Insarov did not sleep all night, and in the morning
he felt very ill; he set to work, however, putting
his papers into order and writing letters, but his
head was heavy and confused. At dinner time he
began to be in a fever; he could eat nothing.
The fever grew rapidly worse towards evening; he had
aching pains in all his limbs, and a terrible headache.
Insarov lay down on the very little sofa on which Elena
had lately sat; he thought: ’It serves
me right for going to that old rascal,’ and
he tried to sleep. . . . But the illness had by
now complete mastery of him. His veins were throbbing
violently, his blood was on fire, his thoughts were
flying round like birds. He sank into forgetfulness.
He lay like a man felled by a blow on his face, and
suddenly, it seemed to him, some one was softly laughing
and whispering over him: he opened his eyes with
an effort, the light of the flaring candle smote him
like a knife. . . . What was it? the old attorney
was before him in an Oriental silk gown belted with
a silk handkerchief, as he had seen him the evening
before. . . . ’Karolina Vogelmeier,’
muttered his toothless mouth. Insarov stared,
and the old man grew wide and thick and tall, he was
no longer a man, he was a tree. . . . Insarov
had to climb along its gnarled branches. He clung,
and fell with his breast on a sharp stone, and Karolina
Vogelmeier was sitting on her heels, looking like a
pedlar-woman, and lisping: ‘Pies, pies,
pies for sale’; and there were streams of blood
and swords flashing incessantly. . . . Elena!
And everything vanished is a crimson chaos,
XXV
’There’s some one here looks like a locksmith
or something of the sort,’ Bersenyev was informed
the following evening by his servant, who was distinguished
by a severe deportment and sceptical turn of mind
towards his master; ‘he wants to see you.’
‘Ask him in,’ said Bersenyev.
The ‘locksmith’ entered. Bersenyev
recognised in him the tailor, the landlord of Insarov’s
lodgings.
‘What do you want?’ he asked him.
‘I came to your honour,’ began the tailor,
shifting from one foot to the other, and at times
waving his right hand with his cuff clutched in his
three last fingers. ‘Our lodger, seemingly,
is very ill.’
‘Insarov?’
’Yes, our lodger, to be sure; yesterday morning
he was still on his legs, in the evening he asked
for nothing but drink; the missis took him some water,
and at night he began talking away; we could hear him
through the partition-wall; and this morning he lies
without a word like a log, and the fever he’s
in, Lord have mercy on us! I thought, upon my
word, he’ll die for sure; I ought to send word
to the police station, I thought. For he’s
so alone; but the missis said: “Go to that
gentleman,” she says, “at whose country
place our lodger stayed; maybe he’ll tell you
what to do, or come himself.” So I’ve
come to your honour, for we can’t, so to say——’
