e me," I said, "but . . . judging by the expression of your
face, it seems to me that at this moment you . . . are posing."

"Yes," Vassilyev said, startled. "It's very possible! I am naturally
vain and fatuous. Well, explain it, if you believe in your power
of reading faces! Half an hour ago I shot myself, and just now I
am posing. . . . Explain that if you can."

These last words Vassilyev pronounced in a faint, failing voice.
He was exhausted, and sank into silence. A pause followed. I began
scrutinising his face. It was as pale as a dead man's. It seemed
as though life were almost extinct in him, and only the signs of
the suffering that the "vain and fatuous" man was feeling betrayed
that it was still alive. It was painful to look at that face, but
what must it have been for Vassilyev himself who yet had the strength
to argue and, if I were not mistaken, to pose?

"You here--are you here ?" he asked suddenly, raising himself on
his elbow. "My God, just listen!"

I began listening. The rain was pattering angrily on the dark window,
never ceasing for a minute. The wind howled plaintively and
lugubriously.

"'And I shall be whiter than snow, and my ears will hear gladness
and rejoicing.'" Madame Mimotih, who had returned, was reading in
the drawing-room in a languid, weary voice, neither raising nor
dropping the monotonous dreary key.

"It is cheerful, isn't it?" whispered Vassilyev, turning his
frightened eyes towards me. "My God, the things a man has to see
and hear! If only one could set this chaos to music! As Hamlet says,
'it would--

"Confound the ignorant, and amaze indeed,
The very faculties of eyes and ears."

How well I should have understood that music then! How I should
have felt it! What time is it?"

"Five minutes to three."

"Morning is still far off. And in the morning there's the funeral.
A lovely prospect! One follows the coffin through the mud and rain.
One walks along, seeing nothing but the cloudy sky and the wretched
scenery. The muddy mutes, taverns, woodstacks. . . . One's trousers
drenched to the knees. The never-ending streets. The time dragging
out like eternity, the coarse people. And on the heart a stone, a
stone!"

After a brief pause he suddenly asked: "Is it long since you saw
General Luhatchev?"

"I haven't seen him since last summer."

"He likes to be cock of the walk, but he is a nice little old chap.
And are you still writing?"

"Yes, a little."

"Ah. . . . Do