"And I think otherwise; can it be that you wrote it yourself?"
"That's none of your business."
"I also think the 'Shining Light' doggerel is the trashiest doggerel possible and could never have been written by Herzen."
"Lies; the poem's good."
"I'm also surprised, for instance," Liputin raced on, leaping and playing in spirit, "that it is suggested we act so that everything fails. In Europe it is natural to want everything to fail, because there's a proletariat there, but here we're just dilettantes and, in my opinion, are simply raising dust, sir."
"I thought you were a Fourierist."
"That's not Fourier, not at all, sir."
"He's nonsense, I know."
"No, Fourier is not nonsense... Excuse me, but I simply cannot believe there could be an uprising in May."
Liputin even unbuttoned his coat, he was so hot.
"Well, enough, and now, before I forget," Pyotr Stepanovich switched with terrible coolness, "you will have to typeset and print this leaflet with your own hands. We'll dig up Shatov's press, and you'll take charge of it tomorrow. In the shortest possible time, you will typeset and print as many copies as you can, to be distributed throughout the winter. The means will be indicated. We need as many copies as possible, because you'll have orders from other places."
"No, sir, excuse me, I cannot take upon myself such a ... I refuse."
"And yet take it you will. I'm acting on instructions from the central committee, and you must obey."
"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."