ning to follow the lead
of another man's will, of course for the good of "the common" or "the
great" cause. Not that that made any difference, for little fanatics
like Erkel can never imagine serving a cause except by identifying
it with the person who, to their minds, is the expression of it. The
sensitive, affectionate and kind-hearted Erkel was perhaps the most
callous of Shatov's would-be murderers, and, though he had no personal
spite against him, he would have been present at his murder without the
quiver of an eyelid. He had been instructed; for instance, to have a
good look at Shatov's surroundings while carrying out his commission,
and when Shatov, receiving him at the top of the stairs, blurted out to
him, probably unaware in the heat of the moment, that his wife had come
back to him--Erkel had the instinctive cunning to avoid displaying the
slightest curiosity, though the idea flashed through his mind that the
fact of his wife's return was of great importance for the success of
their undertaking.

And so it was in reality; it was only that fact that saved the
"scoundrels" from Shatov's carrying out his intention, and at the same
time helped them "to get rid of him." To begin with, it agitated Shatov,
threw him out of his regular routine, and deprived him of his usual
clear-sightedness and caution. Any idea of his own danger would be the
last thing to enter his head at this moment when he was absorbed with
such different considerations. On the contrary, he eagerly believed that
Pyotr Verhovensky was running away the next day: it fell in exactly with
his suspicions! Returning to the room he sat down again in a corner,
leaned his elbows on his knees and hid his face in his hands. Bitter
thoughts tormented him....

Then he would raise his head again and go on tiptoe to look at her.
"Good God! she will be in a fever by to-morrow morning; perhaps it's
begun already! She must have caught cold. She is not accustomed to this
awful climate, and then a third-class carriage, the storm, the rain, and
she has such a thin little pelisse, no wrap at all.... And to leave
her like this, to abandon her in her helplessness! Her bag, too, her
bag--what a tiny, light thing, all crumpled up, scarcely weighs ten
pounds! Poor thing, how worn out she is, how much she's been through!
She is proud, that's why she won't complain. But she is irritable, very
irritable. It's illness; an angel will grow irritable in illness. What
a dry for