Текст книги "Demons"
Автор книги: Федор Достоевский
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Текущая страница: 47 (всего у книги 56 страниц)
Virginsky went with Erkel. In handing Lyamshin over to Tolkachenko, Erkel had managed to bring him to Pyotr Stepanovich and announce that he had come to his senses, repented, and begged forgiveness, and did not even remember what had happened to him. Pyotr Stepanovich went off alone, choosing a way around the other side of the ponds, skirting the park. This was the longest route. To his surprise, Liputin overtook him almost midway.
"Pyotr Stepanovich, you know, Lyamshin's sure to denounce us!"
"No, he'll come to his senses and realize that if he denounces us, he'll be the first to go to Siberia. Nobody will denounce us now. You won't either."
"And you?"
"No question, I'll have you all tucked away the minute you make a move to betray, and you know it. But you won't betray anything. Is that why you ran more than a mile after me?"
"Pyotr Stepanovich, Pyotr Stepanovich, you know, we may never see each other again!"
"What gives you that idea?"
"Tell me just one thing."
"Well, what? I wish you'd clear off, though."
"One answer, but the right one: are we the only fivesome in the world, or is it true that there are several hundred fivesomes? I'm asking in a lofty sense, Pyotr Stepanovich."
"I can see that by your frenzy. And do you know that you are more dangerous than Lyamshin, Liputin?"
"I know, I know, but—the answer, your answer!"
"What a foolish man you are! One would think it should make no difference now—one fivesome, or a thousand."
"So it's one! I just knew it!" Liputin cried out. "I knew all along it was one, right up to this very moment..."
And without waiting for any other reply, he turned and quickly vanished into the darkness.
Pyotr Stepanovich pondered a little.
"No, no one will denounce us," he said resolutely, "but—the crew must remain a crew and obey, otherwise I'll... What trash these people are, though!"
II
He first stopped at his place and neatly, unhurriedly, packed his suitcase. The express train was leaving at six o'clock in the morning. This early express train came only once a week and had been scheduled very recently, just as a trial for the time being. Though Pyotr Stepanovich had warned ourpeople that he was supposedly going to the district capital, his intentions, as it turned out later, were quite different. After finishing with the suitcase, he settled accounts with the landlady, whom he had notified ahead of time, and moved in a hired carriage to Erkel's place, which was near the station. And only after that, at approximately one o'clock in the morning, did he go to Kirillov's, where he again penetrated through Fedka's secret passage. The state of Pyotr Stepanovich's mind was terrible. Apart from other discontents quite important for him (he was still unable to find out anything about Stavrogin), he had, it seems—for I cannot confirm it with certainty—received during the course of the day, from somewhere (most likely Petersburg), secret notification of a certain danger awaiting him in the near future. Of course, there are now a great many legends going around town about that time; but even if something is known with certainty, it is known only to those who ought to know of it. And I simply suppose, in my own opinion, that Pyotr Stepanovich might have had doings elsewhere than in our town, so that he might indeed have received notifications. I am even convinced, contrary to Liputin's cynical and desperate doubt, that he could indeed have had two or three fivesomes besides ours, in the capitals, for instance; or, if not fivesomes, then connections and relations—perhaps even very curious ones. No more than three days after his departure, an order from the capital was received in our town for his immediate arrest—for what actual doings, ours or some others, I do not know. The order arrived just in time to increase the staggering, almost mystical sense of fear that took possession of our authorities and our hitherto stubbornly frivolous society on the discovery of the mysterious and highly portentous murder of the student Shatov—a murder that filled the measure of our absurdities—and of the extremely enigmatic circumstances that accompanied this event. But the order came too late: Pyotr Stepanovich was already in Petersburg by then, under an assumed name, and from there, having sniffed out what was going on, he instantly slipped abroad... But I am getting terribly far ahead of myself.
He entered Kirillov's room with a spiteful and provocative look. As if he wished, along with the main business, also to work off something personal on Kirillov, to vent something on him. Kirillov seemed glad he had come; it was obvious that he had been waiting for him terribly long, and with morbid impatience. His face was paler than usual, the expression of his black eyes heavy and fixed.
"I thought you wouldn't come," he said heavily from the corner of the sofa, though not stirring to greet him. Pyotr Stepanovich stood in front of him and, before saying a word, peered closely into his face.
"So everything's in order, and we're not going back on our intention. Good boy!" he smiled an offensively patronizing smile. "Well, so what," he added with vile jocularity, "if I'm late, it's not for you to complain: you got a gift of three hours."
"I don't want any extra hours from you, and you can't give me gifts—fool!"
"What?" Pyotr Stepanovich jumped, but instantly controlled himself. "How touchy! We're in a rage, eh?" he rapped out with the same air of offensive superciliousness. "At such a moment one rather needs to be calm. Best of all is to regard yourself as Columbus and look at me as a mouse and not be offended at me. I recommended that yesterday."
"I don't want to look at you as a mouse."
"What's that, a compliment? Anyhow, the tea is cold, too—so everything's upside down. No, something untrustworthy is going on here. Hah! What's this I see on the windowsill, on a plate" (he went over to the window). "Oho, a boiled chicken with rice! ... But why hasn't it been touched yet? So we were in such a state of mind that even a chicken ..."
"I ate, and it's none of your business; keep still!"
"Oh, certainly, and besides it makes no difference. But it does make a difference to me: imagine, I had hardly any dinner at all, so if this chicken is now, as I suppose, no longer needed... eh?"
"Eat, if you can."
"Much obliged, and tea to follow."
He instantly settled down to the table at the other end of the sofa and with extraordinary greediness fell upon the food; but at the same time he observed his victim every moment. Kirillov, with spiteful loathing, looked fixedly at him, as if unable to tear himself away.
"However," Pyotr Stepanovich suddenly heaved himself up, continuing to eat, "however, about this business? We're not going to back out, eh? And the little note?"
"I determined tonight that it makes no difference to me. I'll write it. About the tracts?"
"Yes, also about the tracts. Anyhow, I'll dictate it. It really makes no difference to you. Can you possibly worry about the contents at such a moment?"
"None of your business."
"Of course not. Anyhow, just a few lines: that you and Shatov distributed the tracts—with the help of Fedka, incidentally, who was hiding out in your apartment. This last point about Fedka and the apartment is quite important, even the most important. You see, I'm being completely frank with you."
"And Shatov? Why Shatov? Not Shatov, not for anything."
"Come on, what is it to you? You can't harm him now."
"His wife came to him. She woke up and sent to ask me where he is."
"She sent to find out where he is from you? Hm, that's not good. She might send again; no one must know I'm here..."
Pyotr Stepanovich became worried.
"She won't find out, she's asleep again; the midwife is with her, Arina Virginsky."
"That's just... and she won't hear, I suppose? You know, why don't we lock the front door?"
"She won't hear anything. And if Shatov comes, I'll hide you in that room."
"Shatov won't come; and you are going to write that you quarreled over his betrayal and denunciation... this night. . . and the cause of his death."
"He died!" Kirillov cried out, jumping up from the sofa.
"Today, between seven and eight in the evening, or, rather, yesterday between seven and eight in the evening, since it's now past midnight."
"You killed him! ... And I foresaw it yesterday!"
"How could you not foresee it! With this revolver" (he pulled out the revolver, ostensibly to show it, after which he did not put it away again, but went on holding it in his right hand, as if in readiness). "You, however, are a strange man, Kirillov, you yourself knew it would have to end this way with that foolish man. What else was there to foresee? I chewed it all over for you several times. Shatov was preparing a denunciation: I was watching him; there was no way to let it go at that. And you, too, had instructions to watch him; you told me so yourself three weeks ago..."
"Keep still! You did it because he spat in your face in Geneva!"
"For that, and for other things. For many other things; though without any malice. Why jump up like that? What's this posturing? Oho! So that's how we are! ..."
He jumped up and raised the revolver in front of him. The thing was that Kirillov had suddenly snatched his revolver from the windowsill, loaded and ready since morning. Pyotr Stepanovich positioned himself and aimed his weapon at Kirillov. The latter laughed spitefully.
"Confess, scoundrel, that you took out the revolver because I'm going to shoot you... But I'm not going to shoot you ... although... although ..."
And again he aimed his revolver at Pyotr Stepanovich as if trying it out, as if unable to deny himself the pleasure of imagining how it would be to shoot him. Pyotr Stepanovich, still positioned, was biding, biding his time until the last moment without pulling the trigger, running the risk of getting a bullet in his own head first: one might well expect it from a "maniac." But the "maniac" finally lowered his arm, gasping and trembling, unable to speak.
"We've had our play and that's enough," Pyotr Stepanovich also lowered his weapon. "I just knew you were playing; only, you know, you were taking a risk: I might have pulled the trigger."
And he sat down rather calmly on the sofa and poured himself some tea, though with a slightly trembling hand. Kirillov put his revolver on the table and started pacing back and forth.
"I won't write that I killed Shatov and ... I won't write anything now. There won't be any document!"
"There won't?"
"There won't."
"What meanness and what foolishness!" Pyotr Stepanovich turned green with anger. "I anticipated it, though. Let me tell you that you haven't caught me unawares. However, as you wish. If I could force you, I would. You are a scoundrel, though," Pyotr Stepanovich became more and more unable to stand it. "You asked us for money that time and made a whole cartload of promises ... Only I still won't leave without the result, I'll still see at least how you blow your head off."
"I want you to leave here now," Kirillov stopped firmly in front of him.
"No, sir, that I won't," Pyotr Stepanovich grabbed his revolver again. "You might decide now, from spite and cowardice, to put it all off and go and denounce us tomorrow, to procure a bit of cash again– they do pay for such things. Devil take you, paltry people like you are ripe for anything! Only don't worry, I foresaw it all: I won't leave before I've blown your brains out with this revolver, like that scoundrel Shatov's, if you turn coward and put off your intention, devil take you!"
"You absolutely want to see my blood, too?"
"It's not out of malice, you understand; it makes no difference to me. It's so as not to worry about our cause. One can't rely on people, you see that yourself. I don't understand a thing about your fantasy of killing yourself. I didn't think it up for you, you did yourself even before me, and you originally announced it not to me but to the members abroad. And, notice, none of them tried to elicit anything, none of them even knew you at all, but you yourself came with your confidences, out of sentimentality. So what's to be done if, right then, on that basis, with your own consent and offer (make note of that: your offer!), a certain plan for local actions was made, which it is now quite impossible to change. You put yourself in such a position that you now know too much. If you turn tail and go tomorrow with a denunciation, that might prove rather unprofitable for us, don't you think? No, sir, you committed yourself, you gave your word, you took the money. There's no way you can deny that..."
Pyotr Stepanovich was greatly excited, but Kirillov had long since stopped listening. He was again thoughtfully pacing the room.
"I'm sorry for Shatov," he said, stopping in front of Pyotr Stepanovich again.
"Yes, well, maybe I'm sorry, too, but can it be..."
"Quiet, scoundrel!" Kirillov bellowed, making a terrible and unambiguous movement, "I'll kill you!"
"Well, well, well, so I lied, I agree, I'm not sorry at all; well, enough, enough now!" Pyotr Stepanovich jumped up apprehensively, holding out his hand.
Kirillov suddenly subsided and began pacing again.
"I won't put it off; I want to kill myself precisely now: men are all scoundrels!"
"Well, that's the idea; of course, men are all scoundrels, and since it's loathsome for a decent man to be in the world..."
"Fool, I am a scoundrel the same as you, as all of them, not a decent man. There has not been a decent man anywhere."
"He's finally figured it out. Can it be, Kirillov, that you, with your intelligence, have only now understood that everyone's the same, that no one's better or worse, but just smarter or stupider, and that if men are all scoundrels (which is nonsense, however), then it follows that there even oughtn't to be any non-scoundrels?"
"Ah! So you're really not laughing?" Kirillov looked at him with some surprise. "You're excited and simply ... Can it be that your kind have convictions?"
"Kirillov, I never could understand why you want to kill yourself. I know only that it's from conviction... firm conviction. But if you feel a need, so to speak, to pour yourself out, I'm at your service... Only we must consider the time..."
"What time is it?"
"Oho, the stroke of two," Pyotr Stepanovich looked at his watch and lit a cigarette.
"It seems we can still come to terms," he thought to himself.
"I have nothing to tell you," Kirillov muttered.
"I remember there was something about God... you did explain it to me once—twice, even. If you shoot yourself, you'll become God, is that right?"
"Yes, I will become God."
Pyotr Stepanovich did not even smile; he was waiting; Kirillov gave him a subtle look.
"You are a political crook and intriguer, you want to bring me down to philosophy and ecstasy and produce a reconciliation, to disperse wrath, and, once I'm reconciled, to extort a note that I killed Shatov."
Pyotr Stepanovich answered with an almost natural simpleheartedness:
"Well, suppose I am such a scoundrel, only in these last minutes what difference does it make, Kirillov? Why are we quarreling, tell me, please: you're this sort of man, I'm that sort of man—what of it? And besides, we're both..."
"Scoundrels."
"Yes, scoundrels, maybe. You know these are only words."
"All my life I did not want it to be only words. This is why I lived, because I kept not wanting it. And now, too, every day I want it not to be words."
"Well, each of us seeks a better place. A bug in a rug ... I mean, each of us seeks comfort of some sort; that's all. It's been known for an extremely long time."
"Comfort, you say?"
"Well, we're not going to quarrel over words."
"No, you said it well; let it be comfort. God is necessary, and therefore must exist."
"Well, that's wonderful."
"But I know that he does not and cannot exist."
"That's more like it."
"Don't you understand that a man with these two thoughts cannot go on living?"
"Must shoot himself, you mean?"
"Don't you understand that a man can shoot himself for that alone? You don't understand that there may be such a man, one man out of the thousands of your millions, one, who will not want it and will not endure it."
"I understand only that you seem to be hesitating... That's very bad."
"Stavrogin was also eaten by an idea." Kirillov, sullenly pacing the room, did not mark his remark.
"What?" Pyotr Stepanovich pricked up his ears. "What idea? Did he tell you something himself?"
"No, I myself guessed it: if Stavrogin believes, he does not believe that he believes. And if he does not believe, he does not believe that he does not believe."
"Well, Stavrogin also has other things more intelligent than that. . ." Pyotr Stepanovich muttered peevishly, watching with alarm the turn of the conversation and the pale Kirillov.
"Devil take it, he won't shoot himself," he thought. "I always suspected it; it's a kink in his brain and nothing more. What trash!"
"You're the last to be with me; I wouldn't like to part badly with you," Kirillov suddenly bestowed.
Pyotr Stepanovich did not answer at once. "Devil take it, what's this now?" he thought again.
"Believe me, Kirillov, I have nothing against you personally as a man, and I've always..."
"You are a scoundrel and a false mind. But I am the same as you are, and I will shoot myself, while you remain alive."
"That is, you mean to say I'm so base as to want to remain alive."
He still could not tell whether it was profitable or unprofitable for him to continue such a conversation at such a moment, and decided to "give himself up to circumstances." But Kirillov's tone of superiority and ever undisguised contempt for him had always annoyed him before, and now for some reason even more than before. Perhaps because Kirillov, who was going to die in an hour or so (Pyotr Stepanovich still kept that in mind), appeared to him as something like a half-man, something of such kind as could no longer be allowed any haughtiness.
"You seem to be boasting to me about shooting yourself?"
"I've always been surprised that everyone remains alive." Kirillov did not hear his remark.
"Hm, that's an idea, I suppose, but..."
"Ape! You yes me to win me over. Keep still, you won't understand anything. If there is no God, then I am God."
"Now, there's the one point of yours that I could never understand: why are you God then?"
"If there is God, then the will is all his, and I cannot get out of his will. If not, the will is all mine, and it is my duty to proclaim self-will."
"Self-will? And why is it your duty?"
"Because the will has all become mine. Can it be that no one on the whole planet, having ended God and believed in self-will, dares to proclaim self-will to the fullest point? It's as if a poor man received an inheritance, got scared, and doesn't dare go near the bag, thinking he's too weak to own it. I want to proclaim self-will. I may be the only one, but I'll do it."
"Do it, then."
"It is my duty to shoot myself because the fullest point of my self-will is—for me to kill myself."
"But you're not the only one to kill yourself; there are lots of suicides."
"For reasons. But without any reason, simply for self-will—only I."
"He won't shoot himself," flashed again in Pyotr Stepanovich.
"You know what," he observed irritably, "in your place, if I wanted to show self-will, I'd kill somebody else and not myself. You could become useful. I'll point out whom, if you're not afraid. Then maybe there's no need to shoot yourself today. We could come to terms."
"To kill someone else would be the lowest point of my self-will, and there's the whole of you in that. I am not you: I want the highest point, and will kill myself."
"Reasoned it all out for himself," Pyotr Stepanovich growled spitefully.
"It is my duty to proclaim unbelief," Kirillov was pacing the room. "For me no idea is higher than that there is no God. The history of mankind is on my side. Man has done nothing but invent God, so as to live without killing himself; in that lies the whole of world history up to now. I alone for the first time in world history did not want to invent God. Let them know once and for all."
"He won't shoot himself," Pyotr Stepanovich worried.
"Who is there to know?" he kept prodding. "There is you and me, and who—Liputin?"
"Everyone is to know; everyone will know. There is nothing hid that shall not be revealed. [195] Hesaid that."
And he pointed with feverish rapture to the icon of the Savior, before which an icon lamp was burning. Pyotr Stepanovich got thoroughly angry.
"So you still believe in Him,and keep the little lamp lit; what is it, 'just in case' or something?"
The other was silent.
"You know what, I think you believe maybe even more than any priest."
"In whom? In Him? Listen," Kirillov stopped, gazing before him with fixed, ecstatic eyes. "Listen to a big idea: There was one day on earth, and in the middle of the earth stood three crosses. One on a cross believed so much that he said to another: 'This day you will be with me in paradise.' [196]The day ended, they both died, went, and did not find either paradise or resurrection. What had been said would not prove true. Listen: this man was the highest on all the earth, he constituted what it was to live for. Without this man the whole planet with everything on it is—madness only. There has not been one like Himbefore or since, not ever, even to the point of miracle. This is the miracle, that there has not been and never will be such a one. And if so, if the laws of nature did not pity even This One,did not pity even their own miracle, but made Him,too, live amidst a lie and die for a lie, then the whole planet is a lie, and stands upon a lie and a stupid mockery. Then the very laws of the planet are a lie and a devil's vaudeville. Why live then, answer me, if you're a man."
"That's another turn of affairs. It seems to me you have two different causes mixed up here; and that is highly untrustworthy. But, excuse me, what if you are God? If the lie ended and you realized that the whole lie was because there had been this former God?"
"You've finally understood!" Kirillov cried out rapturously. "So it can be understood, if even someone like you understands! You understand now that the whole salvation for everyone is to prove this thought to them all. Who will prove it? I! I don't understand how, up to now, an atheist could know there is no God and not kill himself at once. To recognize that there is no God, and not to recognize at the same time that you have become God, is an absurdity, otherwise you must necessarily kill yourself. Once you recognize it, you are king, and you will not kill yourself but will live in the chiefest glory. But one, the one who is first, must necessarily kill himself, otherwise who will begin and prove it? It is I who will necessarily kill myself in order to begin and prove it. I am still God against my will, and I am unhappy, because it is my dutyto proclaim self-will. Everyone is unhappy, because everyone is afraid to proclaim self-will. That is why man has been so unhappy and poor up to now, because he was afraid to proclaim the chief point of self-will and was self-willed only on the margins, like a schoolboy. I am terribly unhappy, because I am terribly afraid. Fear is man's curse... But I will proclaim self-will, it is my duty to believe that I do not believe. I will begin, and end, and open the door. And save. Only this one thing will save all men and in the next generation transform them physically; for in the present physical aspect, so far as I have thought, it is in no way possible for man to be without the former God. For three years I have been searching for the attribute of my divinity, and I have found it: the attribute of my divinity is—Self-will! That is all, by which I can show in the main point my insubordination and my new fearsome freedom. For it is very fearsome. I kill myself to show my insubordination and my new fearsome freedom."
His face was unnaturally pale, his look unbearably heavy. He was as if delirious. Pyotr Stepanovich thought he was going to collapse right there.
"Give me the pen!" Kirillov suddenly cried quite unexpectedly, in decided inspiration. "Dictate, I'll sign everything. I'll sign that I killed Shatov, too. Dictate while I'm laughing. I'm not afraid of the thoughts of arrogant slaves! You'll see yourself that all that is hid shall be revealed! And you will be crushed ... I believe! I believe!"
Pyotr Stepanovich snatched himself from his place and instantly gave him an inkstand, paper, and began to dictate, seizing the moment and trembling for his success.
“‘I, Alexei Kirillov, declare...’”
"Wait! I don't want to! Declare to whom?"
Kirillov was shaking as if in a fever. This declaration and some sudden, special thought about it seemed to have absorbed him entirely all at once, as if it were some outlet where, if only for a moment, his tormented spirit rushed precipitously:
"Declare to whom? I want to know whom!"
"To nobody, to everybody, to the first one who reads it. Why specify? To the whole world!"
"To the whole world? Bravo! And so there's no need for repentance. I don't want repentance; and not to any authorities!"
"No, no need, devil take the authorities! but write, if you're serious! ..." Pyotr Stepanovich yelled hysterically.
"Wait! I want a face at the top with its tongue sticking out."
"Ehh, nonsense!" Pyotr Stepanovich got furious. "All that can be expressed without any drawing, just by the tone."
"The tone? That's good. Yes, by the tone, the tone! Dictate with the tone."
“‘I, Alexei Kirillov,’” Pyotr Stepanovich dictated firmly and imperiously, leaning over Kirillov's shoulder and following every letter as he traced it with a hand trembling from excitement, “‘I, Kirillov, declare that today, the -th of October, in the evening, between seven and eight, I killed the student Shatov, for betrayal, in the park, and for his denunciation about the tracts and about Fedka, who secretly lodged with the two of us in Filippov's house, and spent ten days' nights there. And I kill myself today with my revolver not because I repent and am afraid of you, but because abroad I had the intention of ending my life.’”
"Only that?" Kirillov exclaimed with astonishment and indignation.
"Not a word more!" Pyotr Stepanovich waved his hand, trying to snatch the document from him.
"Wait!" Kirillov placed his hand firmly on the paper. "Wait, that's nonsense! I want who I killed him with. Why Fedka? And the fire? I want everything, and also more abuse, in the tone, in the tone!"
"Enough, Kirillov, I assure you it's enough!" Pyotr Stepanovich almost implored, trembling lest he tear the paper up. "So that they'll believe you, you must be as obscure as possible, precisely like that, with just hints. You must show only a little corner of the truth, exactly enough to get them excited. They'll always heap up more lies for themselves, and will certainly believe themselves better than us, and that's the best thing, the best of all! Give it to me; it's splendid as it is; give it to me, give it to me!"
And he kept trying to snatch the paper away. Kirillov, his eyes popping out, listened as if trying to make sense of it, but it seemed he was ceasing to understand.
"Eh, the devil!" Pyotr Stepanovich suddenly got furious, "but he hasn't even signed it yet! Why are you popping your eyes out– sign it!"
"I want more abuse..." Kirillov muttered, though he did take the pen and sign. "I want more abuse..."
"Sign: Vive la république,and enough."
"Bravo!" Kirillov almost bellowed with rapture. "Vive la république démocratique, sociale et universelle ou la mort! ...No, no, not that! Liberté, égalité, fraternité ou la mort! [clix] There, that's better, that's better," he wrote it delightedly under his signature.
"Enough, enough," Pyotr Stepanovich kept repeating.
"Wait, a little bit more... You know, I'll sign it again in French: 'de Kirilloff, gentilhomme russe et citoyen du monde.' [clx] Ha, ha, ha!" [197]he dissolved in laughter. "No, no, no, wait, I've got the best one, eureka: gentilhomme-séminariste russe et citoyen du monde civilisé! [clxi] —that's better than any..." he jumped up from the sofa and suddenly, with a quick gesture, snatched the revolver from the windowsill, ran into the other room with it, and closed the door tightly behind him. Pyotr Stepanovich stood for a moment pondering, looking at the door.
"If it's right now, maybe he'll really shoot, but if he starts thinking– nothing will happen."
Meanwhile, he took the paper, sat down, and looked it over once more. He was pleased, again, with the wording of the declaration.
"What's needed meanwhile? What's needed is to throw them off completely for a time, and so distract them. The park? There's no park in town, so they'll figure out for themselves that it's Skvoreshniki. While they're figuring it out, time will pass; while they search—more time; and once they find the corpse—it means what's written here is true, and so it's also true about Fedka. And what is Fedka? Fedka is the fire, he's the Lebyadkins; so everything was coming from here, from Filippov's house, and they didn't see a thing, they overlooked it all—now, that will put them into a real whirl! It won't even enter their minds about ourpeople; it's Shatov, and Kirillov, and Fedka, and Lebyadkin; as for why they killed each other—there's another little question for them. Eh, the devil, no sound of a shot yet! ..."
Though he was reading and admiring the wording, he still kept listening every moment with tormenting alarm and—suddenly got furious. He glanced worriedly at his watch; it was a bit late; and it was a good ten minutes since the man had gone out... Grabbing the candle, he made for the door of the room where Kirillov had shut himself up. Just at the door it occurred to him that the candle was also burning down and in another twenty minutes would go out entirely, and there was no other. He put his hand on the latch and listened cautiously; not the slightest sound could be heard; he suddenly opened the door and raised the candle: something bellowed and rushed at him. He slammed the door with all his might and leaned on it again, but everything was already quiet—again dead silence.
