Demons

Stepan Trofimovich mechanically held out his hand and pointed to the seats; he looked at me, looked at Liputin, and suddenly, as if coming to his senses, hastened to sit down, still holding his hat and stick without noticing it.

"Hah, but you were about to go out! And I was told that your studies had left you quite indisposed."

"Yes, I'm ill, I was just intending to go for a walk, I..." Stepan Trofimovich stopped, quickly threw his hat and stick on the sofa, and—blushed.

Meanwhile, I made a hurried examination of the visitor. He was still a young man, about twenty-seven years old, decently dressed, trim and lean, dark-haired, with a pale face of a somewhat muddy tinge and black, lusterless eyes. He seemed somewhat pensive and absentminded, spoke abruptly and somehow ungrammatically, somehow strangely shuffling his words, and became confused when he had to put together a longer phrase. Liputin noticed very well how extremely frightened Stepan Trofimovich was, and this apparently pleased him. He sat on a wicker chair, which he pulled almost into the middle of the room so as to be at an equal distance from the host and the visitor, who had installed themselves facing each other on two opposing sofas. His sharp eyes darted curiously into every corner.

"I. . . haven't seen Petrusha for a long time now... Did you meet abroad?" Stepan Trofimovich barely muttered to the visitor.

"Both here and abroad."

"Alexei Nilych himself has just returned from abroad, after a four-year absence," Liputin picked up. "He went to advance himself in his profession, and came here having reasons to hope he could obtain a position for the building of our railroad bridge, and is now awaiting an answer. He knows Mrs. Drozdov and Lizaveta Nikolaevna through Pyotr Stepanovich."

The engineer sat looking ruffled and listened with awkward impatience. It seemed to me that he was angry about something.

"He knows Nikolai Vsevolodovich, too, sir."

"You know Nikolai Vsevolodovich, too?" Stepan Trofimovich inquired.

"Him, too."

"I ... I haven't seen Petrusha for an extremely long time, and... I find I have so little right to be called a father... c'est le mot; ^[xxxvi] I... how did you leave him?"

"I just left him... he'll be coming himself," Mr. Kirillov again hastened to get off. He was decidedly angry.

"He'll be coming! At last I... you see, I haven't seen Petrusha for so very long!" Stepan Trofimovich had gotten mired in this phrase. "I'm now awaiting my poor boy, before whom... oh, before whom I am so guilty! That is, as a matter of fact, I mean to say, when I left him then in Petersburg, I ... in short, I regarded him as nothing, quelque chose dans ce genre, ^[xxxvii]A nervous boy, you know, very sensitive and ... fearful. Before going to sleep, he'd bow to the ground and make a cross over his pillow, so as not to die in the night ... je m'en souviens. Enfin, ^[xxxviii]no sense of refinement whatsoever, that is, of anything lofty, essential, of any germ of a future idea. . . c'était comme un petit idiot. ^[xxxix]However, I seem to be confused myself, excuse me, I... you have caught me ..."

"You're serious about him crossing his pillow?" the engineer suddenly inquired with some special curiosity.

"Yes, he crossed..."

"No, never mind. Go on."

Stepan Trofimovich looked questioningly at Liputin.

"I thank you very much for your visit, but, I confess, right now I'm ... unable... However, allow me to ask, where are you staying?"

"In Bogoyavlensky Street, at Filippov's house."

"Ah, the same place where Shatov lives," I remarked involuntarily.

"Precisely the same house," Liputin exclaimed, "only Shatov is staying upstairs in the garret, and he is downstairs, at Captain Lebyadkin's. He also knows Shatov, and he knows Shatov's wife. He met her very closely abroad."

"Comment!^[xl]Do you really know something about this unfortunate marriage de ce pauvre ami,^[xli]and this woman?" Stepan Trofimovich exclaimed suddenly, carried away by emotion. "You are the first one I've met who knows her personally; and if only..."

"What nonsense!" the engineer snapped, blushing all over. "How you add on, Liputin! Now how did I see Shatov's wife; just once far off, not close at all... Shatov I know. Why do you add on various things?"

He turned sharply on the sofa, seized his hat, then put it down again, and, having settled himself as before, fixed his black and now flashing eyes on Stepan Trofimovich with some sort of defiance. I was quite unable to understand such strange irritability.

"Excuse me," Stepan Trofimovich remarked imposingly, "I understand that this may be a most delicate matter..."

"There's no most delicate matter here, and it's even shameful, and I shouted 'nonsense' not at you but at Liputin, because he adds on. Excuse me if you took it to your name. I know Shatov, but I don't know his wife at all... not at all!"

"I understand, I understand, and if I insisted, it was only because I love our poor friend, notre irascible ami, ^[xlii] very much, and have always taken an interest ... In my opinion, the man changed his former, perhaps too youthful, but still correct ideas too abruptly. And now he shouts various things about notre sainte Russie, ^[xliii]so much so that I've long attributed this break in his organism, for I do not want to call it anything else, to some strong family shock—namely, to his unsuccessful marriage. I, who have come to know my poor Russia like my own two fingers, and have given my whole life to the Russian people, can assure you that he does not know the Russian people, ^[50]and what's more..."

"I don't know the Russian people either, and... there's no time to study!" the engineer snapped again, and again turned sharply on the sofa. Stepan Trofimovich broke off in the middle of his speech.

"He's studying, he's studying," Liputin picked up, "he's already begun studying, and is composing a most curious article on the reasons for the increasing number of suicides in Russia and generally on the reasons for the increase or restriction of the spread of suicides in society. He's reached some surprising results."

The engineer became terribly agitated.

"You have no right about that," he began to mutter angrily. "Not an article. No such foolishness. I asked you confidentially, quite by chance. Not an article at all; I don't publish, and you have no right..."

Liputin was obviously enjoying himself.

"I beg your pardon, perhaps I was mistaken in calling your literary work an article. He only collects observations, and as for the essence of the question, or its moral side, so to speak, he doesn't touch on that at all, he even rejects morality itself outright, and holds to the newest principle of universal destruction for the sake of good final goals. He's already demanding more than a hundred million heads in order to establish common sense in Europe, much more than was demanded at the last peace congress. In this sense, Alexei Nilych goes further than anyone."

The engineer listened with a contemptuous and pale smile. For half a minute or so everyone was silent.

"This is all stupid, Liputin," Mr. Kirillov said finally, with a certain dignity. "If I accidentally told you a few points, and you picked them up, it's as you like. But you have no right, because I never tell anyone. I despise about telling ... If one has convictions, it's clear to me ... and you've acted stupidly. I don't reason about these points that are done with. I can't stand reasoning. I never want to reason..."