“It seems we can come to terms after all,” he reflected.
“I’ve nothing to say to you,” muttered Kirillov.
“I remember that something about God comes into it … you explained it to me once—twice, in fact. If you stopped yourself, you become God; that’s it, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I become God.”
Pyotr Stepanovitch did not even smile; he waited. Kirillov looked at him subtly.
“You are a political impostor and intriguer. You want to lead me on into philosophy and enthusiasm and to bring about a reconciliation so as to disperse my anger, and then, when I am reconciled with you, beg from me a note to say I killed Shatov.”
Pyotr Stepanovitch answered with almost natural frankness.
“Well, supposing I am such a scoundrel. But at the last moments does that matter to you, Kirillov? What are we quarrelling about? Tell me, please. You are one sort of man and I am another—what of it? And what’s more, we are both of us …”
“Scoundrels.”
“Yes, scoundrels if you like. But you know that that’s only words.”