“Vous et le bonheur, vous arrivez en meme temps! ” He got up to meet her.
“Here's a nosegay for you; I rode just now to Madame Chevalier's, she has flowers all the winter for name-days. Here's Mavriky Nikolaevitch, please make friends. I wanted to bring you a cake instead of a nosegay, but Mavriky Nikolaevitch declares that is not in the Russian spirit.”
Mavriky Nikolaevitch was an artillery captain, a tall and handsome man of thirty-three, irreproachably correct in appearance, with an imposing and at first sight almost stern countenance, in spite of his wonderful and delicate kindness which no one could fail to perceive almost the first moment of making his acquaintance. He was taciturn, however, seemed very self-possessed and made no efforts to gain friends. Many of us said later that he was by no means clever; but this was not altogether just.
I won't attempt to describe the beauty of Lizaveta Nikolaevna. The whole town was talking of it, though some of our ladies and young girls indignantly differed on the subject. There were some among them who already detested her, and principally for her pride. The Drozdovs had scarcely begun to pay calls, which mortified them, though the real reason for the delay was Praskovya Ivanovna's invalid state. They detested her in the second place because she was a relative of the governor's wife, and thirdly because she rode out every day on horseback. We had never had young ladies who rode on horseback before; it was only natural that the appearance of Lizaveta Nikolaevna oh horseback and her neglect to pay calls was bound to offend local society. Yet every one knew that riding was prescribed her by the doctor's orders, and they talked sarcastically of her illness. She really was ill. What struck me at first sight in her was her abnormal, nervous, incessant restlessness. Alas, the poor girl was very unhappy, and everything was explained later. To-day, recalling the past, I should not say she was such a beauty as she seemed to me then. Perhaps she was really not pretty at all. Tall, slim, but strong and supple, she struck one by the irregularities of the lines of her face. Her eyes were set somewhat like a Kalmuck's, slanting; she was pale and thin in the face with high cheek-bones, but there was something in the face that conquered and fascinated! There was something powerful in the ardent glance of her dark eyes. She always made her appearance “like a Conquering heroine, and to spread her conquests.” She seemed proud and at times even arrogant. I don't know whether she succeeded in being kind, but I know that she wanted to, and made terrible efforts to force herself to be a little kind. There were, no doubt, many fine impulses and the very best elements in her character, but everything in her seemed perpetually seeking its balance and unable to find it; everything was in chaos, in agitation, in uneasiness. Perhaps the demands she made upon herself were too severe, and she was never able to find in herself the strength to satisfy them.
She sat on the sofa and looked round the room.
“Why do I always begin to feel sad at such moments; explain that mystery, you learned person? I've been thinking all my life that I should be goodness knows how pleased at seeing you and recalling everything, and here I somehow don't feel pleased at all, although I do love you. . . . Ach, heavens! He has my portrait on the wall! Give it here. I remember it! I remember it!”
An exquisite miniature in water-colour of Liza at twelve years old had been sent nine years before to Stepan Trofimovitch from Petersburg by the Drozdovs. He had kept it hanging on his wall ever since.
“Was I such a pretty child? Can that really have been my face?”
She stood up, and with the portrait in her hand looked in the looking-glass.
“Make haste, take it!” she cried, giving back the portrait. “Don't hang it up now, afterwards. I don't want to look at it.”
She sat down on the sofa again. “One life is over and another is begun, then that one is over — a third begins, and so on, endlessly. All the ends are snipped off as it were with scissors. See what stale things I'm telling you. Yet how much truth there is in them!”
She looked at me, smiling; she had glanced at me several times already, but in his excitement Stepan Trofimovitch forgot: that he had promised to introduce me.
“And why have you hung my portrait under those daggers? And why have you got so many daggers and sabres?”
He had as a fact hanging on the wall, I don't know why, two crossed daggers and above them a genuine Circassian sabre. As she asked this question she looked so directly at me that I wanted to answer, but hesitated to speak. Stepan Trofimovitch grasped the position at last and introduced me.
“I know, I know,” she said, “I'm delighted to meet you. Mother has heard a great deal about you, too. Let me introduce you to Mavriky Nikolaevitch too, he's a splendid person. I had formed a funny notion of you already. You're Stepan Trofimovitch's confidant, aren't you?”
I turned rather red.
“Ach, forgive me, please. I used quite the wrong word: not funny at all, but only . . .” She was confused and blushed. '' Why be ashamed though at your being a splendid person? Well, it's time we were going, Mavriky Nikolaevitch! Stepan Trofimovitch, you must be with us in half an hour. Mercy, what a lot we shall talk! Now I'm your confidante, and about everything, everything, you understand?”
Stepan Trofimovitch was alarmed at once.
“Oh, Mavriky Nikolaevitch knows everything, don't mind him!”
“What does he know?”
“Why, what do you mean?” she cried in astonishment. “Bah, why it's true then that they're hiding it! I wouldn't believe it! And they're hiding Dasha, too. Aunt wouldn't let me go in to see Dasha to-day. She says she's got a headache.”
“But . . . but how did you find out?”
“My goodness, like every one else. That needs no cunning!”
“But does every one else . . .?”
“Why, of course. Mother, it's true, heard it first through Alyona Frolovna, my nurse; your Nastasya ran round to tell her. You told Nastasya, didn't you? She says you told her yourself.”
“I ... I did once speak,” Stepan Trofimovitch faltered, crimsoning all over, “but ... I only hinted . . . j'etais si nerveux et malade, et puis ...”
She laughed.
“And your confidant didn't happen to be at hand, and Nastasya turned up. Well that was enough! And the whole town's full of her cronies! Come, it doesn't matter, let them know; it's all the better. Make haste and come to us, we dine early. . . . Oh, I forgot,” she added, sitting down again; “listen, what sort of person is Shatov?”
“Shatov? He's the brother of Darya Pavlovna.”
“I know he's her brother! What a person you are, really,” she interrupted impatiently. “I want to know what he's like; what sort of man he is.”
“C'est un pense-creux d'ici. C'est le meilleur et le plus irascible l'homme, du monde. ”
“I've heard that he's rather queer. But that wasn't what I meant. I've heard that he knows three languages, one of them English, and can do literary work. In that case I've a lot of work for him. I want some one to help me and the sooner the better. Would he take the work or not? He's been recommended to me. ...”
“Oh, most certainly he will. Et vous ferez un bienfait. . . . ”
“I'm not doing it as a bienfait. I need some one to help me.”
“I know Shatov pretty well,” I said, “and if you will trust me with a message to him I'll go to him this minute.”
“Tell him to come to me at twelve o'clock to-morrow morning. Capital! Thank you. Mavriky Nikolaevitch, are you ready?”
They went away. I ran at once, of course, to Shatov.
“Man ami! ” said Stepan Trofimovitch, overtaking me on the steps. “Be sure to be at my lodging at ten or eleven o'clock when I come back. Oh, I've acted very wrongly in my conduct to you and to every one.”
VIII
I did not find Shatov at home. I ran round again, two hours later. He was still out. At last, at eight o'clock I went to him again, meaning to leave a note if I did not find him; again I failed to find him. His lodging was shut up, and he lived alone without a servant of a
ny sort. I did think of knocking at Captain Lebyadkin's down below to ask about Shatov; but it was all shut up below, too, and there was no sound or light as though the place were empty. I passed by Lebyadkin's door with curiosity, remembering the stories I had heard that day. Finally, I made up my mind to come very early next morning: To tell the truth I did not put much confidence in the effect of a note. Shatov might take no notice of it; he was so obstinate and shy. Cursing my want of success, I was going out of the gate when all at once I stumbled on Mr. Kirillov. He was going into the house and he recognised me first. As he began questioning me of himself, I told him how things were, and that I had a note.
“Let us go in,” said he, “I will do everything.”
I remembered that Liputin had told us hp had taken the wooden lodge in the yard that morning. In the lodge, which was too large for him, a deaf old woman who waited upon him was living too. The owner of the house had moved into a new house in another street, where he kept a restaurant, and this old woman, a relation of his, I believe, was left behind to look after everything in the old house. The rooms in the lodge were fairly clean, though the wall-papers were dirty. In the one we went into the furniture was of different sorts, picked up here and there, and all utterly worthless. There were two card-tables, a chest of drawers made of elder, a big deal table that must have come from some peasant hut or kitchen, chairs and a sofa with trellis-work back and hard leather cushions. In one corner there was an old-fashioned ikon, in front of which the old woman had lighted a lamp before we came in, and on the walls hung two dingy oil-paintings, one, a portrait of the Tsar Nikolas I, painted apparently between 1820 and 1830; the other the portrait of some bishop. Mr. Kirillov lighted a candle and took out of his trunk, which stood not yet unpacked in a corner, an envelope, sealing-wax, and a glass seal.
“Seal your note and address the envelope.”
I would have objected that this was unnecessary, but he insisted. When I had addressed the envelope I took my cap.
“I was thinking you'd have tea,” he said. “I have bought tea. Will you?”
I could not refuse. The old woman soon brought in the tea, that is, a very large tea-pot of boiling water, a little tea-pot full of strong tea, two large earthenware cups, coarsely decorated, a fancy loaf, and a whole deep saucer of lump sugar.
“I love tea at night,” said he. “I walk much and drink it till daybreak. Abroad tea at night is inconvenient.”
“You go to bed at daybreak?”
“Always; for a long while. I eat little; always tea. Liputin's sly, but impatient.”
I was surprised at his wanting to talk; I made up my mind to take advantage of the opportunity. “There were unpleasant misunderstandings this morning,” I observed.
He scowled.
“That's foolishness; that's great nonsense. All this is nonsense because Lebyadkin is drunk. I did not tell Liputin, but only explained the nonsense, because he got it all wrong. Liputin has a great deal of fantasy, he built up a mountain out of nonsense. I trusted Liputin yesterday.”
“And me to-day?” I said, laughing.
“But you see, you knew all about it already this morning; Liputin is weak or impatient, or malicious or ... he's envious.”
The last word struck me.
“You've mentioned so many adjectives, however, that it would be strange if one didn't describe him.”
“Or all at once.”
“Yes, and that's what Liputin really is — he's a chaos. He was lying this morning when he said you were writing something, wasn't he?
“Why should he?” he said, scowling again and staring at the floor.
I apologised, and began assuring him that I was not inquisitive. He flushed.
“He told the truth; I am writing. Only that's no matter.”
We were silent for a minute. He suddenly smiled with the childlike smile I had noticed that morning.
“He invented that about heads himself out of a book, and told me first himself, and understands badly. But I only seek the causes why men dare not kill themselves; that's all. And it's all no matter.”
“How do you mean they don't dare? Are there so few suicides?”
“Very few.”
“Do you really think so?”
He made no answer, got up, and began walking to and fro lost in thought.
“What is it restrains people from suicide, do you think?” I asked.
He looked at me absent-mindedly, as though trying to remember what we were talking about.
“I . . . I don't know much yet. . . . Two prejudices restrain them, two things; only two, one very little, the other very big.”
“What is the little thing?”
“Pain.”
“Pain? Can that be of importance at such a moment?”
“Of the greatest. There are two sorts: those who kill themselves either from great sorrow or from spite, or being mad, or no matter what . . . they do it suddenly. They think little about the pain, but kill themselves suddenly. But some do it from reason — they think a great deal.”
“Why, are there people who do it from reason?”
“Very many. If it were not for superstition there would be more, very many, all.”
“What, all?”
He did not answer.
“But aren't there means of dying without pain?”
“Imagine”— he stopped before me —“ imagine a stone as big as a great house; it hangs and you are under it; if it falls on you, on your head, will it hurt you?”
“A stone as big as a house? Of course it would be fearful.”
“I speak not of the fear. Will it hurt?”
“A stone as big as a mountain, weighing millions of tons? Of course it wouldn't hurt.”
“But really stand there and while it hangs you will fear very much that it will hurt. The most learned man, the greatest doctor, all, all will be very much frightened. Every one will know that it won't hurt, and every one will be afraid that it will hurt.”
“Well, and the second cause, the big one?”
“The other world!”
“You mean punishment?”
“That's no matter. The other world; only the other world.”
“Are there no atheists, such as don't believe in the other world at all?”
Again he did not answer.
“You judge from yourself, perhaps.”
“Every one cannot judge except from himself,” he said, reddening. “There will be full freedom when it will be just the same to live or not to live. That's the goal for all.”
“The goal? But perhaps no one will care to live then?”
“No one,” he pronounced with decision.
“Man fears death because he loves life. That's how I understand it,” I observed, “and that's determined by nature.”
“That's abject; and that's where the deception comes in.” His eyes flashed. “Life is pain, life is terror, and man is unhappy. Now all is pain and terror. Now man loves life, because he loves pain and terror, and so they have done according. Life is given now for pain and terror, and that's the deception. Now man is not yet what he will be. There will be a new man, happy and proud. For whom it will be the same to live or not to live, he will be the new man. He who will conquer pain and terror will himself be a god. And this God will not be.”
“Then this God does exist according to you?”
“He does not exist, but He is. In the stone there is no pain, but in the fear of the stone is the pain. God is the pain of the fear of death. He who will conquer pain and terror will become himself a god. Then there will be a new life, a new man; everything will be new . . . then they will divide history into two parts: from the gorilla to the annihilation of God, and from the annihilation of God to . . .”
“To the gorilla?”
“... To the transformation of the earth, and of man physically. Man will be God, and will be transformed physically, and the world will be transformed and things will be transformed and thoughts and all feelings. Wha
t do you think: will man be changed physically then?”
“If it will be just the same living or not living, all will kill themselves, and perhaps that's what the change will be?”
“That's no matter. They will kill deception. Every one who wants the supreme freedom must dare to kill himself. He who dares to kill himself has found out the secret of the deception. There is no freedom beyond; that is all, and there is nothing beyond. He who dares kill himself is God. Now every one can do so that there shall be no God and shall be nothing. But no one has once done it yet.”
“There have been millions of suicides.”
“But always not for that; always with terror and not for that object. Not to kill fear. He who kills himself only to kill fear will become a god at once.”
“He won't have time, perhaps,” I observed.
“That's no matter,” he answered softly, with calm pride, almost disdain. “I'm sorry that you seem to be laughing,” he added half a minute later.
“It seems strange to me that you were so irritable this morning and are now so calm, though you speak with warmth.”
“This morning? It was funny this morning,” he answered with a smile. “I don't like scolding, and I never laugh,” he added mournfully.
“Yes, you don't spend your nights very cheerfully over your tea.”
I got up and took my cap.
“You think not?” he smiled with some surprise. “Why? No, I ... I don't know.” He was suddenly confused. “I know not how it is with the others, and I feel that I cannot do as others. Everybody thinks and then at once thinks of something else. I can't think of something else. I think all my life of one thing. God has tormented me all my life,” he ended up suddenly with astonishing expansiveness.
“And tell me, if I may ask, why is it you speak Russian not quite correctly? Surely you haven't forgotten it after five years abroad?”
“Don't I speak correctly? I don't know. No, it's not because of abroad. I have talked like that all my life . . . it's no matter to me.”
“Another question, a more delicate one. I quite — believe you that you're disinclined to meet people and talk very little. Why have you talked to me now?”
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