He suddenly paused.
"I talk and talk, however," he thought, "and he says nothing and keeps an eye on me. He came so that I'd ask him a direct question. And I will ask it."
"Yulia Mikhailovna asked me to trick you somehow into telling what this surprise is that you're preparing for the ball the day after tomorrow," Pyotr Stepanovich said suddenly.
"Yes, it will indeed be a surprise, and I will indeed amaze..." Karmazinov assumed a dignified air, "but I won't tell you what the secret is."
Pyotr Stepanovich did not insist.
"There's some Shatov here," the great writer inquired, "and, imagine, I haven't seen him."
"A very nice person. So?"
"That's all. He's talking about something. Was he the one who slapped Stavrogin in the face?"
"Yes."
"And what do you think of Stavrogin?"
"I don't know—some sort of philanderer."
Karmazinov had come to hate Stavrogin, because he made a habit of taking no notice of him.
"This philanderer," he said, tittering, "will probably be the first to be hung from a limb, if what's preached in those tracts ever gets carried out."
"Maybe even sooner," Pyotr Stepanovich said suddenly.
"And so it should be," Karmazinov echoed, not laughing now, but somehow all too serious.
"You already said that once, and, you know, I told him so."
"What, you really told him?" Karmazinov laughed again.
"He said if it was hanging from a limb for him, a whipping would be enough for you, only not an honorary one, but painful, the way they whip a peasant."
Pyotr Stepanovich took his hat and got up from his place. Karmazinov held out both hands to him in farewell.
"And what," he peeped suddenly, in a honeyed little voice and with some special intonation, still holding his hands in his own, "what if all... that's being planned... were set to be carried out, then when... might it happen?"
"How should I know?" Pyotr Stepanovich replied, somewhat rudely. They gazed intently into each other's eyes.
"Roughly? Approximately?" Karmazinov peeped still more sweetly.
"You'll have time to sell the estate, and time to clear out as well," Pyotr Stepanovich muttered, still more rudely. They both gazed at each other still more intently.
There was a minute of silence.
"It will begin by the beginning of next May, and be all over by the Protection," [141]Pyotr Stepanovich said suddenly.
"I sincerely thank you," Karmazinov said in a heartfelt voice, squeezing his hands.
"You'll have time, rat, to leave the ship!" Pyotr Stepanovich thought as he came outside. "Well, if even this 'all but statesmanly mind' is inquiring so confidently about the day and the hour, and thanks one so respectfully for the information received, we cannot doubt ourselves after that." (He grinned.) "Hm. And he's really not stupid, and... just a migratory rat; that kind won't inform!"
He ran to Bogoyavlensky Street, to Filippov's house.
VI
Pyotr Stepanovich went first to Kirillov. He was alone, as usual, and this time was doing exercises in the middle of the room— that is, he was standing with his legs apart, whirling his arms above his head in some special way. A ball was lying on the floor. The morning tea, already cold, had not been cleared from the table. Pyotr Stepanovich paused on the threshold for a minute.
"You take good care of your health, though," he said loudly and gaily, stepping into the room. "What a nice ball, though; look how it bounces! Is this also for exercise?"
Kirillov put his jacket on.
"Yes, also for health," he muttered dryly, "sit down."
"It's just for a minute. Still, I'll sit down. Health is health, but I've come to remind you of our agreement. Our time, sir, is 'in a certain sense' approaching," he concluded with an awkward twist.
"What agreement?"
"You ask, what agreement?" Pyotr Stepanovich got fluttered up, even frightened.
"It's not an agreement, or a duty, I'm bound by nothing, there's a mistake on your part."
"Listen, what is this you're doing?" Pyotr Stepanovich jumped all the way up.
"My will."
"Which is?"
"The same."
"I mean, how am I to understand that? You're still of the same mind?"
"I am. Only there is not and was not any agreement, and I'm bound by nothing. There was just my will, and now there is just my will."
Kirillov was talking abruptly and squeamishly.
"I agree, I agree, let it be your will, as long as this will doesn't change," Pyotr Stepanovich settled down again with a satisfied air. "You get angry at words. You've somehow become very angry lately;
that's why I've avoided visiting. I was completely sure, by the way, that you wouldn't change."
"I dislike you very much; but you can be completely sure. Though I do not recognize changes and non-changes."
"You know, though," Pyotr Stepanovich got fluttered up again, "why don't we talk it all over properly, so as not to be confused. The matter requires precision, and you disconcert me terribly. Am I permitted to speak?"
"Speak," Kirillov said curtly, looking into the corner.
"You resolved long ago to take your own life ... I mean, you did have such an idea. Have I put it right? Is there any mistake?"
"I have such an idea now, too."
"Wonderful. And note, also, that no one has forced you into it."
"To be sure; how stupidly you talk."
"All right, all right, so I put it very stupidly. No doubt it would be very stupid to force such things. To go on: you were a member of the Society under the old organization, and it was then that you confided it to one member of the Society."
"I did not confide it, I simply told it."
"All right. It would be ridiculous to 'confide' such a thing—what sort of confession is it? You simply told it. Wonderful."
"No, not wonderful, because you maunder so. I don't owe you any accounting, and you're not capable of understanding my thoughts. I want to take my own life because I have this thought, because I do not want the fear of death, because ... because there's nothing here for you to know... What is it? Want some tea? It's cold. Let me get you another glass."
Indeed, Pyotr Stepanovich had grabbed the teapot and was looking for an empty receptacle. Kirillov went to the cupboard and brought a clean glass.
"I just had lunch with Karmazinov," the visitor observed, "listened to him talk, got sweaty, then ran here and again got sweaty, I'm dying of thirst."
"Drink. Cold tea is good."
Kirillov sat down on his chair again, and again stared into the corner.
"A thought occurred in the Society," he went on in the same voice, "that I could be useful if I killed myself, and that one day when you got into some kind of mischief and they were looking for culprits, I could suddenly shoot myself and leave a letter that I had done it all, so that they wouldn't suspect you for a whole year."
"Or at least a few days; even one day is precious."
"Very well. In that sense I was told to wait if I liked. I said I would, until I was told the time by the Society, because it makes no difference to me."