'It's no matter,' he said, raising his head and shaking back his hair;
'it's nothing; I felt a little bitter, a little sorry ... for myself,
that is.... But it's all no matter. It's all the fault of those verses.
Read me something else, more cheerful.'
I took up Lermontov and began hurriedly turning over the pages; but, as
fate would have it, I kept coming across poems likely to agitate
Pasinkov again. At last I read him 'The Gifts of Terek.'
'Jingling rhetoric!' said my poor friend, with the tone of a preceptor;
'but there are fine passages. Since I saw you, brother, I've tried my
hand at poetry, and began one poem--"The Cup of Life"--but it didn't
come off! It's for us, brother, to appreciate, not to create.... But
I'm rather tired; I'll sleep a little--what do you say? What a splendid
thing sleep is, come to think of it! All our life's a dream, and the
best thing in it is dreaming too.'
'And poetry?' I queried.
'Poetry's a dream too, but a dream of paradise.'
Pasinkov closed his eyes.
I stood for a little while at his bedside. I did not think he would get
to sleep quickly, but soon his breathing became more even and
prolonged. I went away on tiptoe, turned into my own room, and lay down
on the sofa. For a long while I mused on what Pasinkov had told me,
recalled many things, wondered; at last I too fell asleep....
Some one touched me; I started up; before me stood Elisei.
'Come in to my master,' he said.