Chapter Text
'You brought him in to overhear our conversation and perhaps even see the money, isn't that so? But I'll tell you what, I won't let you have Shatov' said Stavrogin and heeled around to the door, without even waiting for a response.
Verkhovensky, in a state of an unbelievable agitation, run up to him and caught with him at the gate.
'Stop! Not another step!' he cried, pulling Stavrogin by the elbow.
Stavrogin pulled from his grasp, but was unable to free himself. A fury took the better of him. With his left hand, he grabbed Verkhovensky's hair, shoved him to the ground with all the force he had and walked out to the street. He didn't make even ten steps before he heard a weird noise, as if somebody repeated the same to Verkhovensky, many times one by one. Against his own will Stavrogin looked back over his shoulder and froze in place.
Pyotr Stepanovich's body didn't lay uncounsciously on the ground, or at least it didn't seem so. He was wallowing and wheezing, but in the same time it was easy to say he himself had no control over his movements and perhaps really was unconscious. Stavrogin hesistantly stepped closer. In the same time, Kirillov, alarmed by the noise, jumped out of the house. From behind him, Fedka cautiously peeked on the scene.
'Water!' ordained Kirillov and ran back to the kitchet to fetch it; in the same time Stavrogin heard derisive laughter: it was Fedka.
Once the engineer was back, he poured water over Pyotr Stepanovich's head. Stavrogin noticed that he didn't seem to be disturbed by the scene, as if he was familiar with the view, and briefly mused on it. There was no time to be pensive, though. Pyotr Stepanovich laid on the ground motionlessly now, but nothing indicated he could wake up.
'It's a fit' said Kirillov when his' eyes met Stavrogin's. 'He used to have them very often. He should wake up in a minute. You ought to take him home.'
'He naver said anything of that sort… and I never saw him unwell' said Stavrogin unwillingly, eyeing the man on the ground with watchful eyes. 'It's a trick.'
'There is no trick' disagreed Kirillov. 'He didn't say? Hmm. He is ill, you take him home. I'll say Fyodor Fyodorovich to find a droshky.'
There was high time for it, for Pyotr Stepanovich out of sudden moved up and sat on the ground. He looked around him, not recognizing neither the people above him nor the environement. When he looked at Stavrogin's pale face, suddenly got up furiosuly and took a gun out of his pocket. He directed the barrel at Stavrogin's forehead and panted heavily for a breath for a minute. Stavrogin made no movement to push his hand away, though he was sure Verkhovensky must be very weak at the moment.
'If you ever say.. To anyone… I'll pull the trigger!' cried Verkhovensky. His speech was incoherent and his usual manner of talking vanished completely; it was even hard to understand exactly what he was saying, choking on every word. 'Do you understand! I will…'
'As if' said Stavrogin, shrugging. A faint smile showed on his lips and it was clear he thought the whole situation absurd. It was however hard to say whether he laughed more at Pyotr Stepanvich's condition as a whole or merely at his last words. 'You couldn't lose me. What would you do if I'm gone?'. And he moved to go away, but Verkhovensky only pressed the barrel more firmly to keep him in place.
'So maybe I'll blow my brains afterwards! So much of it… but you mustn't tell anyone, or…' he didn't finish, his eyes suddenly moved up and later to the back of his skull and he fell to the ground once more.
Kirillov eyed Stavrogin with a slight reproach.
'You agitated him. You shouldn't have. Stay here with him. I'll speak with Fyodor Fyodorovich.' And he turned round to give orders to Fedka, who, surprisingly, heeded him and ran to the street.
A droshky must have been nearby, for in a minute carter drove to the Philippov house (Fedka vanished in the meantime and no one saw him in the town for two days). Kirillov and Stavrogin pulled Verkhovesnky's body into the carriage.
'I will ask you to come with me' said Stavogin, turning to face Kirillov. 'We'll leave him at his apartment and later I'll walk you home, if you like.'
'Ah, you mean you want to talk' said Kirillov. 'But there's no time. Please come again tonight. I won't sleep. We can drink tea and you will ask what you want to know. But now you must take him home and summon a doctor.'
'No, I won't come tonight. Very well then' said Nicolai Vsevolodovich, turning back to the carter. 'Take him to Bogorodov's house on Tsarskaya Street, he rents rooms there, you may be sent for a doctor afterwards. Leave him there under servant's care.' He knocked on the droshky and the coachman drove away, taking the unconscious body away from the two men still standing in front of the Philippov house.
'But there indeed is a great deal I would like to know about what has just happened. It seems I will have to ask Pyotr Stepanovich himself… though I don't suspect he'll be eager to tell me' said Stavrogin. 'He never told me he was ill and I never would have suspected he could be, so I find it a little strange and yet you act as if it were natural. I can see you know more than I do and' he hesistated for a moment 'forgive me, but I don't believe mister Verkhovensky likes you very much. Why would you know?'
Kirillov laughed easily, in the manner that stood in contrast to his usual, sullen behaviour, but which seemed nonetheless to fit him very well.
'He wouldn't tell me, you are right. But I observed… it is very easy to observe people' added he naturally and shot Stavrogin a glance. 'And in Petersburg he had fits quite often for a time. I helped him if I was around. But he knew I wouldn't tell anyone.'
Stavrogin showed some interest in the last statement.
'But you knew his weak point! Is that why he didn't pester you as much as the others?'
'Could be. But he knows I'm of use in a different way. That's enough, Stavrogin. You won't tell about it either, will you?'
'No… I don't think so. Well, good-bye, Kirillov.'
'Good-bye. Come again someday.'
But Stavrogin didn't listen - he already left, lost in thought.
***
An hour after Stavrogin send Pyotr Stepanovich on his merry way in the carriage and actually forgot about him completely (until few hours later, when it was remembered to him; but for now his mind was being occupied by completely different thoughts, which is important to note), the latest's servant decided to send for a doctor, despite her master's explicit orders to just leave him alone (orders that were nonetheless muttered almost completely incoherently, something that was always a signal of a second fit coming, as Pyotr Stepanovich was fully aware; this order of his' was later blamed on his losing of touch with reality due to the illness - he indeed had not one, but two more fits later that day) as well as to send a note to both Stepan Trophimovich's and Barbara Petrovna's houses. I suspect that it was through those letter that, in an unexplicable way, the whole town soon learnt that young Verkhovensky was unwell, but almost no one knew the reason why.
Stepan Trophimovich didn't seem to respond in any fashion to the sent news, and of course hasn't gone to see his son - as neither of the two made any step whatsoever to reconcile and their relationship was cold and almost nonexistent - but he stayed home, feverish as always when he felt upset. He muttered under his breath some reminiscence of the time he met Petrusha for the first time after having sent him away.
'Un petit idiot, toujours malade et toujours effrayé, and not much to look at, any parent in my place would have admitted that... And his fits were one of the reasons' added he following his own path of thought. It was hard to say whether he blamed his son for not being good enough in his eyes for not taking him to Skvoreshniki, where he could grow up with Nicolai Stavrogin (at the time Barbara Petrovna would surely have agreed on it) or if he blamed his son's fits for shaping his the then weak character and condition. Either way his past was unpardonable and he knew it; still, the lack of parental feelings toward Petrusha couldn't be missed by any of them, neither could they be grown into Stepan Trophimovich's heart and so the things stood. I was with him on that day and I know he really didn't want to see his son, even in such circumstances, and it was more easily done if he was still convinced of resenting his offspring as much, as said offspring resented him (there were many proofs of it in all the disgusting gossips about Stepan Trophimovich that spread through our town and whose author we both silently suspected to be Pyotr Stepanovich). Besides, the ill always woke in him an unexplicable, superstitious fear.
I wasn't in the least surprised, then, that young Verkhovensky didn't recieve a visit from his own father and while I didn't tell this Stepan Trophimovich out of delicacy, I even suspected he could not be recieved either; Pyotr Stepanovich's hurt pride wouldn't be able to stand it.
There is still little known on the subject why Barbara Petrovna's household was even informed about this all; perhaps because the thing concerned Nicolai Vsevolodich's friend (in the eyes of the town they were close acquaintances) or perhaps because the mistress of the house was known to have her heart for the ill always on her sleeve. Indeed, Barbara Petrovna worried very much for our conspirator and sent her doctor to check on him (the news he brought were not worrying more than they should: Pyotr Stepanovich had three fits at the end of a day, but was expected to get better in a week or two if he could avoid being exposed to any more stressful situations during this time; there was anything to cure him altogether, as there is no medicine for epilepsy). She also congratulated Dasha when she expressed the wish to visit Vekhovensky on the next day to see if he needed anything.
The real reasons Dahsa had for this visit were much more than mere concern for the patient, but she kept them to herself, and Barbara Petrovna didn't ask, worrying too much about what she could hear in response. Ever since the break up of the engagement between Daria Pavlovna and Stepan Trophimovich, all hypotetical suitors she could find for her protégée trailed off, and Dasha herself not even once mentioned the desire to get married; all this was worrisome and raised questions. Indeed, I believe that deep in her heart Barbara Petrovna would be happy to see Dasha with young Verkhovensky (despite the disdain she had for his father), as it would put to an end all ugly suspiscions about her own son and his advances. This truth was eating her, because she didn't want to admit it; all in all, she decided to let Dasha do as she liked.