Demons

'Little fool!' Shatov could not help shouting at his back from upstairs.

'What's that, sir?' the man responded from below.

'Never mind, go.'

'I thought you said something.'

II

Erkel was the sort of 'little fool' whose head lacked only the chief sense; he had no king in his head, but of lesser, subordinate sense he had plenty, even to the point of cunning. Fanatically, childishly devoted to the 'common cause,' and essentially to Pyotr Verkhovensky, he acted on his instructions, given him at that moment during the meeting of our people when the roles for the next day were arranged and handed out. Pyotr Stepanovich, assigning him the role of messenger, managed to have about a ten-minute talk with him aside. The executive line was what was required by this shallow, scant-reasoning character, eternally longing to submit to another's will—oh, to be sure, not otherwise than for the sake of a 'common' or 'great' cause. But that, too, made no difference, for little fanatics like Erkel simply cannot understand service to an idea otherwise than by merging it with the very person who, in their understanding, expresses this idea. Sentimental, tender, and kindly Erkel was perhaps the most unfeeling of the murderers who gathered against Shatov, and, having no personal hatred, could be present at his murder without batting an eye. Among other things, for instance, he had been told to spy out Shatov's situation thoroughly while going about his errand, and when Shatov, receiving him on the stairs, blurted out in his heat, most likely without noticing it, that his wife had returned to him—Erkel at once had enough instinctive cunning not to show the slightest further curiosity, despite the surmise flashing in his head that the fact of the returned wife was of great significance for the success of their undertaking...

And so it was, essentially: this fact alone saved the 'blackguards' from Shatov's intention, and at the same time helped them to 'get rid' of him... First of all, it excited Shatov, unsettled him, deprived him of his usual perspicacity and caution. Now least of all could any sort of notion of his own safety enter his head, occupied as it was by something quite different. On the contrary, he passionately believed that Pyotr Verkhovensky was going to run away the next day: it coincided so well with his suspicions! Having returned to his room, he again sat down in the corner, leaned his elbows on his knees, and covered his face with his hands. Bitter thoughts tormented him...

And then he would raise his head again, get up, and go on tiptoe to look at her: 'Lord! By tomorrow she'll be running a fever, by morning, it may have started already! She caught cold, of course. Unused to this terrible climate, and then the train, third class, rain and storm all around, and her cape is so light, no clothes to speak of... And to leave her here, abandon her without any help! Her bag, such a tiny bag, light, shriveled, ten pounds! Poor thing, how wasted, how much she's endured! She's proud, that's why she doesn't complain. But irritated, so irritated! It's the illness: even an angel would get irritated in illness. How dry, how hot her forehead must be, so dark under her eyes, and... and yet how beautiful the oval of her face and this fluffy hair, how...'

And he would hasten to look away, would hasten to get away, as if fearing the mere thought of seeing anything in her but an unfortunate, worn-out being in need of help—'what hopes could there be here! Oh, how low, how mean man is!'—and he would go back to his corner, sit down, cover his face with his hands, and again dream, again recall... and again picture hopes.

'Oh, I'm tired, so tired!' he recalled her exclamations, her weak, strained voice. 'Lord! To abandon her now, and she with her eighty kopecks; she offered her purse, old, tiny! She's come to look for a position—well, what does she understand about positions, what do they understand in Russia? They're like whimsical children, all they have are their own fantasies, made up by themselves; and she's angry, poor thing, why doesn't Russia resemble their little foreign dreams! Oh, unfortunate, oh, innocent ones! ... However, it really is cold here...'

He remembered that she had complained, that he had promised to light the stove. 'The firewood's there, I could fetch it, as long as I don't wake her up. I could do it, however. And what do I decide about the veal? She'll get up, she may want to eat... Well, that can wait; Kirillov doesn't sleep all night. What shall I cover her with, she's so fast asleep, but she must be cold, ah, cold!'

And he went over yet again to look at her; her dress was turned back a little, and her right leg was half bared to the knee. He suddenly turned away, almost in fear, took off his warm coat, and, remaining in a wretched old jacket, covered the bare part, trying not to look at it.

Lighting the stove, walking on tiptoe, looking at the sleeping woman, dreaming in the corner, then looking at the sleeping woman again, took a long time. Two or three hours went by. It was during this time that Verkhovensky and Liputin managed to visit Kirillov. Finally he, too, dozed off in the corner. A groan came from her; she awoke, she was calling him; he jumped up like a criminal.

'Marie! I fell asleep... Ah, what a scoundrel I am, Marie!'

She raised herself, looking around in surprise, as if not recognizing where she was, and suddenly became all stirred with indignation, with wrath:

'I took your bed, I fell asleep, beside myself with fatigue; how dared you not wake me up? How dared you think I intend to burden you?'

'How could I wake you, Marie?'

'You could; you should have! There's no other bed for you here, and I took yours. You shouldn't have put me in a false position. Or do you think I came to take advantage of your charity? Be so good as to take your bed right now, and I will lie down in the corner, on some chairs ...'

'Marie, I don't have so many chairs, or anything to make a bed from.'

'Well, then simply on the floor. Otherwise you yourself will have to sleep on the floor. I want the floor, now, now!'

She got up, tried to take a step, but suddenly it was as if a most violent convulsive pain took away all her strength and all her resolve at once, and with a loud groan she fell back on the bed. Shatov ran to her, but Marie, her face buried in the pillows, seized his hand in hers and began to squeeze it and wring it with all her might. This went on for about a minute.

'Marie, darling, if you need, there's a Doctor Frenzel here, an acquaintance of mine, a very ... I could run over to him.'

'Nonsense!'

'Why nonsense? Tell me, Marie, what hurts you? How about compresses ... on your stomach, for instance ... That I could do without a doctor ... Or else mustard plasters.'

'What is this?' she asked strangely, raising her head and looking at him fearfully.

'What do you mean, Marie?' Shatov failed to understand. 'What are you asking about? Oh, God, I'm completely