into a medallion. Then he talked of the lofty
destination of every man and of his own in particular
and added that he still believed in it and that if
he ever had any doubts on that subject he would know
how to be rid of them and of his life, as life would
then lose all significance for him. “You
imagine perhaps,” he brought out, glancing askance
at me, “that I shouldn’t have the spirit
to do it? You don’t know me ... I
have a will of iron.”
“Well said,” I thought to myself.
Tyeglev pondered, heaved a deep sigh and dropping
his chibouk out of his hand, informed me that that
day was a very important one for him. “This
is the prophet Elijah’s day—my name
day.... It is ... it is always for me a difficult
time.”
I made no answer and only looked at him as he sat
facing me, bent, round-shouldered, and clumsy, with
his drowsy, lustreless eyes fixed on the ground.
“An old beggar woman” (Tyeglev never let
a single beggar pass without giving alms) “told
me to-day,” he went on, “that she would
pray for my soul.... Isn’t that strange?”
“Why does the man want to be always bothering
about himself!” I thought again. I must
add, however, that of late I had begun noticing an
unusual expression of anxiety and uneasiness on Tyeglev’s
face, and it was not a “fatal” melancholy:
something really was fretting and worrying him.
On this occasion, too, I was struck by the dejected
expression of his face. Were not those very doubts
of which he had spoken to me beginning to assail him?
Tyeglev’s comrades had told me that not long
before he had sent to the authorities a project for
some reforms in the artillery department and that
the project had been returned to him “with a
comment,” that is, a reprimand. Knowing
his character, I had no doubt that such contemptuous
treatment by his superior officers had deeply mortified
him. But the change that I fancied I saw in Tyeglev
was more like sadness and there was a more personal
note about it.
“It’s getting damp, though,” he
brought out at last and he shrugged his shoulders.
“Let us go into the hut—and it’s
bed-time, too.” He had the habit of shrugging
his shoulders and turning his head from side to side,
putting his right hand to his throat as he did so,
as though his cravat were constricting it. Tyeglev’s
character was expressed, so at least it seemed to
me, in this uneasy and nervous movement. He,
too, felt constricted in the world.
We went back into the hut, and both lay down on benches,
he in the corner facing the door and I on the opposite
side.
Tyeglev was for a long time turning from side to side
on his bench and I could not get to sleep, either.
Whether his stories had excited my nerves or the strange
night had fevered my blood—anyway, I could
not go to sleep. All inclination for sleep disappeared
at last and I lay with my eyes open and thought, thought
intensely, goodness knows of what; of most senseless
trifles—as always happens when one is sleepless.
Turning from side to side I stretched out my hands....
My finger hit one of the beams of the wall. It
emitted a faint but resounding, and as it were, prolonged
note.... I must have struck a hollow place.
