what must it have been for Vassilyev himself who yet had the strength
to argue and, if I were not mistaken, to pose?

"You here--are you here ?" he asked suddenly, raising himself on
his elbow. "My God, just listen!"

I began listening. The rain was pattering angrily on the dark window,
never ceasing for a minute. The wind howled plaintively and
lugubriously.

"'And I shall be whiter than snow, and my ears will hear gladness
and rejoicing.'" Madame Mimotih, who had returned, was reading in
the drawing-room in a languid, weary voice, neither raising nor
dropping the monotonous dreary key.

"It is cheerful, isn't it?" whispered Vassilyev, turning his
frightened eyes towards me. "My God, the things a man has to see
and hear! If only one could set this chaos to music! As Hamlet says,
'it would--

"Confound the ignorant, and amaze indeed,
The very faculties of eyes and ears."

How well I should have understood that music then! How I should
have felt it! What time is it?"

"Five minutes to three."

"Morning is still far off. And in the morning there's the funeral.
A lovely prospect! One follows the coffin through the mud and rain.