“But I tell you that at the utmost there are not more than five people in it⁠—a dozen perhaps. How can I tell?”

“You don’t know?”

“How should I know?⁠—damn it all.”

“Why, you knew that Shatov was one of the conspirators.”

“Ech!” Pyotr Stepanovitch waved his hand as though to keep off the overwhelming penetration of the inquirer. “Well, listen. I’ll tell you the whole truth: of the manifestoes I know nothing⁠—that is, absolutely nothing. Damn it all, don’t you know what nothing means?⁠ ⁠… That sublieutenant, to be sure, and somebody else and someone else here⁠ ⁠… and Shatov perhaps and someone else too⁠—well, that’s the lot of them⁠ ⁠… a wretched lot.⁠ ⁠… But I’ve come to intercede for Shatov. He must be saved, for this poem is his, his own composition, and it was through him it was published abroad; that I know for a fact, but of the manifestoes I really know nothing.”