'Yes, also about the tracts. Anyhow, I'll dictate it. It really makes no difference to you. Can you possibly worry about the contents at such a moment?'
'None of your business.'
'Of course not. Anyhow, just a few lines: that you and Shatov distributed the tracts—with the help of Fedka, incidentally, who was hiding out in your apartment. This last point about Fedka and the apartment is quite important, even the most important. You see, I'm being completely frank with you.'
'And Shatov? Why Shatov? Not Shatov, not for anything.'
'Come on, what is it to you? You can't harm him now.'
'His wife came to him. She woke up and sent to ask me where he is.'
'She sent to find out where he is from you? Hm, that's not good. She might send again; no one must know I'm here...'
Pyotr Stepanovich became worried.
'She won't find out, she's asleep again; the midwife is with her, Arina Virginsky.'
'That's just... and she won't hear, I suppose? You know, why don't we lock the front door?'
'She won't hear anything. And if Shatov comes, I'll hide you in that room.'
'Shatov won't come; and you are going to write that you quarreled over his betrayal and denunciation... this night. . . and the cause of his death.'
'He died!' Kirillov cried out, jumping up from the sofa.
'Today, between seven and eight in the evening, or, rather, yesterday between seven and eight in the evening, since it's now past midnight.'
'You killed him! ... And I foresaw it yesterday!'
'How could you not foresee it! With this revolver' (he pulled out the revolver, ostensibly to show it, after which he did not put it away again, but went on holding it in his right hand, as if in readiness). 'You, however, are a strange man, Kirillov, you yourself knew it would have to end this way with that foolish man. What else was there to foresee? I chewed it all over for you several times. Shatov was preparing a denunciation: I was watching him; there was no way to let it go at that. And you, too, had instructions to watch him; you told me so yourself three weeks ago...'
'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 all: 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...'
