“Excellent. Take note that no one has forced it on you.”
“Rather not; what nonsense you talk.”
“I dare say I express it very stupidly. Of course, it would be very stupid to force anybody to it. I’ll go on. You were a member of the society before its organisation was changed, and confessed it to one of the members.”
“I didn’t confess it, I simply said so.”
“Quite so. And it would be absurd to confess such a thing. What a confession! You simply said so. Excellent.”
“No, it’s not excellent, for you are being tedious. I am not obliged to give you any account of myself and you can’t understand my ideas. I want to put an end to my life, because that’s my idea, because I don’t want to be afraid of death, because … because there’s no need for you to know. What do you want? Would you like tea? It’s cold. Let me get you another glass.”
Pyotr Stepanovitch actually had taken up the teapot and was looking for an empty glass. Kirillov went to the cupboard and brought a clean glass.
“I’ve just had lunch at Karmazinov’s,” observed his visitor, “then I listened to him talking, and perspired and got into a sweat again running here. I am fearfully thirsty.”
“Drink. Cold tea is good.”
Kirillov sat down on his chair again and again fixed his eyes on the farthest corner.