never noticed it. Then autumn came on, and daily he went out to
business--that is to say, to apply for and to canvass for posts--
clad only in a light jacket; with the result that, after repeated
soakings with rain, he had to take to his bed, and never again
left it. He died in mid-autumn at the close of the month of
October.

Throughout his illness I scarcely ever left his room, but waited
on him hand and foot. Often he could not sleep for several nights
at a time. Often, too, he was unconscious, or else in a delirium;
and at such times he would talk of all sorts of things--of his
work, of his books, of his father, of myself. At such times I
learned much which I had not hitherto known or divined about his
affairs. During the early part of his illness everyone in the
house looked askance at me, and Anna Thedorovna would nod her
head in a meaning manner; but, I always looked them straight in
the face, and gradually they ceased to take any notice of my
concern for Pokrovski. At all events my mother ceased to trouble
her head about it.

Sometimes Pokrovski would know who I was, but not often, for more
usually he was unconscious. Sometimes, too, he would talk all
night with some unknown person, in dim, mysterious language that
caused his gasping voice to echo hoarsely through the narrow room
as through a sepulchre; and at such times, I found the situation
a strange one. During his last night he was especially
lightheaded, for then he was in terrible agony, and kept rambling
in his speech until my soul was torn with pity. Everyone in the
house was alarmed, and Anna Thedorovna fell to praying that God
might soon take him. When the doctor had been summoned, the