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Updated: May 22, 2025
"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 didn't mean to insult that... fool, and I've insulted him again," he said quietly. "Yes, you've insulted him again," Kirillov jerked out, "and besides, he's not a fool." "I've done all I can, anyway." "No." "What ought I to have done?" "Not have challenged him." "Accept another blow in the face?" "Yes, accept another." "I can't understand anything now," said Stavrogin wrath-fully.
Kirillov, on the other hand, was perfectly calm and unconcerned, very exact over the details of the duties he had undertaken, but without the slightest fussiness or even curiosity as to the issue of the fateful contest that was so near at hand. Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch was paler than usual. He was rather lightly dressed in an overcoat and a white beaver hat.
The business needs accuracy, and you keep giving me such shocks. Will you let me speak?" "Speak," snapped Kirillov, looking away. "You made up your mind long ago to take your life... I mean, you had the idea in your mind. Is that the right expression? Is there any mistake about that?" "I have the same idea still." "Excellent. Take note that no one has forced it on you."
Pyotr Stepanoviteh jumped up from his seat and instantly handed him an inkstand and paper, and began dictating, seizing the moment, quivering with anxiety. "I, Alexey Kirillov, declare..." "Stay; I won't! To whom am I declaring it?" Kirillov was shaking as though he were in a fever.
Kirillov was sitting on his leather sofa drinking tea, as he always was at that hour. He did not get up to meet them, but gave a sort of start and looked at the new-comers anxiously. "You are not mistaken," said Pyotr Stepanovitch, "it's just that I've come about." "To-day?" "No, no, to-morrow... about this time."
Kirillov was bouncing a big red india-rubber ball on the floor before it. The ball bounced up to the ceiling, and back to the floor, the baby shrieked "Baw! baw!" Kirillov caught the "baw", and gave it to it. The baby threw it itself with its awkward little hand's, and Kirillov ran to pick it up again. At last the "baw" rolled under the cupboard. "Baw! baw!" cried the child.
Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch stepped over the high sill, and without a word passed by him straight into Kjrillov's lodge. There everything was unlocked and all the doors stood open. The passage and the first two rooms were dark, but there was a light shining in the last, in which Kirillov lived and drank tea, and laughter and strange cries came from it.
"Hang your merit. I don't seek anyone's approbation." "I thought you were seeking it," Kirillov commented with terrible unconcern. They rode into the courtyard of the house. "Do you care to come in?" said Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch. "No; I'm going home. Good-bye." He got off the horse and took his box of pistols under his arm.
Kirillov squatted on his heels before the trunk in the corner, which he had never yet unpacked, though things had been pulled out of it as required. He pulled out from the bottom a palm-wood box lined with red velvet, and from it took out a pair of smart and very expensive pistols. "I've got everything, powder, bullets, cartridges. I've a revolver besides, wait."
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