Текст книги "Demons"
Автор книги: Федор Достоевский
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Текущая страница: 43 (всего у книги 56 страниц)
"And I think that our centers abroad have forgotten Russian reality and broken all connections, and are therefore simply raving... I even think that instead of many hundreds of fivesomes there is only our one in all Russia, and there isn't any network," Liputin finally choked.
"The more contemptible for you, that you ran after the cause without believing in it. . . and are running after me now like a mean little cur."
"No, sir, I'm not running. We have every right to leave off and to form a new society."
"Mor-ron!" Pyotr Stepanovich suddenly thundered menacingly, flashing his eyes.
The two stood facing each other for a time. Pyotr Stepanovich turned and confidently set off on his way again.
It flashed like lightning through Liputin's mind: "I'll turn and go back; if I don't turn now, I'll never go back." He thought thus for exactly ten steps, but at the eleventh a new and desperate thought lit up in his mind: he did not turn and did not go back.
They came to Filippov's house, but before reaching it went down a lane, or, better to say, an inconspicuous path by the fence, so that for some time they had to make their way along the sloping side of a ditch, where one had to hold on to the fence in order to keep one's footing. In the darkest corner of the tilting fence, Pyotr Stepanovich removed a board; an opening was formed, through which he promptly climbed. Liputin was surprised, but climbed through in his turn; then the board was put back. This was that secret way by which Fedka used to get to Kirillov.
"Shatov mustn't know we're here," Pyotr Stepanovich whispered sternly to Liputin.
III
Kirillov, as always at that hour, was sitting on his leather sofa having tea. He did not rise to meet them, but somehow heaved himself all up and looked with alarm at the entering people.
"You're not mistaken," said Pyotr Stepanovich, "I've come for that very thing."
"Today?"
"No, no, tomorrow... around this time."
And he hastily sat down at the table, observing the alarmed Kirillov somewhat anxiously. He, however, had already calmed down and looked as usual.
"These people still won't believe it. You're not angry that I brought Liputin?"
"Today I'm not, but tomorrow I want to be alone."
"But not before I come, and so in my presence."
"I'd prefer not in your presence."
"You remember you promised to write out and sign everything I dictate."
"Makes no difference to me. Will you stay long now?"
"I must see a certain person, and I have half an hour till then, so whether you want it or not, I'll stay for that half hour."
Kirillov said nothing. Liputin, meanwhile, placed himself to one side, under the portrait of a bishop. The same desperate thought was taking hold of his mind more and more. Kirillov barely paid any attention to him. Liputin had known Kirillov's theory even before and had always laughed at him; but now he was silent and looked around gloomily.
"And I wouldn't mind having some tea," Pyotr Stepanovich stirred. "I've just had a beefsteak and was hoping to find your tea ready."
"Have some."
"You used to offer it yourself," Pyotr Stepanovich observed sourishly.
"Makes no difference. Liputin can have some, too."
"No, sir, I... can't."
"Can't, or won't?" Pyotr Stepanovich turned quickly.
"I won't do it here, sir," Liputin refused meaningly. Pyotr Stepanovich scowled.
"Smells of mysticism—devil knows what sort of people you all are!"
No one answered him; they were silent for a full minute.
"But I know one thing," he suddenly added sharply, "that no prejudice will stop any of us from doing his duty."
"Stavrogin left?" Kirillov asked.
"Yes."
"He did well."
Pyotr Stepanovich flashed his eyes, but kept hold of himself.
"I don't care what you think, so long as each one keeps his word."
"I will keep my word."
"However, I have always been sure that you would do your duty as an independent and progressive man."
"You are ridiculous."
"So be it, I'm very glad to make you laugh. I'm always glad to be able to oblige."
"You want very much that I shoot myself, and are afraid if suddenly not?"
"I mean, you see, you yourself joined your plan with our actions. Counting on your plan, we've already undertaken something, so you simply cannot refuse, because you would let us down."
"No right at all."
"I understand, I understand, it's entirely as you will, and we are nothing, just as long as this entire will of yours gets carried out."
"And I'll have to take all your vileness on myself?"
"Listen, Kirillov, you haven't turned coward? If you want to refuse, say so right now."
"I haven't turned coward."
"It's because you're asking too many questions."
"Will you leave soon?"
"Another question?"
Kirillov looked him over with contempt.
"Here, you see," Pyotr Stepanovich went on, getting more and more angry, worried, unable to find the right tone, "you want me to leave, for solitude, in order to concentrate, but these are all dangerous signs for you, for you first of all. You want to think a lot. In my view, it's better not to think, but just to do it. You worry me, you really do."
"Only one thing is very bad for me, that at that moment there will be such a viper as you around me."
"Well, that makes no difference. Maybe when the time comes I'll go out and stand on the porch. If you're dying and show such a lack of indifference, then ... this is all very dangerous. I'll go out on the porch, and you can suppose that I understand nothing and am a man immeasurably lower than you."
"No, not immeasurably; you have abilities, but there is a lot you don't understand, because you are a low man."
"Very glad, very glad. I've already said I'm glad to provide diversion ... at such a moment."
"You understand nothing."
"I mean, I... anyway, I listen with respect."
"You can do nothing; even now you cannot hide your petty spitefulness, though it's unprofitable to show it. You will make me angry, and I will suddenly want half a year longer."
Pyotr Stepanovich looked at his watch.
"I've never understood a thing about your theory, but I do know that you didn't make it up for us, and so you'll carry it out without us. I also know that it was not you who ate the idea, but the idea that ate you, and so you won't put it off."
"What? The idea ate me?"
"Yes."
"Not me the idea? That's good. You have some small intelligence. Only you keep teasing, and I am proud."
"Wonderful, wonderful. That's precisely how it should be—that you should be proud."
"Enough; you've drunk, now go."
"Devil take it, I guess I'll have to," Pyotr Stepanovich stood up. "It's still early, though. Listen, Kirillov, will I find our man at Myasnichikha's, you know? Or was she lying, too?"
"You won't, because he's here, not there."
"How, here, devil take it, where?"
"He's sitting in the kitchen, eating and drinking."
"But how dared he?" Pyotr Stepanovich flushed wrathfully. "He was obliged to wait. . . nonsense! He's got no passport or money!"
"I don't know. He came to say good-bye; he's dressed and ready. He's leaving and won't come back. He said you're a scoundrel and he doesn't want to wait for your money."
"Ahh! He's afraid I'll... well, I might even now, if he... Where is he, in the kitchen?"
Kirillov opened a side door into a tiny, dark room; from this room three steps led down to the kitchen, directly into the partitioned-off closet where the cook's bed usually stood. It was here, in the corner, under the icons, that Fedka was now sitting at a bare wooden table. In front of him on the table were a small bottle, a plate with bread, and, on an earthenware dish, a cold piece of beef with potatoes. He was having a leisurely snack, and was already slightly tipsy, but had his sheepskin coat on and was apparently quite ready to set off. A samovar was beginning to boil behind the partition, but it wasn't for Fedka, though Fedka himself had made a point of lighting it and preparing it every night for a week or more, for "Alexei Nilych, sir, seeing as he's so ver-ry accustomed to having tea at night." I strongly suspect that the beef and potatoes had been roasted for Fedka that morning by Kirillov himself, for lack of a cook.
"What do you think you're doing?" Pyotr Stepanovich rolled into the downstairs. "Why didn't you stay where you were ordered to?"
And he swung and banged his fist on the table.
Fedka assumed a dignified air.
"You wait, Pyotr Stepanovich, you wait," he began to speak, jauntily emphasizing each word, "here firstly you must understand that you're at a noble visit with Mr. Kirillov, Alexei Nilych, whose boots are always there for you to polish, since he's an educated mind before you, and you're just—pfui!"
And he jauntily spat over his shoulder. One could see arrogance, resoluteness, and a certain rather dangerous, affected, calm casuistry before the first explosion. But Pyotr Stepanovich was beyond noticing any danger, which, besides, did not fit with his view of things. The events and failures of the day had him totally in a whirl... Liputin was peeking curiously down the three steps from the dark closet.
"Do you or do you not want to have a proper passport and good money to travel where you were told. Yes or no?"
"You see, Pyotr Stepanovich, you began deceiving me from the very first beginning, whereby you come out to me as a real scoundrel. The same as a vile human louse—that's what I count you as. You promised me big money for innocent blood, and swore an oath for Mr. Stavrogin, though what comes out is nothing but your own uncivility. I got no share of it, as I live, not a drop, to say nothing of fifteen hundred, and Mr. Stavrogin slapped your face the other day, which is already known to me. Now you're threatening me again and promising money—for what business, you won't say. And I have doubts in my mind that you're sending me to Petersburg to revenge your wickedness with whatever you've got on Mr. Stavrogin, Nikolai Vsevolodovich, trusting in my gullibility. And by that you come out as the foremost murderer. And do you know what you deserve now by this sole point that in your depravity you've ceased to believe in God himself, the true creator? The same thing as an idolater, and on the same lines as a Tartar or a Mordovian. Alexei Nilych, being a philosopher, has manifoldly explained to you the true God, the creator and maker, and about the creation of the world, and equally about the future destinies and transfiguration of every creature and every beast from the book of the Apocalypse. But you, like a witless idol, persist in your deafness and dumbness, and have brought Ensign Erkel to the same thing, like that same evildoer and seducer called the atheist..." "Ah, you drunken mug! You strip icons, and then preach God!" "You see, Pyotr Stepanovich, I'll tell you it's true that I stripped them; but I only took the pearlies off, and how do you know, maybe that same moment my tear, too, was transformed before the crucible of the Almighty, for some offense against me, since I'm just exactly that very same orphan, not even having any daily refuge. Do you know from the books that once upon some ancient times a certain merchant stoled a pearl from the nimbus of the Most Holy Mother of God with just exactly the same tearful sighing and praying, and afterwards returned the whole sum right at her feet, in public, on his knees, and our Mother and Intercessor overshadowed him with her veil before all the people, so that on this subject a miracle even came about at that time, and it was ordered by way of the authorities to write it down exactly into the state books. But you let the mouse in, and so you blasphemed against the very finger of God. And if you weren't my natural master, who I used to carry in my arms when I was still a youth, I'd do you in right now, as I live, without even moving from this spot!"
Pyotr Stepanovich became exceedingly wrathful.
"Speak, did you see Stavrogin today?"
"There's one thing you daren't ever to do—to question me. Mr. Stavrogin, as he lives, stands amazed before you, nor took part by his wishes, to say nothing of any orders or money. Me you dared."
"You'll get the money, and you'll also get the two thousand, in Petersburg, on the spot, the whole sum, and still more."
"You're lying, my gentle sir, and it's funny for me even to see such a gullible man as you are. Mr. Stavrogin stands before you like on a ladder, and you're yapping at him from below like a silly tyke, whereas he regards it as doing you a big honor even to spit on you from up there."
"And do you know," Pyotr Stepanovich flew into a rage, "that I won't let you take a step out of here, you scoundrel, and will hand you straight over to the police?"
Fedka jumped to his feet and flashed his eyes furiously. Pyotr Stepanovich snatched out his revolver. Here a quick and repulsive scene took place: before Pyotr Stepanovich could aim the revolver, Fedka instantly swerved and struck him in the face with all his might. At the same moment another terrible blow was heard, then a third, a fourth, all in the face. Crazed, his eyes goggling, Pyotr Stepanovich muttered something and suddenly crashed full-length to the floor.
"There he is, take him!" Fedka cried with a victorious flourish, instantly grabbed his cap, his bundle from under the bench, and made himself scarce. Pyotr Stepanovich lay gasping, unconscious. Liputin even thought a murder had taken place. Kirillov rushed headlong down to the kitchen.
"Water on him!" he cried, and scooping some from a bucket with an iron dipper, he poured it over his head. Pyotr Stepanovich stirred, raised his head, sat up, and looked senselessly in front of him.
"Well, how's that?" asked Kirillov.
The man went on looking at him intently and still without recognition; but catching sight of Liputin, who stuck himself out from the kitchen, he smiled his nasty smile and suddenly jumped up, snatching the revolver from the floor.
"If you decide to run away tomorrow like that scoundrel Stavrogin," he flew at Kirillov in a frenzy, all pale, stammering and articulating his words imprecisely, "I'll hang you like a fly... squash you ... at the other end of the globe... understand!"
And he pointed the revolver straight at Kirillov's forehead; but at almost the same moment, recovering his senses completely at last, he jerked his hand back, shoved the revolver into his pocket, and, without another word, went running out of the house. And Liputin after him. They climbed through the same hole and again went along the slope holding on to the fence. Pyotr Stepanovich began striding quickly down the lane, so that Liputin could barely keep up with him. At the first intersection, he suddenly stopped.
"Well?" he turned to Liputin with a challenge.
Liputin remembered the revolver and was still trembling all over from the scene that had taken place; but the answer somehow suddenly and irrepressibly jumped off his tongue of itself:
"I think ... I think that 'from Smolensk to far Tashkent they're not so impatiently awaiting the student.’”
"And did you see what Fedka was drinking in the kitchen?"
"What he was drinking? He was drinking vodka."
"Well, know that he was drinking vodka for the last time in his life. I recommend that you remember that for your further considerations. And now, go to the devil, you're not needed until tomorrow... But watch out: no foolishness!"
Liputin rushed headlong for home.
IV
He had long kept ready a passport in a different name. It is wild even to think that this precise little man, a petty family tyrant, a functionary in any case (though a Fourierist), and, finally, before all else, a capitalist and moneylender—had long, long ago conceived within himself the fantastic notion of readying this passport just in case, so as to slip abroad with its help if. . . so he did allow for the possibility of this if!though, of course, he himself was never able to formulate precisely what this ifmight signify...
But now it suddenly formulated itself, and in the most unexpected way. That desperate idea with which he had come to Kirillov's, after hearing Pyotr Stepanovich's "moron" on the sidewalk, consisted in abandoning everything tomorrow at daybreak and expatriating abroad! Whoever does not believe that such fantastic things happen in our everyday reality even now, may consult the biographies of all real Russian émigrés abroad. Not one of them fled in a more intelligent or realistic way. It is all the same unbridled kingdom of phantoms, and nothing more.
Having run home, he began by locking himself in, getting a valise, and beginning to pack convulsively. His main concern was about money, what amount and how he would be able to secure it. Precisely to secure, because, according to his notion, he could not delay even an hour, and had to be on the highway at daybreak. He also did not know how he would get on the train; he vaguely resolved to get on somewhere at the second or even third big station from town, and to get there even if by foot. In this way, instinctively and mechanically, with a whole whirl of thoughts in his head, he stood pottering over his valise and—suddenly stopped, abandoned it all, and with a deep moan stretched out on the sofa.
He clearly felt and suddenly became conscious of the fact that he might indeed be running away, but that to resolve the question of whether he was to run away beforeor afterShatov was now already quite beyond his power; that he was now only a crude, unfeeling body, an inert mass, but that he was being moved by some external, terrible power, and that though he did have a passport for abroad, though he could run away from Shatov (otherwise why such a hurry?), he would run away not before Shatov, not from Shatov, but precisely afterShatov, and that it had been thus decided, signed, and sealed. In unbearable anguish, trembling and astonished at himself every moment, groaning and going numb alternately, he somehow survived, locked in and lying on his sofa, until eleven o'clock the next morning, and it was then suddenly that the expected push came which suddenly directed his decision. At eleven o'clock, as soon as he unlocked his door and went out to his family, he suddenly learned from them that a robber, the escaped convict Fedka, who terrorized everyone, a pilferer of churches, a recent murderer and arsonist, whom our police had been after but kept failing to catch, had been found murdered that morning at daybreak, some four miles from town, at the turnoff from the highway to the road to Zakharyino, and that the whole town was already talking about it. He at once rushed headlong out of the house to learn the details, and learned first that Fedka, found with his head smashed in, had by all tokens been robbed, and second, that the police already had strong suspicions and even some firm evidence for concluding that his murderer was the Shpigulin man Fomka, the same one with whom he had undoubtedly killed and set fire to the Lebyadkins, and that a quarrel had already taken place between them on their way, because Fedka had supposedly hidden a big sum of money stolen from Lebyadkin... Liputin also ran to Pyotr Stepanovich's place and managed to learn at the back door, on the sly, that although Pyotr Stepanovich had returned home yesterday at, say, around one o'clock in the morning, he had been pleased to spend the whole night there quietly asleep until eight o'clock. Of course, there could be no doubt that the death of the robber Fedka contained nothing at all extraordinary in itself, and that such denouements precisely happen most often in careers of that sort, but the coincidence of the fatal words that "Fedka had drunk vodka that evening for the last time," with the immediate justification of the prophecy, was so portentous that Liputin suddenly ceased to hesitate. The push was given; it was as if a stone had fallen on him and crushed him forever. Returning home, he silently shoved his valise under the bed with his foot, and that evening, at the appointed time, was the first of them all to come to the place fixed for meeting Shatov—true, with his passport still in his pocket...
