'You are ridiculous.'
'So be it, I'm very glad to make you laugh. I'm always glad to be able to oblige.'
'You want very much that I shoot myself, and are afraid if suddenly not?'
'I mean, you see, you yourself joined your plan with our actions. Counting on your plan, we've already undertaken something, so you simply cannot refuse, because you would let us down.'
'No right at all.'
'I understand, I understand, it's entirely as you will, and we are nothing, just as long as this entire will of yours gets carried out.'
'And I'll have to take all your vileness on myself?'
'Listen, Kirillov, you haven't turned coward? If you want to refuse, say so right now.'
'I haven't turned coward.'
'It's because you're asking too many questions.'
'Will you leave soon?'
'Another question?'
Kirillov looked him over with contempt.
'Here, you see,' Pyotr Stepanovich went on, getting more and more angry, worried, unable to find the right tone, 'you want me to leave, for solitude, in order to concentrate, but these are all dangerous signs for you, for you first of all. You want to think a lot. In my view, it's better not to think, but just to do it. You worry me, you really do.'
'Only one thing is very bad for me, that at that moment there will be such a viper as you around me.'
'Well, that makes no difference. Maybe when the time comes I'll go out and stand on the porch. If you're dying and show such a lack of indifference, then ... this is all very dangerous. I'll go out on the porch, and you can suppose that I understand nothing and am a man immeasurably lower than you.'
'No, not immeasurably; you have abilities, but there is a lot you don't understand, because you are a low man.'
'Very glad, very glad. I've already said I'm glad to provide diversion ... at such a moment.'
'You understand nothing.'
'I mean, I... anyway, I listen with respect.'
'You can do nothing; even now you cannot hide your petty spitefulness, though it's unprofitable to show it. You will make me angry, and I will suddenly want half a year longer.'
Pyotr Stepanovich looked at his watch.
'I've never understood a thing about your theory, but I do know that you didn't make it up for us, and so you'll carry it out without us. I also know that it was not you who ate the idea, but the idea that ate you, and so you won't put it off.'
'What? The idea ate me?'
'Yes.'
'Not me the idea? That's good. You have some small intelligence. Only you keep teasing, and I am proud.'
'Wonderful, wonderful. That's precisely how it should be—that you should be proud.'
'Enough; you've drunk, now go.'
'Devil take it, I guess I'll have to,' Pyotr Stepanovich stood up. 'It's still early, though. Listen, Kirillov, will I find our man at Myasnichikha's, you know? Or was she lying, too?'
'You won't, because he's here, not there.'
'How, here, devil take it, where?'
'He's sitting in the kitchen, eating and drinking.'
'But how dared he?' Pyotr Stepanovich flushed wrathfully. 'He was obliged to wait. . . nonsense! He's got no passport or money!'
'I don't know. He came to say good-bye; he's dressed and ready. He's leaving and won't come back. He said you're a scoundrel and he doesn't want to wait for your money.'
'Ahh! He's afraid I'll... well, I might even now, if he... Where is he, in the kitchen?'
Kirillov opened a side door into a tiny, dark room; from this room three steps led down to the kitchen, directly into the partitioned-off closet where the cook's bed usually stood. It was here, in the corner, under the icons, that Fedka was now sitting at a bare wooden table. In front of him on the table were a small bottle, a plate with bread, and, on an earthenware dish, a cold piece of beef with potatoes. He was having a leisurely snack, and was already slightly tipsy, but had his sheepskin coat on and was apparently quite ready to set off. A samovar was beginning to boil behind the partition, but it wasn't for Fedka, though Fedka himself had made a point of lighting it and preparing it every night for a week or more, for 'Alexei Nilych, sir, seeing as he's so ver-ry accustomed to having tea at night.' I strongly suspect that the beef and potatoes had been roasted for Fedka that morning by Kirillov himself, for lack of a cook.
'What do you think you're doing?' Pyotr Stepanovich rolled into the downstairs. 'Why didn't you stay where you were ordered to?'
And he swung and banged his fist on the table.
