I come away from Katya, irritated and alarmed by what has been said about my being ill, and dissatisfied with myself.  I ask myself whether I really ought not to consult one of my colleagues.  And at once I imagine how my colleague, after listening to me, would walk away to the window without speaking, would think a moment, then would turn round to me and, trying to prevent my reading the truth in his face, would say in a careless tone:  “So far I see nothing serious, but at the same time, collega, I advise you to lay aside your work....”  And that would deprive me of my last hope.

Who is without hope?  Now that I am diagnosing my illness and prescribing for myself, from time to time I hope that I am deceived by my own illness, that I am mistaken in regard to the albumen and the sugar I find, and in regard to my heart, and in regard to the swellings I have twice noticed in the mornings; when with the fervour of the hypochondriac I look through the textbooks of therapeutics and take a different medicine every day, I keep fancying that I shall hit upon something comforting.  All that is petty.

Whether the sky is covered with clouds or the moon and the stars are shining, I turn my eyes towards it every evening and think that death is taking me soon.  One would think that my thoughts at such times ought to be deep as the sky, brilliant, striking....  But no!  I think about myself, about my wife, about Liza, Gnekker, the students, people in general; my thoughts are evil, petty, I am insincere with myself, and at such times my theory of life may be expressed in the words the celebrated Araktcheev said in one of his intimate letters:  “Nothing good can exist in the world without evil, and there is more evil than good.”  That is, everything is disgusting; there is nothing to live for, and the sixty-two years I have already lived must be reckoned as wasted.  I catch myself in these thoughts, and try to persuade myself that they are accidental, temporary, and not deeply rooted in me, but at once I think: 

“If so, what drives me every evening to those two toads?”

And I vow to myself that I will never go to Katya’s again, though I know I shall go next evening.

Ringing the bell at the door and going upstairs, I feel that I have no family now and no desire to bring it back again.  It is clear that the new Araktcheev thoughts are not casual, temporary visitors, but have possession of my whole being.  With my conscience ill at ease, dejected, languid, hardly able to move my limbs, feeling as though tons were added to my weight, I get into bed and quickly drop asleep.

And then—­insomnia!

IV

Summer comes on and life is changed.

One fine morning Liza comes in to me and says in a jesting tone: 

“Come, your Excellency!  We are ready.”