The Possessed (The Devils) - The Original Classic Edition. Dostoyevsky Fyodor

She laughed.

       "And your confidant didn't happen to be at hand, and Nastasya turned up. Well that was enough! And the whole town's full of her

       cronies! Come, it doesn't matter, let them know; it's all the better. Make haste and come to us, we dine early.... Oh, I forgot," she

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       added, sitting down again; "listen, what sort of person is Shatov?" "Shatov? He's the brother of Darya Pavlovna."

       "I know he's her brother! What a person you are, really," she interrupted impatiently. "I want to know what he's like; what sort of man he is."

       "C'est un pense-creux d'ici. C'est le meilleur et le plus irascible homme du monde."

       "I've heard that he's rather queer. But that wasn't what I meant. I've heard that he knows three languages, one of them English, and can do literary work. In that case I've a lot of work for him. I want some one to help me and the sooner the better. Would he take the work or not? He's been recommended to me...."

       "Oh, most certainly he will. Et vous ferez un bienfait...." "I'm not doing it as a bienfait. I need some one to help me."

       "I know Shatov pretty well," I said, "and if you will trust me with a message to him I'll go to him this minute."

       "Tell him to come to me at twelve o'clock tomorrow morning. Capital! Thank you. Mavriky Nikolaevitch, are you ready?" They went away. I ran at once, of course, to Shatov.

       "Mon ami!" said Stepan Trofimovitch, overtaking me on the steps. "Be sure to be at my lodging at ten or eleven o'clock when I

       come back. Oh, I've acted very wrongly in my conduct to you and to every one."

       VIII

       I did not find Shatov at home. I ran round again, two hours later. He was still out. At last, at eight o'clock I went to him again, meaning to leave a note if I did not find him; again I failed to find him. His lodging was shut up, and he lived alone without a servant of any sort. I did think of knocking at Captain Lebyadkin's down below to ask about Shatov; but it was all shut up below, too, and there was no sound or light as though the place were empty. I passed by Lebyadkin's door with curiosity, remembering the stories I had heard that day. Finally, I made up my mind to come very early next morning. To tell the truth I did not put much confidence in the effect of a note. Shatov might take no notice of it; he was so obstinate and shy. Cursing my want of success, I was going out of the gate when all at once I stumbled on Mr. Kirillov. He was going into the house and he recognised me first. As he began questioning me of himself, I told him how things were, and that I had a note.

       "Let us go in," said he, "I will do everything."

       I remembered that Liputin had told us he had taken the wooden lodge in the yard that morning. In the lodge, which was too large for him, a deaf old woman who waited upon him was living too. The owner of the house had moved into a new house in another street, where he kept a restaurant, and this old woman, a relation of his, I believe, was left behind to look after everything in the old house. The rooms in the lodge were fairly clean, though the wall-papers were dirty. In the one we went into the furniture was of different sorts, picked up here and there, and all utterly worthless. There were two card-tables, a chest of drawers made of elder, a big deal table that must have come from some peasant hut or kitchen, chairs and a sofa with trellis-work back and hard leather cushions. In one corner there was an old-fashioned ikon, in front of which the old woman had lighted a lamp before we came in, and on the walls hung two dingy oil-paintings, one, a portrait of the Tsar Nikolas I, painted apparently between 1820 and 1830; the other the portrait of some bishop. Mr. Kirillov lighted a candle and took out of his trunk, which stood not yet unpacked in a corner, an envelope, sealing-wax, and a glass seal.

       "Seal your note and address the envelope."

       I would have objected that this was unnecessary, but he insisted. When I had addressed the envelope I took my cap. "I was thinking you'd have tea," he said. "I have bought tea. Will you?"

       I could not refuse. The old woman soon brought in the tea, that is, a very large tea-pot of boiling water, a little tea-pot full of strong tea, two large earthenware cups, coarsely decorated, a fancy loaf, and a whole deep saucer of lump sugar.

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       "I love tea at night," said he. "I walk much and drink it till daybreak. Abroad tea at night is inconvenient." "You go to bed at daybreak?"

       "Always; for a long while. I eat little; always tea. Liputin's sly, but impatient."

       I was surprised at his wanting to talk; I made up my mind to take advantage of the opportunity. "There were unpleasant misunderstandings this morning," I observed.

       He scowled.

       "That's foolishness; that's great nonsense. All this is nonsense because Lebyadkin is drunk. I did not tell Liputin, but only explained the nonsense, because he got it all wrong. Liputin has a great deal of fantasy, he built up a mountain out of nonsense. I trusted Liputin yesterday."

       "And me to-day?" I said, laughing.

       "But you see, you knew all about it already this morning; Liputin is weak or impatient, or malicious or... he's envious." The last word struck me.

       "You've mentioned so many adjectives, however, that it would be strange if one didn't describe him." "Or all at once."

       "Yes, and that's what Liputin really is--he's a chaos. He was lying this morning when he said you were writing something, wasn't he?

       "Why should he?" he said, scowling again and staring at the floor.

       I apologised, and began assuring him that I was not inquisitive. He flushed.

       "He told the truth; I am writing. Only that's no matter."

       We were silent for a minute. He suddenly smiled with the childlike smile I had noticed that morning.

       "He invented that about heads himself out of a book, and told me first himself, and understands badly. But I only seek the causes

       why men dare not kill themselves; that's all. And it's all no matter." "How do you mean they don't dare? Are there so few suicides?" "Very few."

       "Do you really think so?"

       He made no answer, got up, and began walking to and fro lost in thought. "What is it restrains people from suicide, do you think?" I asked.

       He looked at me absent-mindedly, as though trying to remember what we were talking about.

       "I... I don't know much yet.... Two prejudices restrain them, two things; only two, one very little, the other very big." "What is the little thing?"

       "Pain."

       "Pain? Can that be of importance at such a moment?"

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       "Of the greatest. There are two sorts: those who kill themselves either from great sorrow or from spite, or being mad, or no matter what... they do it suddenly. They think little about the pain, but kill themselves suddenly. But some do it from reason--they think a great deal."

       "Why, are there people who do it from reason?"

       "Very many. If it were not for superstition there would be more, very many, all." "What, all?"

       He did not answer.

       "But aren't there means of dying without pain?"

       "Imagine"--he stopped before me--"imagine a stone as big as a great house; it hangs and you are under it; if it falls on you, on your head, will it hurt you?"

       "A stone as big as a house? Of course it would be fearful." "I speak not of the fear. Will it hurt?"

       "A stone as big as a mountain, weighing millions of tons? Of course it wouldn't hurt."

       "But really stand there and while it hangs you will fear very much that it will hurt. The most learned man, the greatest doctor, all, all will be very much frightened. Every one will know that it won't hurt, and every one will be afraid that it will hurt."

       "Well, and the second cause, the big one?" "The other world!"

       "You mean punishment?"

       "That's no matter.