adrilles yourself. You get back from the theatre or the dance after
midnight, when you are no longer a man but a useless, limp rag. Well,
at last you've got what you want; you unrobe and get into bed. It's
excellent--you can close your eyes and sleep.... Everything is so nice,
poetic, and warm, you understand; there are no children squealing
behind the wall, and you've got rid of your wife, and your conscience is
clear--what more can you want? You fall asleep--and suddenly... you
hear a buzz!... Gnats! [Jumps up] Gnats! Be they triply accursed Gnats!
[Shakes his fist] Gnats! It's one of the plagues of Egypt, one of the
tortures of the Inquisition! Buzz! It sounds so pitiful, so pathetic, as
if it's begging your pardon, but the villain stings so that you have
to scratch yourself for an hour after. You smoke, and go for them, and
cover yourself from head to foot, but it is no good! At last you have
to sacrifice yourself and let the cursed things devour you. You've no
sooner got used to the gnats when another plague begins: downstairs
your wife begins practising sentimental songs with her two friends. They
sleep by day and rehearse for amateur concerts by night. Oh, my God!
Those tenors are a torture with which no gnats on earth can compare.
[He sings] "Oh, tell me not my youth has ruined you." "Before thee do I
stand enchanted." Oh, the beastly things! They've about killed me! So
as to deafen myself a little I do this: I drum on my ears. This goes on
till four o'clock. Oh, give me some more water, brother!... I can't...
Well, not having slept, you get up at six o'clock in the morning and
off you go to the station. You run so as not to be late, and it's muddy,
foggy, cold--brr! Then you get to town and start all over again. So
there, brother. It's a horrible life; I wouldn't wish one like it for my
enemy. You understand--I'm ill! Got asthma, heartburn--I'm always afraid
of something. I've got indigestion, everything is thick before me...
I've become a regular psychopath.... [Looking round] Only, between
ourselves, I want to go down to see Chechotte or Merzheyevsky. There's
some devil in me, brother. In moments of despair and suffering, when the
gnats are stinging or the tenors sing, everything suddenly grows dim;
you jump up and race round the whole house like a lunatic and shout, "I
want blood! Blood!" And really all the time you do want to let a knife
into somebody or hit him over the head with a chair. That's what life
in