“And I consider that our centres abroad have forgotten what Russia is like and have lost all touch, and that’s why they talk such nonsense.… I even think that instead of many hundreds of quintets in Russia, we are the only one that exists, and there is no network at all,” Liputin gasped finally.
“The more contemptible of you, then, to run after the cause without believing in it … and you are running after me now like a mean little cur.”
“No, I’m not. We have a full right to break off and found a new society.”
“Fool!” Pyotr Stepanovitch boomed at him threateningly all of a sudden, with flashing eyes.
They stood facing one another for some time. Pyotr Stepanovitch turned and pursued his way confidently.
The idea flashed through Liputin’s mind, “Turn and go back; if I don’t turn now I shall never go back.” He pondered this for ten steps, but at the eleventh a new and desperate idea flashed into his mind: he did not turn and did not go back.
They were approaching Filipov’s house, but before reaching it they turned down a side street, or, to be more accurate, an inconspicuous path under a fence, so that for some time they had to walk along a steep slope above a ditch where they could not keep their footing without holding the fence. At a dark corner in the slanting fence Pyotr Stepanovitch took out a plank, leaving a gap, through which he promptly scrambled. Liputin was surprised, but he crawled through after him; then they replaced the plank after them. This was the secret way by which Fedka used to visit Kirillov.
“Shatov mustn’t know that we are here,” Pyotr Stepanovitch whispered sternly to Liputin.
III
Kirillov was sitting on his leather sofa drinking tea, as he always was at that hour. He did not get up to meet them, but gave a sort of start and looked at the new-comers anxiously.