"And how was it you came down in the world?" asked the magistrate.
"My sons are terrible boozers. They get so soused, so soused there's no saying what it's like, you wouldn't believe me."
Lyzhin listened and thought how he, Lyzhin, would go back to Moscow sooner or later, while this old man would stay here forever and would always be on the go. And how many times in his life he would come across such battered, unkempt, "no-account" old men, whose souls cherished equally the fifteen kopeck piece, the glass of vodka, and the profound belief that you can't get along in this world by wrongdoing.
Then he grew tired of listening, and told the old man to bring him some hay for his bed. In the traveler's room there was an iron bedstead with a pillow and a quilt, and it could have been brought in; but the deceased had been lying beside it for nearly three days (and he may have been sitting on it just before his death), and now it would be disagreeable to sleep on it.
"It's only half past seven," thought Lyzhin, glancing at his watch. "How awful!"
He was not sleepy, but having no means of passing the time, he lay down and covered himself with a plaid. Loshadin went in and out several times, clearing away the dishes; smacking his lips and sighing, he kept stomp- ing about the table; at last he took his little lamp and went out, and looking at his long gray hair and bent body from behind, Lyzhin reflected: "Just like a magi- cian in an opera."
It grew dark. The moon must have been behind the clouds, as the windows and the snow on the window- frames could be seen distinctly.
"Hoo-oo-oo!" sang the storm. "Hoo-oo-oo!"
"He-e-e-lp!" shrieked a woman in the garret, or so it sounded. "He-e-e-lp!"
Thump! something outside banged against the wall. Bang!
The magistrate listened; there was no woman up there, it was the wind wailing. It was chilly, and he put his fur coat over his plaid. As he got warm, he thought how all this—the blizzard, and the cottage, and the old man, and the dead body lying in the next room—how all this was remote from the life he desired for himself, and how alien it all was to him, how petty, uninterest- ing. If this man had killed himself in Moscow or some- where near the city, and he had had to hold an inquest on him there, it would have been interesting, important, and perhaps it would have seemed terrible to sleep in the room next to that in which the corpse lay. Here, hundreds of miles from Moscow, all this appeared some- how in a different light; it was not life, not human be- ings, but something that existed "according to rule," as Loshadin said; it would not leave the faintest trace in the memory and would be forgotten as soon as he, Lyzhin, drove away from Syrnya. The fatherland, the ieal Russia, was Moscow, Petersburg; but these were the provinces, the colonies. When you dream of playing a part, of becoming kno^, of being, for instance, ex- amining magistrate in important cases or prosecutor in a circuit court, of being a social lion, you inevitably think of Moscow. If you are to live, then it must be in Moscow; here, nothing matters to you; you get recon- ciled readily to your insignificant role, and only look for one thing in life—to get away, to get away as quickly as possible. And in his mind Lyzhin hurried through the Moscow streets, called on acquaintances, met relatives, colleagues, and his heart contracted sweetly at the thought that he was only twenty-six, and that if in five or ten years he could break away from here and get to Moscow, even then it would not be too late and he would still have a whole life ahead of him. And as he began to doze off, and as his thoughts became confused, he imagined the long corridors of the Moscow court, himself delivering a speech, his sisters, the orchestra which for some reason kept droning: Hoo-oo-ool Hoo- oo-oo!
Thump! Bang! sounded again. Thump!
And he suddenly recalled how one day, when he was talking to the bookkeeper at the Zemstvo office, a thin pale gentleman with dark eyes and black hair came up to the counter; he had a disagreeable look in his eyes such as one sees in people who have slept too long after dinner, and it marred his delicate, intelligent profile; and the high boots that he was wearing did not suit him, they looked clumsy. The bookkeeper had intro- duced him: "This is our Zemstvo agent."
"So that was Lesnitzky—this very man," it now oc- curred to Lyzhin.
He recalled Lesnitzky's low voice, called to mind his gait, and it seemed to him that someone was walking beside him now with a step like Lesnitzky's.
All at once he was terrified, his head felt cold.
"Who's there?" he asked fearfully.
"The p'liceman!"
"What do you want here?"
"I've come to ask, your honor— You said this evening as the elder wasn't needed, but I'm afraid he'll be an- gry. He told me to let him know. Shouldn't I go?"
"The deuce, I'm fed up with you," said Lyzhin with vexation, and covered himself up again.
"Maybe he'll be angry. I'll go, your honor. I hope you'U be all right here."
And Loshadin went out. There was coughing and whispering in the entry. The inquest witnesses must have returned.
"We'll let these poor devils get off as early as possible tomorrow—" thought the examining magistrate; "we'll do the autopsy as soon as it's light."
He began to doze off when suddenly he again be- came conscious of steps, not timid this time, but quick and noisy. A door slammed, voices were heard, the scratching of a match. . . .
"Are you asleep? Are you asleep?" Dr. Starchenko asked hurriedly and crossly as he lit one match after another. He was covered with snow from head to foot and he had brought cold air in with him. "Are you asleep? Get up! Let's go to von Taunitz's. He's sent his horses to fetch you. Let's go. There you will have sup- per, at least, and sleep decently. You see I've come for you myself. The horses are excellent, we'll get there in twenty minutes."
"What time is it now?"
"Quarter past ten."
Lyzhin, sleepy and out of sorts, put on his felt boots, his fur coat, cap and hood, and went out with the doc- tor. The frost had abated, but a strong, piercing wind was blowing and chasing down the street clouds of snow that seemed to flee in terror; high drifts had al- ready piled up against fences and on door-steps. The doctor and the magistrate got into the sleigh, and the white coachman bent over them to button up the apron. They were both hot.
"Go ahead!"
They drove through the village. "Cutting a fluffy fur- row there," the magistrate quoted the poet to himself, as he listlessly watched the working of the outrunner's legs. There were lights in all the cabins, as though it were the eve of a high holiday: the peasants had stayed up because they were afraid of the dead man. The coach- man sullenly held his peace, he must have turned glum while he was waiting at ths village headquarters, and now he too was thinking of the deceased.