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A group of students, white with snow, passed him laughing and talking gaily; one, a tall thin fellow, stopped, glanced into Vassilyev's face, and said in a drunken voice: "One of us! A bit on, old man? Aha-ha! Never mind, have a good time! Don't be down-hearted, old chap!"
All the young ladies were taken up with these visitors and paid no attention to Vassilyev. Only one of them, dressed a la Aida, glanced sideways at him, smiled, and said, yawning: "A dark one has come...." Vassilyev's heart was throbbing and his face burned. He felt ashamed before these visitors of his presence here, and he felt disgusted and miserable.
Vassilyev's imagination was picturing how, in another ten minutes, he and his friends would knock at a door; how by little dark passages and dark rooms they would steal in to the women; how, taking advantage of the darkness, he would strike a match, would light up and see the face of a martyr and a guilty smile.
When Vassilyev's rooms were crowded with old women and mutes, when the coffin had been moved and carried out of the yard, I advised him to remain at home. But he would not obey me, in spite of the pain and the grey, rainy morning.
I have been deceived as no bank depositor, no duped husband has ever been deceived! Only realise what an absurd fool I have been made! Last year before your eyes I did not know what to do with myself for happiness. And now before your eyes. . . ." Vassilyev's head sank on the pillow and he laughed. "Nothing more absurd and stupid than such a change could possibly be imagined. He laughed again.
One of Vassilyev's friends had once said of him that he was a talented man. There are all sorts of talents talent for writing, talent for the stage, talent for art; but he had a peculiar talent a talent for humanity. He possessed an extraordinarily fine delicate scent for pain in general.
He asked whether Vassilyev's father had suffered from certain special diseases, whether he drank to excess, whether he were remarkable for cruelty or any peculiarities. He made similar inquiries about his grandfather, mother, sisters, and brothers.
The artist and the medical student with trembling hands put Vassilyev's coat and hat on and led him out into the street. "Mihail Sergeyitch has been wanting to make your acquaintance for a long time," the medical student said on the way. "He is a very nice man and thoroughly good at his work. He took his degree in 1882, and he has an immense practice already.
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