"No, we're decided," Lyamshin declared.
"There's no other way out," Tolkachenko muttered, "and if Liputin confirms about Kirillov, then..."
"I'm against it; I protest with my whole soul against such a bloody solution!" Virginsky rose from his place.
"But?" Pyotr Stepanovich asked.
"What but?"
"You said but... so I'm waiting."
"I don't think I said but... I simply wanted to say that if it's decided on, then..."
"Then?"
Virginsky fell silent.
"I think one can disregard one's own safety of life," Erkel suddenly opened up his mouth, "but if the common cause may suffer, then I think one cannot dare to disregard one's own safety of life..."
He became confused and blushed. Preoccupied though each of them was with his own thing, they all glanced at him in astonishment, so unexpected was it that he, too, would begin to speak.
"I am for the common cause," Virginsky said suddenly.
They all got up from their places. It was decided to exchange news once more at noon the next day, though without all getting together, and then to make final arrangements. The place where the press was buried was announced, the roles and duties were distributed. Liputin and Pyotr Stepanovich immediately set off together to Kirillov.
II
That Shatov would denounce them our people all believed; but that Pyotr Stepanovich was playing with them like pawns they likewise believed. And, what's more, they all knew that they would still come in complement to the spot the next day, and that Shatov's fate was sealed. They felt they had suddenly been caught like flies in the web of a huge spider; they were angry but quaking with fear.
Pyotr Stepanovich was unquestionably guilty before them: it all could have been handled with much greater accord and ease, if he had only cared to brighten the reality at least a little. Instead of presenting the fact in a decent light, as something Roman and civic or the like, he had held up only crude fear and the threat to their own skins, which was simply impolite. Of course, there is the struggle for existence in everything, and there is no other principle, everybody knows that, but still...
But Pyotr Stepanovich had no time to stir up any Romans; he himself was thrown off his tracks. Stavrogin's flight stunned and crushed him. He lied that Stavrogin had seen the vice-governor; the thing was that he had left without seeing anyone, even his mother— and it was indeed strange that he had not even been inconvenienced.
(Afterwards the authorities had to answer especially for that.) Pyotr Stepanovich had spent the whole day making inquiries, but so far had found out nothing, and never before had he been so worried. And how could he, how could he renounce Stavrogin just like that, all at once! That was why he was unable to be very tender with our people. Besides, they kept his hands tied: he had already decided to go galloping after Stavrogin without delay, and yet Shatov detained him, the fivesome had to be finally cemented together, just in case. "I can't let it go for nothing, it might come in handy." So I suppose he reasoned.
And as for Shatov, he was quite certain that he would denounce them. What he had told our people about the denunciation was all lies: he had never seen this denunciation or heard of it, but he was as sure of it as two times two. It precisely seemed to him that Shatov would be unable to endure the present moment—the death of Liza, the death of Marya Timofeevna—and that precisely now he would finally decide. Who 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.