There is a dull pain in my cheek, the tic beginning.  To occupy myself with thoughts, I go back to my old point of view, when I was not so indifferent, and ask myself why I, a distinguished man, a privy councillor, am sitting in this little hotel room, on this bed with the unfamiliar grey quilt.  Why am I looking at that cheap tin washing-stand and listening to the whirr of the wretched clock in the corridor?  Is all this in keeping with my fame and my lofty position?  And I answer these questions with a jeer.  I am amused by the naivete with which I used in my youth to exaggerate the value of renown and of the exceptional position which celebrities are supposed to enjoy.  I am famous, my name is pronounced with reverence, my portrait has been both in the Niva and in the Illustrated News of the World; I have read my biography even in a German magazine.  And what of all that?  Here I am sitting utterly alone in a strange town, on a strange bed, rubbing my aching cheek with my hand....  Domestic worries, the hard-heartedness of creditors, the rudeness of the railway servants, the inconveniences of the passport system, the expensive and unwholesome food in the refreshment-rooms, the general rudeness and coarseness in social intercourse—­all this, and a great deal more which would take too long to reckon up, affects me as much as any working man who is famous only in his alley.  In what way, does my exceptional position find expression?  Admitting that I am celebrated a thousand times over, that I am a hero of whom my country is proud.  They publish bulletins of my illness in every paper, letters of sympathy come to me by post from my colleagues, my pupils, the general public; but all that does not prevent me from dying in a strange bed, in misery, in utter loneliness.  Of course, no one is to blame for that; but I in my foolishness dislike my popularity.  I feel as though it had cheated me.

At ten o’clock I fall asleep, and in spite of the tic I sleep soundly, and should have gone on sleeping if I had not been awakened.  Soon after one came a sudden knock at the door.

“Who is there?”

“A telegram.”

“You might have waited till tomorrow,” I say angrily, taking the telegram from the attendant.  “Now I shall not get to sleep again.”

“I am sorry.  Your light was burning, so I thought you were not asleep.”

I tear open the telegram and look first at the signature.  From my wife.

“What does she want?”

“Gnekker was secretly married to Liza yesterday.  Return.”

I read the telegram, and my dismay does not last long.  I am dismayed, not by what Liza and Gnekker have done, but by the indifference with which I hear of their marriage.  They say philosophers and the truly wise are indifferent.  It is false:  indifference is the paralysis of the soul; it is premature death.

I go to bed again, and begin trying to think of something to occupy my mind.  What am I to think about?  I feel as though everything had been thought over already and there is nothing which could hold my attention now.