Demons

quickly walked past. Pyotr Stepanovich at once ran into the study.

I cannot avoid a detailed account of this extremely brief meeting of the two 'rivals'—a meeting seemingly impossible under the circumstances, but which nonetheless took place.

It happened like this. Nikolai Vsevolodovich was dozing after dinner on the sofa in his study when Alexei Yegorovich reported the arrival of an unexpected visitor. On hearing the name announced, he even jumped up from his place and would not believe it. But soon a smile flashed on his lips—a smile of haughty triumph and at the same time of a certain dull, mistrustful amazement. The entering Mavriky Nikolaevich seemed struck by the expression of this smile; at least he paused suddenly in the middle of the room as if undecided whether to go on or turn back. The host at once managed to change his face, and with a look of earnest perplexity stepped forward to meet him. The man did not take the proffered hand, moved a chair out awkwardly, and, not saying a word, sat down even before the host, without waiting to be invited. Nikolai Vsevolodovich sat himself down sideways on the sofa and, scrutinizing Mavriky Nikolaevich, waited silently.

'If you can, then marry Lizaveta Nikolaevna,' Mavriky Nikolaevich suddenly offered, and, what was most curious, it was quite impossible to tell by the tone of his voice whether it was a request, a recommendation, a concession, or an order.

Nikolai Vsevolodovich continued to be silent; but the visitor had evidently said all he had come for, and was staring at him point-blank, awaiting an answer.

'Unless I'm mistaken (though it's all too true), Lizaveta Nikolaevna is already engaged to you,' Stavrogin said at last.

'Betrothed and engaged,' Mavriky Nikolaevich firmly and clearly confirmed.

'You've... quarreled?... Excuse me, Mavriky Nikolaevich.'

'No, she 'loves and respects' me—the words are hers. Her words are more precious than anything.'

'There's no doubt of that.'

'But you should know that if she were standing right at the altar, and you were to call her, she would drop me and everyone and go to you.'

'From the altar?'

'And after the altar.'

'You're not mistaken?'

'No. From behind her ceaseless, genuine, and most complete hatred for you, love flashes every moment, and... madness... the most genuine and boundless love and—madness! On the contrary, from behind the love she feels for me, also genuinely, hatred flashes every moment—the greatest hatred! I could never have imagined all these... metamorphoses... before.'

'But still it surprises me, how could you come and dispose of Lizaveta Nikolaevna's hand? Do you have the right to do that? Or did she authorize you?'

Mavriky Nikolaevich frowned and cast down his head for a moment.

'These are only just words on your part,' he said suddenly, 'vengeful and triumphant words: I'm sure you understand what's been left unspoken between the lines, and is there any place here for petty vanity? Aren't you satisfied enough? Is there really any need to smear it around, to dot all the i's? As you wish, I will dot them, if you need my humiliation so much: I have no right, no authorization is possible; Lizaveta Nikolaevna doesn't know about anything, and her fiance has lost his last wits and is fit for the madhouse, and to crown it all he comes himself to report it to you. You alone in the whole world can make her happy, and I alone— unhappy. You contend for her, you pursue her, but, I don't know why, you will not marry her. If it's some lovers' quarrel that happened abroad, and I must be sacrificed to end it—sacrifice me. She is too unhappy, and I cannot bear it. My words are not a permission, not a prescription, and so there is no insult to your pride. If you wanted to take my place at the altar, you could do it without any permission on my part, and there was certainly no point in my coming to you with my madness. Especially as our marriage is no longer possible at all after this step of mine. I can't lead her to the altar when I'm a scoundrel. What I am doing here and my handing her over to you, perhaps her most implacable enemy, is in my view the act of a scoundrel, which I, of course, will never be able to endure.' 'Will you shoot yourself as we're getting married?' 'No, much later. Why stain her wedding garment with my blood. Maybe I won't shoot myself at all, either now or later.' 'You probably wish to set me at ease by saying so?' 'You? What could one more splash of blood mean to you?' He turned pale and his eyes flashed. A minute of silence followed.

'Excuse me for the questions I've put to you,' Stavrogin began again. 'Some of them I had no right to put, but to one of them it seems to me I have every right: tell me what facts led you to conclude about my feelings for Lizaveta Nikolaevna? I mean with regard to the degree of those feelings, the certainty of which allowed you to come to me and... risk such a suggestion.'

'What?' Mavriky Nikolaevich even gave a slight start. 'But haven't you been seeking after her? You were not seeking and do not want to seek after her?'

'In general, I cannot speak aloud about my feelings for this or that woman to a third person, or to anyone at all except that one woman. Excuse me, it's an oddity of my organism. But instead of that I'll tell you the whole rest of the truth: I am married, and it is no longer possible for me to marry or 'to seek after.’”

Mavriky Nikolaevich was so amazed that he recoiled against the back of his armchair, and for a while stared fixedly at Stavrogin's face.

'Imagine, I somehow didn't think of that,' he muttered. 'You said then, that morning, that you weren't married ... and so I believed you weren't married...'

He was growing terribly pale; suddenly he banged his fist on the table with all his might.

'If after such a confession you do not leave Lizaveta Nikolaevna alone, and keep making her unhappy, I'll kill you with a stick like a dog in a ditch!'

He jumped up and quickly walked out of the room. Pyotr Stepanovich, running in, found the host in a most unexpected frame of mind.

'Ah, it's you!' Stavrogin guffawed loudly; he seemed to be guffawing only at the figure of Pyotr Stepanovich, who ran in with such impetuous curiosity.