"But... but how did you find out?"
"Ah, my God, the same way everyone else did. What could be simpler!"
"But does everyone ... ?"
"Well, and what else? Mama, it's true, was the first to find out, through my old nurse Alyona Frolovna; your Nastasya came running to tell her. And you did tell Nastasya, didn't you? She says you told her yourself."
"I ... I once said..." Stepan Trofimovich stammered, blushing all over, "but... I only hinted ...; 'étais si nerveux et malade et puis. . . "[lii]
She burst out laughing.
"And the confidant wasn't around, and Nastasya turned up—and that was it! And the woman's got herself a whole town full of busy-bodies. Well, good heavens, what difference does it make? Let them know, it's even better. Come for dinner as quickly as you can, we dine early... Oh, yes, I forgot," she sat down again, "listen, what is this Shatov?"
"Shatov? He is Darya Pavlovna's brother..."
"I know he's her brother, what's the matter with you, really!" she interrupted impatiently. "I want to know what he is, what sort of man?"
"C'est un pense-creux d'ici. C'est le meilleur et le plus irascible homme du monde..."[liii]
"I've heard he's somehow odd. Anyway, that's not the point. I've heard he knows three languages, English, too, and can do literary work. If so, I have a lot of work for him; I need an assistant, and the sooner the better. Will he take work, or not? He was recommended to me..."
"Oh, most certainly, et vous fairez un bienfait ... "[liv]
"It's not for the sake of a bienfait; I myself need assistance."
"I know Shatov quite well," I said, "and if you charge me with telling him, I'll go this minute."
"Tell him to come tomorrow morning at twelve o'clock. Wonderful! Thank you. Mavriky Nikolaevich, are you ready?"
They left. Of course, I ran at once to Shatov.
"Mon ami!" Stepan Trofimovich overtook me on the porch, "you must be here at ten or eleven o'clock, when I come back. Oh, I am guilty, all too guilty before you, and... before everyone, everyone."
VIII
I did not find Shatov at home; I ran by two hours later—again no one home. Finally, after seven o'clock, I went hoping either to find him or to leave a note; again I did not find him. His apartment was locked, and he lived alone without any servant. It occurred to me to try knocking downstairs at Captain Lebyadkin's, to ask about Shatov; it was locked there, too, and there was not a sound, not a glimmer, as if the place were empty. I passed Lebyadkin's door with curiosity, being under the influence of the stories I had just heard. Finally, I decided to come back early the next day. Indeed, I did not count very much on the note; Shatov might ignore it, he was so stubborn, so shy. Cursing my bad luck and already going out the gate, I suddenly ran into Mr. Kirillov; he was going into the house and recognized me first. Since he began questioning me himself, I told him all the essentials, and that I had a note.
"Let's go," he said, "I'll do everything."
I remembered that according to Liputin's words he had been occupying the wooden wing in back since morning. This wing, which was too spacious for him, he shared with some old deaf woman who also served him. The owner of the house lived in another, new house, on another street, where he ran a tavern, and this old woman, apparently his relative, stayed to look after the whole of the old house. The rooms in the wing were quite clean, but the wallpaper was dirty. In the room we entered, the furnishings were random, ill-sorted, utter rejects: two card tables, an alder-wood chest, a big plank table brought from some peasant cottage or kitchen, chairs and a sofa with lattice backs and hard leather cushions. In the corner there was an old icon in front of which the woman had lighted an oil lamp before we came, and on the walls there hung two big, dark oil portraits—one of the late emperor Nikolai Pavlovich, painted back in the twenties by the look of it; the other of some bishop.
Mr. Kirillov, having entered, lit a candle, and from his suitcase, which stood in the corner and was still unpacked, took an envelope, a piece of wax, and a crystal seal.
"Seal your note and address the envelope."
I tried to protest that there was no need for that, but he insisted. Having addressed the envelope, I took my cap.
"And I thought perhaps some tea," he said. "I bought tea. Want some?"
I did not refuse. The woman soon brought in the tea—that is, a great big kettle of hot water, a small teapot full of strongly brewed tea, two large, crudely painted stoneware cups, a kalatch,[52] and a whole soup plate of crumbled loaf sugar.
"I like tea," he said, "at night; a lot: I walk and drink; till dawn. Tea at night is awkward abroad."
"You go to bed at dawn?"
"Always; a long time. I eat little; mainly tea. Liputin is cunning, but impatient."
I was surprised that he wanted to talk; I decided to make use of the moment.
"There were some unpleasant misunderstandings today," I observed.
He frowned deeply.
"It's foolishness; great trifles. It's all trifles, because Lebyadkin is drunk. I told Liputin nothing, I just explained the trifles, because the other one gets it all wrong. Liputin has a lot of fantasy; in place of the trifles he made mountains. I trusted Liputin yesterday."
"And me today?" I laughed.
"But you already know everything from this morning. Liputin is either weak, or impatient, or harmful, or ... envious."
The last little word struck me.
"Anyway, you've set up so many categories, it would be surprising if he didn't fit into one of them."
"Or into all together."
"Yes, you're right about that, too. Liputin is—a chaos! Is it true what he was blathering today, that you're planning to write something?"
"Why blathering?" he frowned again, staring at the floor.
I apologized and began assuring him that I was not trying to get it out of him. He blushed.
"He was telling the truth; I am writing. Only it makes no difference."
We were silent for a moment; suddenly he smiled the same childlike smile as that morning.
"He invented about the heads himself, from books, and told me first, and he understands badly, but I'm only looking for the reasons why people don't dare to kill themselves, that's all. And it makes no difference."
"What do you mean, don't dare? Do we have so few suicides?"
"Very few."
"You really think so?"
He did not answer, got up, and began pacing back and forth pensively.
"And what, in your opinion, keeps people from suicide?" I asked.
He looked at me distractedly, as if trying to recall what we were talking about.
"I ... I still know little ... two prejudices keep them, two things; just two; one very small, the other very big. But the small one is also very big."
"What is the small one?"
"Pain."
"Pain? Is it really so important ... in this case?"
"The foremost thing. There are two sorts: those who kill themselves from great sorrow, or anger, or the crazy ones, or whatever... they do it suddenly. They think little about pain and do it suddenly. But the ones who do it judiciously—they think a lot."
"Are there any who do it judiciously?"
"Very many. If it weren't for prejudice, there'd be more; very many; everybody."
"Really? Everybody?"
He did not reply.
"But aren't there ways of dying without pain?"
"Imagine," he stopped in front of me, "imagine a stone the size of a big house; it's hanging there, and you are under it; if it falls on you, on your head—will it be painful?"
"A stone as big as a house? Naturally, it's frightening."
"Fright is not the point; will it be painful?"
"A stone as big as a mountain, millions of pounds? Of course, it wouldn't be painful at all."