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.”

“All my life I wanted it not to be only words. I lived because I did not want it to be. Even now every day I want it to be not words.”

“Well, everyone seeks to be where he is best off. The fish⁠ ⁠… that is, everyone seeks his own comfort, that’s all. That’s been a commonplace for ages and ages.”

“Comfort, do you say?”