“You are not mistaken,” said Pyotr Stepanovitch, “it’s just that I’ve come about.”
“Today?”
“No, no, tomorrow … about this time.” And he hurriedly sat down at the table, watching Kirillov’s agitation with some uneasiness. But the latter had already regained his composure and looked as usual.
“These people still refuse to believe in you. You are not vexed at my bringing Liputin?”
“Today I am not vexed; tomorrow I want to be alone.”
“But not before I come, and therefore in my presence.”
“I should prefer not in your presence.”
“You remember you promised to write and to sign all I dictated.”
“I don’t care. And now will you be here long?”
“I have to see one man and to remain half an hour, so whatever you say I shall stay that half-hour.”
Kirillov did not speak. Liputin meanwhile sat down on one side under the portrait of the bishop. That last desperate idea gained more and more possession of him. Kirillov scarcely noticed him. Liputin had heard of Kirillov’s theory before and always laughed at him; but now he was silent and looked gloomily round him.
“I’ve no objection to some tea,” said Pyotr Stepanovitch, moving up. “I’ve just had some steak and was reckoning on getting tea with you.”
“Drink it. You can have some if you like.”
“You used to offer it to me,” observed Pyotr Stepanovitch sourly.
“That’s no matter. Let Liputin have some too.”
“No, I … can’t.”
“Don’t want to or can’t?” said Pyotr Stepanovitch, turning quickly to him.
“I am not going to here,” Liputin said expressively.
Pyotr Stepanovitch frowned.
“There’s a flavour of mysticism about that; goodness knows what to make of you people!”
No one answered; there was a full minute of silence.
“But I know one thing,” he added abruptly, “that no superstition will prevent any one of us from doing his duty.”
“Has Stavrogin gone?” asked Kirillov.
“Yes.”
“He’s done well.”
Pyotr Stepanovitch’s eyes gleamed, but he restrained himself.
“I don’t care what you think as long as everyone keeps his word.”
“I’ll keep my word.”
“I always knew that you would do your duty like an independent and progressive man.”
“You are an absurd fellow.”
“That may be; I am very glad to amuse you. I am always glad if I can give people pleasure.”
“You are very anxious I should shoot myself and are afraid I might suddenly not?”
“Well, you see, it was your own doing—connecting your plan with our work. Reckoning on your plan we have already done something, so that you couldn’t refuse now because you’ve let us in for it.”
“You’ve no claim at all.”
“I understand, I understand; you are perfectly free, and we don’t come in so long as your free intention is carried out.”
“And am I to take on myself all the nasty things you’ve done?”
“Listen, Kirillov, are you afraid? If you want to cry off, say so at once.”
“I am not afraid.”
“I ask because you are making so many inquiries.”
“Are you going soon?”
“Asking questions again?”
Kirillov scanned him contemptuously.
“You see,” Pyotr Stepanovitch went on, getting angrier and angrier, and unable to take the right tone, “you want me to go away, to be alone, to concentrate yourself, but all that’s a bad sign for you—for you above all. You want to think a great deal. To my mind you’d better not think. And really you make me uneasy.”
“There’s only one thing I hate, that at such a moment I should have a reptile like you beside me.”
“Oh, that doesn’t matter. I’ll go away at the time and stand on the steps if you like. If you are so concerned about trifles when it comes to dying, then … it’s all a very bad sign. I’ll go out on to the steps and you can imagine I know nothing about it, and that I am a man infinitely below you.”
“No, not infinitely; you’ve got abilities, but there’s a lot you don’t understand because you are a low man.”
“Delighted, delighted. I told you already I am delighted to provide entertainment … at such a moment.”
“You don’t understand anything.”
“That is, I … well, I listen with respect, anyway.”
“You can do nothing; even now you can’t hide your petty spite, though it’s not to your interest to show it. You’ll make me cross, and then I may want another six months.” Pyotr Stepanovitch looked at his watch. “I never understood your theory, but I know you didn’t invent it for our sakes, so I suppose you would carry it out apart from us. And I know too that you haven’t mastered the idea but the idea has mastered you, so you won’t put it off.”
“What? The idea has mastered me?”
“Yes.”
“And not I mastered the idea? That’s good. You have a little sense. Only you tease me and I am proud.”
“That’s a good thing, that’s a good thing. Just what you need, to be proud.”
“Enough. You’ve drunk your tea; go away.”
“Damn it all, I suppose I must”—Pyotr Stepanovitch got up—“though it’s early. Listen, Kirillov. Shall I find that man—you know whom I mean—at Myasnitchiha’s? Or has she too been lying?”
“You won’t find him, because he is here and not there.”
“Here! Damn it all, where?”
“Sitting in the kitchen, eating and drinking.”
“How dared he?” cried Pyotr Stepanovitch, flushing angrily. “It was his duty to wait … what nonsense! He has no passport, no money!”
“I don’t know. He came to say goodbye; he is dressed and ready. He is going away and won’t come back. He says you are a scoundrel and he doesn’t want to wait for your money.”
“Ha ha! He is afraid that I’ll … But even now I can … if … Where is he, in the kitchen?”
Kirillov opened a side door into a tiny dark room; from this room three steps led straight to the part of the kitchen where the cook’s bed was usually put, behind the partition. Here, in the corner under the icons, Fedka was sitting now, at a bare deal table. Before him stood a pint bottle, a plate of
