him that he was completely drunk; his head was in a whirl, and his heart throbbed painfully. When at last, at four o'clock in the morning, the discussion ceased, and, stepping over a little page asleep in the anteroom, they separated and went to their respective rooms, Nezhdanov, before he lay down, stood a long time motionless, his eyes fixed on the floor before him. He mused upon the continual, heartrending note of bitterness in all Markelov had uttered. The man's pride could not but be wounded; he was bound to be suffering, his hopes of personal happiness were shattered, and yet how he forgot himself─how utterly he gave himself up to what he held for the truth! 'A limited nature', was Nezhdanov's thought. . . . 'But isn't it a hundred times better to be such a limited nature than such . . . such as I, for instance, feel myself to be?
But at once he struggled against his own self-depreciation.
'Why so? Am not I, too, capable of sacrificing myself? Wait a bit, my friends. . . . And you, Paklin, shall be convinced in time that though I am an æsthetic, though I do write verses . . .'
He pushed his hair back angrily, ground his teeth, and, hurriedly pulling off his clothes, flung himself into the damp, chill bed.
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