Extreme agitation set in; everyone started talking.
"If it were so, gentlemen," Verkhovensky continued, "I would be the most compromised of all, and therefore I propose that you answer one question—if you wish, of course. You're all entirely free."
"What question? what question?" everyone squawked.
"The sort of question after which it will become clear whether we stay together, or silently put on our hats and go our separate ways."
"The question, the question?"
"If any of us knew of a planned political murder, would he go and inform, foreseeing all the consequences, or would he stay home and await events? Views may differ here. The answer to the question will tell clearly whether we are to separate or stay together, and for much longer than this one evening. Allow me to address you first," he turned to the lame man.
"Why me first?"
"Because you started it all. Kindly don't evade, dodging won't help here. However, as you wish; you are entirely free."
"Excuse me, but such a question is even offensive."
"No, no, be more precise please."
"I've never been an agent of the secret police, sir," the man went even more awry.
"Kindly be more precise, don't keep us waiting."
The lame man was so angry he even stopped answering. Silently, with spiteful eyes, he stared point-blank at his tormentor from behind his spectacles.
"Yes or no? Would you inform or would you not?" Verkhovensky shouted.
"I certainly would notinform!" the lame man shouted twice as loudly.
"And no one would inform, of course, no one would," came many voices.
"Allow me to address you, mister Major, would you inform?" Verkhovensky continued, "and note that I'm addressing you on purpose."
"I won't inform, sir."
"Well, and if you knew that someone wanted to kill and rob someone else, an ordinary mortal, you would inform and give warning?"
"Of course, sir, but that would be a civil case, while here it's a political denunciation. I've never been a secret police agent, sir."
"And no one here has ever been," voices came again. "An empty question. We all have the same answer. There are no informers here!"
"Why is that gentleman getting up?" shouted the girl student.
"It's Shatov. Why did you get up, Shatov?" shouted the hostess.
Shatov had indeed gotten up; he was holding his hat in his hand and looking at Verkhovensky. It seemed he wanted to tell him something, but hesitated. His face was pale and spiteful, but he controlled himself, did not say a word, and silently started out of the room.
"Shatov, this is not to your advantage!" Verkhovensky shouted after him mysteriously.
"But it is to yours, spy and scoundrel that you are!" Shatov shouted at him from the doorway and left altogether.
Again shouts and exclamations.
"So that's the test!" shouted a voice.
"Proved useful!" shouted another.
"But didn't it prove useful too late?" observed a third.
"Who invited him? Who let him in? Who is he? Who is this Shatov? Will he inform or won't he?" the questions came pouring out.
"If he was an informer he'd have pretended, but he just spat and left," someone observed.
"Now Stavrogin's getting up, too; Stavrogin hasn't answered the question either," shouted the girl student.
Stavrogin indeed got up, and together with him, from the other end of the table, Kirillov also rose.
"Excuse me, Mr. Stavrogin," the hostess addressed him sharply, "all of us here have answered the question, while you're leaving without a word?"
"I see no need to answer the question that interests you," Stavrogin muttered.
"But we've compromised ourselves, and you haven't," several voices shouted.
"What do I care if you've compromised yourselves?" Stavrogin laughed, but his eyes were flashing.
"What? He doesn't care? He doesn't care?" exclamations came. Many jumped up from their chairs.
"Excuse me, gentlemen, excuse me," the lame man shouted, "but Mr. Verkhovensky also didn't answer the question, he only asked it."
The observation produced a striking effect. They all exchanged glances. Stavrogin laughed loudly in the lame man's face and walked out, followed by Kirillov. Verkhovensky ran out after them to the entryway.
"What are you doing to me?" he murmured, seizing Stavrogin's hand and clenching it as hard as he could in his own. The latter silently jerked it free.
"Go to Kirillov's now, I'll come... It's necessary for me, it's necessary!"
"It's not necessary for me," Stavrogin cut him short.
"Stavrogin will," Kirillov put an end to it. "Stavrogin, it is necessary for you. I'll show you there."
They left.
8: Ivan the Tsarevich
They left. Pyotr Stepanovich first rushed back to the "meeting" in order to quiet the chaos, but, probably considering it not worth the trouble, abandoned everything and in two minutes was already flying down the road after the departing men. As he ran he recalled a lane which was a closer way to Filippov's house; sinking to his knees in mud, he started down the lane and in fact arrived at a run the very moment Stavrogin and Kirillov were going through the gate.
"Here already?" Kirillov remarked. "That is well. Come in."
"How is it you said you lived alone?" asked Stavrogin, passing through the entryway where a samovar had been prepared and was already beginning to boil.
"You'll see now who I live with," Kirillov muttered, "come in."
As soon as they entered, Verkhovensky at once pulled out the anonymous letter he had taken earlier from Lembke and placed it in front of Stavrogin. All three sat down. Stavrogin silently read the letter.
"Well?" he asked.
"The scoundrel will do as he says," Verkhovensky explained. "Since he's at your disposal, instruct me how to act. I assure you he may go to Lembke tomorrow."
"Well, let him."
"How, let him? Especially since there are ways to avoid it."
"You're mistaken, he's not dependent on me. And anyway I don't care; he's no danger to me, only to you."
"You, too."
"I don't think so."
"But others may not spare you, don't you understand? Listen, Stavrogin, this is just playing with words. Can you be sorry about the money?"
"So there's a need for money?"
"Certainly, about two thousand, or a minimum of fifteen hundred. Give it to me tomorrow, or even today, and by tomorrow evening I'll have sent him packing off to Petersburg for you, and that is precisely what he wants. If you wish, with Marya Timofeevna—mark that."
There was something completely thrown off in him, he spoke somehow imprudently, ill-considered words escaped him. Stavrogin was watching him in surprise.
"I have no need to send Marya Timofeevna away."
"Maybe you don't even want to?" Pyotr Stepanovich smiled ironically.
"Maybe I don't."
"In short, will there be money or won't there be?" he shouted at Stavrogin in spiteful impatience and as if peremptorily. The latter looked him over seriously.
"There'll be no money."
"Eh, Stavrogin! Do you know something, or have you done something already? You're—on a spree!"
His face became distorted, the corners of his mouth twitched, and he suddenly burst into somehow altogether pointless laughter, inappropriate to anything.
"You got money from your father for the estate," Nikolai Vsevolodovich observed calmly. "Maman gave you about six or eight thousand for Stepan Trofimovich. So you can pay fifteen hundred of your own. I don't want, finally, to pay for other people, I've given out a lot as it is, it makes me feel bad..." he grinned at his own words.