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Updated: May 22, 2025
"Kirillov, my wife is in childbirth." "How do you mean?" "Childbirth, bearing a child!" "You... are not mistaken?" "Oh, no, no, she is in agonies! I want a woman, any old woman, I must have one at once.... Can you get one now? You used to have a lot of old women...."
By the end of the day people knew of Pyotr Stepanovitch's absence too, and, strange to say, less was said of him than of anyone. What was talked of most all that day was "the senator." There was a crowd almost all day at Filipov's house. The police certainly were led astray by Kirillov's letter. They believed that Kirillov had murdered Shatov and had himself committed suicide.
It turned out that he knew enough, and presented things in a fairly true light: the tragedy of Shatov and Kirillov, the fire, the death of the Lebyadkins, and the rest of it were relegated to the background. Pyotr Stepanovitch, the secret society, the organisation, and the network were put in the first place.
I say, you'd better shut the front door." "She won't overhear anything. And if Shatov comes I'll hide you in another room." "Shatov won't come; and you must write that you quarrelled with him because he turned traitor and informed the police... this evening.. . and caused his death." "He is dead!" cried Kirillov, jumping up from the sofa.
"And am I to take on myself all the nasty things you've done?" "Listen, Kirillov, are you afraid? If you want to cry off, say so at once." "I am not afraid." "I ask because you are making so many inquiries." "Are you going soon?" "Asking questions again?" Kirillov scanned him contemptuously.
You must. We must impress them by our number and our looks. You have a face... well, in one word, you have a fateful face." "You think so?" laughed Kirillov. "Very well, I'll come, but not for the sake of my face. What time is it?" "Oh, quite early, half-past six. And, you know, you can go in, sit down, and not speak to any one, however many there may be there.
Yes.... Stay, do you have moments of the eternal harmony, Shatov?" "You know, Kirillov, you mustn't go on staying up every night." Kirillov came out of his reverie and, strange to say, spoke far more coherently than he usually did; it was clear that he had formulated it long ago and perhaps written it down.
Kirillov, in the greatness of his soul, could not compromise with an idea, and shot himself; but I see, of course, that he was great-souled because he had lost his reason. I can never lose my reason, and I can never believe in an idea to such a degree as he did. I cannot even be interested in an idea to such a degree. I can never, never shoot myself.
And I particularly beg you to arrange to fix the barriers at ten paces apart; then you put each of us ten paces from the barrier, and at a given signal we approach. Each must go right up to his barrier, but you may fire before, on the way. I believe that's all." "Ten paces between the barriers is very near," observed Kirillov. "Well, twelve then, but not more.
"Upon my word, Stepan Trofimovitch," muttered Liputin, seeming greatly alarmed, "upon my word..." "Hold your tongue and begin! I beg you, Mr. Kirillov, to come back too, and be present. I earnestly beg you! Sit down, and you, Liputin, begin directly, simply and without any excuses." "If I had only known it would upset you so much I wouldn't have begun at all.
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