But how about his watch?  And the notebook that was in the side-pocket?  And his cigarettes?  Where had Nikita taken his clothes?  Now perhaps to the day of his death he would not put on trousers, a waistcoat, and high boots.  It was all somehow strange and even incomprehensible at first.  Andrey Yefimitch was even now convinced that there was no difference between his landlady’s house and Ward No. 6, that everything in this world was nonsense and vanity of vanities.  And yet his hands were trembling, his feet were cold, and he was filled with dread at the thought that soon Ivan Dmitritch would get up and see that he was in a dressing-gown.  He got up and walked across the room and sat down again.

Here he had been sitting already half an hour, an hour, and he was miserably sick of it:  was it really possible to live here a day, a week, and even years like these people?  Why, he had been sitting here, had walked about and sat down again; he could get up and look out of window and walk from corner to corner again, and then what?  Sit so all the time, like a post, and think?  No, that was scarcely possible.

Andrey Yefimitch lay down, but at once got up, wiped the cold sweat from his brow with his sleeve and felt that his whole face smelt of smoked fish.  He walked about again.

“It’s some misunderstanding . . .” he said, turning out the palms of his hands in perplexity.  “It must be cleared up.  There is a misunderstanding.”

Meanwhile Ivan Dmitritch woke up; he sat up and propped his cheeks on his fists.  He spat.  Then he glanced lazily at the doctor, and apparently for the first minute did not understand; but soon his sleepy face grew malicious and mocking.

“Aha! so they have put you in here, too, old fellow?” he said in a voice husky from sleepiness, screwing up one eye.  “Very glad to see you.  You sucked the blood of others, and now they will suck yours.  Excellent!”

“It’s a misunderstanding . . .”  Andrey Yefimitch brought out, frightened by Ivan Dmitritch’s words; he shrugged his shoulders and repeated:  “It’s some misunderstanding.”

Ivan Dmitritch spat again and lay down.

“Cursed life,” he grumbled, “and what’s bitter and insulting, this life will not end in compensation for our sufferings, it will not end with apotheosis as it would in an opera, but with death; peasants will come and drag one’s dead body by the arms and the legs to the cellar.  Ugh!  Well, it does not matter. . . .  We shall have our good time in the other world. . . .  I shall come here as a ghost from the other world and frighten these reptiles.  I’ll turn their hair grey.”

Moiseika returned, and, seeing the doctor, held out his hand.

“Give me one little kopeck,” he said.

XVIII

Andrey Yefimitch walked away to the window and looked out into the open country.  It was getting dark, and on the horizon to the right a cold crimson moon was mounting upwards.  Not far from the hospital fence, not much more than two hundred yards away, stood a tall white house shut in by a stone wall.  This was the prison.