"Yes, but remember you pledged that when you wrote the dying letter it would not be without me, and that on my arrival in Russia you would be at my... well, in short, at my disposal, that is, for this occasion alone, of course, and in all others you are certainly free," Pyotr Stepanovich added, almost courteously.
"I did not pledge, I consented, because it makes no difference to me."
"Wonderful, wonderful, I don't have the slightest intention of dampening your pride, but..."
"This is not pride."
"But remember that a hundred and twenty thalers were collected for your trip, so you took money."
"Not at all," Kirillov flared up, "not for that. One does not take money for that."
"Sometimes one does."
"You're lying. I declared in a letter from Petersburg, and in Petersburg I paid you a hundred and twenty thalers, handed them to you... and they were sent there, unless you kept them."
"Very well, very well, I'm not disputing anything, they were sent. The main thing is that you're of the same mind as before."
"The same. When you come and say 'it's time,' I'll fulfill everything. What, very soon?"
"Not so many days... But remember, we compose the note together, that same night."
"Or day, even. You say I must take the blame for the tracts?"
"And something else."
"I won't take everything on myself."
"What won't you take?" Pyotr Stepanovich got fluttered up again.
"Whatever I don't want to; enough. I don't want to talk about it anymore."
Pyotr Stepanovich restrained himself and changed the subject.
"Here's another thing," he warned. "Will you join us this evening? It's Virginsky's name day, that's the pretext for the gathering."
"I don't want to."
"Do me a favor and come. You must. You must, to impress them with numbers, and with your face... Your face is... well, in short, you have a fatal face."
"You find it so?" laughed Kirillov. "Very well, I'll come. Only not for my face. When?"
"Oh, earlyish, half past six. And, you know, you can come in, sit down, and not speak to anyone, however many there are. Only, you know, don't forget to bring a pencil and paper with you."
"What for?"
"It makes no difference to you anyway; and it's my special request. You'll just sit without speaking to anyone at all, listen, and from time to time make as if you're taking notes; well, you can draw something."
"Nonsense, what for?"
"Since it makes no difference to you; you do keep saying that it makes no difference to you."
"No, but what for?"
"Because that member of our Society, the inspector, got stuck in Moscow, and I announced to someone or other here that the inspector might visit us; so they'll think the inspector is you, and since you've been here for three weeks already, they'll be all the more surprised."
"Flimflam! You have no inspector in Moscow."
"Well, suppose I haven't, devil take him, is that any business of yours? And why is it so hard for you to do it? You are a member of the Society."
"Tell them I'm the inspector; I'll sit and be silent, but the pencil and paper I don't want."
"But why?"
"I don't want it."
Pyotr Stepanovich became angry, even turned green, but again restrained himself, got up, and took his hat.
"Is hehere?" he suddenly said in a half-whisper.
"Yes."
"Good. I'll have him out soon, don't worry."
"I don't worry. He just spends nights here. The old woman is in the hospital, the daughter-in-law died; for two days I've been alone. I showed him a place in the fence where a board can be removed; he gets in, no one sees him."
"I'll take him away soon."
"He says he has many places to spend the night."
"That's a lie, they're looking for him, and here so far it's inconspicuous. Do you really get to talking with him?"
"Yes, all night. He says very bad things about you. I read him the Apocalypse at night, with tea. He listened hard; even very, all night."
"Ah, the devil, you'll convert him to the Christian faith!"
"He's of Christian faith as it is. Don't worry, he'll use his knife. Whom do you want to put a knife into?"
"No, that's not what I'm keeping him for; he's for something else... And does Shatov know about Fedka?"
"I don't talk and never see Shatov."
"Is he angry, or what?"
"No, we're not angry, we just turn away. We spent too long lying together in America."
"I'll go to him now."
"As you like."
"Stavrogin and I may also come to you from there, somewhere around ten o'clock."
"Come."
"I have to talk with him about an important... You know, why don't you give me your ball? What do you need it for now? I, too, for exercise. I'll even pay money for it."
"Just take it."
Pyotr Stepanovich put the ball in his back pocket.
"And I won't give you anything against Stavrogin," Kirillov muttered behind him, letting his visitor out. The latter looked at him in surprise, but did not respond.
Kirillov's last words confused Pyotr Stepanovich greatly; he still had not had time to make sense of them, but going up the stairs to see Shatov he tried to recompose his displeased look into a benign physiognomy. Shatov was at home and slightly ill. He was lying on his bed, though dressed.
"What bad luck!" Pyotr Stepanovich cried out from the threshold. "Are you seriously ill?"
The benign expression on his face suddenly vanished; something spiteful flashed in his eyes.
"Not in the least," Shatov jumped up nervously, "I'm not ill at all, my head is a little..."
He was even at a loss; the sudden appearance of such a visitor decidedly frightened him.
"The matter I've come on is such that it would be better not to be sick," Pyotr Stepanovich began quickly and as if peremptorily. "Allow me to sit down" (he sat down), "and you sit back down on your cot, so. Today some of our people are getting together at Virginsky's, under the pretense of his birthday; there will be no other tinge—that's been seen to. I'll come with Nikolai Stavrogin. I certainly wouldn't drag you there, knowing your present way of thinking ... I mean, in the sense of not wanting to torment you there, and not because we think you'd inform. But it turns out that you'll have to go. You'll meet those people there with whom we will finally decide the manner of your leaving the Society, and to whom you will hand over what you have. We'll do it inconspicuously; I'll lead you to some corner; there will be a lot of people, and there's no need for everyone to know. I confess I did have to exercise my tongue on your behalf; but now it seems that they, too, agree, with the understanding, of course, that you hand over the press and all the papers. Then you can go to the four winds."
Shatov listened frowningly and spitefully. His recent nervous fright had left him altogether.
"I do not acknowledge any obligation to give an accounting to the devil knows whom," he stated flatly. "No one can set me free."
"Not quite so. A lot was entrusted to you. You had no right to break it off so directly. And, finally, you never announced it clearly, so you led them into an ambiguous position."
"As soon as I came here I announced it clearly in a letter."
"No, not clearly," Pyotr Stepanovich disputed calmly. "For instance, I sent you 'The Shining Light' to print here, and to keep the copies somewhere here with you until called for; and two tracts as well. You sent it all back with an ambiguous letter that meant nothing."
"I directly refused to print it."
"Yes, but not directly. You wrote: 'Am unable,' but did not explain for what reason. 'Unable' doesn't mean 'unwilling.' It could be supposed that you were unable simply for material reasons. In fact, they took it that way, and supposed that you still agreed to continue your connection with the Society, and so they might have entrusted you with something again, and thus have compromised themselves. Here they say you simply wanted to deceive, so that, having obtained important information, you could then denounce them. I defended you all I could, and showed your two-line written reply as a document in your favor. But I myself had to admit, on rereading it, that those two lines are vague and lead one into deception."