Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In the light of the terrible events that happened in 1867 in our town, that is, in T., I think it's important to clear up all the misunderstandings that might have occured. To understand those events well and recognise what has been their cause, it's absolutely necessary to take a step back and learn the past of the five most important pawns that partook in the chaos: Nicolai Vsevolodovich Stavrogin, Pyotr Stepanovich Verkhovensky, Ivan Pavlovich Shatov, Alexei Nilich Kirillov and Daria Pavlovna Shatova. Through an important occurence I came to learn a great deal about their past and what has led them to all their miserable stances in life at the time of the fires, murders, and attempted revolution.

Everything has started at the end of 1861, in Petersburg. Nicolai Vsevolodovich Stavrogin, shortly degraded from his officer rank to a private, has given up on his career as a soldier, despite his mother’s desperate attempts at retaining his post. Because he has left our town quite few years ago and visited his mother only during summer while he was in schools, he was not known to almost none of us here. That is why I find it strange today – though, as anyone else, I seemed to find nothing odd in it then – that somehow we all in T. knew exactly of Stavrogin’s whereabouts and doings. He had no friends amongst us and yet everyone was interested in his life. All in all, the news we recieved sounded almost too strange to be considered serious. A gentleman of leisure, from aristocratic house and just as high upbringing we would never consider able to perform even half of the bizarre deeds that were soon on everyone’s lips, and yet – more than a half of them proved later to be true. At this time exactly, which is to say, even before paying us all a visit, he met in Petersburg Pyotr Stepanovich Verkhovensky, a son of his childhood teacher.

Pyotr Stepanovich, despite decent parentage and geographically the same origins, was a man completely different than Nicolai Stavrogin and the only reason I can imagine for them both to make friends with each other, on the part of Stavrogin, was his the then strange desire to wallow in all kinds of atrocities and bizarness. Stavrogin was always, excluding the events that has first marked his presence in our town and which I will discuss later, rather withdrawn and quiet to the point of sullenness, lost in thought and seemingly distracted more often than not, though he mantained social relationships amiably and we all thought his manners excellent. Pyotr Stepanovich Verkhovensky was a man cut from entirely different material.

Pyotr Stepanovich was two years younger than Nicolai Stavrogin, and at the time has just finished his university studies. He studied law, but no one ever saw him performing at the courthouse and truth be told, no one ever saw him perform any kind of professional job. He had money sent to him yearly by his father, which would make for a modest life, but a vigilant observer could quickly spot he must have had another source of income as well. Other than that, he was Stavrogin's opposite in almost everything, especially in his maintenance: frequently smiling, jocose, good with words and quick to advice anyone who might need it – that was the impression he gave at first sight.

In Petersburg there were many opportunities to grow, learn and work for young men of all positions. Stavrogin resided there, as I guess, mostly to use life in ways that would be frowned upon at home and which shouldn't be appreciated anywhere. He excelled at stooping very low, as I was told, and paid little attention to his surroundings. Such life, of course, proves to be quite a challenge to mantain and all the separate parts of it must always be kept secret from each other. Thus Nicolai Vsevolodovich rented three different furnitured rooms in the city and spent most of his days somewhere else entirely, with a company of queer individuals an aristocrat like himself would never have a chance to know in the first place, had he stayed at home. Apart from Pyotr Stepanovich, with whom he quickly formed something akin to friendship, or so it seemed at first, the people he regularly spent time with were Ignatiy Timofeevich Lebyadkin, an ex-clerk and overall barrator and rascal and Prohor Sergeyevich Malov, a retired junior officer of cavalry, a man who had a chance of being decent, were he not a gambler. Other than them, the company was ever-changing and consisted of accidentaly met soldiers, clerks and merchants' sons, and sometimes even of men of much worse sort and everything could remain unchangingly in this sort of stagnant life, were it not for a sudden occurence, that seemed innocent at first, but proved to be fateful later in the future.

Ivan Pavlovich Shatov was a son of a former serf of Barbara Petrovna Stavrogina, Nicolai Vsevolodovich's mother. After the abolition of serfdom in Russia, new perspectives opened for him and he was admitted to an university, where he started to study philosophy. Ivan Shatov was, even at such a young age, a grim man who didn't smile very often and mostly kept to himself. Altough he, being an orphan, could hardly felt homesickness, he also had a hard time socializing with his fellow students and was wary of them, because of his modest background. It was unusual to meet him outside his tiny, obscure, rented room,  where he spent all the time, studying, set on becoming the first person in his family to recieve an education.

Education, however, and education that has to do with pilosophy much more than any other kind of it, has the power of stimulating minds of the more willing students and soon, Shatov found he yearned for more than mere words in books, and that certain kinds of philosophy should be performed rather than preached. As a former serf, he had strong opinions on politics and social justice or lack thereof in our motherland; ideas, however, are nothing when they cannot be shared with others. And despite his sombreness, Shatov was still just a young man. Such type keeps shut most of the time, but when the ideas start to boil in the mind a little too much, he goes out of his way to find others like him. It was just like that in this case; every university is a source of cholera, gossip and revolution and at least two of those start in the minds of the youth. It wasn't long until finally somebody pointed to Ivan Pavlovich the character of Pyotr Verkhovensky, who although has graduated last year, was still recognizable amogst students and known by many of them, especially the ones interested in socialism. He was rumoured to be taking steps towards creating a new political party or creating an underground student resistance movement, though it wasn't all that there was. All in all, Shatov understood that even if perhaps his' and Verkhovensky's views don't align with each other (he was wary of taking too seriously a man whose name was on everyone's lips; Shatov was a very grave man, who took his ideas absolutely seriously and wouldn't be able to bear watching somebody make fun of them), meeting with him could be his first step. He approached Verkhovensky the next time he saw him and in his usual reluctant way of speaking, started to talk with Pyotr Stepanovich about his eagerness and willingness for meeting more people with the same ideas.

'So,' said Verkhovesnky vigorously; by and large, Pyotr Stepanovich seemed to Shatov a bit too open and jocose to really be a leader of any sort and he started to suspect he fell a victim to other student's banter, 'would you really like to meet others like you? It's doable, of course, and I'm always happy to help with that sort of thing. But I must say it's the first time I hear of you and... usually, we find people by their work, or because there's word about the in our circles.. that is, to say, if you could provide someone to vouch for you or if there are any of your articles to be read?'

Pyotr Stepanovich looked at Ivan Pavlovich expectantly. They were strolling down a street in Shatov didn't know what direction. He frowned gravely.

'No... there is nothing of that sort yet' mattured he, awkward and angry. They stopped at the crossroads and Pyotr Stepanovich held out his hand to bid Shatov's farewell.

'I'm sorry to hear that' said Verkhovensky pleasantly. 'Perhaps in time we'll have more luck, mister... I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name.'

'Ivan Pavlovich Shatov.'

'Have you been here long, mister Shatov?'

'Not at all. Until very recently it would have been impossible for me to study' said Shatov with a sort of a dignity that comes to particularly proud, yet hit hard by fate, men. Verkhovensky looked at him with interest.

'Where are you from? Not from here, I gather.'

'My family always lived in T., the propietor of our land was madame general Barbara Stavrogina' brought out Shatov still in the same challenging manner. Verkhovensky's eyes flashed  and he looked at Shatov very intently; all this, however, lasted only for a second and passed unnoticed by his interlocutor.

'Ivan Pavlovich,' started Verkhovensky once more, smiling at Shatov with a peculiar glimmer in his eyes, 'I think I'm about to revoke my words. On a second thought, we need more men like you, if you know what I mean... and you can prove to be very useful, if you and I truly share the same ideas, as you say. If you still want to come, I'll let you know about the meeting in the right time; I have your adress, so expect me to send a word. I think you won't be disappointed. Well, good-bye, I really must be going!' And he made haste to go, leaving confused Shatov on the crossroads.

Pyotr Stepanovich had a plan in regards to bringing Shatov to a meeting, as unprecedented as it was. As a true-born leader, he of course rejoiced everytime he came by a man willing to pay attention to his cause and sacrifice his life for it, and Ivan Pavlovich stroke him immediately as the type. But he also had other, far more personal and even mysterious reason to acquaint him with others. That was why he didn't wait long and invited Shatov over the first opportunity he had.

The room in which they gathered, was almost as tiny as Shatov's own rented little room and even seemed twice that sordid, for all the people hoarded in such a small space. About the people there must be mentioned one thing, which is: they were a mixture of all sorts of social classes, and there was quite a lot of them, a dozen or so. Many of them looked poor, malnourished,  dressed in rags and desperate, throwing quick and suspiscious glances at everyone else in the room. Apart from Pyotr Stepanovich, dressed modestly but neatly, there was another well-dressed young man, whose face made on Shatov a striking impression

Ivan Pavlovich was soon presented to all of the gathered people, one by one, both quickly and quite discretely; acting in such a balanced, yet unusual manner seemed most natural for Pyotr Stepanovich. At last, he pulled Shatov behind him to introduce him to the elegantly dressed gentleman. Ivan Pavlovich couldn't help noticing he was being pulled with a sort of inexplicable liveliness and the other gentleman noticed it as well. He stood up from his chair and looked at Pyotr Stepanovich with slightly raised eyebrows.

'Nicolai Vsevolodovich' started Pyotr Stepanovich and to Shatov's surprise, his voice was by no mean extraordinary, it didn't differ at all from his usual speech, 'may I present to you our newest guest? Ivan Pavlovich Shatov – Nicolai Vsevolodovich Stavrogin.' And he backed out with a peculiar smile. Stavrogin looked briefly at him and shook his head, but soon he focused his attention on Shatov, now pale and with an obstinate grimace on his face.

'Good evening' said Nicolai Vsevolodovich, extending his hand out; his voice was methodical, almost monotonous and revelead boredom under a mask of good manners. Shatov took the offered hand with some hesistation and shook it, but said nothing. Stavrogin looked at him once more.

'I must say your face – or perhaps not your face as a whole, but something in it – looks familair' said he. 'Have we met?'

'Oh yes, we met' sttuttered out Shatov after a moment of silence. When he spoke, his voice was growing more firm with every word. 'My father used to be your mother's serf, as did my entire family until this year.' And he looked impudently into Stavrogin's eyes.

'I'm glad nothing stands in your way now in regards to studying' said Stavrogin. 'Oh yes, I think I remember you... didn't you have a sister? What has become of her?'

'Your mother has taken her in as her protegee and she lives in your house like a lady.'

'A lady she undoubtedly is' smiled listlessly Stavrogin. 'Excuse me.' And he proceeded to the door, leaving dumbfounded Shatov in the room's corner.

It must be added that in the meantime the gathered men have started to listen to one of them, a scruffy young man in a green jacket, who went on about something very passionately; about what was that, Shatov could not tell, not hearing much from his corner, He wanted to step closer and listen, as was his primary intention, but before he could do it, something has caught his attention to the point of remaining in the same, distant spot.

Altough the majority listened to the shabby lector attentively, few of them, after a moment of pretending, drew away and stood in a small circle by the only window. Pyotr Stepanovich stood with them as well, perorating with verve but in whispers, so it was impossible for Shatov to catch any singular words. Verkhovensky gesticulated profusely and quite angrily, and the other men all seemed to listen to him with respect in spite of his obviously harsh words. After a moment Pyotr Stepanovich stopped abruptly and his listeners discreetely returned to pretending to listen to the man in green jacket; Pyotr Stepanovich, however, looked around him as if in search for someone and made haste to leave through the same door Stavrogin has just exited. He brushed past Shatov, not noticing him, and stormed out of the room.

The rest of the evening Ivan Pavlovich spent finally listening to quite few people sharing their ideas with the rest: after the scruffy man, there were others, some reading their articles, some proposing new systems, some even flat out convincing the rest of the necessity that was a swift revolution. All in all, this meeting was like any other of that sort, and hundreds of them happen everyday in every country. Shatov listened carefully and said nothing; he only frowned deeper with every passing hour, for the thought has formed in his mind that there was nothing at all new about it and that perhaps he should look somewhere further to find people in whom he could trust.

In the light of his thoughts, Shatov stood up and wanted to leave as quietly as possible. Suddenly he felt somebody's hand on his shoulder and looked back only to see Pyotr Stepanovich, looking into his eyes. Verkhovensky didn't say anything, only pulled Shatov out of the group.

'Were you leaving, Ivan Pavlovich?' asked he.

'Yes. It's not for me; I'm sorry I took your time.'

Verkhovensky didn't seem to be let down by his statement, but he also didn't take his hand off Shatov's shoulder. They looked into each other's eyes for a moment, Pyotr Stepanovich still with a warm smile on his face; Shatov noticed that this smile didn't reach the eyes.

'I knew you would be disappointed' started Verkhovensky out of quietly and swiftly. 'It's but a masquerade. I wanted to see if you were serious about it. They all – they don't mean anything. They're talkers. But I like you, Shatov. There will be more meetings, not at all like this one. I'm expecting you. I have quite a lot of faith in you already.'

'Why?' brough out Shatov, shifting uncomfortably.

'We need people with original ideas. This all' he gestured towards the crowd, 'it's as unoriginal as it can get. No one has a thought on their own these days. Everything is thouroughly foreign to them, even when they're set on helping Russia. Now, if it didn't help in the past, why should it help now? I look at things diferently. If you don't agree with those gentlemen, you might agree with me.' And he held out his hand at last to bide Shatov good-bye.

There indeed were many more meetings and much more fruitful than this one; this one, however, was the beggining of everything that has later led to Shatov's terrible death.

Chapter Text

The mysterious personal reason Pyotr Stepanovich had for bringing Shatov to this poor excuse of a revolutionary meeting was of course tied with the presence of Nicolai Stavrogin. Ever since the two has met each other, Pyotr Stepanovich didn't stop pestering him. He had his reasons, but no one but him knew them. For now, Stavrogin seemed to laugh all these unpleasantness off, but he also kept watching Verkhovensky carefully.

After the meeting, Verkhovensky (in a very bad mood he managed to cover while in presence of others, but which nonetheless was at the moment driving him mad) rushed to the apartement of Prohor Malov, where he expected to find his usual company, as was their custom. They were indeed all there, including Stavrogin.

'There you are at last!' roared Lebyadkin upon seeing Pyotr Stepanovich. He was already drunk to the point of staggering. 'His illu-strious-ness... ! Ah!' He fell from his chair onto the floor, followed by immediate laughter from all the present. Verkhovensky has always had Lebyadkin in grat contempt, so he only smiled wryly, but said nothing and approached Stavrogin.

Nicolai Vsevolodovich was laughing as well. He seemed to have had a grand time right before Verkhovensky entered the room and the smile didn't leave his lips just yet, however his eyes darkened at the sight of Pyotr Stepanovich. He kept shuffling the cards and looking askance at Verkhovesnky, but didn't say anything to him.

Pyotr Stepanovich sat in an armchair near the card table, behind Nicolai Vsevolodovich, whom he eyed with irritation.

'I was hoping' started he, 'that this time you might not leave the meeting so early. I was quite disappointed.'

'What do I care?' shrugged Stavrogin.

'Nothing, I suppose...' muttered Verkhovensky. If he perhaps wished Stavrogin had cared a little more, he kept silent about it.

Stavrogin yawned. Malov, quiet until then, laughed out loud.

'You never resist a temptation to talk about your plans, do you, Pyotr Stepanovich? But not everyone is interested in socialism. Give people a break.'

'If you paid even a bit of attention to anything I ever had to say about...' Verkhovensy started to get up from his armchair, when Stavrogin interrupted him roughly.

'Really, Pyotr Stepanovich, that's enough. If I wanted to listen to this, I'd stay and listen to your terrible lot shouting slogans. None of them has any class whatsoever and each one of them, from the first to the last, is a surly dullard.'

Pyotr Stepanovich made an impatient movement, but composed himself and fell onto the armchair once more. He was always twice that cautious and much more well behaved around Nicolai Vsevolodovich than around anyone else, which didn't go unnoticed by his companions. Stavrogin himself referred to it jokingly from time to time, almost causing Verkhovensky to blush angrily.

The company sat down to cards. It was their usual pastime, and scenerios of each evening resembled each other so much it was sometimes hard to tell apart one day from another, except maybe for Verkhovensky, who was the only one of them who would willingly spend his time on something else than wasting it. This, conjoint with his habitual sobriety made it easier for him to cheat at the game.

They were playing canasta. Lebyadkin was too drunk to notice anything already at the begining and Prohor Malov was quickly catching up on him, thus neither of the two realised they were being played, and not even played very discreetly; Verkhovensky got rid of few of unnecessary cards by playing to his opponents' melds and frequently counted more points for his own melds than  it was due. They played for money; he won, time by time, to the drunkards greatest dismay. Stavrogin played as well, rather distractedly but for him it was natural. That night he played badly: went out with incorrect melds and didn't pay attention to the course of the game almost at all.

Around three or four in the morning Lebyadkin and Malov were completely done, laying under the table, asleep. Stavrogin and Verkhovensky went out, each proceeding to his own apartement; as it were, Nicolai Stavrogin walked Pyotr Stepanovich, whose house was much nearer. They were about to part their ways on Peter's Square, when Stavrogin made a sign for Pyotr Stepanovich to wait.

'You won quite a lot of money tonight, Pyotr Stepanovich' said he. Pyotr Stepanovich shrugged, smiling modestly.

'I got very lucky.'

'Oh, yes, it was indeed luck... not to get caught.'

Pyotr Stepanovich didn't cease to smile and kept his gaze fixed upon Nicolai Vsevolodovich's face. They looked each other in the eyes for a moment and at last Verkhovensky burst out laughing.

'One could almost think you care about them!'

'Or about your morals' responded Nicolai Vsevolodovich, but this sentence must have sounded too absurd even for him, for he too smiled.

'What would they care for the money?' asked Pyotr Stepanovich, calming down. 'Either way, you pay for their every expense.'

'Yes, you're right; it would make you stealing from my own pocket.'

'As if you cared.'

'I don't. .. Tell me, though, what was that about that student you dragged after yourself to the meeting?'

'Shatov? A sensible young man, and quite clever from what I've been told; what about him?'

'And he simply happened to be a former serf of mine?'

Verkhovesnky gasped, at the same time amused and irritated by Stavrogin's increasing anger.

'What, do you think I spend my days searching for your serfs? Mind that he came to me, not the other way around. You are a little too sensitive tonight, Nicolai Vsevolodovich.'

Stavrogin smiled to himself. Ha has noticed long ago that independently from obedience to his' every word and overall friendly relation, Pyotr Stepanovich took particular pleasure in egging him on at the strangest occasions.

'Of course, you don't expect me to put up with your nerve-wrecking habit of irritating me after that? I shan't come to any more meetings.'

'You always say so and I always find a way to make you come' pointed out Pyotr Stepanovich. 'After all, what's Shatov to you? He's a student like any other...' here Pyotr Stepanovich stopped out of sudden and got lost in his own thoughts. It's worth noticing that apart from his desire to  put Stavrogin in a compromising position of welcoming his former serf publicly, Pyotr Stepanovich came upon an idea of Shatov's possible future usefulness for the good of his own plans; he didn't want to get himself away in fron of Stavrogin, but truth be told, Stavrogin didn't even listen to him, and was impatiently tapping with his fingers on his walking stick.

'Not within next week, at any rate' said he, accenting the last words. 'I'll be very busy.'

This statement spiked Pyotr Stepanovich's interest and he looked at Stavrogin with interest.

'Anything I could help you with, perhaps?' asked he, and his tone of voice revealed these were not mere, meanigless words; they were a reference to something else, and Verkhovesnky clearly meant Stavrogin to notice this reference without being explicitly told about it. But if he hoped for any kind of reaction from his interlocutor, he must have been very disappointed, for Nicolai Vsevolodovich didn't reveal with his face anything, only looked at Verkhovensky ironically.

'You go too far, sometimes' said he after a pause. His smile did not disappear, but it has lost its innocence and looked more like a grimace than anything else. 'No, thank you very much, I'll manage.' And he turned to leave, but after having gone four or five paces, he looked over his should to look at Pyotr Stepanovich once more.

'I'm warning you: you go too far.'

And he disappeared into the night.

Chapter Text

Ivan Pavlovich became a frequent guest at Pyotr Stepanovich's even apart from the regular meetings. They discussed their ideas; most of the time it was Verkhovensky who spoke. Out of the seven artes liberales he mastered the Trivium: grammar, logic and rhetorics, and made use of them in the most splendid way, and so skillfully no one would ever suspect a thing about him even if he should commit the most atrocious crime. Shatov, for one, would suspect nothing and he looked at Pyotr Stepanovich as if he were the Sun; but there was someone, who didn't share the same conviction and was quite opposite to it. It was of course Stavrogin.

Nicolai Vsevolodovich never before has paid much mind to Pyotr Stepanovich's vivid monologues, and as time passed, he found them absolutely unbearable. So far he kept his intention and avoided the meetings, if he could; but Pyotr Stepanovich himself lost most of his interest in dragging him to them. Sometimes, however, the fortune cannot be helped.

One evening, for the lack of a better place (Verkhovesnsky made quite a big deal about frequent changing of the location of the meetings, as if they were being spied on; perhaps they were, or could have been, for their views indeed didn't align with those of the governement) they met in the apartament of the newest member of Verkhovensky's trusted group, Alexei Nilich Kirillov. He was a young man, of the same age that Pyotr Stepanovich, and just as well educated. But if Verkhovensky has mastered the Trivium in his studies, Kirillov has mastered the Quadrivium: skillful in mathematics and even art, he was a sullen man, who kept mute as if he had taken a vow of silence; in the same time, he seemed gentle and good-hearted.

The gathered talked about nihilism: Verkhovensky was speaking. Apart from aforementioned people, there were many others, most of them unfamiliar with each other. All, however, were united in listening to their leader; if Pyotr Stepanovich knew how to bring one thing to perfection, it was speaking; though on this very day he had a headache, no one would tell, his speech was still rich and overflowing with words. But the meeting was heading its end and people were slowly leaving the apartament. Only Shatov and Kirillov sat still and listened to him carefully.

'As nihilists, men must abandon all sense of sentiment. Utility, and utility for the cause, is the greatest good that we can subject ourselves to – if one must use such a vague term as "goodness"... Moral principles will eventually be forsaken, too, and it will happen quite naturally. Morality is now artificially forced down people's throats for the sole purpose of keeping them in line, which won't be necessary once they all fully comprehend the need for general, societal utility...' he suddenly stopped, for the door to the apartement opened and someone has stood in the frame, looking at a crowd exiting the room and brushing past him with slight irony.

It was Nicolai Stavrogin. Pyotr Stepanovich hasn't seen him in quite few days, for Stavrogin, living an ambigous life, would often disappear to look after his affairs. Right now, he was a sight to behold: he was always handsome, but for some reason that night he looked more radiant than ever, with burning eyes and a smile on his lips. He looked at Pyotr Stepanovich with amusement, but soon he sat by the door, listening attentively.

'Morality is not all that will be abandoned' continued Verkhovensky. 'Morality in itself, as a set of rules, is immoral either way and sooner or later everyone will see through it; they already do. But there is something yet more dangerous, to which people cling with passion: beauty.'

Pyotr Stepanovich was looking intently at Ivan Pavlovich, as if his whole speech was designed for this one man only. He opened his mouth to go on, but suddenly he heard somebody laugh out loud: it was Stavrogin.

'Is beauty really all that bad, Pyotr Stepanovich?'

'Of course it is. Beauty has no utility in it and if people are so keen on keeping it in their lives, it's because of some superstitious feelings.'

'Oh, I quite disagree...' Stavrogin stood up from his chair, looked about him and took a rose from a vase that was put on a windowsill; Kirillov's apartement, altough destitute, was not deprived of singular touches of artistic sense. 'See this rose? It's beautiful, isn't it?'

Verkhovesnky did not respond, but his face reddened a bit. Stavrogin continued.

'According to your ideology, it has no utility, yes?'

'Of course it doesn't.'

'And here's what we disagree on... I think I could do quite few things with this rose, and they would be meaningful, too. The world can bo moved from its fundaments with a single word. And at times, if given in appropriate circumstances, such rose can be more than a hundred of them. With a rose in his hand, many young men feel... extremely powerful.'

A smile lingered on his lips for a moment. Verkhovensky looked at him with strange eyes, as if he didn't understand what was being said and didn't react in any fashion to it. At last he regained his composure:

'What are you driving at? Young men with roses – it's all very poetic, but it's also utter nonsense. As if anyone cared about it! Even women grew more modern than that nowadays and no reasonable woman would let herself fall into something like that.'

'If you say so' shrugged Stavrogin. 'I had no idea you knew women so well.'

He put the rose on one of the chairs and brushed past Pyotr Stepanovich to speak with Shatov, who also seemed lost in thoughts.

'I think we started off on the wrong foot, Ivan Pavlovich' said Stavrogin, extending his hand out. 'I'd like to start again. May I walk you home? We might find some common ground for a conversation.'

Shatov agreed; they both went out, though not without saying proper goodbyes to both Kirillov and Verkhovensky. The lattest still stood positively motionless in the same spot and looked about him with very strange eyes. He proceeded to the rose left by Stavrogin and picked it up; its smell was overtaking and he felt dizziness.  Out of sudden he thought that time is more of an object than a figure of speech, and that this moment proceeds very slowly, almost stands in one place. His headache disappeared and for once in a very long time, given especially its recent period, Pyotr Stepanovich felt at peace. This feeling lasted for five seconds at most, but it was the longest five seconds a man can imagine.

***

Verkhovensky woke up in an unfamiliar room, which added to the general feeling of ambiguity that filled him. He saw somebody sitting by the bed, but did not recognise him for the first few seconds. It was sullen Kirillov, patiently waiting for Pyotr Stepanovich to wake up.

'Are you allright?' asked he. The only response Pyotr Stepanovich gave him was a gaze, that was half-confused, half-angry. Kirillov smiled, but with a certain difficulty, as if he wasn't accustomed to it. 'I know what it is. Don't worry. I had a brother. He was epileptic.'

Kirillov's way of speaking sounded very unnatural and Verkhovensky thought tiredly that it was probably the longest assamblage of sentences he has ever gotten from him. Having spent years abroad – Alexei Nilich studied not in Russia, but in France – he seemed to forget the proper usage of his mothertongue, but when anyone spent more time in his presence, they would soon come to a conclusion, he must have always talked like that. His thoughts also followed the same, ragged path of ideas stopped mid-word.

Verkhovensky stood up from bed and looked around. The room they were in was significantly smaller than the previous one, and also kept in a way that indicated its owner to be very poor; however, it didn't make a disagreeable impression, for the walls  were all covered in paitings, drawigns and technical sketches pinned to them. Kirillov was an engineer and despite what one might have thought, engineers even now need a steady and well-trained hand and eye to observe the world properly and transfer their ideas onto paper.

'Are you allright?' asked Kirillov. Verkhovensky only winced in response.

'I hope you won't get a sudden idea of spreading the word about my inability' said he irritably after a pause. 'You're not very talkative and I expect you to keep the attitude.'

Kirillov nodded, without uttering a word. Verkhovensky calmed down.

'Have I been here long?'

'No longer than half an hour. All others left.'

'Yes, I remember...' clouded he up. Depending on others, apart from the case of his revolutionary work, has always been hard for Pyotr Stepanovich, who liked his privacy and autonomy. 'Ill be going, then. Good-bye, Kirillov.'

And he made a movement to leave the room, but something in it caught his attention.

It was the rose, put on a windowsill. Looking at it, Pyotr Stepanovich couldn't have shaken off a strange feeling, akin to the one he had just before the fit. He didn't want to disclose any of his feelings to Kirillov; but in the same time, at the very moment, when he was still undergoing some of the effects of the fit, it didn't matter to him that much. Besides, he was sure Kirillov would not betray his trust and won't tell about anything to anyone. He reached for the rose.

'Are you in need of this?' asked he nonchalantly. Kirillov shook his head; he didn't even seemed surprised. 'May I take it with me, then?'

'Yes' smiled Kirillov. This irritated Pyotr Steoanovich even more.

'What are you laughing at?'

'Nothing. Will you feel more powerful with the rose in your hand?'

'Nonsense. Nonetheless, I'll take it, thank you very much. Not in the case of beauty though...'

'But in the case of power?'

'What would you know about power?' asked Verkhovensky, turning around to face the engineer, who looked at him very seriously.

'I observe' said he, which had to suffice for an answer.

But it is a strange man, thought Pyotr Stepanovich, not taking his eyes off Kirillov even for a second. He means something by his words.

'Is observing power?'

'No. It's just...' Kirillov stopped for a moment. He then made a sudden gesture with his right hand, as if he was waving something away from him. 'I can't tell. But there is something... I thought you were leaving.'

'Just so' answered Pyotr Stepanovich slowly. 'You seem most interesting to me, Alexei Nilich. I expect we will see you again in our circle?'

Kirillov stood up as well, and extended his hand to Verkhovensky. He didn't smile, but his face radiated with peace and sureness.

'Yes. I don't mean to drive you away. But I rarely see people and I don't know... I don't talk much. And people talk too much. But come again someday.'

Strange man indeed, thought again Pyotr Stepanovich again once he left Kirillov's apartament. But this might be exactly what we need.

Chapter Text

It was half past three at night when Pyotr Stepanovich woke up to the sound of somebody knocking on his door. The knocking was not very loud, but – if I'm allowed to use such a term – very persuasive and nothing indicated that the sudden guest at the other side of the door would stop any minute soon; rather, it seemed to be the kind of knocking that was characteristic to somebody not used to being denied anything, and it could go on and on. Such knocking is very often the first sound one hears when they're getting a late night visit from the police.

            Because of all of this, Pyotr Stepanovich hesistated for a short moment before opening the door. Once he saw the person on the threshold, he immediately congratulated himself on doing so. He let the guest it – it was Stavrogin, soaked to the bone, as the night was rainy, and with blood covering his hands and coat.

'Are you alone?' asked Nicolai Vsevolodovich, clearly meaning to pass by all the unnecessary trouble of having to explain himself.

'As you can see.'

'Good.' And Stavrogin took of his coat, letting it fall onto the floor. 'Would you mind if I spent a night here?'

Pyotr Stepanovich eyed him with a rather shocked expression. Nicolai Vsevolodovich has never before paid him as much as a social visit and Verkhovensky knew very well that he had in total three different rooms rented in different parts of the city. He cleared his throat:

'Of course, I'm not surprised that you should know my adress – it was never a secret. But if I may? To what do I owe an honour of your visit?' His voice was ironic, but his eyes kept lookig at Stavrogin with sort of an angry wariness.

'If the blood on my hands – both literal and metaphorical, mind you – is not enough of an explanation, I don't know what should I tell you' winced Stavrogin impatiently. 'The real question is, if I may, if you let me stay here a night or not.'

Altough his words were spoken in an even voice, almost peacefuly, his eyes flashed badly. Pyotr Stepanovich understood this flash and a shiver came down his spine; at last, he  gestured for Stavrogin to enter the room and put him on a chair. Then he stood positively stuck in one place and looked at Nicolai Vsevolodovich carefully.

Stavrogin didn't pay him much mind. He sat motionlessly and looked before him with eyes devoid of radiance. He seemed to be completely lost in thoughts. The silence clearly didn't bother him, and perhaps he was even glad he didn't have to say anything. But Pyotr Stepanovich was an inquisitive man.

'If you'd be so kind as to tell me what is the meaning of this? You expect me to let you stay here - but I have a reputation to maintain.'

'Yes, of a perfect lunatic' snarled Stavrogin under his breath. He grew impatient and was now tapping fingers on the table. 'I don't believe I could anyhow damage your reputation of a high-strung madman, keep calm.' He turned around so that his back was directed to Verkhovensky's exasperated face.

'Are you going to tell me who did you kill?' asked Pyotr Stepanovich.

Stvarogin did not respond for a moment, but at last he turned to face Verkhovensky again, as if he only has just heard the question.

'What do you care? You didn't know him, and it's my business.'

'Certainly' sneered Pyotr Stepanovich. 'Not my business at all, you are just staying here for the sake of maintaning social relations and not to cover up for your murder – why should I care?'

Stavrogin noticed that Verkhovensky was indeed on edge of nervousness, but the more he thought about it, the stranger it seemed to him. Eventually he smiled, though almost invisibly.

'At last I see' said he. 'You're afraid someone comes looking for me and they will discover your pamphlets or whatever it is you're doing with your queer little group of idiots. I told you you can keep calm, no one will come. What is strange, however, is that you don't seem upset by the fact I killed someone?' and he looked at Verkhovensky with a dose of interest.

'As you said, I didn't know him. It's interesting to know what you did, though.'

'Nevermind.'

And Nicolai Vsevolodovich once again pondered over something, or perhaps only pretended to do so to get rid of Pyotr Stepanovich's inquires. Out of sudden, he looked around as if in search for something.

'My coat' said he, frowning. 'There's blood on it.'

'Burn it, then.'

Stavrogin got up and picked the coat up. It was great and heavy, fit for the February weather, and anyone would surely have trouble trying to put it in a fireplace in one piece.

'I don't think it'll fit in' said he, frowning even deeper. 'But I don't know what to do with it... it's all unbearable' added he reluctantly, as if the whole matter bored or disgusted him.

Pyotr Stepanovich took the coat from Nicolai Vsevolodovich and looked at it with scrutiny. Then he mused over something for a little while and looked at Stavrogin's face.

'You were a soldier. I don't believe no one  taught you what to do with blood stains.'

'Well, it's fresh. No one believes you'll be lucky enough to get to clean fresh blood stains.'

Pyotr Stepanovich sighed, irritated, and – pulling Stavrogin by the elbow on his way - directed his steps to the cloth screen standing in the corner of the room. Behind it, there was a basin filled with water and a couple of towels and soap.

'First of all' said he, 'you're covered in blood. Help yourself. And when you're done, we'll just have to try to wash it... and what are you looking at? I spent my life in boarding schools, if I may remind you. It comes with a certain kind of knowledge.'

He put the coat on the floor and let Nicolai Vsevolodovich wash himself, who was indeed covered in blood that must have soaked through the coat onto the jacket and the vest. Nicolai Vsevolodovich took them off and put them in the water as well; later, he did the same with the coat.

He came from behind the screen and saw Pyotr Stepanovich arranging some pillows and blankets  on the floor.

'Are you always that helpful to your friends in need?' asked Stavrogin. For some reason, his own sentence made him laugh – as I already mentioned, Pyotr Stepanovich's complaisance hs not gone unnoticed by its recipient and Stavrogin allowed himself to joke about it from time to time. Verkhovensky's character as a whole seemed to him most silly and even if he tried, I don't think Nicolai Vsevolodovich would be able to treat him seriously. But it was the case with all of his companions: Lebyadkin was a fool at hand at every occasion, and Malov, for all his merits, could be announced anything but a serious man. From them all Stavrogin was probably the gravest, though even that was not strictly accurate.

Pyotr Stepanovich turned around with a grimace of irritation on his face.

'How considerate of you to have finished eventually' said he petulantly. 'Now, let's go to sleep, shall we? I don't expect you to be up to anything serious tomorrow, but not everyone can be as lucky as all that.'

'My apologies. I realize I've woken you up.'

'Not that you actually care...' suddenly, his looks changed and in span of two seconds he looked like a completely different man, his face was dour and solemn. 'Stavrogin, listen to me! If you miscalculated and police will come here, looking for you, I promise, you won't have time to answer for your crimes.' And he took a gun out of his pocket, showed it to Nicolai Vsevolodovich for mere seconds and hid it again. Stavrogin eyed him with genuine surprise.

'So you really treat what you do so solemnly?' asked he, weighing carefully everyword, though a smile lingered on his lips.

'Yes.'

'That's admirable. But I must make a note that you have acted precipitately just now.' Stavrogin's eyes turned cold. 'I told you already not to fret about it. And why to show me a gun? Don't you suppose I have one as well?'

'I don't care. And I must warn you, don't even think of telling anyone about tonight. I have my own affairs to attend to, I don't need yours. I expect you never to return to this topic again.'

'On the contrary. I intend to let it be known to as many people as I see fit, for I don't care a fig about your affairs. And – forgive me my peculiarity – this time I would prefer to avoid any legal consequences, which is why I need my alibi to be impeccable. And if you get a sudden idea of spreading the truth: I will know how to find you and what to do with you. Don't forget that I have killed people before. And I doubt the same could be said about you.' As if nothing in what he said could demand an explanation, Stavrogin took of his shoes and laid down.

'Thank you very much, Verkhovensky, I'm obliged.' added he as if nothings has been just said.

Pyotr Stepanovich looked at him with badly masked animosity, but turned around to get to his own bedroom.

Some time passed, however, and fully awake Nicolai Vsevolodowich noticed that the candle in Pyotr Stepanovich's room was still lit. The quiet sounds from behind the door have not stopped even for a moment either. All this spiked his curiosity and he stood up.

He stood before the door to Pyotr Stepanovich's room and listened carefully. At last, with a slightly confused expression on his face, he knocked on the door. The sounds stopped abruptly and Verkhovensky opened the door. He must have been writing something insetad of sleeping, for the candle stood on his desk and he still had a pen in his hand.

'What do you want?' asked he, even angrier than before.

'I thought you would be sleeping, Pyotr Stepanovich' asnwered Stavrogin seriously, eyeing him from head to toes. Pyotr Stepanovich laughed in malignant disbelief.

'After what you told me? No, thank you very much. As if I could hazard laying down without consciousness while you plot goodness knows what. You haven't slept either – it only proves my point.'

'I'm not very tired' smiled Nicolai Vsevolodovich. 'I suppose murder can do that to a person.'

'Only one of the persons involved, however.'

The tone of Pyotr Stepanovich's voice caught Stavrogin's interest.

'Tell me, you don't really care I killed someone?'

'Of course not.'

'Then it seems I guessed right, though the truth – if that be it – truly surprises me, Verkhovensky. So do you really care about your cause to the point of being afraid of your own death? Are you afraid you won't live long enough to see your dream come true?'

Pyotr Stepanovich made an impatient movement with his left hand.

'I'm not going to answer that' said he with a certain dose of dignity, 'because you won't listen. You have made your mind up about me already, Nicolai Vsevolodovich, and if my cause seems so amusing in your eyes, I don't think we should be talking about it at all. You disagree with my ideas and that's alright, you make fun of me and I can let you, but if you don't even bother to try to understand my work, I won't be discussing it with you either.'

Stavrogin looked at him for a moment, and then nodded in a reconciliatory way.

'I've never thought,' started he, 'that you should be so serious about it, Pyotr Stepanovich. I haven't listen to you, that much is true, but I have come across many people with similar idead in my life before, even before I met you. Not a single one of them really believed in what they preached, and each one of them had his private plans to go with it: the same kind of scoundrels all around Russia.'

'Those are needed, too' muttered Verkhovensky, though almost inaudibly. Stavrogin's words had some effect on him and he gazed pensively at the floor beneath him. Nicolai Vsevolodovich didn't hear this remark and continued:

'If you truly believe in your ideals, then I mean what I told you earlier: that's admirable. But,' he smiled almost nastily, 'I don't think what you're saying is true. No matter what you believe, a man's a man, and all men are scoundrels.'

'Hang it all, what a nonsense!' grew angry Pyotr Stepanovich out of sudden. 'Do we really have to go through all this right now? Go back to sleep, Stavrogin, or whatever it is you were doing, and let me be in peace. I let you stay here, but I don't think I need to listen to your homilies any longer.' And he smashed the door to his bedroom, leaving Stavrogin on the threshold.

Chapter Text

The late and unexpected visit of Nicolai Stavrogin at Pyotr Verkhovensky's was suprising and worrisome – for the latter – as it were, but there were more closely related with it things bound to happen and to bring a lot more trouble yet.

Nicolai Vsevolodovich woke up on Verkhovensky's floor, stiff from sleep. He has woken in a peculiar way, unlike most people do, simply opening his eyes and being fully aware of his surroundings and everything else around him, including his own thoughts; there was not a slightes trace of a confusion, as could - after all - be expected from someone who mere hours ago killed a man.

He heard sounds of fabric rustling and curse words muttered under somebody's breath from time to time, then – a twang of some metal object thrown in anger and painful hissing. He recognized Pyotr Stepanovich's voice and got up - freely as if he was frequently a witness to early morning domestic scenes at his companion's - to the cloth screen in the corner of the room.

Pyotr Stepanovich stood in front of the basin and tried to stop the bleeding from the cut on his face. In the basin, there was a razor with blade covered in blood as well. Stavrogin noticed that his hands were shaking, like hands of a man who has just been through a terrible accident and has not yet shaken off a fear of imminent death.

'Good morning, Pyotr Stepanovich.'

Pyotr Stepanovich turned to Stavrogin still with a piece of paper put to his cheek and eyed him from head to toe irritably.

'How considerate of you to wake up at last. Now, do you need anything else, or may I finally have the pleasure of watching you going from here to your own apartement? If I remember correctly (and there can be no mistake about it), you rent rooms in number of three.'

'Come now. What alibi would that be? But if you're so anxious to get rid of me, you can rest assured I have no intention of staying here any longer than what is needed.' Nicolai Vsevolodovich looked at a thin stream of blood still dripping from Verkhovesnky's cheek and the directed his eyes to the lattest's shaking hands. 'Are you unwell, Pyotr Stepanovich?'

'It's nothing.'

'If you say so...' Stavrogin turned around and took a look at his vest, jacket and coat, hung over the chairs in the room. They were dry by now, but unfortunately for him, blood didn't come off as he needed it to, especially not from the coat. 'Then you could prove to be of use, perhaps.'

'What do you want?'

'Oh, it's nothing; but I believe you do have a spare vest, and a jacket? I could do without a coat, I have another one in one of my rooms, but I'd rather look as if nothing special has happened to me yesterday's night. People can forgive much, but not bad form.'

Pyotr Stepanovich looked at Stavrogin in bewilderment for a while and then burst out in laughter.

'What manners you have!' said he, positively blushed from laughter. 'You rent rooms in the most repulsive districts of the city, you eat and drink with the literal scum and you keep company with all sorts of suspiscious fellows, yet you never forget to bring out your upbringing in the most surprising moments. I never cease to get surprised by how deeply it runs in the people – it's as if you never left your mother's estate at all. Oh, yes, I'll lend you a jacket allright.'

And he heeled round to his room, from where he soon retrieved the needed articles of clothing. His sudden  mood swing puzzled Nicolai Vsevolodovich very much, but he didn't know what to say or if he should say anything at all; after all, except for singular outbursts of interest in the maintenances of others, Stavrogin was not an inquisitive type. He looked at people in a way that resembled that of an entomologist, lookig at a very rare and specific kind of insects, which is to say with interest that run deep within him, but didn't need to be expressed more often than once in a while. And just like an entomologist knows that he is not an insect and that insects' problems are not his', Stavrogin never felt any connection with the subjects of his research.

Pyotr Stepanovich was still in strangely joyful mood when all of the trying on and fitting have been done (as Verkhovesnky and Stavrogin were as different in their postures as a shapely ash is different than a stately oak) and the two went out to the streets together. Both of them, though for different reasons, had a habit of eating their meals at a club and so they ended up eating breakfest together; for that or another mysterious reason, Nicolai Vsevolodovich seemed particularly pleased with this turn of events. He distractedly listened to Pyotr Stepanovich prattle on and on about something, when he caught the name of Shatov in the endless stream of oration.

I've spoken to him few days ago, do you remember? I've run to your meeting at the apartement of this engineer. But I must admit, Verkhovesnky, that Ivan Pavlovich doesn't seem to posses any of the mertis you think him to have; he's just an ordinary student, and a very romantic type at that, though I suppose many of his kind, and in his position, are. Tell me, do you still see in him anyting extraordinary?'

Stavrogin's questions were brisk and fell flat, which Pyotr Stepanovich noticed at once.

'You have studied him rather solicitously, one could say.'

'No more so than you, if I recall.'

'Shatov's not as stupid as you think he is. You're right, I see merits in him – why should I not? His romanticisim can be of use as well.'

'Tell me,' started Stavrogin, 'doesn't it bother you that the cause you believe in so fervently is filled with such weak-minded, ordinary people? People you bring in yourself, and that is something I could never understand.'

'Oh, he's not as ordinary as all that,' smiled modestly Pyotr Stepanovich, 'and what makes you think you understand my reasons? But I've already told you...' and he looked questioningly at Nicolai Vsevolodovich, as if expressing a quiet hope he might be allowed to elaborate on the topic. But Stavrogin only laughed to his face.

'Oh no, under no circumstances. I'm in no mood today for your nonsense.'

'You could learn a thing or two from this nonsense' sneered Pyotr Stepanovich, but he didn't press the matter. He still seemed almost overly joyful and – unlike most of the time – it was difficult to make him angry. 'But if you'd rather waste your time on mindless pleasures, be my guest.'

'It's just a breakfest and it's not even noon,' observed Stavrogin, taking a look at his watch. 'Besides, I believe I owe you this.' And he looked briefly at Pyotr Stepanovich. Verkhovensky smiled back at him in a very peculiar way, as if he was not in an absolute control of his face and was about to say something, when out of sudden, a strange thing occured.

To explain what happened it's necessary to take a step back in time, to the moment Nicolai Vsevolodovich and Pyotr Stepanovich sat at the table. Though both one of them failed to notice, ever since their coming in, a man sitting two tables away – a young officer –  wouldn't take his eyes off of Stavrogin's face.

The officer was a good-looking young man. His uniform was clean and neat, and he looked overally like a very respectable person. The only thing that could make a somewhat disagreeable impression was his face – a little bit too pale to be considered healthy, and with a long cut, which made him look as if he had been cut from temple to cheek. Tough a scar on an officer's face is nothing unusual, this one was fresh. Other than that, there was nothing at all about him that could be considered extraordinary, at least not at first glance. And though using different words, the same could be said for Stavrogin (if perhaps his clothes, borrowed from Verkhovensky, made him look a lot quirker than usually, there was still nothing weird about it for an unfamiliar observer – who amongst us haven't seen a young man wearing ill-fitted clothes on the streets on Petersburg! Poverty and need may press heavily on each and every one of us – therefore there was nothing that could explain the strange behavior of the officer), the stranger looked at him for the whole time

Throughout the initial moments of Pyotr Stepanovich's monologue, the officer was all ears, but apparently he soon understood nothing in the speech was of any use to him. He ceased to turn the ears, then, and instead focused himself on looking at Nicolai Vsevolodovich's face, and looking so intently, as if he tried to find something in it. He looked almost angry, but puzzled in the same time, as if he was waiting for a final proof that would finally made it possible for him to give into this anger. When Nicolai Vsevolodovich spoke up about Shatov, and turned his face to Verkhovensky, he turned it in such a way that he was yet more visible from officer's seat. It must have been the final thing that sealed the lattest's suspiscion, for he rose up from his chair and directed his steps to Stavrogin's table.

He got there right in time to interrupt Pyotr Stepanovich from saying something in response to Stavrogin's remark about being indebted. He appeared hovering above them out of sudden and for a split second both Verkhovensky and Stavrogin paid him no mind, no doubt thinking he must have been just a stray passer-by. But when after a moment he was still stuck in the same spot, his presence could no longer be ignored. Pyotr Stepanovich glanced at Nicolai Vsevolodovich quickly before turning his eyes up to face of the officer and what he saw was striking: both of them had the same, gloomy expression on their faces, and both of them were absolutely furious. As he had no idea what the strange occurence could be about, he decided to quietly wait for the events to expand themselves in front of him. Stavrogin, on the contrary, decided to take the matters into his own hands right there and then; but he must have known perfectly well what this was all about.

'Excuse me, are you looking for something?' asked he curtly.

'Do I have a pleasure with mister Stavrogin?' responded officer, and responded with such contemptous accent in his voice, it almost made him sound as if he was speaking a foreign language.

'It depends on who is asking, of course.'

'Of course. I never expected anything else from a scoundrel and coward like yourself. I, on the other hand, have no intention to hide. My name's Mikhail Osipovich Sorokin and here's what I'd like to give to you.' Here officer put one oh his leather gloves on the table, right in the middle of Stavrogin's plate. 'Though a rascal of your kind does not deserve any better than to be brought to the nearest police station by force, I can comply your aristocratic title.'

Stavrogin looked at Sorokin with ironic surprise.

'No, I really don't understand what you want from me, gentleman. You seem very upset, but it's the first time I see you and there is absolutely nothing that could justify such rudeness.'

'First time you see me?! As if I needed to see you before! I know very well who you are!' roared Sorokin, furious to no end. 'So you deny that for the past week you kept company with my friends, and that last night you killed one of them in cold blood?'

'Exactly so' confirmed Stavrogin, not taking his eyes off of Sorokin. 'I cannot deny spending time with many different people here in town and I don't always remember their names, that much is true, but I don't think it's punishable. But I believe I would have remembered the name of a man whom I supposedly had killed. As the occurence as a whole.'

'You are lying through your teeth' hissed Sorokin, leaning towards Stavrogin. 'And there's no one that could confirm your innocence.'

'Oh, but there is. If I may – mister Pyotr Stepanovich Verkhovensky, a very respectable gentleman, a landowner from T. and a lawyer. He can confirm I was with him all night.'

Sorokin looked at Pyotr Stepanovich, who in turn looked confusedly at Nicolai Vsevolodovich.

'Do you confirm that, gentleman?' asked Sorokin.

'Yes, of course' answered Pyotr Stepanovich, whose voice didn't falter even for a moment. It must be noted that, firstly and foremostly, he intended to learn more about the whole affair from Nicolai Vsevolodovich himself, but surely not in front of a stranger (though he made sure to remember this stranger's name and face, in case it might prove uself for him later in the future) and secondly, lying has never been much of a problem for him and came to him as naturaylly, as breathing comes to the others.

Upon hearing his steady voice, Stavrogin looked briefly at Pyotr Stepanovich, but soon turned his face again to Sorokin. He was cold and calm, and perfectly calculated. Mikhail Osipovich, on the other hand, was furious and turned to Stavrogin once more for an instant. 'As if I would believe the words of a no doubts substituted witness! And no other people to confirm your story, I presume? How properly all that would be for you! '

'There are times when there could be no question about any other people present' smiled Stavrogin under his breath, as if he had to omit some facts due to modesty; but anyone who knew him, knew that modesty was hardly his strongest suit, especially in the matters like those. 'I believe you might forgive me my peculiarity in this case, might you not?'

Sorokin did not respond to these words in any fashion, and was by no mean back in good mood, but the longer he remained listening to Stavrogin's calm and seemingly sincere words, the less sure he was becoming. Even the people who know they posses the truth and are not afraid to announce it on the top of their voice to anyone who might listen to them, become flabbergasted when they run across lies so stridently insolent and they lose all their fire. The very same was happening with this young officer, who unknowingly became Stavrogin's next victim.

'So what if you have someone to confirm your story! The truth you won't be able to hide forever.'

And he wanted to turn around and leave, but Stavrogin took him by the wrist with one deft movement.

'As you won't be able to continue forever with your lies and arrogant presumptions' said he looking at Mikhail Osipovich malisciously. 'You think this will be all? Oh no, I can assure you. You have gravely insulted me with your cries and accusations, and you even managed to offend my good friend here. And you dare to challenge me to a duel?' He took the leather glove from his plate and thrusted it to Sorokin's face. 'Oh, we'll have a duel, you might be sure of that. I know your name and I don't suppose finding you will be much of a problem – or do you intend to flee, mister Sorokin?'

'Absolutely not' drawled out Mikhail Osipovich. 'I'll serve as your opponent anytime.' He bowed stiffly to Verkhovensky and went out.

As if nothing has happened, Stavrogin got back to eating the brakfest. Pyotr Stepanovich, however, sat lost in thoughts and looked at his companion from time to time, each becoming more irate. Stavrogin noticed it and put a stop to eating to eye him with scutiny.

'Come, what now?' asked he boredly.

Pyotr Stepanovich directed his angry eyes to him.

'You should no I take no particular pleasure in being a pawn, played as you please and with no knowledge whatsoever on the topic. I believe you owe me much more as an explanation – damn it, an actual explanation would be allright!'

'No, I don'tthink so... I told you already that is my business. But I believe you might be yet more useful. Tell me, do you know anything about duels?'

'Not in detail – I suppose that's more in your fashion.'

'But you know how to write good letters...' muttered Stavrogin, paying no attention to the response; in fact, he was not inthe slightest interested in it, as his plan regarding Pyotr Stepanovich's role in the whole undertaking has already crystalised in his mind. 'I'll ask you to write a letter to mister Sorokin, which will specify all the details of our encounter, we'll talk about them, and to deliver this to him; you won't have a problem with finding him, will you?'

'What an absurdity.'

'So I thought. Come, let's go, you must write it as soon as possible; I wish this whole damned scene could be put to an end at last!' And without waiting for a Verkhovensky's reaction, he stood up and directed his steps to the door. Pyotr Stepanovich cursed under his breath and ran after him.

Chapter Text

I need to make a statement on this work: it will no longer be updated. While I stand by my idea, and think it was a very good fan fiction material, the way I wrote it displeases me greatly.

There were reasons because of which I was publishing the chapters way to fast for my liking and now I regret it. This way I couldn't have overview the content or think twice on some of my storytelling's points. Long story short: I think the way this fic looks now is poor at best, if not outright hideous.

But, as I said, I still stand by my ideas. And I would still love it if people could get to read what else I have in store for the characters. Therefore, I plan on closing this fic and starting a new, with the same idea, but in different words. Under the same title, even, because the title has a meaning behind it and I couldn't bare to change it.

The only thing I am not so sure of, is whether the continuation will be the first thing I set myself to write in summer. I have another Demons fic as well a Crime and Punishment fic as work in progress.

I hope despite my decision, the people who already left kudos on this particular work will come back for the new one and will enjoy it just as much.