"I . . . what was it? . . . You mustn't be offended. . . ."
"Och! Water . . ." gasps the invalid, clutching at his heart. "I'd
just taken a third dose of morphia, dropped asleep, and . . . again!
Good God! when will this torture cease!"
"I only . . . you must excuse . . ."
"Oh! . . . Put me out at the next station! I can't stand any more
. . . . I . . . I am dying. . . ."
"This is mean, disgusting!" cry the "public," revolted. "Go away!
You shall pay for such persecution. Get away!"
Podtyagin waves his hand in despair, sighs, and walks out of the
carriage. He goes to the attendants' compartment, sits down at the
table, exhausted, and complains:
"Oh, the public! There's no satisfying them! It's no use working
and doing one's best! One's driven to drinking and cursing it all
. . . . If you do nothing--they're angry; if you begin doing your
duty, they're angry too. There's nothing for it but drink!"
Podtyagin empties a bottle straight off and thinks no more of work,
duty, and honesty!