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

this gentleman certainly knew the day and the hour when it would be founded. He made a sinister impression on me. I was the more surprised at finding him here, as Shatov was not fond of visitors.

      I could hear from the stairs that they were talking very loud, all three at once, and I fancy they were disputing; but as soon as I went in, they all ceased speaking. They were arguing, standing up, but now they all suddenly sat down, so that I had to sit down too. There was a stupid silence that was not broken for fully three minutes. Though Shigalov knew me, he affected not to know me, probably not from hostile feelings, but for no particular reason. Alexey Nilitch and I bowed to one another in silence, and for some reason did not shake hands. Shigalov began at last looking at me sternly and frowningly, with the most naive assurance that I should immediately get up and go away. At last Shatov got up from his chair and the others jumped up at once. They went out without saying good-bye. Shigalov only said in the doorway to Shatov, who was seeing him out:

      “Remember that you are bound to give an explanation.”

      “Hang your explanation, and who the devil am I bound to?” said Shatov. He showed them out and fastened the door with the latch.

      “Snipes!” he said, looking at me, with a sort of wry smile.

      His face looked angry, and it seemed strange to me that he spoke first. When I had been to see him before (which was not often) it had usually happened that he sat scowling in a corner, answered ill-humouredly and only completely thawed and began to talk with pleasure after a considerable time. Even so, when he was saying good-bye he always scowled, and let one out as though he were getting rid of a personal enemy.

      “I had tea yesterday with that Alexey Nilitch,” I observed. “I think he's mad on atheism.”

      “Russian atheism has never gone further than making a joke,” growled Shatov, putting up a new candle in place of an end that had burnt out.

      “No, this one doesn't seem to me a joker, I think he doesn't know how to talk, let alone trying to make jokes.”

      “Men made of paper! It all comes from flunkeyism of thought,” Shatov observed calmly, sitting down on a chair in the corner, and pressing the palms of both hands on his knees.

      “There's hatred in it, too,” he went on, after a minute's pause. “They'd be the first to be terribly unhappy if Russia could be suddenly reformed, even to suit their own ideas, and became extraordinarily prosperous and happy. They'd have no one to hate then, no one to curse, nothing to find fault with. There is nothing in it but an immense animal hatred for Russia which has eaten into their organism. . . . And it isn't a case of tears unseen by the world under cover of a smile! There has never been a falser word said in Russia than about those unseen tears,” he cried, almost with fury.

      “Goodness only knows what you're saying,” I laughed.

      “Oh, you're a 'moderate liberal,'” said Shatov, smiling too. “Do you know,” he went on suddenly, “I may have been talking nonsense about the 'flunkeyism of thought.' You will say to me no doubt directly, 'it's you who are the son of a flunkey, but I'm not a flunkey.' “

      “I wasn't dreaming of such a thing. . . . What are you saying!”

      “You need not apologise. I'm not afraid of you. Once I was only the son of a flunkey, but now I've become a flunkey myself, like you. Our Russian liberal is a flunkey before everything, and is only looking for some one whose boots he can clean.”

      “What boots? What allegory is this?”

      “Allegory, indeed! You are laughing, I see. . . . Stepan Trofimovitch said truly that I lie under a stone, crushed but not killed, and do nothing but wriggle. It was a good comparison of his.”

      “Stepan Trofimovitch declares that you are mad over the Germans,” I laughed. “We've borrowed something from them anyway.”

      “We took twenty kopecks, but we gave up a hundred roubles of our own.”

      We were silent a minute.

      “He got that sore lying in America.”

      “Who? What sore?”

      “I mean Kirillov. I spent four months with him lying on the floor of a hut.”

      “Why, have you been in America?” I asked, surprised. “You never told me about it.”

      “What is there to tell? The year before last we spent our last farthing, three of us, going to America in an emigrant steamer, to test the life of the American workman on ourselves, and to verify by personal experiment the state of a man in the hardest social conditions. That was our object in going there.”

      “Good Lord!” I laughed. “You'd much better have gone somewhere in our province at harvest-time if you wanted to 'make a personal experiment' instead of bolting to America.”

      “We hired ourselves out as workmen to an exploiter; there were six of us Russians working for him — students, even landowners coming from their estates, some officers, too, and all with the same grand object. Well, so we worked, sweated, wore ourselves out; Kirillov and I were exhausted at last; fell ill — went away — we couldn't stand it. Our employer cheated us when he paid us off; instead of thirty dollars, as he had agreed, he paid me eight and Kirillov fifteen; he beat us, too, more than once. So then we were left without work, Kirillov and I, and we spent four months lying on the floor in that little town. He thought of one thing and I thought of another.”

      “You don't mean to say your employer beat you? In America? How you must have sworn at him!”

      “Not a bit of it. On the contrary, Kirillov and I made up our minds from the first that we Russians were like little children beside the Americans, and that one must be born in America, or at least live for many years with Americans to be on a level with them. And do you know, if we were asked a dollar for a thing worth a farthing, we used to pay it with pleasure, in fact with enthusiasm. We approved of everything: spiritualism, lynch-law, revolvers, tramps. Once when we were travelling a fellow slipped his hand into my pocket, took my brush, and began brushing his hair with it. Kirillov and I only looked at one another, and made up our minds that that was the right thing and that we liked it very much . . . .”

      “The strange thing is that with us all this is not only in the brain but is carried out in practice,” I observed.

      “Men made of paper,” Shatov repeated.

      “But to cross the ocean in an emigrant steamer, though, to go .to an unknown country, even to make a personal experiment and all that — by Jove . . . there really is a large-hearted staunchness about it. . . . But how did you get out of it?”

      “I wrote to a man in Europe and he sent me a hundred roubles.”

      As Shatov talked he looked doggedly at the ground as he always did, even when he was excited. At this point he suddenly raised his head.

      “Do you want to know the man's name?”

      “Who was it?”

      “Nikolay Stavrogin.”

      He got up suddenly, turned to his limewood writing-table and began searching for something on it. There was a vague, though well-authenticated rumour among us that Shatov's wife had at one time had a liaison with Nikolay Stavrogin, in Paris, and just about two years ago, that is when Shatov was in America. It is true that this was long after his wife had left him in Geneva.

      “If so, what possesses him now to bring his name forward and to lay stress on it?” I thought.

      “I haven't paid him back yet,” he said, turning suddenly to me again, and looking at me intently he sat down in the same place as before in the corner, and asked abruptly, in quite a different voice:

      “You have come no doubt with some object. What do you want?”

      I told him everything immediately, in its exact historical order, and added that though I had time to think it over coolly after the