The Possessed

by Dostoyevsky, Fyodor, 1821-1881

  Still it was essential that .Andrey Antonovitch should be in rather better spirits before the festival. He must be cheered up and reassured. For this purpose she sent Pyotr Stepanovitch to him in the hope that he would relieve his depression by some means of consolation best known to himself, perhaps by giving him some information, so to speak, first hand. She put implicit faith in his dexterity.

  It was some time since Pyotr Stepanovitch had been in Mr. von Lembke's study. He popped in on him just when the sufferer was in a most stubborn mood.

  II

  A combination of circumstances had arisen which Mr. von Lembke was quite unable to deal with. In the very district where Pyotr Stepanovitch had been having a festive time a sublieutenant had been called up to be censured by his immediate superior, and the reproof was given in the presence of the whole company. The sub-lieutenant was a young man fresh from Petersburg, always silent and morose, of dignified appearance though small, stout, and rosy-cheeked. He resented the reprimand and suddenly, with a startling shriek that astonished the whole company, he charged at his superior officer with his head bent down like a wild beast's, struck him, and bit him on the shoulder with all his might; they had difficulty in getting him off. There was no doubt that he had gone out of his mind; anyway, it became known that of late he had been observed performing incredibly strange actions. He had, for instance, flung two ikons belonging to his landlady out of his lodgings and smashed up one of them with an axe; in his own room he had, on three stands resembling lecterns, laid out the works of Vogt, Moleschott, and Buchner, and before each lectern he used to burn a church wax-candle. From the number of books found in his rooms it could be gathered that he was a well-read man. If he had had fifty thousand francs he would perhaps have sailed to the island of Marquisas like the “cadet” to whom Herzen alludes with such sprightly humour in one of his writings. When he was seized, whole bundles of the most desperate manifestoes were found in his pockets and his lodgings.

  Manifestoes are a trivial matter too, and to my thinking not worth troubling about. We have seen plenty of them. Besides, they were not new manifestoes; they were, it was said later, just the same as had been circulated in the X province, and Liputin, who had travelled in that district and the neighbouring province six weeks previously, declared that he had seen exactly the same leaflets there then. But what struck Andrey Antonovitch most was that the overseer of Shpigulin's factory had brought the police just at the same time two or three packets of exactly the same leaflets as had been found on the lieutenant. The bundles, which had been dropped in the factory in the night, had not been opened, and none of the factory-hands had had time to read one of them. The incident was a trivial one, but it set Andrey Antonovitch pondering deeply. The position presented itself to him in an unpleasantly complicated light.

  In this factory the famous “Shpigulin scandal” was just then brewing, which made so much talk among us and got into the Petersburg and Moscow papers with all sorts of variations. Three weeks previously one of the hands had fallen ill and died of Asiatic cholera; then several others were stricken down. The whole town was in a panic, for the cholera was coming nearer and nearer and had reached the neighbouring province. I may observe that satisfactory sanitary measures had been, so far as possible, taken to meet the unexpected guest. But the factory belonging to the Shpigulins, who were millionaires and well-connected people, had somehow been overlooked. And there was a sudden outcry from every one that this factory was the hot-bed of infection, that the factory itself, and especially the quarters inhabited by the workpeople, were so inveterately filthy that even if cholera had not been in the neighbourhood there might well have been an outbreak there. Steps were immediately taken, of course, and Andrey Antonovitch vigorously insisted on their being carried out without delay within three weeks. The factory was cleansed, but the Shpigulins, for some unknown reason, closed it. One of the Shpigulin brothers always lived in Petersburg and the other went away to Moscow when the order was given for cleansing the factory. The overseer proceeded to pay off the workpeople and, as it appeared, cheated them shamelessly. The hands began to complain among themselves, asking to be paid fairly, and foolishly went to the police, though without much disturbance, for they were not so very much excited. It was just at this moment that the manifestoes were brought to Andrey Antonovitch by the overseer.

  Pyotr Stepanovitch popped into the study unannounced, like an intimate friend and one of the family; besides, he had a message from Yulia Mihailovna. Seeing him, Lembke frowned grimly and stood still at the table without welcoming him. Till that moment he had been pacing up and down the study and had been discussing something tete-a-tete with his clerk Blum, a very clumsy and surly German whom he had brought with him from Petersburg, in spite of the violent opposition of Yulia Mihailovna. On Pyotr Stepanovitch's entrance the clerk had moved to the door, but had not gone out. Pyotr Stepanovitch even fancied that he exchanged significant glances with his chief.

  “Aha, I've caught you at last, you secretive monarch of the town!” Pyotr Stepanovitch cried out laughing, and laid his hand over the manifesto on the table. “This increases your collection, eh?”

  Andrey Antonovitch flushed crimson; his face seemed to twitch.

  “Leave off, leave off at once!” he cried, trembling with rage. “And don't you dare ... sir ...”

  “What's the matter with you? You seem to be angry!”

  “Allow me to inform you, sir, that I've no intention of putting up with your sans faisson henceforward, and I beg you to remember ...”

  “Why, damn it all, he is in earnest!”

  “Hold your tongue, hold your tongue”— Von Lembke stamped on the carpet —“ and don't dare ...”

  God knows what it might have come to. Alas, there was one circumstance involved in the matter of which neither Pyotr Stepanovitch nor even Yulia Mihailovna herself had any idea. The luckless Andrey Antonovitch had been so greatly upset during the last few days that he had begun to be secretly jealous of his wife and Pyotr Stepanovitch. In solitude, especially at night, he spent some very disagreeable moments.

  “Well, I imagined that if a man reads you his novel two days running till after midnight and wants to hear your opinion of it, he has of his own act discarded official relations, anyway. . . . Yulia Mihailovna treats me as a friend; there's no making you out,” Pyotr Stepanovitch brought out, with a certain dignity indeed. “Here is your novel, by the way.” He laid on the table a large heavy manuscript rolled up in blue paper.

  Lembke turned red and looked embarrassed.

  “Where did you find it?” he asked discreetly, with a rush of joy which he was unable to suppress, though he did his utmost to conceal it.

  “Only fancy, done up like this, it rolled under the chest of drawers. I must have thrown it down carelessly on the chest when I went out. It was only found the day before yesterday, when the floor was scrubbed. You did set me a task, though!”

  Lembke dropped his eyes sternly.

  “I haven't slept for the last two nights, thanks to you. It was found the day before yesterday, but I kept it, and have been reading it ever since. I've no time in the day, so I've read it at night. Well, I don't like it; it's not my way of looking at things. But that's no matter; I've never set up for being a critic, but I couldn't tear myself away from it, my dear man, though I didn't like it! The fourth and fifth chapters are . . . they really are . . . damn it all, they are beyond words! And what a lot of humour you've packed into it; it made me laugh! How you can make fun of things sans que cela paraisse! As for the ninth and tenth chapters, it's all about love; that's not my line, but it's effective though. I was nearly blubbering over Egrenev's letter, though you've shown him up so cleverly. . . . You know, it's touching, though at the same time you want to show the false side of him, as it were, don't you? Have I guessed right? But I could simply beat you for the ending. For what are you setting up I Why, the same old idol of domestic happiness, begetting children and making money; 'they were married and l
ived happy ever afterwards'— come, it's too much! You will enchant your readers, for even I couldn't put the book down; but that makes it all the worse! The reading public is as stupid as ever, but it's the duty of sensible people to wake them up, while you . . . But that's enough. Good-bye. Don't be cross another time; I came in to you because I had a couple of words to say to you, but you are so unaccountable . . .”

  Andrey Antonovitch meantime took his novel and locked it up in an oak bookcase, seizing the opportunity to wink to Blum to disappear. The latter withdrew with a long, mournful face.

  “I am not unaccountable, I am simply . . . nothing but annoyances,” he muttered, frowning but without anger, and sitting down to the table. “Sit down and say what you have to say. It's a long time since I've seen you, Pyotr Stepanovitch, only don't burst upon me in the future with such manners . . . sometimes, when one has business, it's . . . “

  “My manners are always the same. . . .”

  “I know, and I believe that you mean nothing by it, but sometimes one is worried. . . . Sit down.”

  Pyotr Stepanovitch immediately lolled back on the sofa and drew his legs under him.

  III

  “What sort of worries? Surely not these trifles?” He nodded towards the manifesto. “I can bring you as many of them as you like; I made their acquaintance in X province.”

  “You mean at the time you were staying there?”

  “Of course, it was not in my absence. I remember there was a hatchet printed at the top of it. Allow me.” (He took up the manifesto.) “Yes, there's the hatchet here too; that's it, the very same.”

  “Yes, here's a hatchet. You see, a hatchet.”

  “Well, is it the hatchet that scares you?”

  “No, it's not . . . and I am not scared; but this business ... it is a business; there are circumstances.”

  “What sort? That it's come from the factory? He he! But do you know, at that factory the workpeople will soon be writing manifestoes for themselves.”

  “What do you mean?” Von Lembke stared at him severely.

  “What I say. You've only to look at them. You are too soft, Andrey Antonovitch; you write novels. But this has to be handled in the good old way.”

  “What do you mean by the good old way? What do you mean by advising me? The factory has been cleaned; I gave the order and they've cleaned it.”

  “And the workmen are in rebellion. They ought to be flogged, every one of them; that would be the end of it.”

  “In rebellion? That's nonsense; I gave the order and they've cleaned it.”

  “Ech, you are soft, Andrey Antonovitch!”

  “In the first place, I am not so soft as you think, and in the second place . . .” Von Lembke was piqued again. He had exerted himself to keep up the conversation with the young man from curiosity, wondering if he would tell him anything new.

  “Ha ha, an old acquaintance again,” Pyotr Stepanovitch interrupted, pouncing on another document that lay under a paper-weight, something like a manifesto, obviously printed abroad and in verse. “Oh, come, I know this one by heart, 'A Noble Personality.' Let me have a look at it — yes, 'A Noble Personality' it is. I made acquaintance with that personality abroad. Where did you unearth it?”

  “You say you've seen it abroad?” Von Lembke said eagerly.

  “I should think so, four months ago, or may be five.”

  “You seem to have seen a great deal abroad.” Von Lembke looked at him subtly.

  Pyotr Stepanovitch, not heeding him, unfolded the document and read the poem aloud:

  “A NOBLE PERSONALITY

  “He was not of rank exalted,

  He was not of noble birth,

  He was bred among the people

  In the breast of Mother Earth.

  But the malice of the nobles

  And the Tsar's revengeful wrath

  Drove him forth to grief and torture

  On the martyr's chosen path.

  He set out to teach the people

  Freedom, love, equality,

  To exhort them to resistance;

  But to flee the penalty

  Of the prison, whip and gallows,

  To a foreign land he went.

  While the people waited hoping

  From Smolensk to far Tashkent,

  Waited eager for his coming

  To rebel against their fate,

  To arise and crush the Tsardom

  And the nobles' vicious hate,

  To share all the wealth in common,

  And the antiquated thrall

  Of the church, the home and marriage

  To abolish once for all.”

  “You got it from that officer, I suppose, eh?” asked Pyotr Stepanovitch.

  “Why, do you know that officer, then, too?”

  “I should think so. I had a gay time with him there for two days; he was bound to go out of his mind.”

  “Perhaps he did not go out of his mind.”

  “You think he didn't because he began to bite?”

  “But, excuse me, if you saw those verses abroad and then, it appears, at that officer's . . .”

  “What, puzzling, is it? You are putting me through an examination, Andrey Antonovitch, I see. You see,” he began suddenly with extraordinary dignity, “as to what I saw abroad I have already given explanations, and my explanations were found satisfactory, otherwise I should not have been gratifying this town with my presence. I consider that the question as regards me has been settled, and I am not obliged to give any further account of myself, not because I am an informer, but because I could not help acting as I did. The people who wrote to Yulia Mihailovna about me knew what they were talking about, and they said I was an honest man. . . . But that's neither here nor there; I've come to see you about a serious matter, and it's as well you've sent your chimney-sweep away. It's a matter of importance to me, Andrey Antonovitch. I shall have a very great favour to ask of you.”

  “A favour? H'm ... by all means; I am waiting and, I confess, with curiosity. And I must add, Pyotr Stepanovitch, that you surprise me not a little.”

  Von Lembke was in some agitation. Pyotr Stepanovitch crossed his legs.

  “In Petersburg,” he began, “I talked freely of most things, but there were things — this, for instance” (he tapped the “Noble Personality” with his finger) “about which I held my tongue — in the first place, because it wasn't worth talking about, and secondly, because I only answered questions. I don't care to put myself forward in such matters; in that I see the distinction between a rogue and an honest man forced by circumstances. Well, in short, we'll dismiss that. But now . . . now that these fools . . . now that this has come to the surface and is in your hands, and I see that you'll find out all about it — for you are a man with eyes and one can't tell beforehand what you'll do — and these fools are still going on, I ... I ... well, the fact is, I've come to ask you to save one man, a fool too, most likely mad, for the sake of his youth, his misfortunes, in the name of your humanity. . . . You can't be so humane only in the novels you manufacture!” he said, breaking off with coarse sarcasm and impatience.

  In fact, he was seen to be a straightforward man, awkward and impolitic from excess of humane feeling and perhaps from excessive sensitiveness — above all, a man of limited intelligence, as Von Lembke saw at once with extraordinary subtlety. He had indeed long suspected it, especially when during the previous week he had, sitting alone in his study at night, secretly cursed him with all his heart for the inexplicable way in which he had gained Yulia Mihailovna's good graces.

  “For whom are you interceding, and what does all this mean?” he inquired majestically, trying to conceal his curiosity.

  “It ... it's . . . damn it! It's not my fault that I trust you! Is it my fault that I look upon you as a most honourable and, above all, a sensible man . . . capable, that is, of understanding . . . damn ...”

  The poor fellow evidently could not master his emotion.

  “You must understa
nd at last,” he went on, “you must understand that in pronouncing his name I am betraying him to you — I am betraying him, am I not? I am, am I not?”

  “But how am I to guess if you don't make up your mind to speak out?”

  “That's just it; you always cut the ground from under one's feet with your logic, damn it. ... Well, here goes . . . this 'noble personality,' this 'student'... is Shatov . . . that's all.”

  “Shatov? How do you mean it's Shatov?”

  “Shatov is the 'student' who is mentioned in this. He lives here, he was once a serf, the man who gave that slap. ...”

  “I know, I know.” Lembke screwed up his eyes. “But excuse me, what is he accused of? Precisely and, above all, what is your petition?”

  “I beg you to save him, do you understand? I used to know him eight years ago, I might almost say I was his friend,” cried Pyotr Stepanovitch, completely carried away. “But I am not bound to give you an account of my past life,” he added, with a gesture of dismissal. “All this is of no consequence; it's the case of three men and a half, and with those that are abroad you can't make up a dozen. But what I am building upon is your humanity and your intelligence. You will understand and you will put the matter in its true light, as the foolish dream of a man driven crazy ... by misfortunes, by continued misfortunes, and not as some impossible political plot or God knows what!”