Demons

knows, perhaps he had some grounds for thinking so. It is also known that he hated Shatov personally; there had once been a quarrel between them, and Pyotr Stepanovich never forgave an offense. I am even convinced that this was the foremost reason.

Our sidewalks are narrow and made of brick, or else simply of planks. Pyotr Stepanovich was striding along the middle of the sidewalk, occupying it entirely, paying not the least attention to Liputin, who had no room left next to him, so that he had either to keep a step behind, or run down into the mud if he wanted to walk next to him and talk. Pyotr Stepanovich suddenly remembered how he had recently gone scurrying through the mud in the same way in order to keep up with Stavrogin, who, like him now, also strode down the middle, occupying the entire sidewalk. He recalled this scene and rage took his breath away.

But resentment also took Liputin's breath away. Let Pyotr Stepanovich treat our people as he liked, but him? He who was more in the know than any of our people, was closest to the cause, was most intimately connected with it, and up to now had constantly, though indirectly, participated in it! Oh, he knew that even now Pyotr Stepanovich could ruin him as a last resort. But he had begun hating Pyotr Stepanovich long ago, and not for the danger, but for the haughtiness of his treatment. Now, when he had to venture upon such a thing, he was more angry than all the rest of our people put together. Alas, he knew that 'like a slave' he would certainly be the first on the spot tomorrow and, moreover, would bring all the rest with him, and if he could somehow have killed Pyotr Stepanovich now, before tomorrow, he would certainly have killed him.

Immersed in his feelings, he kept silent and trotted after his tormentor. The latter seemed to have forgotten about him; only every now and then he carelessly and impolitely shoved him with his elbow. Suddenly, on the most prominent of our streets, Pyotr Stepanovich stopped and went into a tavern.

'Why here?' Liputin boiled up. 'This is a tavern.'

'I want to have a beefsteak.'

'For pity's sake, it's always full of people.'

'Well, so what.'

'But... we'll be late. It's already ten o'clock.'

'One can never be late there.'

'No, I'll be late! They're expecting me back.'

'Well, so what; only it's stupid to go back to them. Because of all your bother, I haven't had dinner today. And with Kirillov, the later the surer.'

Pyotr Stepanovich took a private room. Liputin, irate and resentful, sat down in an armchair to one side and watched him eat. Half an hour passed, and more. Pyotr Stepanovich did not hurry, ate with relish, rang, demanded a different mustard, then beer, and said not a word all the while. He was deep in thought. It was possible for him to do both things at once—to eat with relish and to be deep in thought. Liputin finally hated him so much that he could not tear himself away from him. It was something like a nervous fit. He counted every piece of steak the man sent into his mouth, hated him for the way he opened it, for the way he chewed, for the way he sucked savoringly on the fatter pieces, hated the beefsteak itself. Finally, things became as if confused in his eyes; he began to feel slightly dizzy; heat and chill ran alternately down his spine.

'You're not doing anything—read this,' Pyotr Stepanovich suddenly tossed him a piece of paper. Liputin went over to a candle. The paper was covered with small writing, in a bad hand, with corrections on every line. By the time he managed to read it, Pyotr Stepanovich had already paid and was going out. On the sidewalk Liputin handed the paper back to him.

'Keep it; I'll say later. Anyhow, what do you say?'

Liputin shuddered all over.

'In my opinion... such a tract ... is nothing but a ridiculous absurdity.'

The anger broke through; he felt as if he were being picked up and carried.

'If we decide to distribute such tracts,' he was trembling all over, 'we will make ourselves despised for our stupidity and incomprehension of things, sir.'

'Hm. I think otherwise,' Pyotr Stepanovich strode along firmly.

'And I think otherwise; can it be that you wrote it yourself?'

'That's none of your business.'

'I also think the 'Shining Light' doggerel is the trashiest doggerel possible and could never have been written by Herzen.'

'Lies; the poem's good.'

'I'm also surprised, for instance,' Liputin raced on, leaping and playing in spirit, 'that it is suggested we act so that everything fails. In Europe it is natural to want everything to fail, because there's a proletariat there, but here we're just dilettantes and, in my opinion, are simply raising dust, sir.'

'I thought you were a Fourierist.'

'That's not Fourier, not at all, sir.'

'He's nonsense, I know.'

'No, Fourier is not nonsense... Excuse me, but I simply cannot believe there could be an uprising in May.'

Liputin even unbuttoned his coat, he was so hot.

'Well, enough, and now, before I forget,' Pyotr Stepanovich switched with terrible coolness, 'you will have to typeset and print this leaflet with your own hands. We'll dig up Shatov's press, and you'll take charge of it tomorrow. In the shortest possible time, you will typeset and print as many copies as you can, to be distributed throughout the winter. The means will be indicated. We need as many copies as possible, because you'll have orders from other places.'

'No, sir, excuse me, I cannot take upon myself such a ... I refuse.'