"Keep still! You did it because he spat in your face in Geneva!"
"For that, and for other things. For many other things; though without any malice. Why jump up like that? What's this posturing? Oho! So that's how we are! ..."
He jumped up and raised the revolver in front of him. The thing was that Kirillov had suddenly snatched his revolver from the windowsill, loaded and ready since morning. Pyotr Stepanovich positioned himself and aimed his weapon at Kirillov. The latter laughed spitefully.
"Confess, scoundrel, that you took out the revolver because I'm going to shoot you... But I'm not going to shoot you ... although... although ..."
And again he aimed his revolver at Pyotr Stepanovich as if trying it out, as if unable to deny himself the pleasure of imagining how it would be to shoot him. Pyotr Stepanovich, still positioned, was biding, biding his time until the last moment without pulling the trigger, running the risk of getting a bullet in his own head first: one might well expect it from a "maniac." But the "maniac" finally lowered his arm, gasping and trembling, unable to speak.
"We've had our play and that's enough," Pyotr Stepanovich also lowered his weapon. "I just knew you were playing; only, you know, you were taking a risk: I might have pulled the trigger."
And he sat down rather calmly on the sofa and poured himself some tea, though with a slightly trembling hand. Kirillov put his revolver on the table and started pacing back and forth.
"I won't write that I killed Shatov and ... I won't write anything now. There won't be any document!"
"There won't?"
"There won't."
"What meanness and what foolishness!" Pyotr Stepanovich turned green with anger. "I anticipated it, though. Let me tell you that you haven't caught me unawares. However, as you wish. If I could force you, I would. You are a scoundrel, though," Pyotr Stepanovich became more and more unable to stand it. "You asked us for money that time and made a whole cartload of promises ... Only I still won't leave without the result, I'll still see at least how you blow your head off."
"I want you to leave here now," Kirillov stopped firmly in front of him.
"No, sir, that I won't," Pyotr Stepanovich grabbed his revolver again. "You might decide now, from spite and cowardice, to put it all off and go and denounce us tomorrow, to procure a bit of cash again— they do pay for such things. Devil take you, paltry people like you are ripe for anything! Only don't worry, I foresaw it alclass="underline" I won't leave before I've blown your brains out with this revolver, like that scoundrel Shatov's, if you turn coward and put off your intention, devil take you!"
"You absolutely want to see my blood, too?"
"It's not out of malice, you understand; it makes no difference to me. It's so as not to worry about our cause. One can't rely on people, you see that yourself. I don't understand a thing about your fantasy of killing yourself. I didn't think it up for you, you did yourself even before me, and you originally announced it not to me but to the members abroad. And, notice, none of them tried to elicit anything, none of them even knew you at all, but you yourself came with your confidences, out of sentimentality. So what's to be done if, right then, on that basis, with your own consent and offer (make note of that: your offer!), a certain plan for local actions was made, which it is now quite impossible to change. You put yourself in such a position that you now know too much. If you turn tail and go tomorrow with a denunciation, that might prove rather unprofitable for us, don't you think? No, sir, you committed yourself, you gave your word, you took the money. There's no way you can deny that..."
Pyotr Stepanovich was greatly excited, but Kirillov had long since stopped listening. He was again thoughtfully pacing the room.
"I'm sorry for Shatov," he said, stopping in front of Pyotr Stepanovich again.
"Yes, well, maybe I'm sorry, too, but can it be..."
"Quiet, scoundrel!" Kirillov bellowed, making a terrible and unambiguous movement, "I'll kill you!"
"Well, well, well, so I lied, I agree, I'm not sorry at all; well, enough, enough now!" Pyotr Stepanovich jumped up apprehensively, holding out his hand.
Kirillov suddenly subsided and began pacing again.
"I won't put it off; I want to kill myself precisely now: men are all scoundrels!"
"Well, that's the idea; of course, men are all scoundrels, and since it's loathsome for a decent man to be in the world..."
"Fool, I am a scoundrel the same as you, as all of them, not a decent man. There has not been a decent man anywhere."
"He's finally figured it out. Can it be, Kirillov, that you, with your intelligence, have only now understood that everyone's the same, that no one's better or worse, but just smarter or stupider, and that if men are all scoundrels (which is nonsense, however), then it follows that there even oughtn't to be any non-scoundrels?"
"Ah! So you're really not laughing?" Kirillov looked at him with some surprise. "You're excited and simply ... Can it be that your kind have convictions?"
"Kirillov, I never could understand why you want to kill yourself. I know only that it's from conviction... firm conviction. But if you feel a need, so to speak, to pour yourself out, I'm at your service... Only we must consider the time..."
"What time is it?"
"Oho, the stroke of two," Pyotr Stepanovich looked at his watch and lit a cigarette.
"It seems we can still come to terms," he thought to himself.
"I have nothing to tell you," Kirillov muttered.
"I remember there was something about God... you did explain it to me once—twice, even. If you shoot yourself, you'll become God, is that right?"
"Yes, I will become God."
Pyotr Stepanovich did not even smile; he was waiting; Kirillov gave him a subtle look.
"You are a political crook and intriguer, you want to bring me down to philosophy and ecstasy and produce a reconciliation, to disperse wrath, and, once I'm reconciled, to extort a note that I killed Shatov."
Pyotr Stepanovich answered with an almost natural simpleheartedness:
"Well, suppose I am such a scoundrel, only in these last minutes what difference does it make, Kirillov? Why are we quarreling, tell me, please: you're this sort of man, I'm that sort of man—what of it? And besides, we're both..."
"Scoundrels."
"Yes, scoundrels, maybe. You know these are only words."
"All my life I did not want it to be only words. This is why I lived, because I kept not wanting it. And now, too, every day I want it not to be words."
"Well, each of us seeks a better place. A bug in a rug ... I mean, each of us seeks comfort of some sort; that's all. It's been known for an extremely long time."
"Comfort, you say?"
"Well, we're not going to quarrel over words."
"No, you said it well; let it be comfort. God is necessary, and therefore must exist."
"Well, that's wonderful."
"But I know that he does not and cannot exist."
"That's more like it."
"Don't you understand that a man with these two thoughts cannot go on living?"
"Must shoot himself, you mean?"
"Don't you understand that a man can shoot himself for that alone? You don't understand that there may be such a man, one man out of the thousands of your millions, one, who will not want it and will not endure it."
"I understand only that you seem to be hesitating... That's very bad."
"Stavrogin was also eaten by an idea." Kirillov, sullenly pacing the room, did not mark his remark.