'What's the matter with him?'
'He's delirious.'
'Delirious? And hasn't it ever been so before with him?'
'Yes, he was delirious last night, too; only to-day it is something
terrible.'
I went to Pasinkov's room. He was not lying down, but sitting up in
bed, his whole body bent forward. He was slowly gesticulating with his
hands, smiling and talking, talking all the time in a weak, hollow
voice, like the whispering of rushes. His eyes were wandering. The
gloomy light of a night light, set on the floor, and shaded off by a
book, lay, an unmoving patch on the ceiling; Pasinkov's face seemed
paler than ever in the half darkness.
I went up to him, called him by his name--he did not answer. I began
listening to his whispering: he was talking of Siberia, of its forests.
From time to time there was sense in his ravings.
'What trees!' he whispered; 'right up to the sky. What frost on them!
Silver ... snowdrifts.... And here are little tracks ... that's a
hare's leaping, that's a white weasel... No, it's my father running
with my papers. Here he is!... Here he is! Must go; the moon is
shining. Must go, look for my papers.... Ah! A flower, a crimson
flower--there's Sophia.... Oh, the bells are ringing, the frost is
crackling.... Ah, no; it's the stupid bullfinches hopping in the
bushes, whistling.... See, the redthroats! Cold.... Ah! here's
Asanov.... Oh yes, of course, he's a cannon, a copper cannon, and his
gun-carriage is green. That's how it is he's liked. Is it a star has
fallen? No, it's an arrow flying.... Ah, how quickly, and straight into
my heart!... Who shot it? You, Sonitchka?'
He bent his head and began muttering disconnected words. I glanced at
Elisei; he was standing, his hands clasped behind his back, gazing
ruefully at his master.
'Ah, brother, so you've become a practical person, eh?' he asked
suddenly, turning upon me such a clear, such a fully conscious glance,
that I could not help starting and was about to reply, but he went on
at once: 'But I, brother, have not become a practical person, I
haven't, and that's all about it! A dreamer I was born, a dreamer!
Dreaming, dreaming.... What is dreaming? Sobakevitch's peasant--that's
dreaming. Ugh!...'
Almost till morning Pasinkov wandered in delirium; at last he gradually
grew quieter, sank back on the pillow, and dozed off. I went back into
my room. Worn out by the cruel night, I slept soundly.
Elisei again waked me.
'Ah, sir!' he said in a shaking voice, 'I do believe Yakov Ivanitch is
dying....'
I ran in to Pasinkov. He was lying motionless. In the light of the
coming day he looked already a corpse. He recognised me.
'Good-bye,' he whispered; 'greet her for me, I'm dying....'
'Yasha!' I cried; 'nonsense! you are going to live....'
'No, no! I am dying.... Here, take this as a keepsake.' ... (He pointed
to his breast.) ...
'What's this?' he began suddenly; 'look: the sea ... all golden, and
blue isles upon it, marble temples, palm-trees, incense....'
He ceased speaking ... stretched....
Within half an hour he was no more. Elisei flung himself weeping at his
feet. I closed his eyes.
On his neck there was a little silken amulet on a black cord. I took
it.
Three days afterwards he was buried.... One of the noblest hearts was
hidden for ever in the grave. I myself threw the first handful of earth
upon him.