“Surely you must see that I am in the agonies of childbirth,” she said, sitting up and gazing at him with a terrible, hysterical vindictiveness that distorted her whole face. “I curse him before he is born, this child!”
“Marie,” cried Shatov, realising at last what it meant. “Marie … but why didn’t you tell me before.” He pulled himself together at once and seized his cap with an air of vigorous determination.
“How could I tell when I came in here? Should I have come to you if I’d known? I was told it would be another ten days! Where are you going? … Where are you going? You mustn’t dare!”
“To fetch a midwife! I’ll sell the revolver. We must get money before anything else now.”
“Don’t dare to do anything, don’t dare to fetch a midwife! Bring a peasant woman, any old woman, I’ve eighty kopecks in my purse. … Peasant women have babies without midwives. … And if I die, so much the better. …”
“You shall have a midwife and an old woman too. But how am I to leave you alone, Marie!”
But reflecting that it was better to leave her alone now in spite of her desperate state than to leave her without help later, he paid no attention to her groans, nor her angry exclamations, but rushed downstairs, hurrying all he could.
III
First of all he went to Kirillov. It was by now about one o’clock in the night. Kirillov was standing in the middle of the room.
“Kirillov, my wife is in childbirth.”
“How do you mean?”
“Childbirth, bearing a child!”
“You … are not mistaken?”
“Oh, no, no, she is in agonies! I want a woman, any old woman, I must have one at once. … Can you get one now? You used to have a lot of old women. …”
“Very sorry that I am no good at childbearing,” Kirillov answered thoughtfully; “that is, not at childbearing, but at doing anything for childbearing … or … no, I don’t know how to say it.”
“You mean you can’t assist at a confinement yourself? But that’s not what I’ve come for. An old woman, I want a woman, a nurse, a servant!”
“You shall have an old woman, but not directly, perhaps … If you like I’ll come instead. …”
“Oh, impossible; I am running to Madame Virginsky, the midwife, now.”
“A horrid woman!”
“Oh, yes, Kirillov, yes, but she is the best of them all. Yes, it’ll all be without reverence, without gladness, with contempt, with abuse, with blasphemy in the presence of so great a mystery, the coming of a new creature! Oh, she is cursing it already!”
“If you like I’ll …”
“No, no, but while I’m running (oh, I’ll make Madame Virginsky come), will you go to the foot of my staircase and quietly listen? But don’t venture to go in, you’ll frighten her; don’t go in on any account, you must only listen … in case anything dreadful happens. If anything very bad happens, then run in.”
“I understand. I’ve another rouble. Here it is. I meant to have a fowl tomorrow, but now I don’t want to, make haste, run with all your might. There’s a samovar all the night.”
Kirillov knew nothing of the present design against Shatov, nor had he had any idea in the past of the degree of danger that threatened him. He only knew that Shatov had some old scores with “those people,” and although he was to some extent involved with them himself through instructions he had received from abroad (not that these were of much consequence, however, for he had never taken any direct share in anything), yet of late he had given it all up, having left off doing anything especially for the “cause,” and devoted himself entirely to a life of contemplation. Although Pyotr Stepanovitch had at the meeting invited Liputin to go with him to Kirillov’s to make sure that the latter would take upon himself, at a given moment, the responsibility for the “Shatov business,” yet in his interview with Kirillov he had said no word about Shatov nor alluded to him in any way—probably considering it impolitic to do so, and thinking that Kirillov could not be relied upon. He put off speaking about it till next day, when it would be all over and would therefore not matter to Kirillov; such at least was Pyotr Stepanovitch’s judgment of him. Liputin, too, was struck by the fact that Shatov was not mentioned in spite of what Pyotr Stepanovitch had promised, but he was too much agitated to protest.
Shatov ran like a hurricane to Virginsky’s house, cursing the distance and feeling it endless.
He had to knock a long time at Virginsky’s; everyone had been asleep a long while. But Shatov did not scruple to bang at the shutters with all his might. The dog chained up in the yard dashed about barking furiously. The dogs caught it up all along the street, and there was a regular babel of barking.
“Why are you knocking and what do you want?” Shatov heard at the window at last Virginsky’s gentle voice, betraying none of the resentment appropriate to the “outrage.” The shutter was pushed back a little and the casement was opened.
“Who’s there, what scoundrel is it?” shrilled a female voice which betrayed all the resentment appropriate to the “outrage.” It was the old maid, Virginsky’s relation.
“I am Shatov, my wife has come back to me and she is just confined. …”
“Well, let her be, get along.”
“I’ve come for Arina Prohorovna; I won’t go without Arina Prohorovna!”
“She can’t attend to everyone. Practice at night is a special line. Take yourself off to Maksheyev’s and don’t dare to make that din,” rattled the exasperated female voice. He could hear Virginsky checking her; but the old maid pushed him away and would not desist.
“I am not going away!” Shatov cried again.
“Wait a little, wait a little,” Virginsky cried at last, overpowering the lady. “I beg you to wait five minutes, Shatov. I’ll wake Arina Prohorovna. Please don’t knock and don’t shout. … Oh, how awful it all is!”
After five
