"Gentlemen," said Ippolit, suddenly tearing himself away from his reading and even almost shamefacedly, "I didn't reread it, but it seems I indeed wrote a lot that's superfluous.
This dream . . ."
"Is that," Ganya hastened to put in.
"There's too much of the personal, I agree, that is, about me myself..."
As he said this, Ippolit looked weary and faint and wiped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief.
"Yes, sir, you're much too interested in yourself," hissed Lebedev.
"Again, gentlemen, I'm not forcing anyone: whoever doesn't want to listen can leave."
"Throws us . .. out of somebody else's house," Rogozhin growled barely audibly.
"And what if we all suddenly get up and leave?" Ferdyshchenko, who until then, incidentally, had not dared to speak aloud, said unexpectedly.
Ippolit suddenly dropped his eyes and clutched his manuscript; but in that same second he raised his head again and, his eyes flashing, with two red spots on his cheeks, said, looking point-blank at Ferdyshchenko:
"You don't love me at all!"
There was laughter; however, the majority did not laugh. Ippolit blushed terribly.
"Ippolit," said the prince, "close your manuscript and give it to me, and go to bed here in my room.
We can talk before we sleep and tomorrow; but on condition that you never open these pages again.
Do you want that?"
"Is this possible?" Ippolit looked at him in decided astonishment.
"Gentlemen!" he cried, again growing feverishly animated, "a stupid episode, in which I was unable to behave myself.
There will be no further interruptions of the reading.
Whoever wants to listen, can listen ..."
He hurriedly gulped some water from a glass, hurriedly leaned his elbow on the table, in order to shield himself from others' eyes, and stubbornly went on with his reading.
The shame, however, soon left him . . .
The idea (he went on reading) that it was not worth living for a few weeks began to take possession of me in a real sense about a month ago, I think, when I still had four weeks left to live, but it overcame me completely only three days ago, when I returned from that evening in Pavlovsk.
The first moment of my being fully, directly pervaded by this thought occurred on the prince's terrace, precisely at the moment when I had decided to make a last test of life, wanted to see people and trees (I said so myself), became excited, insisted on Burdovsky's—"my neighbor's"—rights, and dreamed that they would all suddenly splay their arms wide and take me into their embrace, and ask my forgiveness for something, and I theirs; in short, I ended up as a giftless fool.
And it was during those hours that "the ultimate conviction" flared up in me.
I am astonished now at how I could have lived for a whole six months without this "conviction"!
I knew positively that I had consumption and it was incurable; I did not deceive myself and understood the matter clearly.
But the more clearly I understood it, the more convulsively I wanted to live; I clung to life and wanted to live whatever the cost.
I agree that I could have become angry then at the dark and blank fate which had decreed that I be squashed like a fly, and, of course, without knowing why; but why did I not end just with anger?
Why did I actually begin to live, knowing that it was no longer possible for me to begin; why did I try, knowing that there was no longer anything to try?
And meanwhile I could not even read through a book and gave up reading; why read, why learn for six months?
This thought made me drop a book more than once.
Yes, that wall of Meyer's can tell a lot!
I have written a lot on it!
There is not a spot on that dirty wall that I have not learned by heart.
That cursed wall!
But all the same it is dearer to me than all of Pavlovsk's trees, that is, it should be dearer, if it were not all the same to me now.
I recall now with what greedy interest I began to follow their life; there was no such interest before.
Sometimes, when I was so ill that I could not leave the room, I waited for Kolya with impatience and abuse.
I went so much into all the little details, was so interested in every sort of rumor, that it seemed I turned into a gossip.
I could not understand, for instance, how it was that these people, having so much life, were not able to become rich (however, I don't understand it now either).
I knew one poor fellow of whom I was told later that he starved to death, and, I remember, that made me furious: if it had been possible to revive the poor fellow, I think I would have executed him.
Sometimes I felt better for whole weeks and was able to go out in the street; but the street finally began to produce such bitterness in me that I would spend whole days inside on purpose, though I could have gone out like everybody else.
I could not bear those scurrying, bustling, eternally worried, gloomy, and anxious people who shuttled around me on the sidewalks.
Why their eternal sorrow, their eternal anxiety and bustle; their eternal gloomy spite (for they are spiteful, spiteful, spiteful)?
Whose fault is it that they are unhappy and do not know how to live, though they have sixty years of life ahead of them?
Why did Zarnitsyn allow himself to die, having sixty years ahead of him?
And each of them displays his tatters, his hardworking hands, gets angry and cries: "We work like oxen, we toil, we are hungry as dogs, and poor! The others do not work, do not toil, yet they are rich!" (The eternal refrain!) Alongside them some luckless runt "of the gentlefolk" runs and bustles about from morning till night—Ivan Fomich Surikov, he lives over us, in our house— eternally with holes in his elbows, with torn-off buttons, running errands for various people, delivering messages, and that from morning till night.
Go and start a conversation with him: "Poor, destitute, and wretched, the wife died, there was no money for medicine, and in the winter the baby froze to death; the older daughter has become a kept woman . .." he's eternally whimpering, eternally complaining!
Oh, never, never have I felt any pity for these fools, not now, not before—I say it with pride!
Why isn't he a Rothschild himself?