Текст книги "Demons"
Автор книги: Федор Достоевский
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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 56 страниц)
"Nicolas, may I bring Pyotr Stepanovich in?" she asked softly and restrainedly, trying to make Nikolai Vsevolodovich out behind the lamp.
"You may, you may, of course you may!" Pyotr Stepanovich himself cried loudly and gaily, opened the door with his own hand, and walked in.
Nikolai Vsevolodovich had not heard the knock on the door, he heard only his mother's timid question, but had no time to answer it. At that moment there lay before him a letter he had just read, over which he was pondering deeply. Hearing Pyotr Stepanovich's sudden cry, he started and quickly covered the letter with a paperweight that happened to be there, but not quite successfully: a corner of the letter and almost the entire envelope could be seen.
"I cried as loud as I could on purpose, to give you time to get ready,” Pyotr Stepanovich whispered hastily, with surprising naivety, running over to the desk and instantly fixing his eyes on the paperweight and the corner of the letter.
"And of course you had time to spy me hiding this just-received letter under the paperweight," Nikolai Vsevolodovich said calmly, without stirring from his seat.
"A letter? For heaven's sake, what's your letter to me!" the guest exclaimed. "But... the main thing," he whispered again, turning towards the door, now closed, and nodding in that direction.
"She never eavesdrops," Nikolai Vsevolodovich observed coolly.
"I mean, what if she did eavesdrop!" Pyotr Stepanovich picked up at once, raising his voice gaily and sitting down in an armchair. "I've got nothing against it, I just ran by to have a private chat with you ... So I've got you at last! First of all, how is your health? I see, it's excellent, and perhaps you'll come tomorrow—eh?"
"Perhaps."
"But, release them, finally, release me!" he was gesticulating frantically, with a jocular and agreeable air. "If you knew the babble I've had to produce for them. But, then, you do know." He laughed.
"I don't know everything. I've only heard from mother that you've been very much ... on the move."
"I mean, it wasn't anything specific," Pyotr Stepanovich suddenly heaved himself up, as if he were defending himself against some terrible attack, "you know, I pulled out Shatov's wife, I mean rumors about your liaison in Paris, which, of course, explained Sunday's incident... you're not angry?"
"I'm sure you tried very hard."
"Ah, just what I was afraid of. Incidentally, what does 'tried very hard' mean? It's a reproach. You put it straight, however; what I was most afraid of when I was coming here was that you wouldn't want to put it straight."
"I don't want to put anything straight," Nikolai Vsevolodovich said, with some irritation, but he grinned at once.
"I don't mean that, not that, don't take me wrong, not that!" Pyotr Stepanovich waved his hands, spilling the words out like peas, delighting at once in the master's irritability. "I won't irritate you with ourthing, especially in your present situation. I ran by only to talk about Sunday's incident, and that only so far as necessary, because it's really impossible. I've come with the most open explanations, and it's mainly I who need them, not you—that's for your vanity, but all the same it's the truth. I've come so as always to be frank from now on."
"So you weren't frank before?"
"And you know it yourself. I was cunning a lot of the time... you smile; I'm very glad of your smile, as a pretext for an explanation; I evoked your smile on purpose with the boastful word 'cunning,' so that you'd immediately get angry at my daring to think I could be cunning, and so as to explain myself at once. See, see how frank I've become now! Well, sir, will you kindly hear me out?"
The expression of Nikolai Vsevolodovich's face, contemptuously calm and even derisive, despite all the obviousness of the guest's wish to annoy his host with the insolence of his crude naiveties, prepared beforehand and intentionally, expressed at last a somewhat uneasy curiosity.
"Listen, now," Pyotr Stepanovich began to fidget more than ever. "When I set out to come here, I mean, here generally, to this town, ten days ago, I decided, of course, to adopt a role. The best would be no role at all, just one's own person, isn't that so? Nothing is more cunning than one's own person, because no one will believe you. To be frank, I wanted to adopt the silly fool, because the silly fool is easier than one's own person; but since the silly fool is, after all, an extreme thing, and extreme things arouse curiosity, I finally chose my own person. Well, sir, and what is my own person? The golden mean– neither stupid nor smart, rather giftless, and dropped from the moon, as sensible people here say, isn't that so?"
"Well, maybe it is," Nikolai Vsevolodovich smiled slightly.
"Ah, you agree—I'm very glad; I knew beforehand that these were your own thoughts... Don't worry, don't worry, I'm not angry, and I didn't define myself in that way to provoke your reverse praises: 'No, you're not giftless, no, you're smart...' Ah, you're smiling again! ... I've been caught again. You wouldn't say 'you're smart'– well, all right, I accept all that. Passons,as papa says, and, in parenthesis, don't be angry at my verbosity. Incidentally, here's an example for you: I always speak a lot, I mean, a lot of words, and I rush, and it always comes out wrong. And why is it that I speak a lot of words and it comes out wrong? Because I don't know how to speak. Those who know how to speak well, speak briefly. So, there you have my giftlessness—isn't it true? But since this gift of giftlessness is natural to me, why shouldn't I use it artificially? And so I do. True, as I was preparing to come here, I first had the thought of being silent; but to be silent is a great talent, and is therefore not fitting for me, and, second, it's dangerous to be silent, after all; well, so I finally decided that it would be best to talk, but precisely in a giftless way, I mean, a lot, a lot, a lot, to be in a great rush to prove something, and towards the end to get tangled up in one's own proofs, so that the listener throws up his hands, or, best of all, just spits and walks away without any end. The result will be, first, that you've convinced him of your simpleheartedness, have been very tiresome, and haven't been understood—all three profits at once! For pity's sake, who is going to start suspecting you of mysterious designs after that? No, there's not one of them who wouldn't be personally offended with anybody who said I had mysterious designs. And, what's more, I sometimes make them laugh—and that is priceless. No, they'll forgive me everything for this alone, that the wise man who published tracts there has turned out here to be stupider than they are, isn't that so? I can see by your smile that you approve."
Incidentally, Nikolai Vsevolodovich was not smiling at all, but, on the contrary, was listening frowningly and somewhat impatiently.
"Eh? What? Did I hear you say 'Who cares?'" Pyotr Stepanovich rattled on (Nikolai Vsevolodovich had not said anything at all). "Of course, of course; I assure you it's not at all so as to compromise you with comradeship. And, you know, you're terribly jumpy today; I came running to you with an open and cheerful soul, and you pick up every dropped stitch; I assure you I won't talk about anything ticklish today, I give you my word, and I accept all your conditions beforehand!"
Nikolai Vsevolodovich was obstinately silent.
"Eh? What? Did you say something? I see, I see, it seems I've blundered again; you didn't offer any conditions, and you're not going to, I believe it, I believe it, but don't worry; I know it's not worth my while offering them myself, right? I'll answer for you beforehand, and—from giftlessness, of course; giftlessness, giftlessness... You're laughing? Eh? What?"
"Nothing," Nikolai Vsevolodovich finally grinned, "I just remembered that I did once call you giftless, but you weren't there, so you must have been told ... I might ask you to get down to business quickly."
"But I am down to business, it precisely has to do with Sunday!" Pyotr Stepanovich babbled. "So, what, what was I on Sunday, in your opinion? Precisely a hasty, giftless mediocrity, and I took over the conversation by force in the most giftless way. But I was forgiven everything, because first of all I'm from the moon, that seems to have been decided on by everyone now; and, second, because I told a lovely little story and rescued the lot of you—right? right?"
"That is, you told it precisely so as to leave doubts and show our patching and shuffling, when there wasn't any patching and I never asked you to do anything at all."
"Precisely, precisely!" Pyotr Stepanovich picked up, as if in rapture. "I precisely did it that way, so that you would notice the whole spring; I was clowning mainly for you, because I was trying to catch you and wanted to compromise you. I mainly wanted to find out how afraid you were."
"Curious, why are you so frank now?"
"Don't be angry, don't be angry, don't flash your eyes ... But, then, you're not flashing them. You're curious why I'm so frank? But, precisely because everything's changed now, finished, passed, and overgrown with sand. I've suddenly changed my thinking about you. The old way is completely finished; I'll never compromise you in the old way now; now it's the new way."
"Changed your tactics?"
"There aren't any tactics. Now it's entirely your will in everything—I mean, say yesif you want, or noif you want. That's my new tactic. And about ourbusiness I won't even make a peep until you yourself tell me to. You're laughing? Be my guest; I'm laughing myself. But I'm serious now, serious, serious, though anyone who is in such a hurry is naturally giftless, no? Never mind, let it be giftless, but I'm serious, serious."
He was indeed speaking seriously, in quite a different tone and in some special agitation, so that Nikolai Vsevolodovich glanced at him curiously.
"You say you've changed your thinking about me?" he asked.
"I changed my thinking about you the moment you took your hands back after Shatov—and enough, enough, please, no questions, I won't say anything now."
He jumped up, in fact, waving his hands as if he were waving the questions away; but since there were no questions, and there was no reason for him to leave, he sat down in the chair again, somewhat calmer.
"Incidentally, in parenthesis," he went rattling on at once, "some people here are babbling that you're going to kill him, and are making bets, so that Lembke even thought of jogging the police, but Yulia Mikhailovna forbade it. . . Enough, enough of that, I was just letting you know. Incidentally, again: I had the Lebyadkins moved that same day, you know; did you get my note with their address?"
"I got it right then."
"That wasn't out of 'giftlessness,' it was done sincerely, out of willingness. If it came out as giftless, anyway it was sincere."
"Yes, never mind, maybe it had to be so ..." Nikolai Vsevolodovich said pensively. "Only don't write me any more notes, I beg you."
"Couldn't help it, just that once."
"So Liputin knows?"
"Couldn't help it, but you know yourself that Liputin doesn't dare... Incidentally, you ought to go and see our people—I mean, them, not ourpeople—otherwise you'll be picking up my dropped stitches again. Don't worry, not now, but someday. It's raining now. I'll let them know, they'll get together, and we'll come in the evening. They're waiting with their mouths open, like baby jackdaws in a nest, to see what sort of treat we've brought them. A fervent lot. Got their books out, all ready to argue. Virginsky—an omni-man; [80]Liputin—a Fourierist, with a strong propensity for police dealings; a valuable man, I must tell you, in one respect, but requiring strictness in all others; and, finally, that one with the long ears, he'll read us his own system. And, you know, they're offended that I treat them casually and pour cold water on them, heh, heh! But to go is certainly a must."
"You've presented me there as some sort of chief?" Nikolai Vsevolodovich let escape as casually as he could. Pyotr Stepanovich glanced quickly at him.
"Incidentally," he picked up, as if he had not heard, and quickly glossing it over, "I did call two or three times a day on the much esteemed Varvara Petrovna, and was again forced to talk a lot."
"I can imagine."
"No, don't imagine, I simply said that you won't kill anybody, and, well, all sorts of sweet things. And, imagine, she already knew the next day that I'd had Marya Timofeevna moved across the river—did you tell her?"
"Never occurred to me."
"I just knew it wasn't you. But who could have, besides you? Interesting."
"Liputin, of course."
"N-no, not Liputin," Pyotr Stepanovich muttered, frowning. "I know who. It looks like Shatov... Nonsense, though, let's drop it! Though it's terribly important... Incidentally, I kept waiting for your mother suddenly to blurt out the main question... Ah, yes, all those first days she was terribly glum, and suddenly when I came today– she's beaming all over. What's that about?"
"It's because I gave her my word today that I'd propose to Lizaveta Nikolaevna in five days," Nikolai Vsevolodovich suddenly said with unexpected frankness.
"Ah, well... yes, of course," Pyotr Stepanovich babbled, hesitating, as it were, "there are these rumors about an engagement, you know? It's true, though. But you're right. She'll come running from the foot of the altar, you only have to call. You're not angry that I'm like this?"
"No, I'm not."
"I've been noticing that it's terribly difficult to make you angry today, and I'm beginning to be afraid of you. I'm terribly curious about how you'll appear tomorrow. You must have a lot of tricks ready. You're not angry that I'm like this?"
Nikolai Vsevolodovich made no reply at all, which thoroughly vexed Pyotr Stepanovich.
"Incidentally, were you serious with your mother about Lizaveta Nikolaevna?" he asked.
Nikolai Vsevolodovich looked at him intently and coldly.
"Ah, I understand, it was just to calm her down, that's what."
"And if I was serious?" Nikolai Vsevolodovich asked firmly.
"Well, then God be with you, as they say in such cases, it won't harm anything (you see, I didn't say our thing; you don't like the word our),and I... well, as for me, I'm at your service, you know that."
"You think so?"
"I think nothing, nothing," Pyotr Stepanovich rushed on, laughing, "because I know you've thought over your affairs beforehand, and you have it all thought out. I'm just saying that I am seriously at your service, always and everywhere and in any event—I mean any, understand?"
Nikolai Vsevolodovich yawned.
"You're tired of me," Pyotr Stepanovich suddenly jumped up, seizing his round, quite new hat as if he were leaving, yet still remaining and continuing to talk ceaselessly, though he was standing, pacing the room from time to time and slapping himself on the knee with his hat at animated points in the conversation.
"I still hoped to amuse you with the Lembkes," he cried gaily.
"No, don't, maybe later. How is Yulia Mikhailovna's health, by the way?"
"You all have this social manner, really: you care as much about her health as you do about a gray cat's, and yet you ask. I praise that. She's well, and respects you to the point of superstition, and, also to the point of superstition, expects a lot of you. Concerning Sunday's incident she says nothing and is certain that you yourself will overcome everything with your appearance alone. By God, she imagines you can do God knows what. Anyhow, you're a mysterious and romantic figure, now more than ever—an extremely advantageous position. How they're waiting for you—it's incredible. It was hot enough when I was leaving, but now it's even more so. Incidentally, thanks again for that letter. They're all afraid of Count K. You know, they seem to look on you as a spy? I yes them—you're not angry?"
"It's all right."
"It is all right; it will be necessary in the future. They have their own customs here. I encourage them, of course; Yulia Mikhailovna is at the head, Gaganov also ... You're laughing? But I have a tactic: I blab and blab, then suddenly I say some intelligent word, precisely when they're all searching for it. They surround me, and I start blabbing again. They've all waved me away by now—'has abilities,' they say, 'but dropped from the moon.' Lembke's inviting me to go into the service, to straighten me out. You know, I tyrannize, I mean, I compromise him terribly—he just goggles his eyes. Yulia Mikhailovna encourages me. Ah, incidentally, Gaganov is terribly angry with you. Yesterday, in Dukhovo, he spoke quite nastily about you. I immediately told him the whole truth—I mean, of course, not the whole truth. I spent the day at his place. A fine estate, a nice house."
"Can he still be in Dukhovo?" Nikolai Vsevolodovich suddenly heaved himself up, almost jumped, and made a strong move forward.
"No, it was he who drove me here this morning, we came back together," Pyotr Stepanovich said, as if he had not noticed Nikolai Vsevolodovich's momentary agitation at all. "Look at that, I've dropped a book." He bent down to pick up the keepsake [81]he had brushed against. "'Balzac's Women,with illustrations"—he suddenly opened the book—"I haven't read it. Lembke also writes novels."
"Really?" Nikolai Vsevolodovich asked, as if interested.
"In Russian—secretly, of course. Yulia Mikhailovna knows and lets him. A duffer, but he has his ways; they've got it all worked out. What strictness of form, what self-possession! We could use some of that."
"You're praising the administration?"
"And why not? The only thing in Russia that's natural and achieved... I'll stop, I'll stop," he suddenly heaved himself up, "I didn't mean it, not a word about anything delicate. Anyhow, goodbye, you look a bit green."
"It's a fever."
"I believe it; you should go to bed. Incidentally, there are castrates in the district, curious people [82]... Later, though. Here, though, is another little anecdote: there's an infantry regiment in the district.
Friday evening I was drinking with the officers in –tsy. We have three friends there, vous comprenez? There was talk about atheism, and, of course, we cashiered God well and good. They were delighted, squealing. Incidentally, Shatov insists that to start a rebellion in Russia one must inevitably begin with atheism. Maybe he's right. One gray-haired boor of a captain sat and sat, silent, not saying a word; suddenly he stands up in the middle of the room and says, so loudly, you know, as if to himself: 'If there's no God, then what sort of captain am I?'—took his cap, threw up his arms, and walked out."
"Having uttered a rather well rounded thought," Nikolai Vsevolodovich yawned for the third time.
"Really? I didn't understand it; I was going to ask you. Well, what else have I got for you? The Shpigulins' factory is interesting; five hundred workers there, as you know, a hotbed of cholera, they haven't cleaned the place in fifteen years, and they cheat their employees; the owners are millionaires. I can assure you some of the workers have a notion of what the Internationale [83]is. Did you smile? You'll see for yourself, just give me a tiny, tiny bit of time! I've already asked you for some time, and now I'm asking for more, and then... sorry, though, I won't, I won't, I don't mean that, don't scowl. Anyhow, good-bye. Ah, what's the matter with me?" he suddenly turned back. "I completely forgot the main thing: I was just told that our box has come from Petersburg."
"Meaning?" Nikolai Vsevolodovich looked at him uncomprehendingly.
"Meaning your box, your things, tailcoats, trousers, linen—has it come? Is it true?"
"Yes, I heard something earlier."
"Ah, might it be possible, now! ..."
"Ask Alexei."
"Then tomorrow? Tomorrow? In with your things there are also my jacket, my tailcoat, and three pairs of trousers, from Charmeur's, [84] on your recommendation, remember?"
"I've heard you're playing the gallant around here?" Nikolai Vsevolodovich grinned. "Is it true you're going to take lessons from a riding-master?"
Pyotr Stepanovich smiled a crooked smile.
"You know," he suddenly hurried excessively, in a quivering and faltering voice, "you know, Nikolai Vsevolodovich, with regard to persons, we'll drop that once and for all, right? You may, of course, despise me as much as you like, if you find it so amusing, but still it would be better not to be personal for a while, right?"
"Very well, I won't do it again," said Nikolai Vsevolodovich. Pyotr Stepanovich grinned, slapped his knee with his hat, shifted from one foot to the other, and assumed his former expression.
"There are some here who even consider me your rival with Lizaveta Nikolaevna, so how can I not think of my appearance?" he laughed. "Who has been informing you, though? Hm. It's precisely eight o'clock; well, I'm off; I promised to call on Varvara Petrovna, but I'll pass that up; you go to bed and tomorrow you'll feel more chipper. It's dark and raining outside, I have a cab, though, because the streets aren't quiet here at night. . . Ah, incidentally: there's a certain Fedka the Convict wandering around town and hereabouts, a fugitive from Siberia, imagine, my former household serf, whom papa packed off to the army fifteen years ago, to make some money. [85]A very remarkable man."
"Have you... talked with him?" Nikolai Vsevolodovich glanced up.
"I have. He's not hiding from me. A man ready for anything, anything—for money, naturally, but there are convictions there, too, of his own kind, of course. Ah, yes, again incidentally: if you were serious just now about that plan, remember, to do with Lizaveta Nikolaevna, then I repeat once more that I, too, am a man ready for anything, in all senses, whatever you like, and am completely at your service ... What, are you reaching for your stick? Ah, no, it's not your stick... Imagine, I thought you were looking for your stick."
Nikolai Vsevolodovich was not looking for anything and did not say anything, but he did indeed rise a little, somehow suddenly, with some strange movement in his face.
"Or if you need something in connection with Mr. Gaganov," Pyotr Stepanovich suddenly blurted out, this time nodding directly at the paperweight, "I can, of course, arrange everything, and I'm sure you won't pass me up."
He suddenly walked out without waiting for a reply, but then stuck his head back in through the doorway.
"Because," he cried in a patter, "Shatov, for example, also had no right to risk his life on Sunday when he went up to you, right? I wish you to make note of that."
He disappeared again, without waiting for a reply.
IV
He may have thought, as he disappeared, that when Nikolai Vsevolodovich was left alone he would start pounding the wall with his fists, and no doubt he would have been glad to peek in, if only it had been possible. But he would have been very disappointed: Nikolai Vsevolodovich remained calm. For a couple of minutes he stood by the desk in the same position, apparently deep in thought; but soon a cold, listless smile forced itself to his lips. He slowly sat down on the sofa, in his former place in the corner, and closed his eyes as if from fatigue. The corner of the letter was still peeking out from under the paperweight, but he made no move to put it right.
Soon he became totally oblivious. Varvara Petrovna, who had worn herself out with cares during those days, could not restrain herself, and after Pyotr Stepanovich, who had promised to stop and see her, left without keeping his promise, she herself ventured to visit Nicolas, though it was not her appointed time. She kept imagining: what if he were finally to say something definite? Softly, as before, she knocked on the door and, again receiving no reply, opened it herself. Seeing Nicolas sitting there somehow too motionlessly, she cautiously approached the sofa, her heart pounding. She was as if struck that he had fallen asleep so quickly and that he could sleep like that, sitting so straight and so motionlessly; even his breathing was almost imperceptible. His face was pale and stern, but as if quite frozen, motionless; his eyebrows were slightly knitted and frowning; he decidedly resembled an inanimate wax figure. She stood over him for three minutes or so, scarcely breathing, and was suddenly overcome with fear; she went out on tiptoe, paused in the doorway, hastily made a cross over him, and withdrew unnoticed, with a new heavy feeling, and a new anguish.
He slept for a long time, more than an hour, still in the same torpor; not a muscle in his face moved, not the slightest movement appeared in his whole body; his eyebrows remained as sternly knitted. If Varvara Petrovna had stayed another three minutes, she would certainly have been unable to bear the oppressive feeling of this lethargic motionlessness and would have wakened him. But suddenly he opened his eyes himself and, still without stirring, sat for another ten minutes as if peering persistently and curiously at some startling object in the corner of the room, though there was nothing there either new or unusual.
Finally there came the quiet, deep sound of the big wall clock striking once. With a certain uneasiness he turned his head to look at the face of the clock, but at almost the same moment the far door, giving onto the corridor, opened, and the valet Alexei Yegorovich appeared. He was carrying a warm coat, a scarf, and a hat in one hand, and in the other a little silver salver on which a note was lying.
"Half past nine," he announced in a soft voice and, placing the clothing he had brought on a chair in the corner, held out to him the salver with the note—a small piece of paper, unsealed, with two penciled lines on it. Having glanced over these lines, Nikolai Vsevolodovich took a pencil from the desk, scribbled a couple of words at the end of the note, and put it back on the salver.
"To be delivered right after I leave, and now—to dress," he said, getting up from the sofa.
Noticing that he was wearing a light velvet jacket, he thought a bit and asked for a different, woolen frock coat to be brought, the one he wore on more formal evening visits. Finally, having dressed completely and put on his hat, he locked the door through which Varvara Petrovna had come to him and, taking the hidden letter from under the paperweight, silently walked out into the corridor, accompanied by Alexei Yegorovich. They went along the corridor to a narrow, stone back stairway, and went down to a hall that gave directly onto the garden. In a corner of the hall a lantern and a big umbrella stood ready.
"The rain being exceedingly heavy, the mud in our streets is intolerable," Alexei Yegorovich reported, in a last remote attempt to deflect his master from the journey. But the master opened his umbrella and silently walked out into the sodden and dripping old garden, dark as a cellar. The wind howled and swayed the tops of the half-bare trees, the narrow sand paths were swamped and slippery. Alexei Yegorovich went just as he was, in a tailcoat and bareheaded, lighting the way for some three steps ahead with the lantern.
"Won't we be noticed?" Nikolai Vsevolodovich asked suddenly.
"Not from the windows, what with everything having been foreseen beforehand," the servant replied softly and evenly.
"Mama has retired?"
"The mistress locked herself in, as she regularly has over the past few days, at nine o'clock sharp, and it's impossible for her to find out anything now. At what time should I expect you?" he added, making so bold as to pose a question.
"At one, or half past one, no later than two."
"Very good, sir."
Having passed through the garden along the winding paths they both knew by heart, they reached the stone garden wall, and there, in the far corner of the wall, they found a little door which led to a narrow and deserted lane and was almost always locked, but the key to which now turned up in Alexei Yegorovich's hands.
"Won't the door creak?" Nikolai Vsevolodovich questioned again.
But Alexei Yegorovich reported that it had been oiled just yesterday, "and today as well." He was now thoroughly soaked. Having opened the door, he gave the key to Nikolai Vsevolodovich.
"If you should be pleased to be undertaking a long trip, then I must report my being uncertain of the local folk, especially in the out-of-the-way lanes, and most of all across the river," he again could not restrain himself. He was an old servant, who had formerly taken care of Nikolai Vsevolodovich and used to dandle him in his arms, a serious and stern man, who liked hearing and reading about things divine.
"Don't worry, Alexei Yegorych."
"God bless you, sir, but only setting out upon good deeds."
"How's that?" Nikolai Vsevolodovich paused with one foot already in the lane.
Alexei Yegorovich firmly repeated his wish; never before would he have ventured to express it in such words, aloud, to his master.
Nikolai Vsevolodovich locked the door, put the key in his pocket, and went off down the lane, sinking several inches into the mud at every step. He finally came out onto a paved street, long and deserted. He knew the town like the back of his hand; but Bogoyavlensky Street was still a long way off. It was past ten o'clock when he finally stopped before the locked gate of Filippov's dark old house. Now that the Lebyadkins had moved out, the ground floor was left completely empty, with the windows boarded up, but there was light in Shatov's garret. As there was no bell, he began rapping on the gate with his fist. The little window opened and Shatov peeked out; it was pitch-dark, and hard to distinguish anything; Shatov peered for a long time, about a minute.
"Is it you?" he asked suddenly.
"Yes," the uninvited guest replied.
Shatov slammed the window, went down, and unlocked the gate. Nikolai Vsevolodovich stepped across the high sill and, without saying a word, walked past him straight to Kirillov's wing.
