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 came 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 motionless 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 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 shivering 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 millions of people believed in immortality.  And what if it really existed?  But he did not want immortality—­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 Averyanitch said something, then it all vanished, and Andrey Yefimitch sank into oblivion for ever.

The hospital porters came, took him by his arms and 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.

THE PETCHENYEG