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."
"Yes, but remember you pledged that when you wrote the dying letter it would not be without me, and that on my arrival in Russia you would be at my... well, in short, at my disposal, that is, for this occasion alone, of course, and in all others you are certainly free," Pyotr Stepanovich added, almost courteously.
"I did not pledge, I consented, because it makes no difference to me."
"Wonderful, wonderful, I don't have the slightest intention of dampening your pride, but..."
"This is not pride."
"But remember that a hundred and twenty thalers were collected for your trip, so you took money."
"Not at all," Kirillov flared up, "not for that. One does not take money for that."
"Sometimes one does."
"You're lying. I declared in a letter from Petersburg, and in Petersburg I paid you a hundred and twenty thalers, handed them to you... and they were sent there, unless you kept them."
"Very well, very well, I'm not disputing anything, they were sent. The main thing is that you're of the same mind as before."
"The same. When you come and say 'it's time,' I'll fulfill everything. What, very soon?"
"Not so many days... But remember, we compose the note together, that same night."
"Or day, even. You say I must take the blame for the tracts?"
"And something else."
"I won't take everything on myself."
"What won't you take?" Pyotr Stepanovich got fluttered up again.
"Whatever I don't want to; enough. I don't want to talk about it anymore."
Pyotr Stepanovich restrained himself and changed the subject.
"Here's another thing," he warned. "Will you join us this evening? It's Virginsky's name day, that's the pretext for the gathering."
"I don't want to."
"Do me a favor and come. You must. You must, to impress them with numbers, and with your face... Your face is... well, in short, you have a fatal face."
"You find it so?" laughed Kirillov. "Very well, I'll come. Only not for my face. When?"
"Oh, earlyish, half past six. And, you know, you can come in, sit down, and not speak to anyone, however many there are. Only, you know, don't forget to bring a pencil and paper with you."
"What for?"
"It makes no difference to you anyway; and it's my special request. You'll just sit without speaking to anyone at all, listen, and from time to time make as if you're taking notes; well, you can draw something."