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‘Am I drunk?’
‘Not drunk, but worse.’
‘I’m drunk in spirit, Pyotr Ilyitch, drunk in spirit! But
that’s enough!’
‘What are you doing, loading the pistol?’
‘I’m loading the pistol.’
Unfastening the pistol-case, Mitya actually opened the
powder horn, and carefully sprinkled and rammed in the
charge. Then he took the bullet and, before inserting it, held
it in two fingers in front of the candle.
‘Why are you looking at the bullet?’ asked Pyotr Ilyitch,
watching him with uneasy curiosity.
‘Oh, a fancy. Why, if you meant to put that bullet in your
brain, would you look at it or not?’
‘Why look at it?’
‘It’s going into my brain, so it’s interesting to look and see
what it’s like. But that’s foolishness, a moment’s foolishness.
Now that’s done,’ he added, putting in the bullet and driv-
ing it home with the ramrod. ‘Pyotr Ilyitch, my dear fellow,
that’s nonsense, all nonsense, and if only you knew what
nonsense! Give me a little piece of paper now.’
‘Here’s some paper.’
‘No, a clean new piece, writing-paper. That’s right.’
And taking a pen from the table, Mitya rapidly wrote two
lines, folded the paper in four, and thrust it in his waistcoat
pocket. He put the pistols in the case, locked it up, and kept
it in his hand. Then he looked at Pyotr Ilyitch with a slow,
thoughtful smile.
‘Now, let’s go.’