Next morning my mother, who was astonished and even alarmed, as much by Martin Petrovitch’s strange behaviour as by the extraordinary expression of his face, was on the point of sending a special messenger to him, when he made his appearance. This time he seemed more composed.
‘Tell me, my good friend, tell me,’ cried my mother, directly she saw him, ‘what ever has happened to you? I thought yesterday, upon my word I did.… “Mercy on us!” I thought, “Hasn’t our old friend gone right off his head?”’
‘I’ve not gone off my head, madam,’ answered Martin Petrovitch; ‘I’m not that sort of man. But I want to consult with you.’
‘What about?’
‘I’m only in doubt, whether it will be agreeable to you in this same contingency——’
‘Speak away, speak away, my good sir, but more simply. Don’t alarm me! What’s this same contingency? Speak more plainly. Or is it your melancholy come upon you again?’
Harlov scowled. ‘No, it’s not melancholy—that comes upon me in the new moon; but allow me to ask you, madam, what do you think about death?’
My mother was taken aback. ‘About what?’
‘About death. Can death spare any one whatever in this world?’