The Possessed

by Dostoyevsky, Fyodor, 1821-1881

  He was almost gasping for breath.

  “H'm. I see that he is responsible for the manifestoes with the axe,” Lembke concluded almost majestically. “Excuse me, though, if he were the only person concerned, how could he have distributed it both here and in other districts and in the X province . . . and, above all, where did he get them?”

  “But I tell you that at the utmost there are not more than five people in it — a dozen perhaps. How can I tell?”

  “You don't know?”

  “How should I know?— damn it all.”

  “Why, you knew that Shatov was one of the conspirators.”

  “Ech!” Pyotr Stepanovitch waved his hand as though to keep off the overwhelming penetration of the inquirer. “Well, listen. I'll tell you the whole truth: of the manifestoes I know nothing — that is, absolutely nothing. Damn it all, don't you know what nothing means? . . . That sub-lieutenant, to be sure, and somebody else and some one else here . . . and Shatov perhaps and some one else too — well, that's the lot of them . . . a wretched lot. . . . But I've come to intercede for Shatov. He must be saved, for this poem is his, his own composition, and it was through him it was published abroad; that I know or a fact, but of the manifestoes I really know nothing.”

  “If the poem is his work, no doubt the manifestoes are too. But what data have you for suspecting Mr. Shatov?”

  Pyotr Stepanovitch, with the air of a man driven out of all patience, pulled a pocket-book out of his pocket and took a note out of it.

  “Here are the facts,” he cried, flinging it on the table.

  Lembke unfolded it; it turned out to be a note written six months before from here to some address abroad. It was a brief note, only two lines:

  “I can't print 'A Noble Personality' here, and in fact I can do nothing; print it abroad.

  Lembke looked intently at Pyotr Stepanovitch. Varvara Petrovna had been right in saying that he had at times the expression of a sheep.

  “You see, it's like this,” Pyotr Stepanovitch burst out. “He wrote this poem here six months ago, but he couldn't get it printed here, in a secret printing press, and so he asks to have it printed abroad. . . . That seems clear.”

  “Yes, that's clear, but to whom did he write? That's not clear yet,” Lembke observed with the most subtle irony.

  “Why, Kirillov, of course; the letter was written to Kirillov abroad. . . . Surely you knew that? What's so annoying is that perhaps you are only putting it on before me, and most likely you knew all about this poem and everything long ago! How did it come to be on your table? It found its way there somehow! Why are you torturing me, if so?“

  He feverishly mopped his forehead with his handkerchief.

  “I know something, perhaps.” Lembke parried dexterously. “But who is this Kirillov?”

  “An engineer who has lately come to the town. He was Stavrogin's second, a maniac, a madman; your sub-lieutenant may really only be suffering from temporary delirium, but Kirillov is a thoroughgoing madman — thoroughgoing, that I guarantee. Ah, Audrey Antonovitch, if the government only knew what sort of people these conspirators all are, they wouldn't have the heart to lay a finger on them. Every single one of them ought to be in an asylum; I had a good look at them in Switzerland and at the congresses.”

  “From which they direct the movement here?”

  “Why, who directs it? Three men and a half. It makes one sick to think of them. And what sort of movement is there here? Manifestoes! And what recruits have they made? Sub-lieutenants in brain fever and two or three students! You are a sensible man: answer this question. Why don't people of consequence join their ranks? Why are they all students and half-baked boys of twenty-two? And not many of those. I dare say there are thousands of bloodhounds on their track, but have they tracked out many of them I Seven! I tell you it makes one sick.”

  Lembke listened with attention but with an expression that seemed to say, “You don't feed nightingales on fairy-tales.”

  “Excuse me, though. You asserted that the letter was sent abroad, but there's no address on it; how do you come to know that it was addressed to Mr. Kirillov and abroad too and . . . and . . . that it really was written by Mr. Shatov?”

  “Why, fetch some specimen of Shatov's writing and compare it. You must have some signature of his in your office. As for its being addressed to Kirillov, it was Kirillov himself showed it me at the time.”

  “Then you were yourself . . .”

  “Of course I was, myself. They showed me lots of things out there. And as for this poem, they say it was written by Herzen to Shatov when he was still wandering abroad, in memory of their meeting, so they say, by way of praise and recommendation — damn it all ... and Shatov circulates it among the young people as much as to say, 'This was Herzen's opinion of me.'

  “Ha ha!” cried Lembke, feeling he had got to the bottom of it at last. “That's just what I was wondering: one can understand the manifesto, but what's the object of the poem?”

  “Of course you'd see it. Goodness knows why I've been babbling to you. Listen. Spare Shatov for me and the rest may go to the devil — even Kirillov, who is in hiding now, shut up in Filipov's house, where Shatov lodges too. They don't like me because I've turned round . . . but promise me Shator and I'll dish them all up for you. I shall be of use, Andrey Antonovitch! I reckon nine or ten men make up the whole wretched lot. I am keeping an eye on them myself, on my. own account. We know of three already: Shatov, Kirillov, and that sub-lieutenant. The others I am only watching carefully . . . though I am pretty sharp-sighted too. It's the same over again as it was in the X province: two students, a schoolboy, two noblemen of twenty, a teacher, and a half-pay major of sixty, crazy with drink, have been caught with manifestoes; that was all — you can take my word for it, that was all; it was quite a surprise that that was all. But I must have six days. I have reckoned it out — six days, not less. If you want to arrive at any result, don't disturb them for six days and I can kill all the birds with one stone for you; but if you flutter them before, the birds will fly away. But spare me Shatov. I speak for Shatov. . . . The best plan would be to fetch him here secretly, in a friendly way, to your study and question him without disguising the facts. ... I have no doubt he'll throw himself at your feet and burst into tears! He is a highly strung and unfortunate fellow; his wife is carrying on with Stavrogin. Be kind to him and he will tell you everything, but I must have six days. . . . And, above all, above all, not a word to Yulia Mihailovna. It's a secret. May it be a secret?”

  “What?” cried Lembke, opening wide his eyes. “Do you mean to say you said nothing of this to Yulia Mihailovna?”

  “To her? Heaven forbid! Ech, Andrey Antonovitch! You see, I value her friendship and I have the highest respect for her . . . and all the rest of it ... but I couldn't make such a blunder. I don't contradict her, for, as you know yourself, it's dangerous to contradict her. I may have dropped a word to her, for I know she likes that, but to suppose that I mentioned names to her as I have to you or anything of that sort! My good sir! Why am I appealing to you? Because you are a man, anyway, a serious person with old-fashioned firmness and experience in the service. You've seen life. You must know by heart every detail of such affairs, I expect, from what you've seen in Petersburg. But if I were to mention those two names, for instance, to her, she'd stir up such a hubbub. . . . You know, she would like to astonish Petersburg. No, she's too hot-headed, she really is.”

  “Yes, she has something of that owgrwe,” Andrey Antonovitch muttered with some satisfaction, though at the same time he resented this unmannerly fellow's daring to express himself rather freely about Yulia Mihailovna. But Pyotr Stepanovitch probably imagined that he had not gone far enough and that he must exert himself further to flatter Lembke and make a complete conquest of him.

  “Fougue is just it,” he assented. “She may be a woman of genius, a literary woman, but she would scare our sparrows. She wouldn't be able to keep quiet for six hours, let alone six days. Ech, Andre
y Antonovitch, don't attempt to tie a woman down for six days! You do admit that I have some experience — in this sort of thing, I mean; I know something about it, and you know that I may very well know something about it. I am not asking for six days for fun but with an object.”

  “I have heard . . .” (Lembke hesitated to utter his thought) “I have heard that on your return from abroad you made some expression . . . as it were of repentance, in the proper quarter?”

  “Well, that's as it may be.”

  “And, of course, I don't want to go into it. ... But it has seemed to me all along that you've talked in quite a different style — about the Christian faith, for instance, about social institutions, about the government even. . . ,”

  “I've said lots of things, no doubt, I am saying them still; but such ideas mustn't be applied as those fools do it, that's the point. What's the good of biting his superior's shoulder! You agreed with me yourself, only you said it was premature.”

  “I didn't mean that when I agreed and said it was premature.”

  “You weigh every word you utter, though. He he! You are a careful man!” Pyotr Stepanovitch observed gaily all of a sudden. “Listen, old friend. I had to get to know you; that's why I talked in my own style. You are not the only one I get to know like that. Maybe I needed to find out your character.”

  “What's my character to you?”

  “How can I tell what it may be to me?” He laughed again. “You see, my dear and highly respected Andrey Antonovitch, you are cunning, but it's not come to that yet and it certainly never will come to it, you understand? Perhaps you do understand. Though I did make an explanation in the proper quarter when I came back from abroad, and I really don't know why a man of certain convictions should not be able to work for the advancement of his sincere convictions . . . but nobody there. has yet instructed me to investigate your character and I've not undertaken any such job from them. Consider: I need not have given those two names to you. I might have gone straight there; that is where I made my first explanations. And if I'd been acting with a view to financial profit or my own interest in any way, it would have been a bad speculation on my part, for now they'll be grateful to you and not to me at headquarters. I've done it solely for Shatov's sake,” Pyotr Stepanovitch added generously, “for Shatov's sake, because of our old friendship. . .. But when you take up your pen to write to headquarters, you may put in a word for me, if you like. . . . I'll make no objection, he he! Adieu, though; I've stayed too long and there was no need to gossip so much!” he added with some amiability, and he got up from the sofa.

  “On the contrary, I am very glad that the position has been defined, so to speak.” Von Lembke too got up and he too looked pleasant, obviously affected by the last words. “I accept your services and acknowledge my obligation, and you may be sure that anything I can do by way of reporting your zeal ...”

  “Six days — the great thing is to put it off for six days, and that you shouldn't stir for those six days, that's what I want.”

  “So be it.”

  “Of course, I don't tie your hands and shouldn't venture to. You are bound to keep watch, only don't nutter the nest too soon; I rely on your sense and experience for that. But I should think you've plenty of bloodhounds and trackers of your own in reserve, ha ha!” Pyotr Stepanovitch blurted out with the gaiety and irresponsibility of youth.

  “Not quite so.” Lembke parried amiably. “Young people are apt to suppose that there is a great deal in the background. . . . But, by the way, allow me one little word: if this Kirillor was Stavrogin's second, then Mr. Stavrogin too . . .”

  “What about Stavrogin?”

  “I mean, if they are such friends?”

  “Oh, no, no, no! There you are quite out of it, though you are cunning. You really surprise me. I thought that you had some information about it. ... H'm . . . Stavrogin — it's quite the opposite, quite. . . . Avis au lecteur. ”

  “Do you mean it? And can it be so?” Lembke articulated mistrustfully. “Yulia Mihailovna told me that from what she heard from Petersburg he is a man acting on some sort of instructions, so to speak. ...”

  “I know nothing about it; I know nothing, absolutely nothing. Adieu. Avis au lecteur! ” Abruptly and obviously Pyotr Stepanovitch declined to discuss it.

  He hurried to the door.

  “Stay, Pyotr Stepanovitch, stay,” cried Lembke. “One other tiny matter and I won't detain you.”

  He drew an envelope out of a table drawer.

  “Here is a little specimen of the same kind of thing, and I let you see it to show how completely I trust you. Here, and tell me your opinion.”

  In the envelope was a letter, a strange anonymous letter addressed to Lembke and only received by him the day before. With intense vexation Pyotr Stepanovitch read as follows:

  “your excellency,— For such you are by rank. Herewith I make known that there is an attempt to be made on the life of personages of general's rank and on the Fatherland. For it's working up straight for that. I myself have been disseminating unceasingly for a number of years. There's infidelity too. There's a rebellion being got up and there are some thousands of manifestoes, and for every one of them there will be a hundred running with their tongues out, unless they've been taken away beforehand by the police. For they've been promised a mighty lot of benefits, and the simple people are foolish, and there's vodka too. The people will attack one after another, taking them to be guilty, and, fearing both sides, I repent of what I had no share in, my circumstances being what they are. If you want information to save the Fatherland, and also the Church and the ikons, I am the only one that can do it. But only on condition that I get a pardon from the Secret Police by telegram at once, me alone, but the rest may answer for it. Put a candle every evening at seven o'clock in the porter's window for a signal. Seeing it, I shall believe and come to kiss the merciful hand from Petersburg. But on condition there's a pension for me, for else how am I to live? You won't regret it for it will mean a star for you. You must go secretly or they'll wring your neck. Your excellency's desperate servant falls at your feet.

  “repentant free-thinker incognito.”

  Von Lembke explained that the letter had made its appearance in the porter's room when it was left empty the day before.

  “So what do you think?” Pyotr Stepanovitch asked almost rudely.

  “I think it's an anonymous skit by way of a hoax.”

  “Most likely it is. There's no taking you in.”

  “What makes me think that is that it's so stupid.”

  “Have you received such documents here before?”

  “Once or twice, anonymous letters.”

  “Oh, of course they wouldn't be signed. In a different style? In different handwritings?”

  “Yes.”

  “And were they buffoonery like this one?”

  “Yes, and you know . . . very disgusting.”

  “Well, if you had them before, it must be the same thing now.”

  “Especially because it's so stupid. Because these people are educated and wouldn't write so stupidly.”

  “Of course, of course.”

  “But what if this is some one who really wants to turn informer?”

  “It's not very likely,” Pyotr Stepanovitch rapped out dryly. “What does he mean by a telegram from the Secret Police and; a pension? It's obviously a hoax.”

  “Yes, yes,” Lembke admitted, abashed.

  “I tell you what: you leave this with me. I can certainly; find out for you before I track out the others.”

  “Take it,” Lembke assented, though with some hesitation.

  “Have you shown it to anyone?”

  “Is it likely! No.”

  “Not to Yulia Mihailovna?”

  “Oh, Heaven forbid! And for God's sake don't you show it her!” Lembke cried in alarm. “She'll be so upset . . . and will be dreadfully angry with me.”

  “Yes, you'll be the first to catch it; she'd say you brought it on yourself
if people write like that to you. I know what women's logic is. Well, good-bye. I dare say I shall bring you the writer in a couple of days or so. Above all, our compact!”

  IV

  Though Pyotr Stepanovitch was perhaps far from being a stupid man, Fedka the convict had said of him truly “that he would make up a man himself and go on living with him too.” He came away from Lembke fully persuaded that for the next six days, anyway, he had put his mind at rest, and this interval was absolutely necessary for his own purposes. But it was a false idea and founded entirely on the. fact that he had made up for himself once for all an Andrey Antonovitch who was a perfect simpleton.

  Like every morbidly suspicious man, Andrey Antonovitch was always exceedingly and joyfully trustful the moment he got on to sure ground. The new turn of affairs struck him at first in a rather favourable light in spite of some fresh and troublesome complications. Anyway, his former doubts fell to the ground. Besides, he had been so tired for the last few days, so exhausted and helpless, that his soul involuntarily yearned for rest. But alas! he was again uneasy. The long time he had spent in Petersburg had left ineradicable traces in his heart. The official and even the secret history of the “younger generation “was fairly familiar to him — he was a curious man and used to collect manifestoes — but he could never understand a word of it. Now he felt like a man lost in a forest. Every instinct told him that there was something in Pyotr Stepanovitch's words utterly incongruous, anomalous, and grotesque, “though there's no telling what may not happen with this 'younger generation,' and the devil only knows what's going on among them,” he mused, lost in perplexity.