"If we hit on the right plan, the book will go over."
"I warn you that it's not for the sake of profit, but I wish very much for the book to sell, and I'll be proud of the profit."
"Well, and what does it have to do with me?"
"But it's you I'm asking to be my collaborator... half and half. You will work out the plan."
"What makes you think I'm capable of working out the plan?"
"I was told about you, and I heard here ... I know you're very intelligent and... occupied with important things... and you think a lot; I was told about you by Pyotr Stepanovich Verkhovensky in Switzerland," she added hastily. "He's a very intelligent man, isn't he?"
Shatov gave her a momentary oblique glance, but at once lowered his eyes.
"And Nikolai Vsevolodovich also told me a lot about you..."
Shatov suddenly blushed.
"Anyway, here are the newspapers," Liza hastily snatched up from a chair a stack of prepared and tied-up newspapers, "here, I've tried to mark some choice facts, to make a selection, and add numbers... you'll see."
Shatov took the bundle.
"Take it home and have a look—where is it you live?"
"On Bogoyavlensky Street, in Filippov's house."
"I know. I've heard there's also some captain who, it seems, lives next to you—a Mr. Lebyadkin?" Liza went on hastily as before.
Shatov, holding the stack of papers in his still outstretched hand, sat there for a whole minute without replying, staring down.
"Why don't you choose someone else for this business, I won't be of any use to you," he said finally, lowering his voice somehow terribly strangely, almost to a whisper.
Liza blushed.
"What business are you talking about? Mavriky Nikolaevich!" she cried, "that letter, please."
I went up to the table together with Mavriky Nikolaevich.
"Look at this," she suddenly turned to me, unfolding the letter in great agitation. "Have you ever seen anything like it? Please read it aloud; I want Mr. Shatov to hear it, too."
With no little astonishment I read aloud the following epistle:
To the Perfection of the Young Miss Tushin.
Dear lady, Elizaveta Nikolaevna!
Oh, what a lovely vision
Is Elizaveta Tushin.
When she flies sidesaddle with her relation
And her locks share the wind's elation, Or when with her mother in church she bows
And the blush of reverent faces shows, Then matrimonial and lawful delights I do desire, And after her, and her mother, send my tear.
Composed by an unlearned man in an argument.
Dear lady!
I pity myself most of all for having not lost an arm at Sebastopol in the cause of glory, not having been there at all, but served the whole campaign managing vile provisions, considering it baseness. You are a goddess in antiquity, and I am nothing but have guessed about the boundlessness. Consider it as verse and no more, for verse is nonsense after all and justifies what is considered boldness in prose. Can the sun be angry at an infusorian if it composes from its drop of water, where there is a multitude of them, as seen in a microscope? Even the very club of human kindness towards big cattle in Petersburg of high society, rightly commiserating with the dog and the horse, scorns the brief infusorian, not mentioning it at all, because it has not grown big enough. I have not grown big enough either. The thought of marriage might seem killing; but soon I will possess a former two hundred souls through a hater of mankind whom you should scorn. I can tell much, and volunteer it according to documents— enough for Siberia. Do not scorn the offer. The letter from the infusorian is to be understood in verse.
Captain Lebyadkin, a humble friend, with much free time to spend.
"This was written by a man in a drunken state and a scoundrel!" I cried out indignantly. "I know him!"
"I received this letter yesterday," Liza began to explain to us, blushing and hurrying, "and I myself understood at once that it was from some fool, and if I have not yet shown it to maman, it's because I didn't want to upset her still more. But if he continues again, I don't know what to do. Mavriky Nikolaevich wants to go and forbid him. Since I regarded you as my collaborator," she turned to Shatov, "and since you live there, I wanted to ask you, so as to be able to judge what more can be expected from him."
"He's a drunk man and a scoundrel," Shatov muttered, as if reluctantly.
"And is he always such a fool?"
"Oh, no, he's not a fool at all, when he's not drunk."
"I knew a general who wrote exactly the same kind of verses," I observed, laughing.
"Even from this letter you can see that he keeps his own counsel," the taciturn Mavriky Nikolaevich unexpectedly put in.
"They say there's some sister there?" Liza asked.
"Yes, a sister."
"They say he tyrannizes over her—is it true?"
Shatov again glanced at Liza, scowled, and grumbling "What do I care?" moved towards the door.
"Ah, wait," Liza cried out worriedly, "where are you going? We still have so much to talk about..."
"What is there to talk about? I'll let you know tomorrow..."
"But the main thing, the printing! Believe me, I'm not joking, I seriously want to do it," Liza went on assuring him, with ever increasing alarm. "If we decide to publish it, where will we have it printed?
That is the most important question, because we won't go to Moscow for it, and the local printer is impossible for such a publication. I made up my mind long ago to start my own press, in your name, let's suppose, and I know maman would allow it if it was in your name ..."
"And how do you know I can be a printer?" Shatov asked sullenly.
"But Pyotr Stepanovich, still in Switzerland, pointed me precisely to you, as one who could run a press and was familiar with the business. He even wanted to give me a note for you, but I forgot."
Shatov, as I recall now, changed countenance. He stood there for a few more seconds and then suddenly walked out of the room.
Liza got angry.
"Does he always walk out like that?" she turned to me.
I shrugged, but Shatov suddenly returned, went straight up to the table, and placed on it the bundle of newspapers he had taken:
"I won't be your collaborator, I have no time..."
"But why, why? You seem to have become angry?" Liza asked in an upset and pleading voice.
The tone of her voice seemed to strike him; for a few moments he studied her attentively, as if wishing to penetrate to her very soul.
"It makes no difference," he muttered softly, "I don't want to..."
And he left for good. Liza was completely struck, somehow even excessively, or so it seemed to me.
"A remarkably strange man!" Mavriky Nikolaevich loudly observed.
III
Strange," certainly, yet there was in all this a great deal of obscurity. Something was implied in it. I decidedly did not believe in this publication; then there was this stupid letter, which all too clearly offered some sort of denunciation "with documents," which they all said nothing about, and instead talked of something entirely different; finally, there was this press, and Shatov's sudden departure precisely because they began to speak of a press. All this led me to think that something had already happened here before me of which I knew nothing; that, consequently, I was not wanted, and that it was all none of my business. Besides, it was time to go, it was enough for a first visit. I went up to Lizaveta Nikolaevna to say good-bye.
She seemed to have forgotten I was in the room and continued standing in the same place by the table, deep in thought, her head bowed, staring fixedly at one chosen spot in the carpet.
"Ah, you, too? Good-bye," she prattled, in a habitually sweet voice. "Give my greetings to Stepan Trofimovich and persuade him to come to me soon. Mavriky Nikolaevich, Anton Lavrentievich is leaving. I'm sorry maman cannot come and say good-bye to you..."