Capítulo 15 de 41

I

Raskolnikov raised himself up and sat on the sofa.

He feebly waved his hand at Razumikhin to stop the entire stream of his incoherent and fervent consolations addressed to his mother and sister, took them both by the hands and gazed silently for a minute or two, first at one, then at the other. His mother was frightened by his look. In that look there shone through an intense feeling almost to the point of suffering, but at the same time there was something fixed, even as though mad. Pulcheria Alexandrovna began to cry.

Avdotya Romanovna was pale; her hand trembled in her brother's hand.

"Go home... with him," he said in a broken voice, pointing to Razumikhin, "until tomorrow; tomorrow everything... When did you arrive?"

"This evening, Rodya," answered Pulcheria Alexandrovna, "the train was terribly delayed. But, Rodya, I won't leave you now for anything! I'll spend the night here beside you..."

"Don't torture me!" he said, irritably waving his hand.

"I'll stay with him!" cried Razumikhin, "I won't leave him for a minute, and to hell with all of them at my place, let them climb the walls! My uncle is there presiding."

"How, how can I thank you!" Pulcheria Alexandrovna began, again clasping Razumikhin's hands, but Raskolnikov interrupted her again:

"I cannot, I cannot," he repeated irritably, "don't torture me! Enough, go away... I cannot!.."

"Let's go, mama, let's at least leave the room for a minute," whispered the frightened Dunya, "we're killing him, that's obvious."

"But can I really not even look at him, after three years!" wept Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

"Wait!" he stopped them again, "you keep interrupting, and my thoughts get confused... Have you seen Luzhin?"

"No, Rodya, but he already knows about our arrival. We heard, Rodya, that Pyotr Petrovich was so kind as to visit you today," Pulcheria Alexandrovna added with some timidity.

"Yes... he was so kind... Dunya, I told Luzhin earlier that I'd throw him down the stairs, and I sent him to hell..."

"Rodya, what are you! Surely... you don't mean to say," Pulcheria Alexandrovna began in fright, but stopped, looking at Dunya.

Avdotya Romanovna was gazing intently at her brother and waiting for more. They had both already been forewarned about the quarrel by Nastasya, as much as she could understand and convey, and had suffered in bewilderment and anticipation.

"Dunya," Raskolnikov continued with effort, "I do not want this marriage, and therefore you must, tomorrow, at the first word, refuse Luzhin, so that there won't be a trace of him left."

"Good God!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

"Brother, think what you're saying!" Avdotya Romanovna began hotly, but immediately restrained herself. "You may not be in a condition now, you're tired," she said gently.

"Delirious? No... You're marrying Luzhin for my sake. But I don't accept sacrifices. And so, by tomorrow, write a letter... with a refusal... Let me read it in the morning, and that's the end of it!"

"I cannot do that!" cried the offended girl. "By what right..."

"Dunechka, you're hot-tempered too, stop it, tomorrow... Don't you see..." the mother was frightened, rushing to Dunya. "Oh, let's leave, better!"

"He's delirious!" shouted the tipsy Razumikhin, "otherwise how would he dare! Tomorrow all this nonsense will be gone... And today he really did throw him out. That's how it was. Well, and the other got angry... He made speeches here, showed off his knowledge, and left with his tail between his legs..."

"So it's true?" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

"Until tomorrow, brother," said Dunya with compassion, "let's go, mama... Goodbye, Rodya!"

"Listen, sister," he repeated after her, gathering his last strength, "I'm not delirious; this marriage is vile. Let me be a scoundrel, but you must not... one or the other... and though I am a scoundrel, I won't consider such a sister my sister. Either me or Luzhin! Go..."

"But you've gone mad! Despot!" roared Razumikhin, but Raskolnikov no longer answered, and perhaps was not able to answer. He lay down on the sofa and turned to the wall in complete exhaustion. Avdotya Romanovna looked at Razumikhin with curiosity; her black eyes flashed: Razumikhin even shuddered under that look. Pulcheria Alexandrovna stood as if struck.

"I cannot leave for anything!" she whispered to Razumikhin, almost in despair, "I'll stay here, somewhere... see Dunya home."

"And you'll ruin everything!" Razumikhin also whispered, beside himself, "let's at least go out to the staircase. Nastasya, give us light! I swear to you," he continued in a half-whisper, already on the stairs, "that earlier he almost beat us, me and the doctor! Do you understand? The doctor himself! And he gave in so as not to irritate him, and left, and I stayed downstairs to watch, but he got dressed and slipped out. And now he'll slip out again if you irritate him, at night, and do something to himself..."

"Oh, what are you saying!"

"And Avdotya Romanovna cannot possibly stay in the hotel rooms without you alone! Just think where you're staying! Surely that scoundrel, Pyotr Petrovich, couldn't have found you better lodgings... But you know, I'm a bit drunk and that's why I... cursed; don't pay attention..."

"But I'll go to the landlady here," Pulcheria Alexandrovna insisted, "I'll beg her to give me and Dunya a corner for this night. I cannot leave him like this, I cannot!"

While saying this, they stood on the stairs, on the landing, right in front of the landlady's door. Nastasya was giving them light from the lower step. Razumikhin was in extraordinary agitation. Half an hour earlier, escorting Raskolnikov home, though he had been excessively talkative, which he acknowledged, he had been completely alert and almost fresh, despite the terrible quantity of wine he had drunk that evening. Now his state resembled some kind of ecstasy, and at the same time it was as if all the wine he had drunk had rushed to his head anew, all at once and with doubled force. He stood with both ladies, gripping them both by the hands, persuading them and presenting his arguments with astonishing frankness, and probably for greater conviction, squeezing both their hands almost painfully, as if in a vice, with nearly every word, and seemed to devour Avdotya Romanovna with his eyes, without being embarrassed by this in the least. They occasionally tore their hands from his huge and bony paw from the pain, but he not only didn't notice what the matter was, but pulled them even closer to himself. If they had ordered him right now, for their service, to throw himself down the stairs headfirst, he would have done it at once, without reasoning or hesitation. Pulcheria Alexandrovna, completely preoccupied with thoughts of her Rodya, though she felt that the young man was very eccentric indeed and squeezing her hand much too painfully, but since at the same time he was providence for her, did not want to notice all these eccentric details. But, despite the same anxiety, Avdotya Romanovna, though not of a timid character, met the wildly burning glances of her brother's friend with astonishment and almost even with fear, and only the boundless trust inspired by Nastasya's stories about this strange man kept her from the attempt to run away from him and drag her mother after her. She also understood that perhaps they couldn't run away from him now anyway. However, in about ten minutes she was significantly calmer: Razumikhin had the quality of expressing himself completely in an instant, whatever mood he was in, so that everyone soon knew whom they were dealing with.

"It's impossible to go to the landlady, and it's utter nonsense!" he cried, persuading Pulcheria Alexandrovna. "Though you're his mother, if you stay, you'll drive him to madness, and then God knows what will happen! Listen, here's what I'll do: Nastasya will sit with him now, and I'll escort you both to your place, because you can't go through the streets alone; here in Petersburg on that account... Well, to hell with it!.. Then I'll run straight back here and in a quarter of an hour, my most honest word, I'll bring you a report: how he is, whether he's sleeping or not, and everything else. Then, listen! Then I'll go from you straight to my place in a flash—I have guests there, they're all drunk—I'll get Zosimov—that's the doctor who's treating him, he's sitting at my place now, he's not drunk; this one is never drunk, this one is never drunk! I'll drag him to Rodya and then straight to you, which means in an hour you'll get two reports about him—and from the doctor himself, understand, from the doctor himself; that's not the same as from me! If it's bad, I swear, I'll bring you here myself, but if it's good, then go to bed. And I'll spend the whole night here, in the entry, he won't hear, and I'll tell Zosimov to sleep at the landlady's, to be at hand. Well, what's better for him now, you or the doctor? The doctor is more useful, more useful. So go home! But to the landlady is impossible; it's possible for me, but impossible for you: she won't let you in, because... because she's a fool. She'll be jealous of me on account of Avdotya Romanovna, if you want to know, and of you too... But especially of Avdotya Romanovna. She's a completely, completely unexpected character! However, I'm a fool too... To hell with it! Let's go! Do you trust me? Well, do you trust me or not?"

"Let's go, mama," said Avdotya Romanovna, "he'll certainly do as he promises. He's already revived my brother, and if it's true that the doctor will agree to spend the night here, what could be better?"

"You... you... understand me, because you're... an angel!" Razumikhin cried in rapture. "Let's go! Nastasya! Upstairs this instant and sit there with him, with a light; I'll be back in a quarter of an hour..."

Though Pulcheria Alexandrovna was not entirely convinced, she no longer resisted. Razumikhin took them both by the arm and dragged them down the stairs. However, he worried her: "though he's capable and kind, is he in a condition to do what he promises? He's in such a state!.."

"Ah, I understand, you think I'm in such a state!" Razumikhin interrupted her thoughts, guessing them, and striding with his enormous strides along the sidewalk, so that both ladies could barely keep up with him, which, however, he didn't notice. "Nonsense! That is... I'm drunk as a fool, but that's not the point; I'm drunk not from wine. But as soon as I saw you, it hit me in the head... But to hell with me! Don't pay attention: I'm lying; I'm not worthy of you... I'm utterly unworthy of you!.. But as soon as I see you home, I'll instantly, right here in the gutter, pour two buckets of water over my head, and I'll be ready... If only you knew how I love you both!.. Don't laugh and don't be angry!.. Be angry at everyone, but don't be angry at me! I'm his friend, and therefore I'm your friend too. I want it that way... I had a presentiment... last year, there was such a moment... Though it wasn't a presentiment at all, because you fell from heaven. And I probably won't sleep all night... Zosimov was afraid earlier that he might go mad... That's why you mustn't irritate him..."

"What are you saying!" cried the mother.

"Did the doctor himself really say that?" asked Avdotya Romanovna, frightened.

"He said it, but it's not that, not that at all. He gave him some medicine, a powder, I saw it, but then you arrived... Eh!.. It would have been better if you'd come tomorrow! It's good we left. And in an hour Zosimov himself will report everything to you. He's not drunk, that one! And I won't be drunk... And why did I get so plastered? Because they drew me into an argument, damn them! I swore not to argue!.. They talk such nonsense! I almost got into a fight. I left my uncle there, presiding... Well, would you believe: they demand complete impersonality and find the greatest relish in that! As if not to be oneself, to resemble oneself as little as possible! That's what they consider the highest progress. And if only they'd lie in their own way, but..."

"Listen," Pulcheria Alexandrovna timidly interrupted, but this only added fuel to the fire.

"What do you think!" shouted Razumikhin, raising his voice even higher, "you think I'm upset that they lie? Nonsense! I love it when they lie! Lying is man's only privilege over all other organisms. If you lie, you'll get to the truth! That's why I'm a man, because I lie. You never get to a single truth without lying fourteen times first, maybe a hundred and fourteen, and that's honorable in its way; well, but we can't even lie with our own mind! Lie to me, but lie in your own way, and I'll kiss you for it then. To lie in your own way is almost better than the truth in someone else's way; in the first case you're a man, and in the second you're just a bird! Truth won't run away, but you can nail life shut; there have been examples. Well, what are we now? All of us, all without exception, in the department of science, development, thinking, inventions, ideals, desires, liberalism, reason, experience and everything, everything, everything, everything, everything are still sitting in the first preparatory class of the gymnasium! We've grown fond of getting by on other people's minds—we're steeped in it! Isn't that so? Isn't that what I'm saying?" shouted Razumikhin, shaking and squeezing the hands of both ladies, "isn't it?"

"Oh, good heavens, I don't know," said poor Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

"Yes, yes... though I don't agree with you in everything," Avdotya Romanovna added seriously and immediately cried out, he squeezed her hand so painfully this time.

"Yes? You say yes? Well then after that you... you..." he cried in rapture, "you're a fountain of goodness, purity, reason and... perfection! Give me your hand, give it... you give yours too, I want to kiss your hands here, right now, on my knees!"

And he knelt down in the middle of the sidewalk, fortunately deserted at that moment.

"Stop, I beg you, what are you doing!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna, alarmed to the extreme.

"Get up, get up!" Dunya laughed and was alarmed too.

"Not for anything, until you give me your hands! There, like that, enough, I've gotten up, and let's go! I'm a miserable fool, I'm unworthy of you, and drunk, and ashamed... I'm unworthy to love you, but to worship you—that's the duty of everyone, if only he's not a complete beast! And I've worshipped... Here are your rooms, and just for this alone Rodion was right to throw out your Pyotr Petrovich earlier! How dare he put you in such rooms? It's a scandal! Do you know who they let in here? And you're a bride! You are a bride, yes? Well, then I'll tell you that your fiancé is a scoundrel after this!"

"Listen, Mr. Razumikhin, you've forgotten yourself..." Pulcheria Alexandrovna began.

"Yes, yes, you're right, I forgot myself, I'm ashamed!" Razumikhin recollected himself, "but... but... you can't be angry at me for saying this! Because I'm speaking sincerely, and not because... hm! that would be vile; in a word, not because I'm... hm!.. well, so be it, I won't say why, I don't dare!.. But we all understood earlier, when he came in, that this man is not of our society. Not because he came in with his hair curled at the barber's, not because he hurried to show off his intelligence, but because he's a spy and a speculator; because he's a Jew and a buffoon, and it's obvious. Do you think he's intelligent? No, he's a fool, a fool! Well, is he a match for you? Oh, good God! You see, ladies," he suddenly stopped, already climbing the stairs to the hotel rooms, "though they're all drunk at my place, they're all honest, and though we lie, because I lie too, we'll finally get to the truth, because we're on a noble path, while Pyotr Petrovich... is not on a noble path. Though I just cursed them something terrible, I respect them all; even Zametov, though I don't respect him, I like him, because—he's a puppy! Even that beast Zosimov, because he's honest and knows his business... But enough, everything's said and forgiven. Forgiven? Is that right? Well, let's go. I know this corridor, I've been here; there was a scandal here, in number three... Well, where are you? What number? Eight? Well, then lock yourselves in for the night, don't let anyone in. In a quarter of an hour I'll be back with news, and then in another half hour with Zosimov, you'll see! Goodbye, I'm running!"

"Good God, Dunechka, what's going to happen?" said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, turning anxiously and timidly to her daughter.

"Calm down, mama," answered Dunya, taking off her hat and mantilla, "God himself sent us this gentleman, though he's come straight from some drinking party. We can rely on him, I assure you. And everything he's already done for my brother..."

"Ah, Dunechka, God knows whether he'll come! And how could I decide to leave Rodya!.. And I didn't imagine finding him like this at all! How stern he was, as if he weren't glad to see us..."

Tears appeared in her eyes.

"No, that's not so, mama. You didn't look properly, you were crying the whole time. He's very upset from his serious illness—that's the whole reason."

"Ah, this illness! What will happen, what will happen! And how he spoke to you, Dunya!" said the mother, looking timidly into her daughter's eyes to read her whole thought, and already half consoled by the fact that Dunya herself was defending Rodya, and therefore had forgiven him. "I'm sure he'll think better of it tomorrow," she added, trying to probe further.

"And I'm sure he'll say the same thing tomorrow... about this," Avdotya Romanovna cut her off, and of course this was the sticking point, because this was the matter that Pulcheria Alexandrovna was now too afraid to discuss. Dunya went up and kissed her mother. The latter embraced her tightly in silence. Then she sat down in anxious expectation of Razumikhin's return and timidly began to watch her daughter, who, with her arms crossed, also waiting, began to pace back and forth across the room, thinking to herself. Such pacing from corner to corner, deep in thought, was Avdotya Romanovna's usual habit, and at such times her mother was always somehow afraid to interrupt her contemplation.

Razumikhin, of course, was ridiculous with his sudden, drunken passion for Avdotya Romanovna; but looking at Avdotya Romanovna, especially now, when she walked with her arms crossed across the room, sad and thoughtful, many might have forgiven him, not to mention his eccentric state. Avdotya Romanovna was remarkably good-looking—tall, wonderfully shapely, strong, self-confident, which showed itself in her every gesture and which, however, did not in the least detract from the softness and gracefulness of her movements. In face she resembled her brother, but she could even be called a beauty. Her hair was dark brown, a little lighter than her brother's; her eyes were almost black, sparkling, proud and yet at the same time, at moments, extraordinarily kind. She was pale, but not sickly pale; her face glowed with freshness and health. Her mouth was a little small, and her lower lip, fresh and red, protruded slightly forward, together with her chin—the only irregularity in that beautiful face, but which gave it a particular character and, among other things, a kind of haughtiness. The expression of her face was always more serious than cheerful, thoughtful; but how well a smile suited that face, how well laughter suited her, cheerful, young, wholehearted! It was natural that the ardent, frank, simple, honest, strong as a hero, and drunk Razumikhin, who had never seen anything like her, should lose his head at first sight. Moreover, as if on purpose, chance showed him Dunya for the first time in a beautiful moment of love and joy at seeing her brother. He saw then how her lower lip trembled in indignation in response to her brother's insolent and ungratefully cruel orders—and he could not resist.

He had, however, told the truth when he blurted out drunkenly earlier on the stairs that Raskolnikov's eccentric landlady, Praskovya Pavlovna, would be jealous of him not only on account of Avdotya Romanovna, but perhaps even of Pulcheria Alexandrovna herself. Although Pulcheria Alexandrovna was already forty-three years old, her face still retained remnants of her former beauty, and moreover she seemed much younger than her years, which is almost always the case with women who have preserved clarity of spirit, freshness of impressions and an honest, pure warmth of heart into old age. Let us say in parentheses that to preserve all this is the only means of not losing one's beauty even in old age. Her hair had already begun to turn gray and thin, little radial wrinkles had long appeared around her eyes, her cheeks had become hollow and dried from care and grief, and yet this face was beautiful. It was a portrait of Dunya's face, only twenty years later, except for the expression of the lower lip, which in her case did not protrude forward. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was sentimental, though not to the point of sickliness, timid and yielding, but up to a certain point: she could yield much, could agree to much, even to things that contradicted her convictions, but there was always such a line of honesty, principles and deepest convictions that no circumstances could make her cross.

Exactly twenty minutes after Razumikhin's departure came two quiet but hurried knocks at the door; he had returned.

"I won't come in, no time!" he hurried when they opened the door, "he's sleeping soundly, excellently, peacefully, and God grant he sleeps ten hours. Nastasya's with him; I told her not to leave until I come. Now I'll drag Zosimov over, he'll report to you, and then you should hit the hay; I can see you're exhausted, completely."

And he rushed off down the corridor.

"What an efficient and... devoted young man!" exclaimed the extremely delighted Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

"He seems a splendid person!" answered Avdotya Romanovna with some warmth, beginning to pace back and forth across the room again.

Almost an hour later, footsteps were heard in the corridor and another knock at the door. Both women were waiting, this time fully believing Razumikhin's promise; and indeed, he had managed to drag Zosimov over. Zosimov immediately agreed to abandon the party and go look at Raskolnikov, but he went to the ladies reluctantly and with great mistrust, not trusting the drunk Razumikhin. But his vanity was immediately calmed and even flattered: he understood that they really had been waiting for him as for an oracle. He sat for exactly ten minutes and completely succeeded in convincing and calming Pulcheria Alexandrovna. He spoke with extraordinary sympathy, but restrainedly and with a kind of forced seriousness, exactly like a twenty-seven-year-old doctor at an important consultation, and did not deviate by a single word from the subject or show the slightest desire to enter into more personal and private relations with the two ladies. Having noticed upon entering how dazzlingly beautiful Avdotya Romanovna was, he immediately tried not to notice her at all during the entire visit, and addressed himself exclusively to Pulcheria Alexandrovna. All this gave him extraordinary inner satisfaction. Speaking properly of the patient, he expressed the opinion that he found him at the present moment in a very satisfactory condition. According to his observations, the patient's illness, besides the poor material circumstances of the last months of his life, also had some moral causes, "is, so to speak, the product of many complex moral and material influences, anxieties, fears, cares, certain ideas... and so forth." Having noticed in passing that Avdotya Romanovna began to listen with particular attention, Zosimov expanded somewhat more on this theme. To Pulcheria Alexandrovna's anxious and timid question about "certain suspicions of insanity," he answered with a calm and frank smile that his words had been too exaggerated; that, of course, some fixed idea was noticeable in the patient, something indicating monomania—since he, Zosimov, was now particularly following this extremely interesting branch of medicine—but it must be remembered that almost until today the patient had been delirious, and... and, of course, the arrival of his family would strengthen him, dispel his condition and have a salutary effect, "if only it's possible to avoid new particular shocks," he added significantly. Then he rose, bowed solidly and cordially, accompanied by blessings, warm gratitude, entreaties and even Avdotya Romanovna's little hand extended to him for a handshake, without his seeking it, and left extremely satisfied with his visit and even more with himself.

"And we'll talk tomorrow; go to bed now, immediately, you must!" Razumikhin confirmed, leaving with Zosimov. "Tomorrow, as early as possible, I'll come to you with a report."

"But what a delightful girl that Avdotya Romanovna is!" remarked Zosimov, almost licking his lips, when they both came out onto the street.

"Delightful? You said delightful!" roared Razumikhin and suddenly threw himself at Zosimov and grabbed him by the throat. "If you ever dare... Understand? Understand?" he shouted, shaking him by the collar and pressing him against the wall, "do you hear?"

"Let go, you drunken devil!" Zosimov fought him off and then, when he had already released him, looked at him intently and suddenly collapsed with laughter. Razumikhin stood before him, arms hanging down, in gloomy and serious thought.

"Of course, I'm a donkey," he said, gloomy as a cloud, "but then... so are you."

"No, brother, not at all the same. I don't dream of such nonsense."

They walked in silence, and only when approaching Raskolnikov's apartment, Razumikhin, deeply preoccupied, broke the silence.

"Listen," he said to Zosimov, "you're a fine fellow, but besides all your bad qualities, you're also a libertine, I know that, and a dirty one at that. You're a nervous, weak piece of trash, you're capricious, you've grown fat and can't deny yourself anything—and I call that filth, because it leads straight to filth. You've pampered yourself so much that, I confess, I understand least of all how you can still be a good and even self-sacrificing doctor with all that. You sleep on a featherbed (a doctor!), and yet you get up at night for patients! In three years you won't be getting up for patients anymore... Well, damn it, that's not the point, but here's what: you're spending the night in the landlady's apartment today (I barely talked her into it!), and I'm in the kitchen: here's your chance to get better acquainted! Not what you're thinking! There's not even a shadow of that here, brother..."

"But I'm not thinking anything at all."

"Here, brother, there's bashfulness, silence, shyness, ferocious chastity, and with all that—sighs, and melts like wax, just melts! Save me from her, for the sake of all the devils in the world! She's most charming!.. I'll earn it, I'll earn it with my head!"

Zosimov laughed more heartily than before.

"Look how worked up you are! But why do I need her?"

"I assure you, it won't be much trouble, just talk whatever nonsense you like, just sit beside her and talk. Besides, you're a doctor, start treating her for something. I swear, you won't regret it. She has a clavichord; I strum a little, you know; I have a song there, a Russian one, a real one: 'I'll dissolve in bitter tears...' She loves the real ones—well, it started with the song; but you're a virtuoso on the pianoforte, a master, Rubinstein... I assure you, you won't regret it!"

"But have you made her some promises or something? Something in writing? Did you promise to marry her, perhaps..."

"Nothing, nothing, absolutely nothing of the sort! And she's not like that at all; Chebarov tried with her..."

"Well, then drop her!"

"But you can't just drop her like that!"

"But why can't you?"

"Well, you just can't, that's all! There's a drawing-in principle here, brother."

"Then why did you entice her?"

"I didn't entice her at all, I may have been enticed myself, through my stupidity, but it'll be absolutely all the same to her whether it's you or me, as long as someone sits beside her and sighs. Here, brother... I can't express this to you, here—well, you know mathematics well, and you're still doing it, I know... well, start going through integral calculus with her, I swear I'm not joking, I'm speaking seriously, it'll be absolutely all the same to her: she'll look at you and sigh, and so on for a whole year straight. I, among other things, talked to her for a very long time, two days straight, about the Prussian House of Lords (because what else can you talk to her about?), and she just sighed and perspired! Just don't start talking about love—she's shy to the point of convulsions—but make it look like you can't leave, and that's enough. It's terribly comfortable; just like home—read, sit, lie down, write... You can even kiss, with caution..."

"But what do I need her for?"

"Eh, I can't explain it to you at all! Look: you're completely suited to each other! I've thought about you before... You'll end up with this anyway! So isn't it all the same to you—sooner or later? Here, brother, there's such a featherbed principle—eh! and not just featherbed! It draws you in; here's the end of the world, an anchor, a quiet haven, the navel of the earth, the three-fish foundation of the world, the essence of pancakes, of rich meat pies, of the evening samovar, of quiet sighs and warm jackets, of heated sleeping benches—well, it's as if you're dead, but at the same time you're alive, both advantages at once! Well, brother, damn it, I've been lying, it's time to sleep! Listen: sometimes I wake up at night, well, and I go to look at him. But it's nothing, nonsense, everything's fine. Don't worry too much either, and if you want, go take a look too. But if you notice anything, delirium for instance, or fever, or anything, wake me immediately. Though it can't happen..."