Текст книги "The Eternal Husband and Other Stories"

Автор книги: Федор Достоевский

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

“Pal Palych!” came another, hoarse voice.

Pavel Pavlovich again started fidgeting and fussing about, but Velchaninov seized him firmly by the elbow and stopped him.

“And do you want me to go right now and tell your wife how you wanted to put a knife in me—eh?”

“How can you, how can you, sir!” Pavel Pavlovich was terribly frightened, “God keep you from it, sir!”

“Pavel Pavlovich! Pavel Pavlovich!” the voices were heard again.

“Well, go, then!” Velchaninov released him at last, continuing to laugh good-naturedly.

“So you won’t come, sir!” Pavel Pavlovich, all but in despair, whispered a last time, and even clasped his hands before him, palms together, as in old times.

“No, I swear to you, I won’t come! Run, or there’ll be trouble!”

And he sweepingly offered him his hand—offered it and gave a start: Pavel Pavlovich did not take his hand, he even drew his own back.

The third bell rang.

In an instant something strange happened with the two men; they both as if transformed. Something wavered as it were and suddenly snapped in Velchaninov, who had been laughing so much only a moment before. He firmly and furiously seized Pavel Pavlovich by the shoulder.

“If I, if Ioffer you this hand here,” he showed him the palm of his left hand, on which there clearly remained a big scar from the cut, “then you might well take it!” he whispered with trembling and paled lips.

Pavel Pavlovich also paled and his lips also trembled. Some sort of spasms suddenly passed over his face.

“And Liza, sir?” he murmured in a quick whisper—and suddenly his lips, cheeks, and chin quivered, and tears poured from his eyes. Velchaninov stood before him like a post.

“Pavel Pavlovich! Pavel Pavlovich!” screams came from the car, as if someone were being slaughtered there—and suddenly the whistle blew.

Pavel Pavlovich came to his senses, clasped his hands, and dashed off at top speed; the train had already started, but he somehow managed to hold on and climb into his car in flight. Velchaninov remained at the station and continued his journey only toward evening, having waited for the next train in the same direction. He did not go to the right, to his provincial lady acquaintance—he was much too out of sorts. And how sorry he was later!

BOBOK

NOTES OF A CERTAIN PERSON

THIS TIME I am including the “Notes of a Certain Person.” ¹It is not I; it is an entirely different person. I think there is no need for any further preface.

Semyon Ardalyonovich hands me this the other day: “But, pray tell me, Ivan Ivanych, will you ever be sober?”

A strange demand. I’m not offended, I’m a timid man; but, anyhow, now they’ve made a madman out of me. An artist had occasion to paint my portrait. “After all,” he says, “you’re a writer.” I yielded; he exhibited it. I read: “Go look at this morbid, nearly crazy person.”

Maybe it’s so, but still, why come right out with it in print? In print we need everything noble; we need ideals, but this…

At least say it indirectly, that’s what you have style for. No, he no longer wants it indirect. Nowadays humor and good style are disappearing, and abuse is taken for wit. I’m not offended: God knows I’m not such a writer as to lose my mind over it. I wrote a story—it wasn’t published. I wrote a feuilleton—it was rejected. I took a lot of these feuilletons to various editorial offices, they were rejected everywhere: you lack salt, they said.

“What kind of salt do you want,” I ask mockingly, “Attic salt?” ²

He doesn’t even understand. I mainly translate from the French for booksellers. I also write advertisements for merchants: “A rarity!” I say. “Red tea from our own plantations…” I made a pile on a panegyric for His Excellency the late Pyotr Matveevich. I put together The Art of Pleasing the Ladieson commission from a bookseller. I’ve turned out about six such books in my life. I want to make a collection of Voltaire’s bons mots, ³but I’m afraid it might seem insipid to the likes of us. What’s Voltaire now! These days it’s the cudgel, not Voltaire! They’ve knocked the last teeth out of each other! So that’s the whole of my literary activity. Except that I also send letters to editors gratis, over my full signature. I keep giving admonishments and advice, I criticize and show the way. Last week I sent my fortieth letter to an editor in two years; four roubles on postage alone. I have a nasty character, that’s what.

I think the artist painted me not for the sake of literature, but for the sake of the two symmetrical warts on my forehead: a phenomenon, they say. They have no ideas, so now they trade on phenomena. And how well my warts came out in this portrait—to the life! This they call realism.

Regarding craziness, last year they set down a lot of people as madmen. And in what style! “With such a singular talent…” they say, “and look what came of it in the end… however, it should have been foreseen long ago…” Still, this is rather clever; so that from the point of pure art it can even be praised. Well, but they’ve suddenly come back smarter still. Now, to drive someone mad is possible with us, but they’ve never yet made anyone smarter.

The smartest one, in my opinion, is the one who calls himself a fool at least once a month—an unheard-of ability nowadays! Formerly, in any case, a fool knew at least once a year that he was a fool, but now unh-unh! And they’ve confused things so much that you can’t tell a fool from a smart man. They’ve done it on purpose.

I’m reminded of a Spanish joke, how the French built themselves the first madhouse two and a half centuries ago: “They locked up all their fools in a special house, to show what smart people they were themselves.” That’s just it: by locking someone else up in a madhouse, you don’t prove how smart you are. “K. has lost his wits, that means we’re the smart ones now.” No, it doesn’t quite mean that.

Anyhow, the devil… and what am I doing pothering over my own wits: grumble, grumble. Even the maid is sick of me. A friend stopped by yesterday: “Your style is changing,” he says, “it’s getting choppy. You chop and chop—then an inserted phrase, then a phrase inserted in the inserted phrase, then you stick in something in parentheses, and then you go back to chopping, chopping…”

My friend is right. Something strange is happening to me. My character is changing, and my head is aching. I’ve begun seeing and hearing some strange things. Not really voices, but as if there were someone just nearby: “Bobok, bobok, bobok!”

What is this bobok? I need some diversion.

I went out for diversion and wound up in a funeral. A distant relative. A collegiate councillor, however. A widow, five daughters, all young girls. The shoes alone, just think what that will add up to! The deceased used to provide, but now—a wretched little pension. They’ll have their tails between their legs. They always gave me a cool reception. I wouldn’t have gone now, either, if it hadn’t been for this urgent occasion. I went to the cemetery along with the others; they snubbed me and put on airs. My uniform is indeed a bit shabby. ⁴It’s a good twenty-five years, I think, since I’ve been to the cemetery; a nice little place!

First of all, the odor. About fifteen dead people arrived. Palls of various prices; there were even two catafalques: for a general, and for some lady. A lot of mournful faces, a lot of sham mourning, a lot of outright merriment. The clergy can’t complain: it’s a living. But the odor, the odor. I wouldn’t wish it on myself even for the odor of sanctity.

I peeked cautiously into the dead men’s faces, not trusting my impressionability. Some of the expressions are soft, some unpleasant. Generally, the smiles are not nice, and in some even very much so. I don’t like them; they visit my dreams.

During the liturgy I stepped out of church for some air; the day was grayish but dry. Cold, too; but then, it’s October. I strolled among the little graves. Various classes. The third class costs thirty roubles: decent and not so expensive. The first two are inside the church and under the porch; now, that’s a bit stiff. This time some six people were buried third class, the general and the lady among them.

I peeked into the graves—terrible: water, and such water! Absolutely green and… well, never mind! The grave digger was constantly bailing it out with a scoop. While the service was going on, I went for a walk outside the gates. There was an almshouse just there, and a little farther on a restaurant. A so-so restaurant, not bad: you can have a bite and all. A lot of mourners were packed in there. I noticed a lot of merriment and genuine animation. I had a bite and a drink.

After that I took part with my own hands in carrying the coffin from the church to the grave. Why is it that the dead become so heavy in their coffins? They say it’s from some sort of inertia, that the body supposedly is no longer controlled by its own… or some such rubbish; it contradicts mechanics and common sense. I don’t like it when people with only a general education among us set about resolving special questions; and it’s rife among us. Civilians love discussing military subjects, even a field marshal’s, and people with an engineer’s education reason mainly about philosophy and political economy.

I didn’t go to the wake. I’m proud, and if they receive me only out of urgent necessity, why drag myself to their dinners, even funeral ones? Only I don’t understand why I stayed at the cemetery; I sat on a tombstone and lapsed appropriately into thought.

I began with the Moscow exhibition, ⁵and ended with astonishment, generally speaking, as a theme. About “astonishment,” here is what I came up with:

“To be astonished at everything is, of course, stupid, while to be astonished at nothing is much more beautiful and for some reason is recognized as good tone. But it is hardly so in essence. In my opinion, to be astonished at nothing is much stupider than to be astonished at everything. And besides: to be astonished at nothing is almost the same as to respect nothing. And a stupid man even cannot respect.”

“But I wish first of all to respect. I yearnto respect,” an acquaintance of mine said to me once, the other day.

He yearns to respect! And God, I thought, what would happen to you if you dared to publish that now!

It was here that I became oblivious. I don’t like reading the inscriptions on tombstones; it’s eternally the same. Next to me on the slab lay a half-eaten sandwich: stupid and out of place. I threw it on the ground, since it wasn’t bread but merely a sandwich. Anyhow, dropping bread on the ground, it seems, is not sinful; on the floor is sinful. Look it up in Suvorin’s calendar. ⁶

It must be supposed that I sat there for a long time, even much too long; that is, I even lay down on the oblong stone shaped like a marble coffin. And how did it happen that I suddenly started hearing various things? I didn’t pay any attention at first and treated it with contempt. But, nevertheless, the conversation continued. I listened—the sounds were muffled, as if the mouths were covered with pillows; but distinct for all that, and very close. I came to, sat up, and started listening attentively.

“Your Excellency, this is simply quite impossible, sir. You named hearts, I’m whisting, and suddenly you’ve got the seven of diamonds. We ought to have arranged beforehand about the diamonds, sir.”

“What, you mean play by memory? Where’s the attraction in that?”

“It’s impossible, Your Excellency, without a guarantee it’s quite impossible. It absolutely has to be with a dummy, and so that there’s only blind dealing.”

“Well, you’ll get no dummy here.”

What presumptuous words, though! Both strange and unexpected. One voice is so weighty and solid, the other as if softly sweetened; I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t heard it myself. It seems I was not at the wake. And yet what was this card game doing here, and who was this general? That it was coming from under the gravestone, there was no doubt. I bent down and read the inscription on the memorial.

“Here lies the body of Major General Pervoedov… knight of such-and-such orders.” Hm. “Died in August of the year… aged fifty-seven… Rest, dear dust, till the gladsome morning!” ⁷

Hm, the devil, an actual general! The other grave, from which the fawning voice was coming, had no memorial as yet, just a slab; must have been a newcomer. A court councillor, by his voice.

“Oh, woe, woe, woe!” quite a new voice came, some thirty-five feet from the general’s place, this time from under a perfectly fresh little grave—a male and low-class voice, but gone lax in a reverentially tender manner.

“Oh, woe, woe, woe!”

“Ah, he’s hiccuping again!” suddenly came the squeamish and haughty voice of an irritated lady, seemingly of high society. “What a punishment to be next to this shopkeeper!”

“I didn’t hiccup, I didn’t even take any food, it’s just my nature, that’s all. And you, lady, with all these caprices of yours, you simply never can calm down.”

“Why did you lie here, then?”

“I got laid here, I got laid by my spouse and little children, I didn’t lay myself. The mystery of death! And I’d never lay next to you for anything, not even gold; but I’m laying by my own capital, according to the price, ma’am. For we’re always able to pay up for our little third-class grave.”

“Saved up? Cheated people?”

“Much I could cheat you, when there’s been no payment from you, I reckon, since January. You’ve run up quite a little account in our shop.”

“Well, this is stupid; I think looking for debts here is very stupid! Take yourself up there. Ask my niece; she’s my heir.”

“Where am I going to ask now, and where am I going to go? We’ve both reached the limit, and before God’s judgment we’re equal in our trespasses.”

“In our trespasses!” the dead lady contemptuously mimicked. “Don’t you dare even speak to me at all!”

“Oh, woe, woe, woe!”

“Nevertheless, the shopkeeper obeys the lady, Your Excellency.”

“Why shouldn’t he?”

“Well, you know, Your Excellency, considering there’s a new order here.”

“What sort of new order?”

“But we’ve died, so to speak, Your Excellency.”

“Ah, yes! Well, there’s still order…”

Well, thank you very much! Some comfort, really! If it’s come to that here, what can we expect on the upper floor? But, anyhow, what antics! I went on listening, however, though with boundless indignation.

“No, I could live a little! No… you know, I… could live a little!” suddenly came someone’s new voice, from somewhere in between the general and the irritable lady.

“Listen, Your Excellency, our man’s at it again. For three days he’s silent as can be, then suddenly: ‘I could live a little, no, I could live a little!’ And with, you know, such appetite, hee, hee!”

“And such light-mindedness.”

“It’s getting to him, Your Excellency, and, you know, he falls asleep, he’s fast asleep already, he’s been here since April, and suddenly: ‘I could live a little!’ ”

“A bit boring, though,” His Excellency observed.

“A bit boring, Your Excellency, maybe we’ll tease Avdotya Ignatievna again, hee, hee?”

“Ah, no, I beg you, spare me that. I can’t stand that insolent loudmouth.”

“And I, on the other hand, can stand neither of you,” the loudmouth squeamishly retorted. “You’re both utterly boring and cannot talk about anything ideal. And as for you, Your Excellency—you needn’t swagger so—I know a little story of how a lackey swept you from under some marital bed one morning with a broom.”

“Nasty woman!” the general growled through his teeth.

“Avdotya Ignatievna, dearie,” the shopkeeper suddenly cried out again, “my dear lady, meaning no harm, tell me what it is, am I visiting the torments, ⁸or is something else happening?…”

“Ah, he’s at it again, I just knew it, because I get this smell from him, this smell, it’s from him tossing around there.”

“I don’t toss around, dearie, and there’s no special smell from me, because I preserved myself in the wholeness of my body, and it’s you, dear lady, who’s a bit gone off—because the smell really is unbearable, even considering the place. I don’t say anything only out of politeness.”

“Ah, nasty offender! Such a stink coming from him, and he shifts it onto me.”

“Oh, woe, woe, woe! If only the fortieth day ⁹would come sooner: to hear the tearful voices above me, the wailing of my spouse and the quiet weeping of my children!…”

“Well, look what he’s weeping about: they’ll stuff their faces with kutya ¹⁰and leave. Ah, if only someone would wake up!”

“Avdotya Ignatievna,” the fawning official spoke. “Wait a bit, the new ones will speak.”

“And are any of them young?”

“There are young ones, Avdotya Ignatievna. Adolescents, even.”

“Ah, that would be most welcome!”

“And what, they haven’t started yet?” His Excellency inquired.

“Even the ones from two days ago haven’t come to yet, Your Excellency, you know yourself they’re sometimes silent for a whole week. It’s a good thing so many suddenly got brought all at once yesterday, and the day before, and today. Otherwise, for a hundred feet around, they’re all from last year.”

“Yes, interesting.”

“Look, Your Excellency, today they buried the actual privy councillor Tarasevich, I could tell from the voices. His nephew is an acquaintance of mine, he was lowering the coffin just now.”

“Hm, is he here somewhere?”

“About five steps away from you, Your Excellency, to the left. Almost at your feet, sir… You ought to get acquainted, Your Excellency.”

“Hm, no… I can’t be the first.”

“But he’ll start it himself, Your Excellency. He’ll even be flattered, leave it to me, Your Excellency, and I…”

“Ah, ah… ah, what’s happened to me?” someone’s frightened, new little voice suddenly groaned.

“A new one, Your Excellency, a new one, thank God, and so soon! Other times they’re silent for a whole week.”

“Ah, I think it’s a young man!” squealed Avdotya Ignatievna.

“I… I… from complications, and so suddenly!” the young man prattled again. “Just the day before, Schulz says to me: you have complications, he says, and in the morning all at once I up and died. Ah! Ah!”

“Well, no help for it, young man,” the general observed benignly, obviously glad of the newcomer, “you must take comfort! Welcome to our, so to speak, valley of Jehoshaphat. ¹¹We’re kindly folk, you’ll come to know and appreciate us. Major General Vassily Vassiliev Pervoedov, at your service.”

“Ah, no! No, no, not to me! I went to Schulz; I had complications, you know, it got my chest first and I coughed, and then I caught cold: chest and grippe… and then suddenly, quite unexpectedly… above all, quite unexpectedly.”

“You say it was the chest first,” the official softly intervened, as if wishing to encourage the newcomer.

“Yes, the chest and phlegm, and suddenly no phlegm, and the chest, and I couldn’t breathe… and you know…”

“I know, I know. But if it was your chest, you should have gone to Ecke, not to Schulz.”

“And, you know, I kept thinking of Botkin ¹²… and suddenly…”

“Well, Botkin’s a bit stiff,” the general observed.

“Ah, no, he’s not stiff at all; I hear he’s so attentive and tells you everything beforehand.”

“His Excellency was referring to the cost,” the official corrected.

“Ah, come now, just three roubles, and he examines so well, and his prescriptions… and I absolutely wanted to, because I was told… What about it, gentlemen, shall I go to Ecke or to Botkin?”

“What? Where?” the general’s corpse heaved, guffawing pleasantly. The official seconded him in falsetto.

“Dear boy, dear, delightful boy, how I love you!” Avdotya Ignatievna squealed rapturously. “I wish they’d laid one like him next to me!”

No, this I simply cannot allow! And this is a contemporary dead person! However, I must listen further and not jump to conclusions. This milksop newcomer—I remember him in his coffin just now—the expression of a frightened chick, the most disgusting in the world! What next, though.

But next such a hullabaloo broke out that my memory has not retained it all, for a great many woke up at once: an official woke up, one of our state councillors, and started in with the general right there and then about a projected subcommission in the ministry of–affairs and about a probable reshuffling of official posts attendant upon the subcommission, which the general found quite, quite amusing. I confess, I myself learned many new things, so that I marveled at the ways in which administrative news can sometimes be learned in this capital. Then some engineer half awoke, but for a long time he went on muttering complete nonsense, so that our people didn’t even bother with him, but left him to lie it out for a while. Finally, the noble lady buried in the morning under a catafalque displayed signs of sepulchral inspiration. Lebezyatnikov (for the fawning court councillor I hated, the one placed next to General Pervoedov, turned out to be named Lebezyatnikov) fussed a lot, surprised at them all waking up so quickly this time. I confess that I, too, was surprised; however, some of the ones that woke up had been buried two days before, for instance, one very young girl, about sixteen years old, who kept giggling—vilely and carnivorously giggling.

“Your Excellency, the privy councillor Tarasevich is waking up!” Lebezyatnikov announced suddenly in great haste.

“Ah, what’s this?” the suddenly awakened privy councillor maundered squeamishly and in a lisping voice. The sound of his voice had something capriciously peremptory about it. I listened with curiosity, for in recent days I had heard something about this Tarasevich—tempting and alarming in the highest degree.

“It’s me, Your Excellency, so far it’s just me, sir.”

“What is your request and what is it you want?”

“Only to inquire after Your Excellency’s health; being unaccustomed, everybody feels sort of cramped here at first, sir… General Pervoedov wishes to have the honor of making Your Excellency’s acquaintance and hopes…”

“Never heard of him.”

“Good gracious, Your Excellency, General Pervoedov, Vassily Vassilievich…”

“You are General Pervoedov?”

“No, Your Excellency, I’m merely Court Councillor Lebezyatnikov, at your service, sir, but General Pervoedov…”

“Nonsense! And I beg you to leave me in peace.”

“Leave off,” General Pervoedov himself finally put a dignified stop to the vile haste of his sepulchral client.

“He’s not awake yet, Your Excellency, you must keep that in view, sir; it’s from not being accustomed: he’ll wake up and then take it differently, sir…”

“Leave off,” the general repeated.

“Vassily Vassilievich! Hey there, Your Excellency!” an entirely new voice suddenly shouted loudly and eagerly right next to Avdotya Ignatievna—a gentlemanly and brash voice with a fashionably weary articulation and an impudent scansion. “I’ve been observing the lot of you for two hours already; I’ve been lying here for three days; remember me, Vassily Vassilievich? Klinevich—we used to meet at the Volokonskys’, where I don’t know why but you, too, were admitted.”

“Well, Count Pyotr Petrovich… but can it be that you, too… and so young… I amsorry!”

“I’m sorry myself, only it’s all the same to me, and I want to get the most I can from everywhere. And it’s not count, it’s baron, just plain baron. We’re some mangy little barons, from lackey ancestry, and I don’t even know why—spit on it. I’m just a blackguard from pseudo-high-society and considered a ‘sweet polisson.’ ¹³My father was some sort of little general, and my mother was once received en hautlie. ¹⁴Ziefel the Yid and I passed fifty thousand in false banknotes last year, but I denounced him, and Yulka Charpentier de Lusignan ¹⁵took all the money with her to Bordeaux. And, imagine, I was already quite engaged—the Shchevalevsky girl, three months shy of sixteen, still in boarding school, comes with ninety thousand in dowry. Avdotya Ignatievna, remember how you corrupted me fifteen years ago, when I was just a fourteen-year-old page?…”

“Ah, it’s you, you blackguard! Well, at least God sent you, otherwise here it’s…”

“You shouldn’t have suspected your negotiant neighbor of smelling bad… I just kept quiet and laughed. It’s from me; they even buried me in a nailed coffin.”

“Ah, nasty man! Only I’m glad even so; you wouldn’t believe, Klinevich, you wouldn’t believe what a dearth of life and wit there is here.”

“Yes, yes, but I intend to start something original here. Your Excellency—not you, Pervoedov—Your Excellency, the other one, Mr. Tarasevich, the privy councillor! Answer me! It’s Klinevich, the one who took you to Mademoiselle Furie last lent, do you hear me?”

“I hear you, Klinevich, and I’m very glad, and believe me…”

“I don’t believe a groat’s worth, and spit on it. I’d simply like to kiss you, dear old boy, but I can’t, thank God. Do you know, gentlemen, what this grand-pèrepulled off? He died two or three days ago and, can you imagine, left a whole four hundred thousand missing from the treasury? The fund was intended for widows and orphans, and for some reason he alone was in charge of it, so that in the end he wasn’t audited for about eight years. I can picture what long faces they’ve all got there now and how they’ll remember him! A delectable thought, isn’t it? All last year I kept being surprised at how such a seventy-year-old codger, podagric and chiragric, could have preserved so much strength for depravity, and—and now here’s the answer! Those widows and orphans—oh, the mere thought of them must have inflamed him!… I knew about it for a long time, I was the only one, Charpentier told me, and the moment I found out, right then, during Holy Week, I pressed him in a friendly way: ‘Hand me over twenty-five thousand or else you’ll be audited tomorrow.’ And, imagine, he came up with only thirteen thousand then, so it seems very opportune that he died now. Grand-père, grand-père, do you hear me?”

“CherKlinevich, I quite agree with you, and you needn’t… go into such detail. There’s so much suffering and torment in life, and so little reward… I wished finally to have some peace, and, as far as I can see, I hope even here to extract all…”

“I’ll bet he’s already sniffed out about Katie Berestov!”

“What?… What Katie?” the old man’s voice trembled carnivorously.

“Aha, what Katie? Here, to the left, five steps from me, ten from you. It’s the fifth day she’s been here, and if you knew, grand-père, what a little hellcat she is… from a good family, educated, and—a monster, a monster to the last degree! I never showed her to anybody there, I alone knew… Katie, answer me!”

“Hee, hee, hee!” answered the cracked sound of a girl’s voice, but one could hear something like the prick of a needle in it. “Hee, hee, hee!”

“Is… she… blond?” the grand-pèrebabbled, faltering, in three gasps.

“Hee, hee, hee!”

“I… I’ve long dreamed,” the old man babbled breathlessly, “a lovely dream about a little blonde… fifteen or so… and precisely in such a situation…”

“Ah, abominable!” Avdotya Ignatievna exclaimed.

“Enough!” Klinevich decided. “I see the material is excellent. We’ll immediately set things up here in the best possible way. Above all so as to spend the rest of our time merrily; but what sort of time? Hey, you, the official or whatever, Lebezyatnikov, I’ve heard they call you that!”

“Lebezyatnikov, court councillor, Semyon Evseych, at your service, and very, very, very gladly.”

“Spit on your gladly, only you seem to know everything here. Tell me, first of all (I’ve been wondering since yesterday), how is it that we can speak here? We’re dead and yet we can speak; we also move, as it were, and yet we don’t speak or move? What’s the trick?”

“If you wish, Baron, this can better be explained to you by Platon Nikolaevich.”

“What Platon Nikolaevich? Don’t mumble, get to the point.”

“Platon Nikolaevich, our local homegrown philosopher, natural scientist, and magister. He put out several books on philosophy, but it’s three months now and he’s falling quite asleep, so it’s no longer possible to shake him out of it. Once a week he mutters a few words that are quite beside the point.”

“To the point, to the point!…”

“He explains it all with the most simple fact—namely, that up there, while we were still alive, we mistakenly regarded death there as death. Here the body revives again, as it were, the remnants of life concentrate, but only in the consciousness. It’s—I don’t know how to put it—life continuing as if by inertia. Everything is concentrated, in his opinion, somewhere in the consciousness, and goes on for another two or three months… sometimes even half a year… There’s one here, for instance, who is almost entirely decomposed, but once in six weeks, say, he suddenly mutters some little word, a meaningless one, of course, about some bobok: ‘Bobok, bobok’—which means that in him, too, an imperceptible spark of life is still glimmering…”

“Rather stupid. Well, and how is it that I have no sense of smell, but can feel the stench?”

“That’s… heh, heh… Well, here our philosopher got himself into a fog. He observed precisely about smelling that here the stench one can feel is, so to speak, a moral one—heh, heh! A stench as if of the soul, so that one has time in these two or three months to reconsider… and that it is, so to speak, the last mercy… Only it seems to me, Baron, that this is all mystical raving, quite excusable in his position…”

“Enough, and the rest, I’m sure, is all nonsense. The main thing is two or three months of life, and in the final end—bobok. I suggest that we all spend these two months as pleasurably as possible, and for that we should all set things up on a different basis. Gentlemen! I propose that we not be ashamed of anything!”

“Ah, let’s not be, let’s not be ashamed of anything!” many voices were heard, and strangely, even quite new voices, meaning that in the interim new ones had awakened. With especial readiness, the now completely recovered engineer thundered his consent in a bass voice. The girl Katie giggled joyfully.

“Ah, how I want not to be ashamed of anything!” Avdotya Ignatievna exclaimed with rapture.

“Do you hear, if even Avdotya Ignatievna wants not to be ashamed of anything…”

“No, no, no, Klinevich, I was ashamed, I was ashamed there even so, but here I want terribly, terribly not to be ashamed of anything!”