“You are talking nonsense; it’s a good poem.”
“I am surprised, too, for instance,” said Liputin, still dashing along with desperate leaps, “that it is suggested that we should act so as to bring everything to the ground. It’s natural in Europe to wish to destroy everything because there’s a proletariat there, but we are only amateurs here and in my opinion are only showing off.”
“I thought you were a Fourierist.”
“Fourier says something quite different, quite different.”
“I know it’s nonsense.”
“No, Fourier isn’t nonsense.… Excuse me, I can’t believe that there will be a rising in May.”
Liputin positively unbuttoned his coat, he was so hot.
“Well, that’s enough; but now, that I mayn’t forget it,” said Pyotr Stepanovitch, passing with extraordinary coolness to another subject, “you will have to print this manifesto with your own hands. We’re going to dig up Shatov’s printing press, and you will take it to-morrow. As quickly as possible you must print as many copies as you can, and then distribute them all the winter. The means will be provided. You must do as many copies as possible, for you’ll be asked for them from other places.”
“No, excuse me; I can’t undertake such a … I decline.”
“You’ll take it all the same. I am acting on the instructions of the central committee, and you are bound to obey.”