To Romashov this ill-spelled, ungrammatical letter was a breath of the
stupidity, meanness, and spiteful tittle-tattle of a provincial town. He
felt for ever soiled from head to foot by this disgusting _liaison_,
scarcely of six months' standing, with a woman he had never loved. He
threw himself on his bed with an indescribable feeling of depression. He
even felt as if he were torn to tatters by the events of the day, and he
involuntarily called to mind Nasanski's words that very night: "his
thoughts were as grey as a soldier's cloak."
He soon fell into a deep, heavy sleep. As he had always done of late,
when he had had bitter moments, he saw himself, even now in his dreams,
as a little child. There were no impure impulses in him, no sense of
something lacking, no weariness of life; his body was light and healthy,
and his soul was luminous and full of joy and hope; and in this world of
radiance and happiness he saw dear old Moscow's streets in the dazzling
brightness that is presented to the eyes in dreamland. But far away by
the horizon, at the very verge of this sky that was saturated with
light, there arose quickly and threateningly a dark, ill-boding wall of
cloud, behind which was hidden a horrible provincial hole of a place
with cruel and unbearable slavery, drills, recruit schools, drinking,
false friends, and utterly corrupt women. His life was nothing but joy
and gladness, but the dark cloud was waiting patiently for the moment
when it was to fold him in its deadly embrace. And it so happened that
little Romashov, amidst his childish babble and innocent dreams,
bewailed in silence the fate of his "double."
He awoke in the middle of the night, and noticed that his pillow was wet
with tears. Then he wept afresh, and the warm tears again ran down his
cheeks in rapid streams.