“What business is it of mine if you have compromised yourselves?” laughed Stavrogin, but his eyes flashed.
“What business? What business?” voices exclaimed.
Many people got up from their chairs.
“Allow me, gentlemen, allow me,” cried the lame man. “Mr. Verhovensky hasn’t answered the question either; he has only asked it.”
The remark produced a striking effect. All looked at one another. Stavrogin laughed aloud in the lame man’s face and went out; Kirillov followed him; Verhovensky ran after them into the passage.
“What are you doing?” he faltered, seizing Stavrogin’s hand and gripping it with all his might in his. Stavrogin pulled away his hand without a word.
“Be at Kirillov’s directly, I’ll come. … It’s absolutely necessary for me to see you! …”
“It isn’t necessary for me,” Stavrogin cut him short.
“Stavrogin will be there,” Kirillov said finally. “Stavrogin, it is necessary for you. I will show you that there.”
They went out.
VIII
Ivan the Tsarevitch
They had gone. Pyotr Stepanovitch was about to rush back to the meeting to bring order into chaos, but probably reflecting that it wasn’t worth bothering about, left everything, and two minutes later was flying after the other two. On the way he remembered a shortcut to Filipov’s house. He rushed along it, up to his knees in mud, and did in fact arrive at the very moment when Stavrogin and Kirillov were coming in at the gate.
“You here already?” observed Kirillov. “That’s good. Come in.”
“How is it you told us you lived alone,” asked Stavrogin, passing a boiling samovar in the passage.
“You will see directly who it is I live with,” muttered Kirillov. “Go in.”
They had hardly entered when Verhovensky at once took out of his pocket the anonymous letter he had taken from Lembke, and laid it before Stavrogin. They all then sat down. Stavrogin read the letter in silence.
“Well?” he asked.
“That scoundrel will do as he writes,” Verhovensky explained. “So, as he is under your control, tell me how to act. I assure you he may go to Lembke tomorrow.”
“Well, let him go.”
“Let him go! And when we can prevent him, too!”
“You are mistaken. He is not dependent on me. Besides, I don’t care; he doesn’t threaten me in any way; he only threatens you.”
“You too.”
“I don’t think so.”
“But there are other people who may not spare you. Surely you understand that? Listen, Stavrogin. This is only playing with words. Surely you don’t grudge the money?”
“Why, would it cost money?”
“It certainly would; two thousand or at least fifteen hundred. Give it to me tomorrow or even today, and tomorrow evening I’ll send him to Petersburg for you. That’s just what he wants. If you like, he can take Marya Timofyevna. Note that.”
There was something distracted about him. He spoke, as it were, without caution, and he did not reflect on his words. Stavrogin watched him, wondering.
“I’ve no reason to send Marya Timofyevna away.”
“Perhaps you don’t even want to,” Pyotr Stepanovitch smiled ironically.
“Perhaps I don’t.”
“In short, will there be the money or not?” he cried with angry impatience, and as it were peremptorily, to Stavrogin. The latter scrutinised him gravely. “There won’t be the money.”
“Look here, Stavrogin! You know something, or have done something already! You are going it!”
His face worked, the corners of his mouth twitched, and he suddenly laughed an unprovoked and irrelevant laugh.
“But you’ve had money from your father for the estate,” Stavrogin observed calmly. “Maman sent you six or eight thousand for Stepan Trofimovitch. So you can pay the fifteen hundred out of your own money. I don’t care to pay for other people. I’ve given a lot as it is. It annoys me. …” He smiled himself at his own words.
“Ah, you are beginning to joke!”
Stavrogin got up from his chair. Verhovensky instantly jumped up too, and mechanically stood with his back to the door as though barring the way to him. Stavrogin had already made a motion to push him aside and go out, when he stopped short.
“I won’t give up Shatov to you,” he said. Pyotr Stepanovitch started. They looked at one another.
“I told you this evening why you needed Shatov’s blood,” said Stavrogin, with flashing eyes. “It’s the cement you want to bind your groups together with. You drove Shatov away cleverly just now. You knew very well that he wouldn’t promise not to inform and he would have thought it mean to lie to you. But what do you want with me? What do you want with me? Ever since we met abroad you won’t let me alone. The explanation you’ve given me so far was simply raving. Meanwhile you are driving at my giving Lebyadkin fifteen hundred roubles, so as to give Fedka an opportunity to murder him. I know that you think I want my wife murdered too. You think to tie my hands by this crime, and have me in your power. That’s it, isn’t it? What good will that be to you? What the devil do you want with me? Look at me. Once for all, am I the man for you? And let me alone.”
“Has Fedka been to you himself?” Verhovensky asked breathlessly.
“Yes, he came. His price is fifteen hundred too. … But here; he’ll repeat it himself. There he stands.” Stavrogin stretched out his hand.
Pyotr Stepanovitch turned round quickly. A new figure, Fedka, wearing a sheepskin coat, but without a cap, as though he were at home, stepped out of the darkness in the doorway. He stood there laughing and showing his even white teeth. His black eyes, with yellow whites, darted cautiously about the room watching the gentlemen. There was something he did not understand. He had evidently been just brought in by Kirillov, and his inquiring eyes turned to the latter. He stood in the doorway, but was unwilling to come into the room.
“I suppose you got him ready here to listen to our bargaining, or that he may actually see the money in our hands. Is that it?” asked Stavrogin; and without waiting for
