" I could not, I could not do anything. We are weak, my dear friend . ... I used to be indifferent. I reasoned boldly and soundly, but at the first coarse touch of life upon me I have lost heart. . . . Pros- tration . . . . We are weak, we are poor creatures . . . and you, too, my dear friend, you are intelli- gent, generous, you drew in good impulses with your mother's milk, but you had hardly entered upon life when you were exhausted and fell ill. . . . Weak, weak!"
Andrey Yefimitch was all the while at the ap- proach of evening tormented by another persistent sensation besides terror and the feeling of resent- ment. At last he realized that he was longing for a smoke and for beer.
" I am going out, my friend," he said. " I will tell them to bring a light; I can't put up with this. . . . I am not equal to it . . . ."
Andrey Yefimitch went to the door and opened it, but at once Nikita jumped up and barred his way.
" Where are you going? You can't, you can't I " he said. " It's bedtime."
" But I'm only going out for a minute to walk about the yard," said Andrey Yefimitch.
" You can't, you can't; it's forbidden. You know that yourself."
" But what difference will it make to anyone if I do go out? " asked Andrey Yefimitch, shrugging his shoulders. " I don't understand. Nikita, I must go out I " he said in a trembling voice. " I must."
" Don't be disorderly, it's not right," Nikita said peremptorily.
" This is beyond everything," Ivan Dmitritch cried suddenly, and he jumped up. " What right has he not to let you out? How dare they keep us here ? I believe it is clearly laid down in the law that no one can be deprived of freedom without trial! It's an outrage! It's tyranny I "
" Of course it's tyranny," said Andrey Yefimitch, encouraged by Ivan Dmitritch's outburst. " I must go out, I want to. He has no right I Open, I tell you."
" Do you hear, you dull-witted brute?" cried Ivan Dmitritch, and he banged on the door with his fist. " Open the door, or I will break it open I Torturer I "
" Open the door," cried Andrey Yefimitch, trem- bling all over; " I insist! "
" Talk away! " Nikita answered through the door, " talk away . . . ."
" Anyhow, go and call Yevgeny Fyodoritch! Say that I beg him to come for a minute! "
" His honour will come of himself to-morrow." " They will never let us out," Ivan Dmitritch was going on meanwhile. " They will leave us to rot here! Oh, Lord, can there really be no hell in the next world, and will these wretches be forgiven? Where is justice? Open the door, you wretch I I am choking! " he cried in a hoarse voice, and flung himself upon the door. " I'll dash out my brains, murderers I "
Nikita opened the door quickly, and roughly with both his hands and his knee shoved Andrey Yefi- mitch back, then swung his arm and punched him in the face with his fist. It seemed to Andrey Yefimitch as though a huge salt wave enveloped him from his head downwards and dragged him to the bed; there really was a salt taste in his mouth: most likely the blood was running from his teeth. He waved his arms as though he were trying to swim out and clutched at a bedstead, and at the same moment felt Nikita hit him twice on the back.
Ivan Drnitritch gave a loud scream. He must have been beaten too.
Then all was still, the faint moonlight carne through the grating, and a shadow like a net lay on the floor. It was terrible. Andrey Yefimitch lay and held his breath: he was expecting with horror to be struck again. He felt as though some- one had taken a sickle, thrust it into him, and turned it round several times in his breast and bowels. He bit the pillow from pain and clenched his teeth, and all at once through the chaos in his brain there flashed the terrible unbearable thought that these people, who seemed now like black shadows in the moonlight, had to endure such pain day by day for years. How could it have happened that for more than twenty years he had not known it and had re- fused to know it? He knew nothing of pain, had no conception of it, so he was not to blame, but his conscience, as inexorable and as rough as Nikita, made him turn cold from the crown of his head to his heels. He leaped up, tried to cry out with all his might, and to run in haste to kill Nikita, and then Hobotov, the superintendent and the assistant, and then himself; but no sound carne from his chest, and his legs would not obey him. Gasping for breath, he tore at the dressing-gown and the shirt on his breast, rent them, and fell senseless on the bed.
XIX
Next morning his head ached, there was a droning in his ears and a feeling of utter weakness all over.
He was not ashamed at recalling his weakness the day before. He had been cowardly, had even been afraid of the moon, had openly expressed thoughts and feelings such as he had not expected in himself before; for instance, the thought that the paltry people who philosophized were really dissatisfied. But now nothing mattered to him.
He ate nothing, he drank nothing. He lay mo- tionless and silent.
"It is all the same to me," he thought when they asked him questions. "I am not going to answer. . . . It's all the same to me."
After dinner Mihail Averyanitch brought him a quarter of a pound of tea and a pound of fruit pastilles. Daryushka came too and stood for a whole hour by the bed with an expression of dull grief on her face. Dr. Hobotov visited him. He brought a bottle of bromide and told Nikita to fumigate the ward with something.
Towards evening Andrey Yefimitch died of an apoplectic stroke. At first he had a violent shiver- ing fit and a feeling of sickness; something revolting as it seemed, penetrating through his whole body, even to his finger-tips, strained from his stomach to his head and flooded his eyes and ears. There was a greenness before his eyes. Andrey Yefimitch understood that his end had come, and remembered that Ivan Dmitritch, Mihail Averyanitch, and mil- lions of people believed in immortality. And what if it really existed? But he did not want immortal- ity, and he thought of it only for one instant. A herd of deer, extraordinarily beautiful and graceful, of which he had been reading the day before, ran by him; then a peasant woman stretched out her hand to him with a registered letter. . . . Mihail Averya- nitch said something, then it all vanished, and Andrey Yefimitch sank into oblivion for ever.
The hospital porters came, took him by his arms and his legs, and carried him away to the chapel.
There he lay on the table, with open eyes, and the moon shed its light upon him at night. In the morning Sergey Sergeyitch came, prayed piously before the crucifix, and closed his former chief's eyes.
Next day Andrey Yefimitch was buried. Mihail Averyanitch and Daryushka were the only people at the funeral.
1892
THE DARLING