And he dropped his head on the table. He began stammering and talking at random. 'Within a month'! he delivered with fresh fire:
'A little month, or ere those shoes were old,
With which she followed my poor father's body,
Like Niobe--all tears; why she, even she--
O God! a beast, that wants discourse of reason,
Would have mourned longer!'
He raised a glass of champagne to his lips, but did not drink off the wine, and went on:
'For Hecuba!
What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba,
That he should weep for her?...
But I'm a dull and muddy mettled-rascal,
Who calls me coward? gives me the lie i' the throat?
... Why I should take it; for it cannot be,
But I am pigeon-livered and lack gall
To make oppression bitter.'
Karataev put down the glass and grabbed at his head. I fancied I understood him.
'Well, well,' he said at last, 'one must not rake up the past. Isn't that so?' (and he laughed). 'To your health!'
'Shall you stay in Moscow?' I asked him.
'I shall die in Moscow!'
'Karataev!' called a voice in the next room; 'Karataev, where are you? Come here, my dear fellow!'
'They're calling me,' he said, getting up heavily from his seat. 'Good-bye; come and see me if you can; I live in....'