Текст книги "Demons"
Автор книги: Федор Достоевский
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 29 (всего у книги 56 страниц)
"And so it should be," Karmazinov echoed, not laughing now, but somehow all too serious.
"You already said that once, and, you know, I told him so."
"What, you really told him?" Karmazinov laughed again.
"He said if it was hanging from a limb for him, a whipping would be enough for you, only not an honorary one, but painful, the way they whip a peasant."
Pyotr Stepanovich took his hat and got up from his place. Karmazinov held out both hands to him in farewell.
"And what," he peeped suddenly, in a honeyed little voice and with some special intonation, still holding his hands in his own, "what if all... that's being planned... were set to be carried out, then when... might it happen?"
"How should I know?" Pyotr Stepanovich replied, somewhat rudely. They gazed intently into each other's eyes.
"Roughly? Approximately?" Karmazinov peeped still more sweetly.
"You'll have time to sell the estate, and time to clear out as well," Pyotr Stepanovich muttered, still more rudely. They both gazed at each other still more intently.
There was a minute of silence.
"It will begin by the beginning of next May, and be all over by the Protection," [141]Pyotr Stepanovich said suddenly.
"I sincerely thank you," Karmazinov said in a heartfelt voice, squeezing his hands.
"You'll have time, rat, to leave the ship!" Pyotr Stepanovich thought as he came outside. "Well, if even this 'all but statesmanly mind' is inquiring so confidently about the day and the hour, and thanks one so respectfully for the information received, we cannot doubt ourselves after that." (He grinned.) "Hm. And he's really not stupid, and... just a migratory rat; that kind won't inform!"
He ran to Bogoyavlensky Street, to Filippov's house.
VI
Pyotr Stepanovich went first to Kirillov. He was alone, as usual, and this time was doing exercises in the middle of the room– that is, he was standing with his legs apart, whirling his arms above his head in some special way. A ball was lying on the floor. The morning tea, already cold, had not been cleared from the table. Pyotr Stepanovich paused on the threshold for a minute.
"You take good care of your health, though," he said loudly and gaily, stepping into the room. "What a nice ball, though; look how it bounces! Is this also for exercise?"
Kirillov put his jacket on.
"Yes, also for health," he muttered dryly, "sit down."
"It's just for a minute. Still, I'll sit down. Health is health, but I've come to remind you of our agreement. Our time, sir, is 'in a certain sense' approaching," he concluded with an awkward twist.
"What agreement?"
"You ask, what agreement?" Pyotr Stepanovich got fluttered up, even frightened.
"It's not an agreement, or a duty, I'm bound by nothing, there's a mistake on your part."
"Listen, what is this you're doing?" Pyotr Stepanovich jumped all the way up.
"My will."
"Which is?"
"The same."
"I mean, how am I to understand that? You're still of the same mind?"
"I am. Only there is not and was not any agreement, and I'm bound by nothing. There was just my will, and now there is just my will."
Kirillov was talking abruptly and squeamishly.
"I agree, I agree, let it be your will, as long as this will doesn't change," Pyotr Stepanovich settled down again with a satisfied air. "You get angry at words. You've somehow become very angry lately;
that's why I've avoided visiting. I was completely sure, by the way, that you wouldn't change."
"I dislike you very much; but you can be completely sure. Though I do not recognize changes and non-changes."
"You know, though," Pyotr Stepanovich got fluttered up again, "why don't we talk it all over properly, so as not to be confused. The matter requires precision, and you disconcert me terribly. Am I permitted to speak?"
"Speak," Kirillov said curtly, looking into the corner.
"You resolved long ago to take your own life ... I mean, you did have such an idea. Have I put it right? Is there any mistake?"
"I have such an idea now, too."
"Wonderful. And note, also, that no one has forced you into it."
"To be sure; how stupidly you talk."
"All right, all right, so I put it very stupidly. No doubt it would be very stupid to force such things. To go on: you were a member of the Society under the old organization, and it was then that you confided it to one member of the Society."
"I did not confide it, I simply told it."
"All right. It would be ridiculous to 'confide' such a thing—what sort of confession is it? You simply told it. Wonderful."
"No, not wonderful, because you maunder so. I don't owe you any accounting, and you're not capable of understanding my thoughts. I want to take my own life because I have this thought, because I do not want the fear of death, because ... because there's nothing here for you to know... What is it? Want some tea? It's cold. Let me get you another glass."
Indeed, Pyotr Stepanovich had grabbed the teapot and was looking for an empty receptacle. Kirillov went to the cupboard and brought a clean glass.
"I just had lunch with Karmazinov," the visitor observed, "listened to him talk, got sweaty, then ran here and again got sweaty, I'm dying of thirst."
"Drink. Cold tea is good."
Kirillov sat down on his chair again, and again stared into the corner.
"A thought occurred in the Society," he went on in the same voice, "that I could be useful if I killed myself, and that one day when you got into some kind of mischief and they were looking for culprits, I could suddenly shoot myself and leave a letter that I had done it all, so that they wouldn't suspect you for a whole year."
"Or at least a few days; even one day is precious."
"Very well. In that sense I was told to wait if I liked. I said I would, until I was told the time by the Society, because it makes no difference to me."
"Yes, but remember you pledged that when you wrote the dying letter it would not be without me, and that on my arrival in Russia you would be at my... well, in short, at my disposal, that is, for this occasion alone, of course, and in all others you are certainly free," Pyotr Stepanovich added, almost courteously.
"I did not pledge, I consented, because it makes no difference to me."
"Wonderful, wonderful, I don't have the slightest intention of dampening your pride, but..."
"This is not pride."
"But remember that a hundred and twenty thalers were collected for your trip, so you took money."
"Not at all," Kirillov flared up, "not for that. One does not take money for that."
"Sometimes one does."
"You're lying. I declared in a letter from Petersburg, and in Petersburg I paid you a hundred and twenty thalers, handed them to you... and they were sent there, unless you kept them."
"Very well, very well, I'm not disputing anything, they were sent. The main thing is that you're of the same mind as before."
"The same. When you come and say 'it's time,' I'll fulfill everything. What, very soon?"
"Not so many days... But remember, we compose the note together, that same night."
"Or day, even. You say I must take the blame for the tracts?"
"And something else."
"I won't take everything on myself."
"What won't you take?" Pyotr Stepanovich got fluttered up again.
"Whatever I don't want to; enough. I don't want to talk about it anymore."
Pyotr Stepanovich restrained himself and changed the subject.
"Here's another thing," he warned. "Will you join us this evening? It's Virginsky's name day, that's the pretext for the gathering."
"I don't want to."
"Do me a favor and come. You must. You must, to impress them with numbers, and with your face... Your face is... well, in short, you have a fatal face."
"You find it so?" laughed Kirillov. "Very well, I'll come. Only not for my face. When?"
"Oh, earlyish, half past six. And, you know, you can come in, sit down, and not speak to anyone, however many there are. Only, you know, don't forget to bring a pencil and paper with you."
"What for?"
"It makes no difference to you anyway; and it's my special request. You'll just sit without speaking to anyone at all, listen, and from time to time make as if you're taking notes; well, you can draw something."
"Nonsense, what for?"
"Since it makes no difference to you; you do keep saying that it makes no difference to you."
"No, but what for?"
"Because that member of our Society, the inspector, got stuck in Moscow, and I announced to someone or other here that the inspector might visit us; so they'll think the inspector is you, and since you've been here for three weeks already, they'll be all the more surprised."
"Flimflam! You have no inspector in Moscow."
"Well, suppose I haven't, devil take him, is that any business of yours? And why is it so hard for you to do it? You are a member of the Society."
"Tell them I'm the inspector; I'll sit and be silent, but the pencil and paper I don't want."
"But why?"
"I don't want it."
Pyotr Stepanovich became angry, even turned green, but again restrained himself, got up, and took his hat.
"Is hehere?" he suddenly said in a half-whisper.
"Yes."
"Good. I'll have him out soon, don't worry."
"I don't worry. He just spends nights here. The old woman is in the hospital, the daughter-in-law died; for two days I've been alone. I showed him a place in the fence where a board can be removed; he gets in, no one sees him."
"I'll take him away soon."
"He says he has many places to spend the night."
"That's a lie, they're looking for him, and here so far it's inconspicuous. Do you really get to talking with him?"
"Yes, all night. He says very bad things about you. I read him the Apocalypse at night, with tea. He listened hard; even very, all night."
"Ah, the devil, you'll convert him to the Christian faith!"
"He's of Christian faith as it is. Don't worry, he'll use his knife. Whom do you want to put a knife into?"
"No, that's not what I'm keeping him for; he's for something else... And does Shatov know about Fedka?"
"I don't talk and never see Shatov."
"Is he angry, or what?"
"No, we're not angry, we just turn away. We spent too long lying together in America."
"I'll go to him now."
"As you like."
"Stavrogin and I may also come to you from there, somewhere around ten o'clock."
"Come."
"I have to talk with him about an important... You know, why don't you give me your ball? What do you need it for now? I, too, for exercise. I'll even pay money for it."
"Just take it."
Pyotr Stepanovich put the ball in his back pocket.
"And I won't give you anything against Stavrogin," Kirillov muttered behind him, letting his visitor out. The latter looked at him in surprise, but did not respond.
Kirillov's last words confused Pyotr Stepanovich greatly; he still had not had time to make sense of them, but going up the stairs to see Shatov he tried to recompose his displeased look into a benign physiognomy. Shatov was at home and slightly ill. He was lying on his bed, though dressed.
"What bad luck!" Pyotr Stepanovich cried out from the threshold. "Are you seriously ill?"
The benign expression on his face suddenly vanished; something spiteful flashed in his eyes.
"Not in the least," Shatov jumped up nervously, "I'm not ill at all, my head is a little..."
He was even at a loss; the sudden appearance of such a visitor decidedly frightened him.
"The matter I've come on is such that it would be better not to be sick," Pyotr Stepanovich began quickly and as if peremptorily. "Allow me to sit down" (he sat down), "and you sit back down on your cot, so. Today some of our people are getting together at Virginsky's, under the pretense of his birthday; there will be no other tinge—that's been seen to. I'll come with Nikolai Stavrogin. I certainly wouldn't drag you there, knowing your present way of thinking ... I mean, in the sense of not wanting to torment you there, and not because we think you'd inform. But it turns out that you'll have to go. You'll meet those people there with whom we will finally decide the manner of your leaving the Society, and to whom you will hand over what you have. We'll do it inconspicuously; I'll lead you to some corner; there will be a lot of people, and there's no need for everyone to know. I confess I did have to exercise my tongue on your behalf; but now it seems that they, too, agree, with the understanding, of course, that you hand over the press and all the papers. Then you can go to the four winds."
Shatov listened frowningly and spitefully. His recent nervous fright had left him altogether.
"I do not acknowledge any obligation to give an accounting to the devil knows whom," he stated flatly. "No one can set me free."
"Not quite so. A lot was entrusted to you. You had no right to break it off so directly. And, finally, you never announced it clearly, so you led them into an ambiguous position."
"As soon as I came here I announced it clearly in a letter."
"No, not clearly," Pyotr Stepanovich disputed calmly. "For instance, I sent you 'The Shining Light' to print here, and to keep the copies somewhere here with you until called for; and two tracts as well. You sent it all back with an ambiguous letter that meant nothing."
"I directly refused to print it."
"Yes, but not directly. You wrote: 'Am unable,' but did not explain for what reason. 'Unable' doesn't mean 'unwilling.' It could be supposed that you were unable simply for material reasons. In fact, they took it that way, and supposed that you still agreed to continue your connection with the Society, and so they might have entrusted you with something again, and thus have compromised themselves. Here they say you simply wanted to deceive, so that, having obtained important information, you could then denounce them. I defended you all I could, and showed your two-line written reply as a document in your favor. But I myself had to admit, on rereading it, that those two lines are vague and lead one into deception."
"And you've preserved this letter so carefully?"
"That I've preserved it is nothing; I have it even now."
"Who the devil cares! ..." Shatov cried out furiously. "Let your fools think I denounced them, it's not my business! I'd like to see what you can do to me."
"You'd be marked out and hanged at the first success of the revolution."
"That's when you seize supreme power and subjugate Russia?"
"Don't laugh. I repeat, I stood up for you. One way or another, I'd still advise you to come today. Why waste words because of some false pride? Isn't it better to part amicably? Because you'll have to hand over the press and the type and the old papers in any case, so we can talk about that."
"I'll come," Shatov growled, hanging his head in thought. Pyotr Stepanovich studied him out of the corner of his eye from where he sat.
"Will Stavrogin be there?" Shatov suddenly asked, raising his head.
"Quite certainly."
"Heh, heh!"
Again they were silent for about a minute. Shatov was grinning squeamishly and irritably.
"And that vile 'Shining Light' of yours, which I didn't want to print here, did it get printed?"
"It did."
"To persuade schoolboys that Herzen himself wrote it into your album?"
"Herzen himself."
Again they were silent for about three minutes. Shatov finally rose from the bed.
"Get out of here from me, I don't want to sit with you."
"I'm going," Pyotr Stepanovich said, even somehow gaily, rising at once. "Only one word: it seems Kirillov is all by himself in the wing now, without any maid?"
"All by himself. Get out, I can't stay in the same room with you."
"Well, aren't you in a fine state now!" Pyotr Stepanovich reflected gaily as he was going out, "and so you will be in the evening, and that's precisely how I want you now, I could wish for nothing better, nothing better! The Russian God himself is helping out!"
VII
He probably bustled about a good deal that day on various little errands—and it must have been with success—which reflected itself in the smug expression of his physiognomy when in the evening, at six o'clock sharp, he appeared at Nikolai Vsevolodovich's. But he was not shown in to him at once; Mavriky Nikolaevich had just shut himself up with Nikolai Vsevolodovich in the study. This news instantly worried him. He sat down right by the door of the study to wait until the visitor came out. The conversation could be heard, but he was unable to catch the words. The visit did not last long; soon there was noise, an unexpectedly loud and sharp voice was heard, then the door opened and out came Mavriky Nikolaevich with a completely pale face. He did not notice Pyotr Stepanovich and quickly walked past. Pyotr Stepanovich at once ran into the study.
I cannot avoid a detailed account of this extremely brief meeting of the two "rivals"—a meeting seemingly impossible under the circumstances, but which nonetheless took place.
It happened like this. Nikolai Vsevolodovich was dozing after dinner on the sofa in his study when Alexei Yegorovich reported the arrival of an unexpected visitor. On hearing the name announced, he even jumped up from his place and would not believe it. But soon a smile flashed on his lips—a smile of haughty triumph and at the same time of a certain dull, mistrustful amazement. The entering Mavriky Nikolaevich seemed struck by the expression of this smile; at least he paused suddenly in the middle of the room as if undecided whether to go on or turn back. The host at once managed to change his face, and with a look of earnest perplexity stepped forward to meet him. The man did not take the proffered hand, moved a chair out awkwardly, and, not saying a word, sat down even before the host, without waiting to be invited. Nikolai Vsevolodovich sat himself down sideways on the sofa and, scrutinizing Mavriky Nikolaevich, waited silently.
"If you can, then marry Lizaveta Nikolaevna," Mavriky Nikolaevich suddenly offered, and, what was most curious, it was quite impossible to tell by the tone of his voice whether it was a request, a recommendation, a concession, or an order.
Nikolai Vsevolodovich continued to be silent; but the visitor had evidently said all he had come for, and was staring at him point-blank, awaiting an answer.
"Unless I'm mistaken (though it's all too true), Lizaveta Nikolaevna is already engaged to you," Stavrogin said at last.
"Betrothed and engaged," Mavriky Nikolaevich firmly and clearly confirmed.
"You've... quarreled?... Excuse me, Mavriky Nikolaevich."
"No, she 'loves and respects' me—the words are hers. Her words are more precious than anything."
"There's no doubt of that."
"But you should know that if she were standing right at the altar, and you were to call her, she would drop me and everyone and go to you."
"From the altar?"
"And after the altar."
"You're not mistaken?"
"No. From behind her ceaseless, genuine, and most complete hatred for you, love flashes every moment, and... madness... the most genuine and boundless love and—madness! On the contrary, from behind the love she feels for me, also genuinely, hatred flashes every moment—the greatest hatred! I could never have imagined all these... metamorphoses... before."
"But still it surprises me, how could you come and dispose of Lizaveta Nikolaevna's hand? Do you have the right to do that? Or did she authorize you?"
Mavriky Nikolaevich frowned and cast down his head for a moment.
"These are only just words on your part," he said suddenly, "vengeful and triumphant words: I'm sure you understand what's been left unspoken between the lines, and is there any place here for petty vanity? Aren't you satisfied enough? Is there really any need to smear it around, to dot all the i's? As you wish, I will dot them, if you need my humiliation so much: I have no right, no authorization is possible; Lizaveta Nikolaevna doesn't know about anything, and her fiancé has lost his last wits and is fit for the madhouse, and to crown it all he comes himself to report it to you. You alone in the whole world can make her happy, and I alone—unhappy. You contend for her, you pursue her, but, I don't know why, you will not marry her. If it's some lovers' quarrel that happened abroad, and I must be sacrificed to end it—sacrifice me. She is too unhappy, and I cannot bear it. My words are not a permission, not a prescription, and so there is no insult to your pride. If you wanted to take my place at the altar, you could do it without any permission on my part, and there was certainly no point in my coming to you with my madness. Especially as our marriage is no longer possible at all after this step of mine. I can't lead her to the altar when I'm a scoundrel. What I am doing here and my handing her over to you, perhaps her most implacable enemy, is in my view the act of a scoundrel, which I, of course, will never be able to endure." "Will you shoot yourself as we're getting married?" "No, much later. Why stain her wedding garment with my blood. Maybe I won't shoot myself at all, either now or later." "You probably wish to set me at ease by saying so?" "You? What could one more splash of blood mean to you?" He turned pale and his eyes flashed. A minute of silence followed.
"Excuse me for the questions I've put to you," Stavrogin began again. "Some of them I had no right to put, but to one of them it seems to me I have every right: tell me what facts led you to conclude about my feelings for Lizaveta Nikolaevna? I mean with regard to the degree of those feelings, the certainty of which allowed you to come to me and... risk such a suggestion."
"What?" Mavriky Nikolaevich even gave a slight start. "But haven't you been seeking after her? You were not seeking and do not want to seek after her?"
"In general, I cannot speak aloud about my feelings for this or that woman to a third person, or to anyone at all except that one woman. Excuse me, it's an oddity of my organism. But instead of that I'll tell you the whole rest of the truth: I am married, and it is no longer possible for me to marry or 'to seek after.’”
Mavriky Nikolaevich was so amazed that he recoiled against the back of his armchair, and for a while stared fixedly at Stavrogin's face.
"Imagine, I somehow didn't think of that," he muttered. "You said then, that morning, that you weren't married ... and so I believed you weren't married..."
He was growing terribly pale; suddenly he banged his fist on the table with all his might.
"If after such a confession you do not leave Lizaveta Nikolaevna alone, and keep making her unhappy, I'll kill you with a stick like a dog in a ditch!"
He jumped up and quickly walked out of the room. Pyotr Stepanovich, running in, found the host in a most unexpected frame of mind.
"Ah, it's you!" Stavrogin guffawed loudly; he seemed to be guffawing only at the figure of Pyotr Stepanovich, who ran in with such impetuous curiosity.
"You were eavesdropping at the door? Wait, what is it you've arrived with? I promised you something, I know... Aha! I remember: to go to 'our' people! Let's go, I'm very glad, and you couldn't have thought of anything more appropriate right now."
He grabbed his hat, and the two men left the house without delay.
"You're laughing ahead of time at seeing 'our' people?" Pyotr Stepanovich fidgeted gaily, now trying to keep in stride with his companion on the narrow brick sidewalk, now even running down into the roadway, right into the mud, since his companion was completely unaware that he was walking in the very middle of the sidewalk and thus occupying the whole of it with his own person.
"Not laughing in the least," Stavrogin answered loudly and gaily, "on the contrary, I'm sure you've got some serious folk there."
“‘Gloomy dullards,' as you were pleased to put it once."
"There's nothing gayer than certain gloomy dullards."
"Ah, you mean Mavriky Nikolaevich! I'm sure he came just now to give up his fiancée to you, eh? Imagine, it was I who set him onto that, indirectly. And if he doesn't give her up, we'll take her ourselves—eh?"
Pyotr Stepanovich knew, of course, the risk of allowing himself such flourishes, but when he was excited he preferred sooner to risk everything than to leave himself in ignorance. Nikolai Vsevolodovich merely laughed.
"And you still count on helping me?" he asked.
"If you call me. But, you know what, there's one way that's best."
"I know your way."
"Ah, no, so far it's a secret. Only remember, secrets cost money."
"I even know how much," Stavrogin growled under his breath, but checked himself and fell silent.
"How much? What did you say?" Pyotr Stepanovich fluttered up.
"I said: to hell with you and your secret! Better tell me who you've got there. I know we're going to a name-day party, but who, namely, will be there?"
"Oh, all sorts of things, in the highest degree! Even Kirillov."
"All members of circles?"
"Devil take it, you rush so! Not even one circle has taken place here yet."
"Then how did you manage to spread so many tracts?"
"Where we're going only four of them are members of the circle. The rest, while they wait, are spying on each other as hard as they can and bringing everything to me. Trustworthy folk. It's all material for us to organize, and then we clear out. However, you wrote the rules yourself, there's no need to explain to you."
"So, what, the going's hard? Got stuck?"
"The going? Easy as could be. This'll make you laugh: what first of all affects them terribly is a uniform. There's nothing stronger than a uniform. I purposely invent ranks and positions: I have secretaries, secret stool pigeons, treasurers, chairmen, registrars, their adjuncts– it's all very much liked and has caught on splendidly. Then the next force, naturally, is sentimentality. You know, with us socialism spreads mostly through sentimentality. But the trouble here is with these biting lieutenants; you get burned every so often. Then come the out-and-out crooks; well, they can be nice folk, very profitable on occasion, but they take up a lot of time, require constant surveillance. Well, and finally the main force—the cement that bonds it all—is shame at one's own opinion. There is a real force! And who was it that worked, who was the 'sweetie' [142]that labored so that there isn't a single idea of one's own left in anyone's head! They consider it shameful."
"But if so, why are you bustling about like this?"
"But if it's just lying there gaping at everybody, how can one help filching it! As if you don't seriously believe success is possible? Eh, the belief is there, it's the wanting that's needed. Yes, precisely with their sort success is possible. I tell you, I can get them to go through fire, if I just yell at them that they're not liberal enough. Fools reproach me for having hoodwinked everyone here with my central committee and 'numerous branches.' You yourself once reproached me with that, but where is there any hoodwinking: the central committee is you and me, and there can be as many branches as they like."
"And all with these dregs!"
"It's material. They, too, will come in useful."
"And you're still counting on me?"
"You are the chief, you are the force; I'll just be at your side, a secretary. You know, we shall board our bark, and her oars will be of maple, and her sails of silk, and in the stern there sits a beautiful maiden, the fair Lizaveta Nikolaevna ... or how the devil does the song go..." [143]
"Muffed it!" Stavrogin burst out laughing. "No, I'd better give you the refrain. Here you're counting off on your fingers what forces make up a circle? All this officialdom and sentimentality—it's good glue, but there's one thing better still: get four members of a circle to bump off a fifth on the pretense of his being an informer, and with this shed blood you'll immediately tie them together in a single knot. [144]They'll become your slaves, they won't dare rebel or call you to accounts. Ha, ha, ha!"
"You, though... you're going to pay for those words, my friend," Pyotr Stepanovich thought to himself, "and even this very night. You allow yourself too much."
Thus, or almost thus, Pyotr Stepanovich must have reflected. However, they were already coming up to Virginsky's house.
"You've no doubt presented me there as some sort of member from abroad, connected with the Internationale, maybe an inspector?" Stavrogin suddenly asked.
"No, not an inspector; the inspector won't be you; you are a founding member from abroad who knows the most important secrets– that's your role. You are, of course, going to speak?"
"What gives you that idea?"
"You're obliged to speak now."
Stavrogin even stopped in surprise in the middle of the street, not far from a streetlamp. Pyotr Stepanovich met his gaze boldly and calmly. Stavrogin spat and walked on.
"And are you going to speak?" he suddenly asked Pyotr Stepanovich.
"No, I'd rather listen to you."
"Devil take you! In fact, you're giving me an idea!"
"What idea?" Pyotr Stepanovich popped up.
"Maybe I will speak there, in fact, but then I'm going to give you a beating, and a good one, you know."
"By the way, I told Karmazinov about you this morning, that you supposedly said about him that he ought to get a whipping, and not just an honorary one, but painful, the way they whip a peasant."
"But I never said that, ha, ha!"
"Never mind. Se non è vero .. ." [145]
"Well, thanks, I'm sincerely grateful."
"You know what else Karmazinov says? That essentially our teaching is a denial of honor, and that it's easiest of all to carry the Russian man with us by an open right to dishonor."
"Excellent words! Golden words!" Stavrogin cried. "He's put his finger on it! The right to dishonor—and everyone will come running to us, no one will stay there! Listen, Verkhovensky, you're not from the higher police, eh?"
"Whoever has such questions in his mind doesn't voice them."
"I understand, but we're among ourselves."
"No, so far I'm not from the higher police. Enough, we're here. Concoct your physiognomy, Stavrogin; I always do when I come to them. Add some extra gloom, that's all, no need for anything else; it's quite a simple thing."
