The possessed or, The devils
you are, and I will shoot myself while you will remain living."
"You mean to say, I am so abject that I want to go on living."
He could not make up his mind whether it was judicious to keep up such
a conversation at such a moment or not, and resolved "to be guided by
circumstances." But the tone of superiority and of contempt for him,
which Kirillov had never disguised, had always irritated him, and
now for some reason it irritated him more than ever--possibly because
Kirillov, who was to die within an hour or so (Pyotr Stepanovitch still
reckoned upon this), seemed to him, as it were, already only half a man,
some creature whom he could not allow to be haughty.
"You seem to be boasting to me of your shooting yourself."
"I've always been surprised at every one's going on living," said
Kirillov, not hearing his remark.
"H'm! Admitting that's an idea, but..."
"You ape, you assent to get the better of me. Hold your tongue; you
won't understand anything. If there is no God, then I am God."
"There, I could never understand that point of yours: why are you God?"
"If God exists, all is His will and from His will I cannot escape. If
not, it's all my will and I am bound to show self-will."
"Self-will? But why are you bound?"
"Because all will has become mine. Can it be that no one in the whole
planet, after making an end of God and believing in his own will, will
dare to express his self-will on the most vital point? It's like a
beggar inheriting a fortune and being afraid of it and not daring to
approach the bag of gold, thinking himself too weak to own it. I want to
manifest my self-will. I may be the only one, but I'll do it."
"Do it by all means."
"I am bound to shoot myself because the highest point of my self-will is
to kill myself with my own hands."
"But you won't be the only one to kill yourself; there are lots of
suicides."
"With good cause. But to do it without any cause at all, simply for
self-will, I am the only one."
"He won't shoot himself," flashed across Pyotr Stepanovitch's mind
again.
"Do you know," he observed irritably, "if I were in your place I should
kill someone else to show my self-will, not myself. You might be of
use. I'll tell you whom, if you are not afraid. Then you needn't shoot
yourself to-day, perhaps. We may come to terms."
"To kill someone would be the lowest point of self-will, and you show
your whole soul in that. I am not you: I want the highest point and I'll
kill myself."
"He's come to it of himself," Pyotr Stepanovitch muttered malignantly.
"I am bound to show my unbelief," said Kirillov, walking about the room.
"I have no higher idea than disbelief in God. I have all the history of
mankind on my side. Man has done nothing but invent God so as to go on
living, and not kill himself; that's the whole of universal history up
till now. I am the first one in the whole history of mankind who would
not invent God. Let them know it once for all."
"He won't shoot himself," Pyotr Stepanovitch thought anxiously.
"Let whom know it?" he said, egging him on. "It's only you and me here;
you mean Liputin?"
"Let every one know; all will know. There is nothing secret that will
not be made known. _He_ said so."
And he pointed with feverish enthusiasm to the image of the Saviour,
before which a lamp was burning. Pyotr Stepanovitch lost his temper
completely.
"So you still believe in Him, and you've lighted the lamp; 'to be on the
safe side,' I suppose?"
The other did not speak.
"Do you know, to my thinking, you believe perhaps more thoroughly than
any priest."
"Believe in whom? In _Him?_ Listen." Kirillov stood still, gazing before
him with fixed and ecstatic look. "Listen to a great idea: there was a
day on earth, and in the midst of the earth there stood three crosses.
One on the Cross had such faith that he said to another, 'To-day thou
shalt be with me in Paradise.' The day ended; both died and passed away
and found neither Paradise nor resurrection. His words did not come
true. Listen: that Man was the loftiest of all on earth, He was that
which gave meaning to life. The whole planet, with everything on it, is
mere madness without that Man. There has never been any like Him before
or since, never, up to a miracle. For that is the miracle, that there
never was or never will be another like Him. And if that is so, if
the laws of nature did not spare even Him, have not spared even their
miracle and made even Him live in a lie and die for a lie, then all the
planet is a lie and rests on a lie and on mockery. So then, the very
laws of the planet are a lie and the vaudeville of devils. What is there
to live for? Answer, if you are a man."
"That's a different matter. It seems to me you've mixed up two different
causes, and that's a very unsafe thing to do. But excuse me, if you are
God? If the lie were ended and if you realised that all the falsity
comes from the belief in that former God?"
"So at last you understand!" cried Kirillov rapturously. "So it can be
understood if even a fellow like you understands. Do you understand now
that the salvation for all consists in proving this idea to every one?
Who will prove it? I! I can't understand how an atheist could know that
there is no God and not kill himself on the spot. To recognise that
there is no God and not to recognise at the same instant that one is God
oneself is an absurdity, else one would certainly kill oneself. If you
recognise it you are sovereign, and then you won't kill yourself but
will live in the greatest glory. But one, the first, must kill himself,
for else who will begin and prove it? So I must certainly kill myself,
to begin and prove it. Now I am only a god against my will and I am
unhappy, because I am bound to assert my will. All are unhappy because
all are afraid to express their will. Man has hitherto been so unhappy
and so poor because he has been afraid to assert his will in the
highest point and has shown his self-will only in little things, like a
schoolboy. I am awfully unhappy, for I'm awfully afraid. Terror is the
curse of man.... But I will assert my will, I am bound to believe that
I don't believe. I will begin and will make an end of it and open the
door, and will save. That's the only thing that will save mankind and
will re-create the next generation physically; for with his present
physical nature man can't get on without his former God, I believe. For
three years I've been seeking for the attribute of my godhead and I've
found it; the attribute of my godhead is self-will! That's all I can
do to prove in the highest point my independence and my new terrible
freedom. For it is very terrible. I am killing myself to prove my
independence and my new terrible freedom."
His face was unnaturally pale, and there was a terribly heavy look in
his eyes. He was like a man in delirium. Pyotr Stepanovitch thought he
would drop on to the floor.
"Give me the pen!" Kirillov cried suddenly, quite unexpectedly, in a
positive frenzy. "Dictate; I'll sign anything. I'll sign that I killed
Shatov even. Dictate while it amuses me. I am not afraid of what the
haughty slaves will think! You will see for yourself that all that is
secret shall be made manifest! And you will be crushed.... I believe, I
believe!"
Pyotr Stepanovitch 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. This declaration and
the sudden strange idea of it seemed to absorb him entirely, as though
it were a means of escape by which his tortured spirit strove for a
moment's relief.
"To whom am I declaring it? I want to know to whom?"
"To no one, every one, the first person who reads it. Why define it? The
whole world!"
"The whole world! Bravo! And I won't have any repentance. I don't want
penitence and I don't want it for the police!"
"No, of course, there's no need of it, damn the police! Write, if you
are in earnest!" Pyotr Stepanovitch cried hysterically.
"Stay! I want to put at the top a face with the tongue out."
"Ech, what nonsense," cried Pyotr Stepanovitch crossly, "you can express
all that without the drawing, by--the tone."
"By the tone? That's true. Yes, by the tone, by the tone of it. Dictate,
the tone."
"I, Alexey Kirillov," Pyotr Stepanovitch dictated firmly and
peremptorily, bending over Kirillov's shoulder and following every
letter which the latter formed with a hand trembling with excitement,
"I, Kirillov, declare that to-day, the --th October, at about eight
o'clock in the evening, I killed the student Shatov in the park for
turning traitor and giving information of the manifestoes and of Fedka,
who has been lodging with us for ten days in Filipov's house. I am
shooting myself to-day with my revolver, not because I repent and am
afraid of you, but because when I was abroad I made up my mind to put an
end to my life."
"Is that all?" cried Kirillov with surprise and indignation.
"Not another word," cried Pyotr Stepanovitch, waving his hand, attempting
to snatch the document from him.
"Stay." Kirillov put his hand firmly on the paper. "Stay, it's nonsense!
I want to say with whom I killed him. Why Fedka? And what about the
fire? I want it all and I want to be abusive in tone, too, in tone!"
"Enough, Kirillov, I assure you it's enough," cried Pyotr Stepanovitch
almost imploringly, trembling lest he should tear up the paper; "that
they may believe you, you must say it as obscurely as possible, just
like that, simply in hints. You must only give them a peep of the truth,
just enough to tantalise them. They'll tell a story better than ours,
and of course they'll believe themselves more than they would us; and
you know, it's better than anything--better than anything! Let me have
it, it's splendid as it is; give it to me, give it to me!"
And he kept trying to snatch the paper. Kirillov listened open-eyed and
appeared to be trying to reflect, but he seemed beyond understanding
now.
"Damn it all," Pyotr Stepanovitch cried all at once, ill-humouredly, "he
hasn't signed it! Why are you staring like that? Sign!"
"I want to abuse them," muttered Kirillov. He took the pen, however, and
signed. "I want to abuse them."
"Write _'Vive la république,'_ and that will be enough."
"Bravo!" Kirillov almost bellowed with delight. "_'Vive la république
démocratique sociale et universelle ou la mort!'_ No, no, that's not it.
_'Liberté, égalité, fraternité ou la mort.'_ There, that's better, that's
better." He wrote it gleefully under his signature.
"Enough, enough," repeated Pyotr Stepanovitch.
"Stay, a little more. I'll sign it again in French, you know. '_De
Kirillov, gentilhomme russe et citoyen du monde._' Ha ha!" He went off
in a peal of laughter. "No, no, no; stay. I've found something better
than all. Eureka! _'Gentilhomme, séminariste russe et citoyen du monde
civilisé!'_ That's better than any...." He jumped up from the sofa
and suddenly, with a rapid gesture, snatched up the revolver from the
window, ran with it into the next room, and closed the door behind him.
Pyotr Stepanovitch stood for a moment, pondering and gazing at the door.
"If he does it at once, perhaps he'll do it, but if he begins thinking,
nothing will come of it."
Meanwhile he took up the paper, sat down, and looked at it again. The
wording of the document pleased him again.
"What's needed for the moment? What's wanted is to throw them all off
the scent and keep them busy for a time. The park? There's no park in
the town and they'll guess its Skvoreshniki of themselves. But while