One walks along, seeing nothing but the cloudy sky and the wretched
scenery. The muddy mutes, taverns, woodstacks. . . . One's trousers
drenched to the knees. The never-ending streets. The time dragging
out like eternity, the coarse people. And on the heart a stone, a
stone!"

After a brief pause he suddenly asked: "Is it long since you saw
General Luhatchev?"

"I haven't seen him since last summer."

"He likes to be cock of the walk, but he is a nice little old chap.
And are you still writing?"

"Yes, a little."

"Ah. . . . Do you remember how I pranced about like a needle, like
an enthusiastic ass at those private theatricals when I was courting
Zina? It was stupid, but it was good, it was fun. . . . The very
memory of it brings back a whiff of spring. . . . And now! What a
cruel change of scene! There is a subject for you! Only don't you
go in for writing 'the diary of a suicide.' That's vulgar and
conventional. You make something humorous of it."

"Again you are . . . posing," I said. "There's nothing humorous in
your position."

"Nothing laughable? You say nothing laughable?" Vassilyev sat up,
and tears glistened in his eyes. An expression of bitter distress
came into his pale face. His chin quivered.