“I’ve taken your bed, I fell asleep so tired I didn’t know what I was doing; how dared you not wake me? How could you dare imagine I meant to be a burden to you?”
“How could I wake you, Marie?”
“You could, you ought to have! You’ve no other bed here, and I’ve taken yours. You had no business to put me into a false position. Or do you suppose that I’ve come to take advantage of your charity? Kindly get into your bed at once and I’ll lie down in the corner on some chairs.”
“Marie, there aren’t chairs enough, and there’s nothing to put on them.”
“Then simply oil the floor. Or you’ll have to lie on the floor yourself. I want to lie on the floor at once, at once!”
She stood up, tried to take a step, but suddenly a violent spasm of pain deprived her of all power and all determination, and with a loud groan she fell back on the bed. Shatov ran up, but Marie, hiding her face in the pillow, seized his hand and gripped and squeezed it with all her might. This lasted a minute.
“Marie darling, there’s a doctor Frenzel living here, a friend of mine. ... I could run for him.”
“Nonsense!”
“What do you mean by nonsense? Tell me, Marie, what is it hurting you? For we might try fomentations ... on the stomach for instance. ... I can do that without a doctor. . . . Or else mustard poultices.”
“What’s this,” she asked strangely, raising her head and looking at him in dismay.
“What’s what, Marie?” said Shatov, not understanding. “What are you asking about? Good heavens! I am quite bewildered, excuse my not understanding.”
“Ach, let me alone; it’s not your business to understand. And it would be too absurd . . ,” she said with a bitter smile. “Talk to me about something. Walk about the room and talk. Don’t stand over me and don’t look at me, I particularly ask you that for the five-hundredth time!”
Shatov began walking up and down the room, looking at the floor, and doing his utmost not to glance at her.
“There’s — don’t be angry, Marie, I entreat you — there’s some veal here, and there’s tea not far off. . . . You had so little before.”
She made an angry gesture of disgust. Shatov bit his tongue in despair.
“Listen, I intend to open a bookbinding business here, on rational co-operative principles. Since you live here what do you think of it, would it be successful?”
“Ech, Marie, people don’t read books here, and there are none here at all. And are they likely to begin binding them!”
“Who are they?”
“The local readers and inhabitants generally, Marie.”
“Well, then, speak more clearly. They indeed, and one doesn’t know who they are. You don’t know grammar!”
“It’s in the spirit of the language,” Shatov muttered.
“Oh, get along with your spirit, you bore me. Why shouldn’t the local inhabitant or reader have his books bound?”
“Because reading books and having them bound are two different stages of development, and there’s a vast gulf between them. To begin with, a man gradually gets used to reading, in the course of ages of course, but takes no care of his books and throws them about, not thinking them worth attention. But binding implies respect for books, and implies that not only he has grown fond of reading, but that he looks upon it as something of value. That period has not been reached anywhere in Russia yet. In Europe books have been bound for a long while.”
“Though that’s pedantic, anyway, it’s not stupid, and reminds me of the time three years ago; you used to be rather clever sometimes three years ago.”
She said this as disdainfully as her other capricious remarks.
“Marie, Marie,” said Shatov, turning to her, much moved, “oh, Marie! If you only knew how much has happened in those three years! I heard afterwards that you despised me for changing my convictions. But what are the men I’ve broken with? The enemies of all true life, out-of-date Liberals who are afraid of their own independence, the flunkeys of thought, the enemies of individuality and freedom, the decrepit advocates of deadness and rottenness! All they have to offer is senility, a glorious mediocrity of the most bourgeois kind, contemptible shallowness, a jealous equality, equality without individual dignity, equality as it’s understood by flunkeys or by the French in ‘93. And the worst of it is there are swarms of scoundrels among them, swarms of scoundrels!”
“Yes, there are a lot of scoundrels,” she brought out abruptly with painful effort. She lay stretched out, motionless, as though afraid to move, with her head thrown back on the pillow, rather on one side, staring at the ceiling with exhausted but glowing eyes. Her face was pale, her lips were dry and hot.
“You recognise it, Marie, you recognise it,” cried Shatov. She tried to shake her head, and suddenly the same spasm came over her again. Again she hid her face in the pillow, and again for a full minute she squeezed .Shatov’s hand till it hurt. He had run up, beside himself with alarm.
“Marie, Marie! But it may be very serious, Marie!”
“Be quiet ... I won’t have it, I won’t have it,” she screamed almost furiously, turning her face upwards again. “Don’t dare to look at me with your sympathy! Walk about the room, say something, talk. ...”
Shatov began muttering something again, like one distraught.
“What do you do here?” she asked, interrupting him with contemptuous impatience.
“I work in a merchant’s office. I could get a fair amount of money even here if I cared to, Marie.”
“So much the better for you. ...”
“Oh, don’t suppose I meant anything, Marie. I said it without thinking.”
“And what do you do besides? What are you preaching? You can’t exist without preaching, that’s your character!”
“I am preaching God, Marie.”
“In whom you don’t believe yourself. I never could see the
idea of that.”
“Let’s leave that, Marie; we’ll talk of that later.”
“What sort of person was this Mary a Timofyevna here?”
“We’ll talk of that later too, Marie.”
“Don’t dare to say such things to me! Is it true that her death may have been caused by ... the wickedness ... of these people?”
“Not a doubt of it,” growled Shatov.
Marie suddenly raised her head and cried out painfully:
“Don’t dare speak of that to me again, don’t dare to, never,
never!”
And she fell back in bed again, overcome by the same convulsive agony; it was the third time, but this time her groans were louder, in fact she screamed.
“Oh, you insufferable man! Oh, you unbearable man,” she cried, tossing about recklessly, and pushing away Shatov as he bent over her.
“Marie, I’ll do anything you like .... I’ll walk about and talk. . . .”
“Surely you must see that it has begun!”
“What’s begun, Marie?”
“How can I tell! Do I know anything about it? . . . I curse myself! Oh, curse it all from the beginning!”
“Marie, if you’d tell me what’s beginning ... or else I ... if you don’t, what am I to make of it?”
“You are a useless, theoretical babbler. Oh, curse everything on earth!”
“Marie, Marie!” He seriously thought that she was beginning to go mad.
“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!”
“T
o 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 to-morrow, 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 soores 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; every one 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 every one. 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 endless minutes, Arina Prohorovna made her appearance.
“Has your wife come?” Shatov heard her voice at the window, . and to his surprise it was not at all ill-tempered, only as usual peremptory, but Arina Prohorovna could not speak except in a peremptory tone.
“Yes, my wife, and she is in labour.”
“Marya Ignatyevna?”
“Yes, Marya Ignatyevna. Of course it’s Marya Ignatyevna.”
A silence followed. Shatov waited. He heard a whispering in the house.
“Has she been here long?” Madame Virginsky asked again.
“She came this evening at eight o’clock. Please make haste.”
Again he heard whispering, as though they were consulting. “Listen, you are not making a mistake? Did she send you for me herself?”
“No, she didn’t send for you, she wants a peasant woman, so as not to burden me with expense, but don’t be afraid, I’ll pay you.”
“Very good, I’ll come, whether you pay or not. I always thought highly of Marya Ignatyevna for the independence of her sentiments, though perhaps she won’t remember me. Have you got the most necessary things?”
“I’ve nothing, but I’ll get everything, everything.”
“There is something generous even in these people,” Shatov reflected, as he set off to Lyamshin’s. “The convictions and the man are two very different things, very likely I’ve been very unfair to them! . . . We are all to blame, we are all to blame . . . and if only all were convinced of it!”
He had not to knock long at Lyamshin’s; the latter, to Shatov’s surprise, opened his casement at once, jumping out of bed, barefoot and in his night-clothes at the risk of catching cold; and he was hypochondriacal and always anxious about his health. But there was a special cause for such alertness and haste: Lyamshin had been in a tremor all the evening, and had not been able to sleep for excitement after the meeting of the quintet; he was haunted by the dread of uninvited and undesired visitors. The news of Shatov’s giving information tormented him more than anything. . . . And suddenly there was this terrible loud knocking at the window as though to justify his fears.
He was so frightened at seeing Shatov that he at once slammed the casement and jumped back into bed. Shatov began furiously knocking and shouting.
“How dare you knock like that in the middle of the night?” shouted Lyamshin, in a threatening voice, though he was numb with fear, when at least two minutes later he ventured to open the casement again, and was at last convinced that Shatov had come alone.
“Here’s your revolver for you; take it back, give me fifteen roubles.”
“What’s the matter, are you drunk? This is outrageous, I shall simply catch cold. Wait a minute
, I’ll just throw my rug over me.”
“Give me fifteen roubles at once. If you don’t give it me, I’ll knock and shout till daybreak; I’ll break your window-frame.”
“And I’ll shout police and you’ll be taken to the lock-up.”
“And am I dumb? Can’t I shout ‘police’ too? Which of us has most reason to be afraid of the police, you or I?”
“And you can hold such contemptible opinions! I know what you are hinting at. ... Stop, stop, for God’s sake don’t go on knocking! Upon my word, who has money at night? What do you want money for, unless you are drunk?”
“My wife has come back. I’ve taken ten roubles off the price, I haven’t fired it once; take the revolver, take it this minute!”
Lyamshin mechanically put his hand out of the casement and took the revolver; he waited a little, and suddenly thrusting his head out of the casement, and with a shiver running down his spine, faltered as though he were beside himself.
“You are lying, your wife hasn’t come back to you. . . . It’s . . . it’s simply that you want to run away.”
“You are a fool. Where should I run to? It’s for your Pyotr Verhovensky to run away, not for me. I’ve just been to the midwife, Madame Virginsky, and she consented at once to come to me. You can ask them. My wife is in agony; I need the money; give it me!”
A swarm of ideas flared up in Lyamshin’s crafty mind like a shower of fireworks. It all suddenly took a different colour, though still panic prevented him from reflecting.
“But how . . . you are not living with your wife?”
“I’ll break your skull for questions like that.”
“Oh dear, I understand, forgive me, I was struck all of a heap. . . . But I understand, I understand ... is Arina Prohorovna really coming? You said just now that she had gone? You know, that’s not true. You see, you see, you see what lies you tell at every step.”
“By now, she must be with my wife . . . don’t keep me . . . it’s not my fault you are a fool.”
“That’s a lie, I am not a fool. Excuse me, I really can’t ...”
And utterly distraught he began shutting the casement again for the third time, but Shatov gave such a yell that he put his head out again.
Complete Works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky Page 422
