Demons

Pyotr Stepanovich restrained himself and changed the subject.

'Here's another thing,' he warned. 'Will you join us this evening? It's Virginsky's name day, that's the pretext for the gathering.'

'I don't want to.'

'Do me a favor and come. You must. You must, to impress them with numbers, and with your face... Your face is... well, in short, you have a fatal face.'

'You find it so?' laughed Kirillov. 'Very well, I'll come. Only not for my face. When?'

'Oh, earlyish, half past six. And, you know, you can come in, sit down, and not speak to anyone, however many there are. Only, you know, don't forget to bring a pencil and paper with you.'

'What for?'

'It makes no difference to you anyway; and it's my special request. You'll just sit without speaking to anyone at all, listen, and from time to time make as if you're taking notes; well, you can draw something.'

'Nonsense, what for?'

'Since it makes no difference to you; you do keep saying that it makes no difference to you.'

'No, but what for?'

'Because that member of our Society, the inspector, got stuck in Moscow, and I announced to someone or other here that the inspector might visit us; so they'll think the inspector is you, and since you've been here for three weeks already, they'll be all the more surprised.'

'Flimflam! You have no inspector in Moscow.'

'Well, suppose I haven't, devil take him, is that any business of yours? And why is it so hard for you to do it? You are a member of the Society.'

'Tell them I'm the inspector; I'll sit and be silent, but the pencil and paper I don't want.'

'But why?'

'I don't want it.'

Pyotr Stepanovich became angry, even turned green, but again restrained himself, got up, and took his hat.

'Is he here?' he suddenly said in a half-whisper.

'Yes.'

'Good. I'll have him out soon, don't worry.'

'I don't worry. He just spends nights here. The old woman is in the hospital, the daughter-in-law died; for two days I've been alone. I showed him a place in the fence where a board can be removed; he gets in, no one sees him.'

'I'll take him away soon.'

'He says he has many places to spend the night.'

'That's a lie, they're looking for him, and here so far it's inconspicuous. Do you really get to talking with him?'

'Yes, all night. He says very bad things about you. I read him the Apocalypse at night, with tea. He listened hard; even very, all night.'

'Ah, the devil, you'll convert him to the Christian faith!'

'He's of Christian faith as it is. Don't worry, he'll use his knife. Whom do you want to put a knife into?'

'No, that's not what I'm keeping him for; he's for something else... And does Shatov know about Fedka?'

'I don't talk and never see Shatov.'

'Is he angry, or what?'

'No, we're not angry, we just turn away. We spent too long lying together in America.'

'I'll go to him now.'

'As you like.'

'Stavrogin and I may also come to you from there, somewhere around ten o'clock.'

'Come.'

'I have to talk with him about an important... You know, why don't you give me your ball? What do you need it for now? I, too, for exercise. I'll even pay money for it.'

'Just take it.'

Pyotr Stepanovich put the ball in his back pocket.

'And I won't give you anything against Stavrogin,' Kirillov muttered behind him, letting his visitor out. The latter looked at him in surprise, but did not respond.

Kirillov's last words confused Pyotr Stepanovich greatly; he still had not had time to make sense of them, but going up the stairs to see Shatov he tried to recompose his displeased look into a benign physiognomy. Shatov was at home and slightly ill. He was lying on his bed, though dressed.