Sanine sat down on the opposite side of the steps, lighted a cigarette, and silently watched Soloveitchik, whose strange demeanour interested him.
“What do you do with yourself here?” he asked, after a while.
Languidly the other turned to him his large, sad eyes.
“I just live here, that’s all. When the mill was at work, I used to be in the office. But now it’s closed, and everybody’s gone away except myself.”
“Don’t you find it lonely, to be all by yourself, like this?”
Then, shrugging his shoulders, he said: “It’s all the same to me.”
They remained silent. There was no sound but the rattling of the dog’s chain.
“It’s not the place that’s lonely,” exclaimed Soloveitchik with sudden vehemence. “But it’s here I feel it, and here,” He touched his forehead and his breast.
“What’s the matter with you?” asked Sanine calmly.
“Look here,” continued Soloveitchik, becoming more excited, “you struck a man to-day, and smashed his face in. Perhaps you have ruined his whole life. Pray don’t be offended at my speaking to you like this. I have thought a great deal about it all, sitting here, as you see, and wondering, wondering. Now, if I ask you something, will you answer me?”
For a moment his features were contorted by his usual set smile.
“Ask me whatever you like,” replied Sanine, kindly. “You’re afraid of offending me, eh? That won’t offend me, I assure you. What’s done is done; and, if I thought that I had done wrong, I should be the first to say so.”
“I wanted to ask you this,” said Soloveitchik, quivering with excitement. “Do you realize that perhaps you might have killed that man?”
“There’s not much doubt about that,” replied Sanine. “It would have been difficult for a man like Sarudine to get out of the mess unless he killed me, or I killed him. But, as regards killing me, he missed the psychological moment, so to speak; and at present he’s not in a fit condition to do me harm. Later on he won’t have the pluck. He’s played his part.”
“What do you mean by ‘calmly?’” asked Sanine. “I couldn’t look on calmly and see a chicken killed, much less a man. It was painful to me to hit him. To be conscious of one’s own strength is pleasant, of course, but it was nevertheless a horrible experience—horrible, because such an act in itself was brutal. Yet my conscience is calm. I was but the instrument of fate. Sarudine has come to grief because the whole bent of his life was bound to bring about a catastrophe; and the marvel is that others of his sort do not share his fate. These are the men who learn to kill their fellow-creatures and to pamper their own bodies, not knowing why or wherefore. They are lunatics, idiots! Let them loose, and they would cut their own throats and those of other folk as well. Am I to blame because I protected myself from a madman of this type?”