Demons, p.72
Demons, page 72
"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..."
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.
"Devil take it, he won't shoot himself," he thought. "I always suspected it; it's a kink in his brain and nothing more. What trash!"
"You're the last to be with me; I wouldn't like to part badly with you," Kirillov suddenly bestowed.
Pyotr Stepanovich did not answer at once. "Devil take it, what's this now?" he thought again.
"Believe me, Kirillov, I have nothing against you personally as a man, and I've always..."
"You are a scoundrel and a false mind. But I am the same as you are, and I will shoot myself, while you remain alive."
"That is, you mean to say I'm so base as to want to remain alive."
He still could not tell whether it was profitable or unprofitable for him to continue such a conversation at such a moment, and decided to "give himself up to circumstances." But Kirillov's tone of superiority and ever undisguised contempt for him had always annoyed him before, and now for some reason even more than before. Perhaps because Kirillov, who was going to die in an hour or so (Pyotr Stepanovich still kept that in mind), appeared to him as something like a half-man, something of such kind as could no longer be allowed any haughtiness.
"You seem to be boasting to me about shooting yourself?"
"I've always been surprised that everyone remains alive." Kirillov did not hear his remark.
"Hm, that's an idea, I suppose, but..."
"Ape! You yes me to win me over. Keep still, you won't understand anything. If there is no God, then I am God."
"Now, there's the one point of yours that I could never understand: why are you God then?"
"If there is God, then the will is all his, and I cannot get out of his will. If not, the will is all mine, and it is my duty to proclaim self-will."
"Self-will? And why is it your duty?"
"Because the will has all become mine. Can it be that no one on the whole planet, having ended God and believed in self-will, dares to proclaim self-will to the fullest point? It's as if a poor man received an inheritance, got scared, and doesn't dare go near the bag, thinking he's too weak to own it. I want to proclaim self-will. I may be the only one, but I'll do it."
"Do it, then."
"It is my duty to shoot myself because the fullest point of my self-will is—for me to kill myself."
"But you're not the only one to kill yourself; there are lots of suicides."
"For reasons. But without any reason, simply for self-will—only I."
"He won't shoot himself," flashed again in Pyotr Stepanovich.
"You know what," he observed irritably, "in your place, if I wanted to show self-will, I'd kill somebody else and not myself. You could become useful. I'll point out whom, if you're not afraid. Then maybe there's no need to shoot yourself today. We could come to terms."
"To kill someone else would be the lowest point of my self-will, and there's the whole of you in that. I am not you: I want the highest point, and will kill myself."
"Reasoned it all out for himself," Pyotr Stepanovich growled spitefully.
"It is my duty to proclaim unbelief," Kirillov was pacing the room. "For me no idea is higher than that there is no God. The history of mankind is on my side. Man has done nothing but invent God, so as to live without killing himself; in that lies the whole of world history up to now. I alone for the first time in world history did not want to invent God. Let them know once and for all."
"He won't shoot himself," Pyotr Stepanovich worried.
"Who is there to know?" he kept prodding. "There is you and me, and who—Liputin?"
"Everyone is to know; everyone will know. There is nothing hid that shall not be revealed.[195] He said that."
And he pointed with feverish rapture to the icon of the Savior, before which an icon lamp was burning. Pyotr Stepanovich got thoroughly angry.
"So you still believe in Him, and keep the little lamp lit; what is it, 'just in case' or something?"
The other was silent.
"You know what, I think you believe maybe even more than any priest."
"In whom? In Him ? Listen," Kirillov stopped, gazing before him with fixed, ecstatic eyes. "Listen to a big idea: There was one day on earth, and in the middle of the earth stood three crosses. One on a cross believed so much that he said to another: 'This day you will be with me in paradise.'[196] The day ended, they both died, went, and did not find either paradise or resurrection. What had been said would not prove true. Listen: this man was the highest on all the earth, he constituted what it was to live for. Without this man the whole planet with everything on it is—madness only. There has not been one like Him before or since, not ever, even to the point of miracle. This is the miracle, that there has not been and never will be such a one. And if so, if the laws of nature did not pity even This One, did not pity even their own miracle, but made Him, too, live amidst a lie and die for a lie, then the whole planet is a lie, and stands upon a lie and a stupid mockery. Then the very laws of the planet are a lie and a devil's vaudeville. Why live then, answer me, if you're a man."
"That's another turn of affairs. It seems to me you have two different causes mixed up here; and that is highly untrustworthy. But, excuse me, what if you are God? If the lie ended and you realized that the whole lie was because there had been this former God?"
"You've finally understood!" Kirillov cried out rapturously. "So it can be understood, if even someone like you understands! You understand now that the whole salvation for everyone is to prove this thought to them all. Who will prove it? I! I don't understand how, up to now, an atheist could know there is no God and not kill himself at once. To recognize that there is no God, and not to recognize at the same time that you have become God, is an absurdity, otherwise you must necessarily kill yourself. Once you recognize it, you are king, and you will not kill yourself but will live in the chiefest glory. But one, the one who is first, must necessarily kill himself, otherwise who will begin and prove it? It is I who will necessarily kill myself in order to begin and prove it. I am still God against my will, and I am unhappy, because it is my duty to proclaim self-will. Everyone is unhappy, because everyone is afraid to proclaim self-will. That is why man has been so unhappy and poor up to now, because he was afraid to proclaim the chief point of self-will and was self-willed only on the margins, like a schoolboy. I am terribly unhappy, because I am terribly afraid. Fear is man's curse... But I will proclaim self-will, it is my duty to believe that I do not believe. I will begin, and end, and open the door. And save. Only this one thing will save all men and in the next generation transform them physically; for in the present physical aspect, so far as I have thought, it is in no way possible for man to be without the former God. For three years I have been searching for the attribute of my divinity, and I have found it: the attribute of my divinity is—Self-will! That is all, by which I can show in the main point my insubordination and my new fearsome freedom. For it is very fearsome. I kill myself to show my insubordination and my new fearsome freedom."
His face was unnaturally pale, his look unbearably heavy. He was as if delirious. Pyotr Stepanovich thought he was going to collapse right there.
"Give me the pen!" Kirillov suddenly cried quite unexpectedly, in decided inspiration. "Dictate, I'll sign everything. I'll sign that I killed Shatov, too. Dictate while I'm laughing. I'm not afraid of the thoughts of arrogant slaves! You'll see yourself that all that is hid shall be revealed! And you will be crushed ... I believe! I believe!"
Pyotr Stepanovich snatched himself from his place and instantly gave him an inkstand, paper, and began to dictate, seizing the moment and trembling for his success.
“‘I, Alexei Kirillov, declare...’”
"Wait! I don't want to! Declare to whom?"
Kirillov was shaking as if in a fever. This declaration and some sudden, special thought about it seemed to have absorbed him entirely all at once, as if it were some outlet where, if only for a moment, his tormented spirit rushed precipitously:
"Declare to whom? I want to know whom!"
"To nobody, to everybody, to the first one who reads it. Why specify? To the whole world!"
"To the whole world? Bravo! And so there's no need for repentance. I don't want repentance; and not to any authorities!"
"No, no need, devil take the authorities! but write, if you're serious! ..." Pyotr Stepanovich yelled hysterically.
"Wait! I want a face at the top with its tongue sticking out."
"Ehh, nonsense!" Pyotr Stepanovich got furious. "All that can be expressed without any drawing, just by the tone."
"The tone? That's good. Yes, by the tone, the tone! Dictate with the tone."
“‘I, Alexei Kirillov,’” Pyotr Stepanovich dictated firmly and imperiously, leaning over Kirillov's shoulder and following every letter as he traced it with a hand trembling from excitement, “‘I, Kirillov, declare that today, the -th of October, in the evening, between seven and eight, I killed the student Shatov, for betrayal, in the park, and for his denunciation about the tracts and about Fedka, who secretly lodged with the two of us in Filippov's house, and spent ten days' nights there. And I kill myself today with my revolver not because I repent and am afraid of you, but because abroad I had the intention of ending my life.’”
"Only that?" Kirillov exclaimed with astonishment and indignation.
"Not a word more!" Pyotr Stepanovich waved his hand, trying to snatch the document from him.
"Wait!" Kirillov placed his hand firmly on the paper. "Wait, that's nonsense! I want who I killed him with. Why Fedka? And the fire? I want everything, and also more abuse, in the tone, in the tone!"
"Enough, Kirillov, I assure you it's enough!" Pyotr Stepanovich almost implored, trembling lest he tear the paper up. "So that they'll believe you, you must be as obscure as possible, precisely like that, with just hints. You must show only a little corner of the truth, exactly enough to get them excited. They'll always heap up more lies for themselves, and will certainly believe themselves better than us, and that's the best thing, the best of all! Give it to me; it's splendid as it is; give it to me, give it to me!"
And he kept trying to snatch the paper away. Kirillov, his eyes popping out, listened as if trying to make sense of it, but it seemed he was ceasing to understand.
"Eh, the devil!" Pyotr Stepanovich suddenly got furious, "but he hasn't even signed it yet! Why are you popping your eyes out— sign it!"
"I want more abuse..." Kirillov muttered, though he did take the pen and sign. "I want more abuse..."
"Sign: Vive la république, and enough."
"Bravo!" Kirillov almost bellowed with rapture. "Vive la république démocratique, sociale et universelle ou la mort! ... No, no, not that! Liberté, égalité, fraternité ou la mort![clix] There, that's better, that's better," he wrote it delightedly under his signature.
"Enough, enough," Pyotr Stepanovich kept repeating.
"Wait, a little bit more... You know, I'll sign it again in French: 'de Kirilloff, gentilhomme russe et citoyen du monde.'[clx] Ha, ha, ha!"[197] he dissolved in laughter. "No, no, no, wait, I've got the best one, eureka: gentilhomme-séminariste russe et citoyen du monde civilisé![clxi]—that's better than any..." he jumped up from the sofa and suddenly, with a quick gesture, snatched the revolver from the windowsill, ran into the other room with it, and closed the door tightly behind him. Pyotr Stepanovich stood for a moment pondering, looking at the door.
"If it's right now, maybe he'll really shoot, but if he starts thinking— nothing will happen."
Meanwhile, he took the paper, sat down, and looked it over once more. He was pleased, again, with the wording of the declaration.
"What's needed meanwhile? What's needed is to throw them off completely for a time, and so distract them. The park? There's no park in town, so they'll figure out for themselves that it's Skvoreshniki. While they're figuring it out, time will pass; while they search—more time; and once they find the corpse—it means what's written here is true, and so it's also true about Fedka. And what is Fedka? Fedka is the fire, he's the Lebyadkins; so everything was coming from here, from Filippov's house, and they didn't see a thing, they overlooked it all—now, that will put them into a real whirl! It won't even enter their minds about our people; it's Shatov, and Kirillov, and Fedka, and Lebyadkin; as for why they killed each other—there's another little question for them. Eh, the devil, no sound of a shot yet! ..."
