don’t eat them. And we don’t need anything,” cried Pyotr Ilyitch, almost angrily.
“There’s no time for oysters,” said Mitya. “And I’m not hungry. Do you know, friend,” he said suddenly, with feeling, “I never have liked all this disorder.”
“Who does like it? Three dozen of champagne for peasants, upon my word, that’s enough to make anyone angry!”
“That’s not what I mean. I’m talking of a higher order. There’s no order in me, no higher order. But … that’s all over. There’s no need to grieve about it. It’s too late, damn it! My whole life has been disorder, and one must set it in order. Is that a pun, eh?”
“You’re raving, not making puns!”
“Glory be to God in Heaven, Glory be to God in me. …
“That verse came from my heart once, it’s not a verse, but a tear. … I made it myself … not while I was pulling the captain’s beard, though. …”
“Why do you bring him in all of a sudden?”
“Why do I bring him in? Foolery! All things come to an end; all things are made equal. That’s the long and short of it.”
“You know, I keep thinking of your pistols.”
“That’s all foolery, too! Drink, and don’t be fanciful. I love life. I’ve loved life too much, shamefully much. Enough! Let’s drink to life, dear boy, I propose the toast. Why am I pleased with myself? I’m a scoundrel, but I’m satisfied with myself. And yet I’m tortured by the thought that I’m a scoundrel, but satisfied with myself. I bless the creation. I’m ready to bless God and His creation directly, but … I must kill one