hed him so intensely at last that he could not tear
himself away. It was like a nervous obsession. He counted every morsel
of beefsteak that Pyotr Stepanovitch put into his mouth; he loathed him
for the way he opened it, for the way he chewed, for the way he smacked
his lips over the fat morsels, he loathed the steak itself. At last
things began to swim before his eyes; he began to feel slightly giddy;
he felt hot and cold run down his spine by turns.

"You are doing nothing; read that," said Pyotr Stepanovitch suddenly,
throwing him a sheet of paper. Liputin went nearer to the candle. The
paper was closely covered with bad handwriting, with corrections in
every line. By the time he had mastered it Pyotr Stepanovitch had paid
his bill and was ready to go. When they were on the pavement Liputin
handed him back the paper.

"Keep it; I'll tell you afterwards.... What do you say to it, though?"

Liputin shuddered all over.

"In my opinion... such a manifesto... is nothing but a ridiculous
absurdity."

His anger broke out; he felt as though he were being caught up and
carried along.

"If we decide to distribute such manifestoes," he said, quivering
all over, "we'll make ourselves, contemptible by our stupidity and
incompetence."

"H'm! I think differently," said Pyotr Stepanovitch, walking on
resolutely.

"So do I; surely it isn't your work?"

"That's not your business."

"I think too that doggerel, 'A Noble Personality,' is the most utter
trash possible, and it couldn't have been written by Herzen."

"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 t