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.
'What?' Pyotr Stepanovich pricked up his ears. 'What idea? Did he tell you something himself?'
'No, I myself guessed it: if Stavrogin believes, he does not believe that he believes. And if he does not believe, he does not believe that he does not believe.'
'Well, Stavrogin also has other things more intelligent than that. . .' Pyotr Stepanovich muttered peevishly, watching with alarm the turn of the conversation and the pale Kirillov.
