Demons (The Possessed / The Devils) - The Unabridged Garnett Translation. Fyodor Dostoevsky

know it's a most important question, for we shan't go to Moscow for it, and the printing-press here is out of the question for such a publication. I made up my mind long ago to set up a printing-press of my own, in your name perhaps — and I know maman will allow it so long as it is in your name . . . .”

      “How do you know that I could be a printer?” Shatov asked sullenly.

      “Why, Pyotr Stepanovitch told me of you in Switzerland, and referred me to you as one who knows the business and able to set up a printing-press. He even meant to give me a note to you from himself, but I forgot it.”

      Shatov's face changed, as I recollect now. He stood for a few seconds longer, then went out of the room.

      Liza was angry.

      “Does he always go out like that?” she asked, turning to me.

      I was just shrugging my shoulders when Shatov suddenly came back, went straight up to the table and put down the roll of papers he had taken.

      “I'm not going to be your helper, I haven't the time . . . .”

      “Why? Why? I think you are angry!” Liza asked him in a grieved and imploring voice.

      The sound of her voice seemed to strike him; for some moments he looked at her intently, as though trying to penetrate to her very soul.

      “No matter,” he muttered, softly, “I don't want to . . . .”

      And he went away altogether.

      Liza was completely overwhelmed, quite disproportionately in fact, so it seemed to me.

      “Wonderfully queer man,” Mavriky Nikolaevitch observed aloud.

      III

      He certainly was queer, but in all this there was a very great deal not clear to me. There was something underlying it all? I simply did not believe in this publication; then that stupid letter, in which there was an offer, only too barefaced, to give information and produce “documents,” though they were all silent about that, and talked of something quite different; finally that printing-press and Shatov's sudden exit, just because they spoke of a printing-press. All this led me to imagine that something had happened before I came in of which I knew nothing; and, consequently, that it was no business of mine and that I was in the way. And, indeed, it was time to take leave, I had stayed long enough for the first call. I went up to say good-bye to Lizaveta Nikolaevna.

      She seemed to have forgotten that I was in the room, and was still standing in the same place by the table with her head bowed, plunged in thought, gazing fixedly at one spot on the carpet.

      “Ah, you, too, are going, good-bye,” she murmured in an ordinary friendly tone. “Give my greetings to Stepan Trofimovitch, and persuade him to come and see me as soon as he can. Mavriky Nikolaevitch, Anton Lavrentyevitch is going. Excuse maman's not being able to come out and say good-bye to you. . . . ”

      I went out and had reached the bottom of the stairs when a footman suddenly overtook me at the street door.

      “My lady begs you to come back . . . .”

      “The mistress, or Lizaveta Nikolaevna?”

      “The young lady.”

      I found Liza not in the big room where we had been sitting, but in the reception-room next to it. The door between it and the drawing-room, where Mavriky Nikolaevitch was left alone, was closed.

      Liza smiled to me but was pale. She was standing in the middle of the room in evident indecision, visibly struggling with herself; but she suddenly took me by the hand, and led me quickly to the window.

      “I want to see her at once,” she whispered, bending upon me a burning, passionate, impatient glance, which would not admit a hint of opposition. '' I must see her with my own eyes, and I beg you to help me.”

      She was in a perfect frenzy, and — in despair.

      “Who is it you want to see, Lizaveta Nikolaevna?” I inquired in dismay.

      “That Lebyadkin's sister, that lame girl. . . . Is it true that she's lame?”

      I was astounded.

      “I have never seen her, but I've heard that she's lame. I heard it yesterday,” I said with hurried readiness, and also in a whisper.

      “I must see her, absolutely. Could you arrange it to-day?”

      I felt dreadfully sorry for her.

      “That's utterly impossible, and, besides, I should not know at all how to set about it,” I began persuading her. “I'll go to Shatov . . . .”

      “If you don't arrange it by to-morrow I'll go to her by myself, alone, for Mavriky Nikolaevitch has refused. I rest all my hopes on you and I've no one else; I spoke stupidly to Shatov. . . . I'm sure that you are perfectly honest and perhaps ready to do anything for me, only arrange it.”

      I felt a passionate desire to help her in every way.

      “This is what I'll do,” I said, after a moment's thought. “I'll go myself to-day and will see her for sure, for sure. I will manage so as to see her. I give you my word of honour. Only let me confide in Shatov.”

      “Tell him that I do desire it, and that I can't wait any longer, but that I wasn't deceiving him just now. He went away perhaps because he's very honest and he didn't like my seeming to deceive him. I wasn't deceiving him, I really do want to edit books and found a printing-press . . . .”

      “He is honest, very honest,” I assented warmly.

      “If it's not arranged by to-morrow, though, I shall go myself whatever happens, and even if every one were to know.”

      “I can't be with you before three o'clock to-morrow,” I observed, after a moment's deliberation.

      “At three o'clock then. Then it was true what I imagined yesterday at Stepan Trofimovitch's, that you —-are rather devoted to me?” she said with a smile, hurriedly pressing my hand to say good-bye, and hurrying back to the forsaken Mavriky Nikolaevitch.

      I went out weighed down by my promise, and unable to understand what had happened. I had seen a woman in real despair, not hesitating to compromise herself by confiding in a man she hardly knew. Her womanly smile at a moment so terrible for her and her hint that she had noticed my feelings the day before sent a pang to my heart; but I felt sorry for her, very sorry — that was all! Her secrets became at once something sacred for me, and if anyone had begun to reveal them to me now, I think I should have covered my ears, and should have refused to hear anything more. I only had a presentiment of something . . . yet I was utterly at a loss to see how I could do anything. What's more I did not even yet understand exactly what I had to arrange; an interview, but what sort of an interview? And how could I bring them together? My only hope was Shatov, though I could be sure that he wouldn't help me in any way. But all the same, I hurried to him.

      IV

      I did not find him at home till past seven o'clock that evening. To my surprise he had visitors with him — Alexey Nilitch, and another gentleman I hardly knew, one Shigalov, the brother of Virginsky's wife.

      This gentleman must, I think, have been staying about two months in the town; I don't know where he came from. I had only heard that he had written some sort of article in a progressive Petersburg magazine. Virginsky had introduced me casually to him in the street. I had never in my life seen in a man's face so much despondency, gloom, and moroseness. He looked as though he were expecting the destruction of the world, and not at some indefinite time in accordance with prophecies, which might never be fulfilled, but quite definitely, as though it were to be the day after to-morrow at twenty-five minutes past ten. We hardly said a word to one another on that occasion, but had simply shaken hands like two conspirators. I was most struck by his ears, which were of unnatural size, long, broad, and thick, sticking out in a peculiar