how he hasn't changed! Ah, no, there are wrinkles, lots of little wrinkles around the eyes, and on the cheeks, and some gray hair, but the eyes are the same! And have I changed? Have I? But why don't you say something?"
I remembered at that moment having been told of how she was almost ill when she was taken to Petersburg at the age of eleven; during her illness she had allegedly cried and asked for Stepan Trofimovich.
"You ... I ..." he babbled now, in a voice breaking with joy, "I just cried out, 'Who will comfort me!' and then heard your voice ... I regard it as a miracle et je commence à croire," [xlvii]
"En Dieu? En Dieu qui est là-haut et qui est si grand et si bon? [xlviii] You see, I remember all your lectures by heart. Mavriky Nikolaevich, how he taught me then to believe en Dieu, qui est si grand et si bon! And do you remember your story of how Columbus discovered America and everybody shouted: 'Land, land!' My nurse Alyona Frolovna says that I raved during the night after that and shouted 'Land, land!' in my sleep. And do you remember telling me the story of Prince Hamlet? And do you remember describing to me how poor emigrants were transported from Europe to America? It was all untrue, I learned it all later, how they were transported, but how well he lied to me then, Mavriky Nikolaevich, it was almost better than the truth! Why are you looking at Mavriky Nikolaevich that way? He is the best and most faithful man on the whole earth, and you must come to love him as you do me! Il fait tout ce que je veux. [xlix] But, dear Stepan Trofimovich, it must mean you're unhappy again, if you're crying out in the middle of the street about who will comfort you? Unhappy, is it so? Is it?"
"I am happy now..."
"Does auntie offend you?" she went on without listening, "that same wicked, unjust, and eternally priceless auntie of ours! And do you remember how you used to throw yourself into my arms in the garden, and I'd comfort you and weep—don't be afraid of Mavriky Nikolaevich; he has known everything about you, everything, for a long time; you can weep on his shoulder as much as you like, and he'll stand there as long as you like! ... Lift your hat, take it all the way off for a moment, raise your head, stand on tiptoe, I'm going to kiss you on the forehead now, as I kissed you that last time, when we were saying good-bye. See, that young lady is admiring us through the window... Well, closer, closer. God, how gray he's become!"
And, leaning down from her saddle, she kissed him on the forehead.
"Well, now to your house! I know where you live. I'll join you presently, in a moment. I'll pay you the first visit, you stubborn man, and then I'll drag you to our place for the whole day. Go, now, get ready to receive me."
And she rode off with her cavalier. We came back. Stepan Trofimovich sat down on the sofa and wept.
"Dieu! Dieu!" he kept exclaiming, "enfin une minute de bonheur!" [l]
Not more than ten minutes later she appeared as promised, accompanied by her Mavriky Nikolaevich.
"Vous et le bonheur, vous arrivez en même temps!" [li] He rose to meet her.
"Here is a bouquet for you; I've just been to Madame Chevalier's, she'll have bouquets for birthday parties all winter. Here is Mavriky Nikolaevich as well, please become acquainted. I almost wanted to get a cake instead of a bouquet, but Mavriky Nikolaevich insists that it's not the Russian spirit."
This Mavriky Nikolaevich was an artillery captain, about thirty-three years old, a tall gentleman, of handsome and impeccably decent appearance, with an imposing and, at first glance, even stern physiognomy, in spite of his remarkable and most delicate kindness, of which everyone became aware almost from the moment of making his acquaintance. However, he was taciturn, appeared rather cool, and did not force his friendship upon anyone. Many in our town said afterwards that he was none too bright; that was not quite correct.
I will not describe the beauty of Lizaveta Nikolaevna. The whole town was already shouting about her beauty, though some of our ladies and young girls indignantly disagreed with the shouters. There were some among them who already hated Lizaveta Nikolaevna, in the first place for her pride: the Drozdovs had hardly even begun to pay any visits, which was insulting, though in fact the cause of the delay was Praskovya Ivanovna's ailing condition. In the second place, she was hated because she was a relative of the governor's wife; and in the third place, because she went for daily outings on horseback. There had never been any horsewomen in our town before; it was natural that the appearance of Lizaveta Nikolaevna, going for her outings on horseback without having paid any visits, was bound to insult society. Incidentally, everyone knew already that she went riding on doctor's orders, and spoke caustically of her poor health. She was indeed ill. One thing that was obvious about her from the first glance was her morbid, nervous, unceasing restlessness. Alas! the poor girl was suffering very much, and everything became clear afterwards. Recalling the past now, I will not say that she was the beauty she seemed to me then. Perhaps she was even not good-looking at all. Tall, slender, but lithe and strong, the irregularity of the lines of her face was even striking. Her eyes were set somehow in Kalmuck fashion, slantingly; her face was pale, with high cheekbones, swarthy and thin; yet there was in this face something so conquering and attracting! Some sort of power told itself in the burning look of her dark eyes; she appeared "as a conqueror, and to conquer." She seemed proud, and sometimes even bold; I do not know if she succeeded in being kind; but I know that she wanted terribly and suffered over forcing herself to be a little bit kind. In her nature there were, of course, many beautiful yearnings and very just undertakings; but it was as if everything in her were eternally seeking its level without finding it, everything was chaos, restlessness, agitation. Perhaps she made too severe demands on herself, never finding herself strong enough to satisfy them.
She sat down on the sofa and looked around the room.
"Why is it that I always feel sad at such moments—can you solve that, my learned man? All my life I thought I'd be God knows how glad to see you and remember everything, and now I don't seem to be glad at all, though I do love you... Ah, God, he's got my portrait hanging here! Give it to me, I remember it, I remember!"
An excellent miniature watercolor portrait of the twelve-year-old Liza had been sent to Stepan Trofimovich by the Drozdovs from Petersburg nine years before. Since then it had always hung on his wall.
"Was I really such a pretty child? Is that really my face?"
She got up and, holding the portrait in her hand, looked at herself in the mirror.
"Take it, quickly!" she exclaimed, giving the portrait back. "Don't hang it up now, later, I don't even want to look at it." She sat down on the sofa again. "One life passed, another began, then that passed and a third began, and there's still no end. All the ends are cut off as if with a pair of scissors. See what old things I'm saying, and yet so true!"
She grinned and looked at me; she had already glanced at me several times, but Stepan Trofimovich, in his excitement, even forgot that he had promised to introduce me.
"And why is my portrait hanging under those daggers? And why do you have so many daggers and swords?"
Indeed, he had hanging on the wall, I do not know why, two crossed yataghans and, above them, a real Circassian sabre. She looked at me so directly as she asked that I was just about to make some reply, but cut myself short. Stepan Trofimovich finally realized and introduced me.
"I know, I know," she said, "I'm very glad. Maman has also heard a lot about you. And let me also introduce you to Mavriky Nikola-evich, he is a wonderful man. I've already formed a funny idea of you: you're Stepan Trofimovich's confidant, aren't you?"
I blushed.
"Ah, forgive me, please, I used the completely wrong word—not funny at all, but just..." She blushed and became embarrassed. "However, why be ashamed of being a wonderful man? Well, it's time to go, Mavriky Nikolaevich! Stepan Trofimovich, in half an hour you must be at our place. God, how we're going to talk! Now I am your confidante, in everything, everything,understand?"
Stepan Trofimovich immediately became frightened.
"Oh, Mavriky Nikolaevich knows everything, don't be embarrassed because of him!"
"What does he know?"
"But can it be, really?" she cried out in amazement. "Hah, so it's true they're hiding it! I didn't want to believe it. They're hiding Dasha, too. Auntie wouldn't let me see Dasha just now, said she had a headache."
"But... but how did you find out?"
"Ah, my God, the same way everyone else did. What could be simpler!"
"But does everyone ... ?"
"Well, and what else? Mama, it's true, was the first to find out, through my old nurse Alyona Frolovna; your Nastasya came running to tell her. And you did tell Nastasya, didn't you? She says you told her yourself."
"I ... I once said..." Stepan Trofimovich stammered, blushing all over, "but... I only hinted ...; 'étais si nerveux et malade et puis. . . " [lii]
She burst out laughing.
"And the confidant wasn't around, and Nastasya turned up—and that was it! And the woman's got herself a whole town full of busy-bodies. Well, good heavens, what difference does it make? Let them know, it's even better. Come for dinner as quickly as you can, we dine early... Oh, yes, I forgot," she sat down again, "listen, what is this Shatov?"
"Shatov? He is Darya Pavlovna's brother..."
"I know he's her brother, what's the matter with you, really!" she interrupted impatiently. "I want to know what he is, what sort of man?"
"C'est un pense-creux d'ici. C'est le meilleur et le plus irascible homme du monde..." [liii]
"I've heard he's somehow odd. Anyway, that's not the point. I've heard he knows three languages, English, too, and can do literary work. If so, I have a lot of work for him; I need an assistant, and the sooner the better. Will he take work, or not? He was recommended to me..."
"Oh, most certainly, et vous fairez un bienfait ..." [liv]
"It's not for the sake of a bienfait;I myself need assistance."
"I know Shatov quite well," I said, "and if you charge me with telling him, I'll go this minute."
"Tell him to come tomorrow morning at twelve o'clock. Wonderful! Thank you. Mavriky Nikolaevich, are you ready?"
They left. Of course, I ran at once to Shatov.
"Mon ami!"Stepan Trofimovich overtook me on the porch, "you must be here at ten or eleven o'clock, when I come back. Oh, I am guilty, all too guilty before you, and... before everyone, everyone."
VIII
I did not find Shatov at home; I ran by two hours later—again no one home. Finally, after seven o'clock, I went hoping either to find him or to leave a note; again I did not find him. His apartment was locked, and he lived alone without any servant. It occurred to me to try knocking downstairs at Captain Lebyadkin's, to ask about Shatov; it was locked there, too, and there was not a sound, not a glimmer, as if the place were empty. I passed Lebyadkin's door with curiosity, being under the influence of the stories I had just heard. Finally, I decided to come back early the next day. Indeed, I did not count very much on the note; Shatov might ignore it, he was so stubborn, so shy. Cursing my bad luck and already going out the gate, I suddenly ran into Mr. Kirillov; he was going into the house and recognized me first. Since he began questioning me himself, I told him all the essentials, and that I had a note.
"Let's go," he said, "I'll do everything."
I remembered that according to Liputin's words he had been occupying the wooden wing in back since morning. This wing, which was too spacious for him, he shared with some old deaf woman who also served him. The owner of the house lived in another, new house, on another street, where he ran a tavern, and this old woman, apparently his relative, stayed to look after the whole of the old house. The rooms in the wing were quite clean, but the wallpaper was dirty. In the room we entered, the furnishings were random, ill-sorted, utter rejects: two card tables, an alder-wood chest, a big plank table brought from some peasant cottage or kitchen, chairs and a sofa with lattice backs and hard leather cushions. In the corner there was an old icon in front of which the woman had lighted an oil lamp before we came, and on the walls there hung two big, dark oil portraits—one of the late emperor Nikolai Pavlovich, painted back in the twenties by the look of it; the other of some bishop.
Mr. Kirillov, having entered, lit a candle, and from his suitcase, which stood in the corner and was still unpacked, took an envelope, a piece of wax, and a crystal seal.
"Seal your note and address the envelope."
I tried to protest that there was no need for that, but he insisted. Having addressed the envelope, I took my cap.
"And I thought perhaps some tea," he said. "I bought tea. Want some?"
I did not refuse. The woman soon brought in the tea—that is, a great big kettle of hot water, a small teapot full of strongly brewed tea, two large, crudely painted stoneware cups, a kalatch, [52]and a whole soup plate of crumbled loaf sugar.
"I like tea," he said, "at night; a lot: I walk and drink; till dawn. Tea at night is awkward abroad."
"You go to bed at dawn?"
"Always; a long time. I eat little; mainly tea. Liputin is cunning, but impatient."
I was surprised that he wanted to talk; I decided to make use of the moment.
"There were some unpleasant misunderstandings today," I observed.
He frowned deeply.
"It's foolishness; great trifles. It's all trifles, because Lebyadkin is drunk. I told Liputin nothing, I just explained the trifles, because the other one gets it all wrong. Liputin has a lot of fantasy; in place of the trifles he made mountains. I trusted Liputin yesterday."
"And me today?" I laughed.
"But you already know everything from this morning. Liputin is either weak, or impatient, or harmful, or ... envious."
The last little word struck me.
"Anyway, you've set up so many categories, it would be surprising if he didn't fit into one of them."
"Or into all together."
"Yes, you're right about that, too. Liputin is—a chaos! Is it true what he was blathering today, that you're planning to write something?"
"Why blathering?" he frowned again, staring at the floor.
I apologized and began assuring him that I was not trying to get it out of him. He blushed.
"He was telling the truth; I am writing. Only it makes no difference."
We were silent for a moment; suddenly he smiled the same childlike smile as that morning.
"He invented about the heads himself, from books, and told me first, and he understands badly, but I'm only looking for the reasons why people don't dare to kill themselves, that's all. And it makes no difference."
"What do you mean, don't dare? Do we have so few suicides?"
"Very few."
"You really think so?"
He did not answer, got up, and began pacing back and forth pensively.
"And what, in your opinion, keeps people from suicide?" I asked.
He looked at me distractedly, as if trying to recall what we were talking about.
"I ... I still know little ... two prejudices keep them, two things; just two; one very small, the other very big. But the small one is also very big."
"What is the small one?"
"Pain."
"Pain? Is it really so important ... in this case?"
"The foremost thing. There are two sorts: those who kill themselves from great sorrow, or anger, or the crazy ones, or whatever... they do it suddenly. They think little about pain and do it suddenly. But the ones who do it judiciously—they think a lot."
"Are there any who do it judiciously?"
"Very many. If it weren't for prejudice, there'd be more; very many; everybody."
"Really? Everybody?"
He did not reply.
"But aren't there ways of dying without pain?"
"Imagine," he stopped in front of me, "imagine a stone the size of a big house; it's hanging there, and you are under it; if it falls on you, on your head—will it be painful?"
"A stone as big as a house? Naturally, it's frightening."
"Fright is not the point; will it be painful?"
"A stone as big as a mountain, millions of pounds? Of course, it wouldn't be painful at all."
"But go and stand there in reality, and while it's hanging you'll be very much afraid of the pain. Every foremost scientist, foremost doctor, all, all of them will be very afraid. They'll all know it won't be painful, but they'll all be very afraid it will be."
"Well, and the second reason, the big one?"
"The other world."
"Punishment, you mean?"
"That makes no difference. The other world; the one other world."
"Aren't there such atheists as don't believe in the other world at all?"
Again he did not reply.
"You're judging by yourself, perhaps."
"Each man cannot judge except by himself," he said, blushing. "There will be entire freedom when it makes no difference whether one lives or does not live. That is the goal to everything."
"The goal? But then perhaps no one will even want to live?"
"No one," he said resolutely.
"Man is afraid of death because he loves life, that's how I understand it," I observed, "and that is what nature tells us."
"That is base, that is the whole deceit!" his eyes began to flash. "Life is pain, life is fear, and man is unhappy. Now all is pain and fear. Now man loves life because he loves pain and fear. That's how they've made it. Life now is given in exchange for pain and fear, and that is the whole deceit. Man now is not yet the right man. There will be a new man, happy and proud. He for whom it will make no difference whether he lives or does not live, he will be the new man. He who overcomes pain and fear will himself be God. And this God will not be."
"So this God exists, in your opinion?"
"He doesn't, yet he does. There is no pain in the stone, but there is pain in the fear of the stone. God is the pain of the fear of death. He who overcomes pain and fear will himself become God. Then there will be a new life, a new man, everything new... Then history will be divided into two parts: from the gorilla to the destruction of God, and from the destruction of God to..."
