بخش 03 - فصل 01

CHAPTER ONE

RASKOLNIKOV GOT UP AND sat down on the sofa. He waved his hand weakly at Razumikhin to cut short the flow of warm and incoherent consolations he was addressing to his mother and sister, took them both by the hand and for a minute or two gazed from one to the other without speaking. His mother was alarmed by his expression. It revealed an agonizingly poignant emotion, and at the same time something immobile, almost insane. Pulcheria Alexandrovna began to cry.

Avdotia Romanovna was pale; her hand trembled in her brother’s.

“Go home . . . with him,” he said in a broken voice, pointing to Razumikhin, “goodbye until tomorrow; tomorrow everything . . . Is it long since you arrived?”

“This evening, Rodia,” answered Pulcheria Alexandrovna, “the train was awfully late. But, Rodia, nothing would induce me to leave you now! I will spend the night here, near you . . . ”

“Don’t torture me!” he said with a gesture of irritation.

“I will stay with him,” cried Razumikhin, “I won’t leave him for a moment. Damn all my visitors! Let them rage to their hearts’ content! My uncle can keep an eye on them.”

“How, how can I thank you!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna was beginning, once more pressing Razumikhin’s hands, but Raskolnikov interrupted her again.

“I can’t have it! I can’t have it!” he repeated irritably, “don’t worry me! Enough, go away . . . I can’t stand it!”

“Come, mamma, come out of the room at least for a minute,” Dunia whispered in dismay; “we are distressing him, that’s obvious.”

“Can’t I look at him after three years?” wept Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

“Hold on,” he stopped them again, “you keep interrupting me, and my ideas get muddled . . . Have you seen Luzhin?”

“No, Rodia, but he already knows about our arrival. We have heard, Rodia, that Peter Petrovich was kind enough to visit you today,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna added somewhat timidly.

“Yes . . . he was so kind . . . Dunia, I promised Luzhin I’d throw him downstairs and told him to go to hell . . . ”

“Rodia, what are you saying! Surely, you don’t mean to tell us . . . ” Pulcheria Alexandrovna began in alarm, but she stopped, looking at Dunia.

Avdotia Romanovna was looking attentively at her brother, waiting for what would come next. Both of them had heard of the quarrel from Nastasia, so far as she had succeeded in understanding and reporting it, and were in painful perplexity and suspense.

“Dunia,” Raskolnikov continued with an effort, “I don’t want that marriage, so at the first opportunity tomorrow you must refuse Luzhin, so we will never hear his name again.”

“Good Heavens!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

“Brother, think what you are saying!” Avdotia Romanovna began impetuously, but immediately checked herself. “You are not fit to talk now, perhaps; you are tired,” she added gently.

“You think I am delirious? No . . . You are marrying Luzhin for my sake. But I won’t accept the sacrifice. And so write a letter before tomorrow, to refuse him . . . Let me read it in the morning and that will be the end of it!”

“I can’t do that!” the girl cried, offended, “what right do you have . . . ”

“Dunia, you’re rushing things, be quiet, tomorrow . . . Don’t you see . . . ” the mother interposed in dismay. “We’d better go!”

“He is raving,” Razumikhin cried drunkenly, “or how would he dare! Tomorrow all this nonsense will be over . . . today he certainly did drive him away. That’s true. And Luzhin got angry, too . . . He made speeches here, wanted to show off his learning and he went out crest-fallen . . . ” “Then it’s true?” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

“Goodbye until tomorrow, brother,” said Dunia compassionately. “Let us go, Mother . . . goodbye, Rodia.”

“Do you hear, sister,” he repeated after them, making a last effort, “I am not delirious; this marriage is—scandalous. Let me be mean, but you mustn’t . . . one is enough . . . and though I am mean, I wouldn’t own such a sister. It’s me or Luzhin! Go now . . . ” “But you’re out of your mind! Despot!” roared Razumikhin; but Raskolnikov did not and perhaps could not answer. He lay down on the sofa, and turned to the wall, utterly exhausted. Avdotia Romanovna looked with interest at Razumikhin; her black eyes flashed. Razumikhin started at her glance.

Pulcheria Alexandrovna stood overwhelmed.

“Nothing would induce me to go,” she whispered in despair to Razumikhin. “I will stay somewhere here . . . escort Dunia home.”

“You’ll spoil everything,” Razumikhin answered in the same whisper, losing patience—“come out onto the stairs, anyway. Nastasia, get us a light! I’m telling you,” he went on in a half whisper on the stairs—“that he was almost beating the doctor and me this afternoon! Do you understand? Even the doctor! Even he gave way and left him, so as not to irritate him. I remained downstairs on guard, but he dressed at once and slipped off. And he will slip off again if you irritate him, at this time of night, and will do himself harm . . . ” “What are you saying?”

“And Avdotia Romanovna can’t possibly be left in those lodgings without you. Just think where you are staying! That blackguard Peter Petrovich couldn’t find you better lodgings . . . But you know I’ve had a little to drink, and that’s what makes me . . . swear; don’t pay any attention . . . ” “But I’ll go to the landlady here,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna insisted, “I’ll ask her to find some corner for Dunia and me for the night. I can’t leave him like that, I can’t!”

This conversation took place on the landing right in front of the landlady’s door. Nastasia lighted them from a step below. Razumikhin was extraordinarily excited. Half an hour earlier, while he was bringing Raskolnikov home, he had indeed talked too freely, but he was aware of it himself, and his head was clear in spite of the vast quantities of drink which he had consumed. Now he was in a state bordering on ecstasy, and all that he had drunk seemed to fly to his head with redoubled effect. He stood with the two ladies, seizing both by their hands, persuading them, and reasoning through his plans with astonishing clarity, and at almost every word he uttered, probably to emphasize his arguments, he squeezed their hands painfully, as if in a vise. He stared at Avdotia Romanovna without the least regard for good manners. They sometimes pulled their hands out of his huge bony paws, but far from noticing what was the matter, he drew them closer towards him. If they’d told him to jump head foremost from the staircase, he would have done it without thought or hesitation in their service. Though Pulcheria Alexandrovna felt that the young man was really too eccentric and pinched her hand too much, in her anxiety over her Rodia she looked on his presence as providential and was unwilling to notice all his peculiarities. But though Avdotia Romanovna shared her anxiety, and was not of timorous disposition, she could not see the glowing light in his eyes without wonder and almost alarm. It was only the unbounded confidence inspired by Nastasia’s account of her brother’s strange friend which prevented her from trying to run away from him and persuading her mother to do the same. She realized, too, that even running away was perhaps impossible now. Ten minutes later, however, she was considerably reassured; it was characteristic of Razumikhin that he showed his true nature at once, whatever mood he might be in, so that people quickly saw the sort of man they had to deal with.

“You can’t go to the landlady, that’s perfect nonsense!” he cried. “If you stay, though you are his mother, you’ll drive him into a frenzy, and then God knows what will happen! Listen, I’ll tell you what I’ll do: Nastasia will stay with him now, and I’ll walk you both home, you can’t be in the streets alone; Petersburg is an awful place in that respect . . . But no matter! Then I’ll run straight back here and a quarter of an hour later, on my word of honor, I’ll bring you news of how he is, whether he is asleep, and all that. Then, listen! Then I’ll run home in an instant—I’ve got a lot of friends there, all drunk—I’ll fetch Zossimov—that’s the doctor who is looking after him, he’s there, too, but he’s not drunk—he’s not drunk, he’s never drunk! I’ll drag him to Rodia, and then to you, so you’ll get two reports within the hour—from the doctor, you understand, from the doctor himself, that’s a very different thing from my account of him! If there’s anything wrong, I swear I’ll bring you here myself, but, if it’s all right, you go to bed. And I’ll spend the night here, in the passage, he won’t hear me, and I’ll tell Zossimov to sleep at the landlady’s, to be at hand. Which is better for him: you or the doctor? So come home then! But the landlady is out of the question; it’s all right for me, but it’s out of the question for you: she wouldn’t take you, because she’s . . . because she’s a fool . . . She’d be jealous on my account of Avdotia Romanovna, and of you too if you want to know . . . of Avdotia Romanovna certainly. She is an absolutely, absolutely inexplicable character! But I am a fool, too! . . . No matter! Come along! Do you trust me? Come on, do you trust me or not?” “Let’s go, Mother,” said Avdotia Romanovna, “he will certainly do what he has promised. He has saved Rodia already, and if the doctor really will agree to spend the night here, what could be better?”

“You see, you . . . you . . . understand me, because you are an angel!” Razumikhin cried in ecstasy, “let us go! Nastasia! Fly upstairs and sit with him with a light; I’ll come in a quarter of an hour.”

Though Pulcheria Alexandrovna was not entirely convinced, she made no further resistance. Razumikhin gave an arm to each of them and took them down the stairs. He still made her uneasy: although he was competent and good-natured, was he capable of carrying out his promise? He seemed to be in such a state . . .

“Ah, so you think I’m in such a state!” Razumikhin broke in upon her thoughts, guessing them, as he strolled along the pavement with huge steps, such that the two ladies could hardly keep up with him, a fact he did not observe, however. “Nonsense! That is . . . I am drunk like a fool, but that’s not it; I am not drunk from wine. It’s seeing you that has turned my head . . . But don’t mind me! Don’t take any notice: I’m talking nonsense, I’m not worthy of you . . . I am utterly unworthy of you! The minute I’ve taken you home, I’ll pour a couple of bucketfuls of water over my head in the gutter here, and then I shall be all right . . . If only you knew how I love you both! Don’t laugh, and don’t be angry! You can be angry with anyone, but not with me! I am his friend, and therefore I am your friend, too, I want to be . . . I had a presentiment . . . Last year there was a moment . . . though it wasn’t a presentiment really, for you seem to have fallen from heaven. And I expect I shan’t sleep all night . . . Zossimov was afraid a little time ago that he would go mad . . . that’s why he mustn’t be irritated.” “What do you say?” cried the mother.

“Did the doctor really say that?” asked Avdotia Romanovna, alarmed.

“Yes, but it’s not so, not a bit of it. He gave him some medicine, a powder, I saw it, and then your coming here . . . Ah! It would have been better if you had come tomorrow. It’s a good thing we went away. And in an hour Zossimov himself will tell you about everything. He isn’t drunk! And I shan’t be drunk . . . And what made me get so tight? Because they got me into an argument, damn them! I’ve sworn never to argue! They talk such trash! I almost started a fight! I’ve left my uncle to keep an eye over them. Would you believe, they insist on complete absence of individualism and that’s just what they relish! Not to be themselves, to be as unlike themselves as they can. That’s what they regard as the highest point of progress. If only their nonsense were their own, but as it is . . . ” “Listen!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna interrupted timidly, but it only added fuel to the flames.

“What do you think?” shouted Razumikhin, louder than ever, “you think I am attacking them for talking nonsense? Not a bit! I like them to talk nonsense. That’s man’s one privilege over all creation. Through error you come to the truth! I am a man because I err! You never reach any truth without making fourteen mistakes and very likely a hundred and fourteen. And a fine thing, too, in its way; but we can’t even make mistakes on our own account! Talk nonsense, but talk your own nonsense, and I’ll kiss you for it. To go wrong in your own way is better than to go right in someone else’s. In the first case you’re a human being, in the second you’re no better than a bird. Truth won’t escape you, but life can be cramped. There have been examples. And what are we doing now? In science, development, thought, invention, ideals, aims, liberalism, judgment, experience and everything, everything, everything, we are still in the preparatory class at school. We prefer to live on other people’s ideas, it’s what we are used to! Am I right, am I right?” cried Razumikhin, pressing and shaking the two ladies’ hands.

“Oh, mercy, I do not know,” cried poor Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

“Yes, yes . . . though I don’t agree with you about everything,” added Avdotia Romanovna earnestly and at once cried out because he squeezed her hand so painfully.

“Yes, you say yes . . . well after that you . . . you . . . ” he cried in a transport, “you are a fount of goodness, purity, sense . . . and perfection. Give me your hand . . . you give me yours, too! I want to kiss your hands here at once, on my knees . . . ” and he fell on his knees on the pavement, fortunately at that time deserted.

“Leave off, I beg you, what are you doing?” Pulcheria Alexandrovna cried, greatly distressed.

“Get up, get up!” said Dunia laughing, though she, too, was upset.

“Not for anything until you let me kiss your hands! That’s it! Enough! I get up and we’ll go on! I am a luckless fool, I am unworthy of you and I’m drunk . . . and I am ashamed . . . I am not worthy to love you, but to pay homage to you is the duty of every man who is not a perfect beast! And I’ve paid homage . . . Here are your lodgings, and for that alone Rodia was right in driving your Peter Petrovich away . . . How dare he! how dare he put you in such lodgings! It’s a scandal! Do you know the sort of people they take in here? And you his betrothed! You are his betrothed? Yes, well, then, I’ll tell you, your fiancé is a scoundrel.” “Excuse me, Mr. Razumikhin, you are forgetting . . . ” Pulcheria Alexandrovna was beginning.

“Yes, yes, you are right, I did forget myself, I am ashamed of it,” Razumikhin made haste to apologize. “But . . . but you can’t be angry with me for speaking like that! I’m speaking sincerely and not because . . . hm, hm! That would be disgraceful; in fact not because I’m in . . . hm! Well, anyway I won’t say why, I daren’t . . . But we all saw today when he came in that that man is not of our sort. Not because he had his hair curled at the barber’s, not because he was in such a hurry to show off his intelligence, but because he is a spy, a speculator, because he is a cheapskate and a moron. That’s obvious. Do you think he’s clever? No, he is a fool, a fool. And is he a match for you? Good heavens! Do you see, ladies?” he stopped suddenly on the way upstairs to their rooms, “though all my friends there are drunk, yet they are all honest, and though we do talk a lot of trash, and I do too, yet we shall talk our way to the truth at last, for we are on the right path, while Peter Petrovich . . . is not on the right path. Though I’ve been calling them all sorts of names just now, I do respect them all . . . though I don’t respect Zametov, I like him, because he is a puppy, and that ox Zossimov, because he is an honest man and knows his work. But enough, it’s all said and forgiven. Is it forgiven? Well, then, let’s go on. I know this corridor, I’ve been here, there was a scandal here at Number 3 . . . Where are you here? Which number? Eight? Well, lock yourselves in for the night, then. Don’t let anybody in. In a quarter of an hour I’ll come back with news, and half an hour later I’ll bring Zossimov, you’ll see! Goodbye, I’ll run.” “Good heavens, Dunia, what is going to happen?” said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, addressing her daughter with anxiety and dismay.

“Don’t worry yourself, Mother,” said Dunia, taking off her hat and cape. “God has sent this man to help us, even though he has come from a drinking party. I’m sure we can depend on him. And everything he’s done for Rodia . . . ”

“Ah, Dunia, goodness knows whether he will come! How could I bring myself to leave Rodia? . . . And how different, how different I had thought our meeting would be! How sullen he was, it was as if he wasn’t pleased to see us . . . ”

Tears came into her eyes.

“No, it’s not that, Mother. You didn’t see, you were crying all the time. He is suffering from a serious illness—that’s the reason.”

“Ah, that illness! What will happen, what will happen? And the way he talked to you, Dunia!” said the mother, looking timidly at her daughter, trying to read her thoughts and already half consoled by the fact that Dunia was standing up for her brother, which meant that she had already forgiven him. “I am sure he will have a different opinion about the whole thing tomorrow,” she added, probing her further.

“And I am sure that he will say the same tomorrow . . . about that,” Avdotia Romanovna said finally. And, of course, there was no going beyond that, for this was a point which Pulcheria Alexandrovna was afraid to discuss. Dunia went up and kissed her mother. The latter warmly embraced her without speaking. Then she sat down to wait anxiously for Razumikhin’s return, timidly watching her daughter who walked up and down the room with her arms folded, lost in thought. This walking up and down when she was thinking was a habit of Avdotia Romanovna’s and the mother was always afraid to break in on her daughter’s mood at such moments.

Razumikhin, of course, was ridiculous in his sudden drunken infatuation for Avdotia Romanovna. Yet apart from his eccentric condition, many people would have thought it justified if they had seen Avdotia Romanovna, especially at that moment when she was walking to and fro with her arms folded, pensive and melancholy. Avdotia Romanovna was remarkably good looking; she was tall, strikingly well-proportioned, strong and self-reliant—the latter quality was apparent in every gesture, though it did not in the least detract from the grace and softness of her movements. In her face she resembled her brother, but she might be described as really beautiful. Her hair was dark brown, a little lighter than her brother’s; there was a proud light in her almost black eyes and yet at times a look of extraordinary kindness. She was pale, but it was a healthy pallor; her face was radiant with freshness and vigor. Her mouth was rather small; the full red lower lip projected a little as did her chin; it was the only irregularity in her beautiful face, but it gave it a peculiarly individual and almost haughty expression. Her face was always more serious and thoughtful than gay; but how well smiles, how well youthful, light-hearted, irresponsible laughter suited her face! It was natural enough that a warm, open, simple-hearted, honest giant like Razumikhin, who had never seen anyone like her and was not quite sober at the time, should lose his head immediately. Besides, as chance would have it, he saw Dunia for the first time transfigured by her love for her brother and her joy at meeting him. Afterwards he saw her lower lip quiver with indignation at her brother’s insolent, cruel and ungrateful words—and his fate was sealed.

He had spoken the truth, moreover, when he blurted out in his drunken talk on the stairs that Praskovia Pavlovna, Raskolnikov’s eccentric landlady, would be jealous of Pulcheria Alexandrovna as well as of Avdotia Romanovna on his account. Although Pulcheria Alexandrovna was forty-three, her face still retained traces of her former beauty; she looked much younger than her age, in fact, which is almost always the case with women who retain serenity of spirit, sensitiveness and pure sincere warmth of heart into old age. We may add in parenthesis that to preserve all this is the only means of retaining beauty into old age. Her hair had begun to grow gray and thin, there had long been little crow’s foot wrinkles round her eyes, her cheeks were hollow and sunken from anxiety and grief, and yet it was a handsome face. She was Dunia over again, twenty years older, but without the projecting underlip. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was emotional, but not sentimental, timid and yielding, but only to a certain point. She could give way and accept a great deal even of what was contrary to her convictions, but there was a certain barrier fixed by honesty, principle and the deepest convictions which nothing would induce her to cross.

Exactly twenty minutes after Razumikhin’s departure, there came two subdued but hurried knocks at the door: he had come back.

“I won’t come in, I haven’t got time,” he said right after he opened the door. “He’s sleeping like a baby, soundly, quietly, and God grant he may sleep ten hours. Nastasia’s with him; I told her not to leave until I came. Now I am fetching Zossimov, he will tell you what’s going on and then you’d better get some rest; I can see you’re too tired to do anything . . . ” And he ran off down the corridor.

“What a competent and . . . devoted young man!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna, overjoyed.

“He seems wonderful!” Avdotia Romanovna replied with some warmth, resuming her walk up and down the room.

It was nearly an hour later when they heard footsteps in the corridor and another knock at the door. Both women waited this time completely relying on Razumikhin’s promise; he actually had succeeded in bringing Zossimov. Zossimov had agreed at once to desert the drinking party to go to Raskolnikov’s, but he came reluctantly and with the greatest suspicion to see the ladies, mistrusting Razumikhin in his exhilarated condition. But his vanity was at once reassured and flattered; he saw that they were really depending on his expert opinion. He stayed just ten minutes and succeeded in completely convincing and comforting Pulcheria Alexandrovna. He spoke with real sympathy, but with the reserve and extreme seriousness of a young doctor at an important consultation. He did not utter a word on any other subject and did not display the slightest desire to enter into more personal relations with the two ladies. Taking note of Avdotia Romanovna’s dazzling beauty, he endeavored not to notice her at all during his visit and addressed himself solely to Pulcheria Alexandrovna. All this gave him extraordinary inward satisfaction. He said he thought that the invalid’s condition was currently satisfactory. According to his observations the patient’s illness was due partly to his unfortunate material circumstances during the last few months, but it had also a moral origin, “was so to speak the product of several material and moral influences, anxieties, apprehensions, troubles, certain ideas . . . and so on.” Noticing stealthily that Avdotia Romanovna was following his words with close attention, Zossimov allowed himself to enlarge on this theme. When Pulcheria Alexandrovna anxiously and timidly inquired about “some suspicion of insanity,” he replied with a composed and candid smile that his words had been exaggerated; that certainly the patient had some fixed idea, something approaching a monomania—he, Zossimov, was now studying this interesting branch of medicine—but that it must be recalled that until today the patient had been in delirium and . . . and that no doubt the presence of his family would have a favorable effect on his recovery and distract his mind, “if only all fresh shocks can be avoided,” he added significantly. Then he got up, took leave with an impressive and friendly bow, while blessings, warm gratitude, and requests were showered upon him, and Avdotia Romanovna spontaneously offered her hand to him. He went out exceedingly pleased with his visit and still more so with himself.

“We’ll talk tomorrow; go to bed at once!” Razumikhin said in conclusion, following Zossimov out. “I’ll be with you tomorrow morning as early as possible with my report.”

“That’s a fetching little girl, Avdotia Romanovna,” remarked Zossimov, almost licking his lips as they both came out into the street.

“Fetching? You said fetching?” roared Razumikhin and he flew at Zossimov and seized him by the throat. “If you dare . . . Do you understand? Do you understand?” he shouted, shaking him by the collar and squeezing him against the wall. “Do you hear?”

“Let me go, you drunken devil,” said Zossimov, struggling, and when he had let him go, he stared at him and went off into a sudden fit of laughter. Razumikhin stood facing him in gloomy and earnest reflection.

“Of course, I am an idiot,” he observed, somber as a storm cloud, “but still . . . you are another.”

“No, my friend, not ‘another’ at all. I’m not dreaming of any such stupidity.”

They walked along in silence and only when they were close to Raskolnikov’s lodgings, Razumikhin broke the silence in considerable anxiety.

“Listen,” he said, “you’re a wonderful person, but among your other failings, you play loose, and dirty too. You’re a feeble, nervous wretch, a mass of caprice, you’re getting fat and lazy and can’t deny yourself anything—which is dirty because it leads on straight into dirt. You’ve let yourself get so slack that I don’t know how you manage to be a good, even a devoted doctor. You—a doctor—sleep on a feather bed and get up at night for your patients! In another three or four years you won’t even get up for your patients . . . But damn it, that’s not the point! . . . You are going to spend tonight in the landlady’s apartment here. (I’ve had my work cut out persuading her!) And I’ll be in the kitchen. So here’s a chance for you to get to know her better . . . It’s not what you think! There’s not a trace of anything like that, my friend . . . !” “But I don’t think!”

“Here you have modesty, brother, silence, bashfulness, a savage virtue . . . and yet she’s sighing and melting like wax, simply melting! Save me from her, by all that’s unholy! She’s so overwhelming . . . I’ll repay you, I’ll do anything . . . ”

Zossimov laughed more violently than ever.

“Well, you are smitten! But what am I to do with her?”

“It won’t be much trouble, I assure you. Talk any rot you like to her, as long as you sit by her and talk. You’re a doctor, too; try curing her of something. I swear you won’t regret it. She has a piano, and you know, I strum a little. I have a song there, a genuine Russian one: ‘I shed hot tears.’ She likes the genuine article—and well, it all began with that song; now you’re a regular performer, a master, a Rubinstein 27 . . . I assure you, you won’t regret it!” “But have you made her some promise? Something signed? A promise of marriage, perhaps?”

“Nothing, nothing, absolutely nothing of the kind! Besides, she is not like that at all . . . Chebarov tried that . . . ”

“Well, then, drop her!”

“But I can’t drop her like that!”

“Why can’t you?”

“Well, I can’t, that’s all about it! There’s an element of attraction here, brother.”

“Then why have you fascinated her?”

“I haven’t fascinated her; perhaps, I was fascinated myself in my idiocy. But she won’t care whether it’s you or I, so long as somebody sits beside her, sighing . . . I can’t explain it, my friend . . . look here, you are good at mathematics, and working at it now . . . start teaching her integral calculus; I swear, I’m not joking, I’m serious, it’ll be all the same to her. She will gaze at you and sigh all year long. I talked to her once for two days straight about the Prussian House of Lords (you’ve got to talk about something)—she just sighed and sweated! And you can’t talk about love—she gets shy around hysterics—but just let her see you can’t tear yourself away—that’s enough. It’s really quite comfortable; you feel at home pretty quickly, you can read, sit, lie about, write. You can even try a kiss, if you’re careful.” “But what do I want with her?”

“Don’t you understand? You’re made for each other! I have often been reminded of you! . . . You’ll come to it in the end! So does it matter whether it’s sooner or later? There’s the featherbed element here, brother,—ah! and not only that! There’s an attraction here—here you have the end of the world, an anchorage, a quiet haven, the navel of the earth, the three fishes that are the foundation of the world, the essence of pancakes, of fish-pies, of the evening samovar, of soft sighs and warm shawls, and hot stoves to sleep on—as snug as though you were dead, and yet you’re alive—the advantages of both at once! Well, damn it, brother, what nonsense I’m talking, it’s bedtime! Listen. I sometimes wake up at night; so I’ll go in and look at him. But there’s no need, it’s all right. Don’t worry; if you like, you might just look in once. But if you notice anything, delirium or fever—wake me. But there can’t be . . . ”