Frowning hard, Alexei leaned with all his weight on a stick and looked out at the street.
He noticed that the days had grown magically longer, and there was more light, despite the fact that there was a blizzard outside, swirling with millions of snowflakes.
Harsh, clear and cheerless, his thoughts flowed on beneath the silk skullcap.
His head felt light and empty, like some strange, unfamiliar box sitting on his shoulders, and the thoughts seemed to enter his mind from outside and in a sequence chosen by them.
Alexei was glad to be alone by the window and stared out:
'Petlyura . . .
Tonight, at the latest, he will be thrown out and there will be no more Petlyura.
Did he ever even exist, though?
Or did I dream it all?
No way of telling.
Lariosik is really very nice.
He fits into the family very well - in fact we need him.
I must thank him for the way he helped to nurse me ...
What about Shervinsky?
Oh, God knows . . .
That's the trouble with women.
Elena's bound to get tied up with him, it's inevitable ...
What is it about him that makes him so attractive to women?
Is it his voice?
He has a splendid voice, but after all one can listen to someone's voice without marrying him, can't one?
But that's not really important.
What is important, though?
Ah yes, it was Shervinsky himself who was saying that they had red stars in their caps ...
I suppose that means trouble again in the City?
Bound to be . . .
Well, tonight it must be.
Their wagon-trains are already moving through the streets . . .
Nevertheless, I'll go, I'll go in daytime . . .
And take it to her . . .
I'm a murderer.
No, I fired in battle, in self-defense.
Or I wounded the man.
Who does she live with?
Where is her husband?
And Malyshev.
Where is he now?
Swallowed up by the ground.
And Maxim, the old school janitor . . . and what's become of the Alexander I High School?'
As his thoughts flowed on they were interrupted by the doorbell.
There was no one in the apartment besides Anyuta, they had all gone into town in the attempt to finish all they had to do while it was still light.
'If it's a patient, show him in, Anyuta.'
'Very well, Alexei Vasilievich.'
A man followed Anyuta up the staircase, took off his mohair overcoat and went into the drawing-room.
'Please come in here', said Alexei.
A thin, yellowish young man in a gray tunic rose from his chair.
His eyes were clouded and staring.
In his white coat, Alexei stood aside and ushered the man into the consulting-room.
'Sit down, please.
What can I do for you?'
'I have syphilis', said the visitor in a husky voice, staring steadily and gloomily at Alexei.