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The operation took place that afternoon and on the ship, for when once Marama had made up his mind to trust us he did so very thoroughly. It was performed on deck in the presence of an awed multitude who watched from the shore, and when they saw Bickley appear in a clean nightshirt and wash his hands, uttered a groan of wonder.
He muttered an unintelligible period about French widows and pink.... "Buried before my time," he proclaimed. He stood with his head grizzled and harsh above an absurdly flowing nightshirt.
Stepan Arkadyevitch had gone down to his room, undressed, again washed, and attired in a nightshirt with goffered frills, he had got into bed, but Levin still lingered in his room, talking of various trifling matters, and not daring to ask what he wanted to know.
He shuffled away, but came back in a couple of minutes with the nightshirt. "Good-night," he called to me, flinging it in at the door; and without giving me time to return the wish, went his way upstairs. Now it might be supposed that I was only too glad to toss off my clothes and climb into the bed I had so unexpectedly acquired a right to. But, as a matter of fact, I did nothing of the kind.
I had to pass the head of the stairs, along the way, and who should I see coming up, but the old butler, carrying a cup of coffee. He had merely tucked his nightshirt into his trousers, and he had an old pair of carpet slippers on. "'Hullo, Peter! I said, feeling suddenly cheerful; for I was as glad as any lost child to have a live human being close to me.
Sure enough, it was a looking-glass, broken in its fall from an open window above. But, lying by it in the deep snow, in his white nightshirt, was Hubert Monk. When the chimes began to play, Hubert was not asleep. Sitting up in bed, he disposed himself to listen.
And close by, beneath the snowy reflections of her bosom and amid the triumph of the goddess, lay wallowing a shameful, decrepit thing, a comic and lamentable ruin, the Marquis de Chouard in his nightshirt. The count had clasped his hands together and, shaken by a paroxysmal shuddering, he kept crying: "My God! My God!"
Whenever I dream this incident I invariably wake up to find that the bedclothes are on the floor, and that I am shivering with cold; and it is this shivering, I suppose, that causes me to dream I am wandering about the Lyceum stage in nothing but my nightshirt. But still I do not understand why it should always be the Lyceum.
As he looked at this picture, his heart softened. He looked down at the sleeve of his soft and fleecy nightshirt, at his white, rounded arm, muscular yet fine as a woman's, and when he looked for the picture it was gone. Then came again the assertive odor of stagnant air, laden with camphor; he felt the springless bed under him, and caught dimly a few soap-advertising lithographs on the walls.
"Believe me that for ninety-nine of your qualities I do not care a tinker's curse; but for your palate you are to be taken care of." He shuffled away, but came back in a couple of minutes with the nightshirt. "Good-night," he called to me, flinging it in at the door; and without giving me time to return the wish, went his way up-stairs.
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