"Instead of many pages there will be a few fat books, that's all," observed Shatov.

But Lizaveta Nikolaevna hotly defended her project in spite of its difficulty and her inexperience in talking about it. There should be one book, and not even a very fat one, she insisted. But even supposing it were a fat one, still it would be a clear one, because the main thing was the plan and the way the facts were presented. Of course, not everything was to be collected and reproduced. Government decrees and acts, local directives, laws—all facts of that sort, though important, could be entirely omitted from the proposed volume. A great deal could be omitted, and the choice could be limited only to events that more or less expressed the personal moral life of the people, the personality of the Russian people at a given moment. Of course, anything could be included: curiosities, fires, donations, all sorts of good and bad deeds, all sorts of pronouncements and speeches, perhaps even news about flooded rivers, perhaps even some government decrees as well, but with the choice only of those things that portrayed the epoch; everything would be included with a certain view, a direction, an intention, an idea, throwing light on the entire whole, the totality. And, finally, the book should be interesting even as light reading, to say nothing of its being an indispensable reference work! It would be, so to speak, a picture of the spiritual, moral, inner life of Russia over an entire year. "Everyone should want to buy it, the book should become a household item," Liza kept affirming. "I realize that the whole thing depends on the plan, and that is why I'm turning to you," she concluded. She was quite flushed, and though her explanations were obscure and incomplete, Shatov began to understand.

"So the result would be something with a tendency, a selection of facts with a certain tendency," he muttered, still without raising his head.

"Not at all, there's no need to select with a tendency, there's no need for any tendency. Just impartiality—that's the only tendency."

"But there's nothing wrong with a tendency," Shatov stirred, "and it's impossible to avoid, as soon as at least some selection reveals itself. The selection of facts will in itself indicate how they are to be understood. Your idea isn't bad."

"So that means such a book is possible?" Liza rejoiced.

"We'll have to see and think. It's a huge matter. One cannot invent something all at once. Experience is necessary. Even when the book is published, we'll still hardly know how to publish it. Maybe only after many trials; but the idea is nearly there. A useful idea."

He finally raised his eyes, and they even shone with pleasure, so interested he was.

"Did you think it up yourself?" he asked Liza, gently and as if bashfully.

"But it's not hard to think it up, it's the plan that's hard," Liza smiled. "I don't understand much, and I'm not very smart, I only pursue what is clear to me ..."

"Pursue?"

"Maybe not the right word?" Liza inquired quickly.

"It's a possible word; never mind."

"It seemed to me even abroad that I, too, could be useful in some way. I have my own money, and it just sits there, so why couldn't I, too, work for the common cause? Besides, the idea came somehow suddenly, by itself; I didn't sit thinking it up, and I was very glad when it came; but I saw at once that I couldn't do it without a collaborator, because I don't know how to do anything myself. The collaborator will, of course, become co-editor of the book. We'll go half and half: your plan and work, my original idea and the means for publishing it. The book will pay for itself, won't it?"

"If we hit on the right plan, the book will go over."

"I warn you that it's not for the sake of profit, but I wish very much for the book to sell, and I'll be proud of the profit."

"Well, and what does it have to do with me?"

"But it's you I'm asking to be my collaborator... half and half. You will work out the plan."

"What makes you think I'm capable of working out the plan?"

"I was told about you, and I heard here ... I know you're very intelligent and... occupied with important things... and you think a lot; I was told about you by Pyotr Stepanovich Verkhovensky in Switzerland," she added hastily. "He's a very intelligent man, isn't he?"

Shatov gave her a momentary oblique glance, but at once lowered his eyes.

"And Nikolai Vsevolodovich also told me a lot about you..."

Shatov suddenly blushed.

"Anyway, here are the newspapers," Liza hastily snatched up from a chair a stack of prepared and tied-up newspapers, "here, I've tried to mark some choice facts, to make a selection, and add numbers... you'll see."

Shatov took the bundle.

"Take it home and have a look—where is it you live?"

"On Bogoyavlensky Street, in Filippov's house."

"I know. I've heard there's also some captain who, it seems, lives next to you—a Mr. Lebyadkin?" Liza went on hastily as before.

Shatov, holding the stack of papers in his still outstretched hand, sat there for a whole minute without replying, staring down.

"Why don't you choose someone else for this business, I won't be of any use to you," he said finally, lowering his voice somehow terribly strangely, almost to a whisper.

Liza blushed.

"What business are you talking about? Mavriky Nikolaevich!" she cried, "that letter, please."

I went up to the table together with Mavriky Nikolaevich.

"Look at this," she suddenly turned to me, unfolding the letter in great agitation. "Have you ever seen anything like it? Please read it aloud; I want Mr. Shatov to hear it, too."

With no little astonishment I read aloud the following epistle:

To the Perfection of the Young Miss Tushin.

Dear lady, Elizaveta Nikolaevna!

Oh, what a lovely vision

Is Elizaveta Tushin.

When she flies sidesaddle with her relation

And her locks share the wind's elation, Or when with her mother in church she bows

And the blush of reverent faces shows, Then matrimonial and lawful delights I do desire, And after her, and her mother, send my tear.

Composed by an unlearned man in an argument.

Dear lady!

I pity myself most of all for having not lost an arm at Sebastopol in the cause of glory, not having been there at all, but served the whole campaign managing vile provisions, considering it baseness. You are a goddess in antiquity, and I am nothing but have guessed about the boundlessness. Consider it as verse and no more, for verse is nonsense after all and justifies what is considered boldness in prose. Can the sun be angry at an infusorian if it composes from its drop of water, where there is a multitude of them, as seen in a microscope? Even the very club of human kindness towards big cattle in Petersburg of high society, rightly commiserating with the dog and the horse, scorns the brief infusorian, not mentioning it at all, because it has not grown big enough. I have not grown big enough either. The thought of marriage might seem killing; but soon I will possess a former two hundred souls through a hater of mankind whom you should scorn. I can tell much, and volunteer it according to documents— enough for Siberia. Do not scorn the offer. The letter from the infusorian is to be understood in verse.

Captain Lebyadkin, a humble friend, with much free time to spend.

"This was written by a man in a drunken state and a scoundrel!" I cried out indignantly. "I know him!"