When she had gone, he listened for a long while to the sound of her retreating footsteps, and then picked up his cap from which he shook dead leaves and mould before thrusting it on his head, and going down the hill to the hospice. He made a long detour so as to avoid meeting Sina.
“Ah!” thought he, as he descended the slope, “must I needs bring so pure and innocent a girl to shame? Had it all to end in my doing what any other average man would have done? God bless her! It would have been too vile…. I am glad that I wasn’t as bad as all that. How utterly revolting … all in a moment … without a word … like some animal!” Thus he thought with disgust of what a little while before had made him glad and strong. Yet he felt secretly ashamed and dissatisfied. Even his arms and legs seemed to dangle in senseless fashion, and his cap to fit him as might a fool’s.
“After all, am I really capable of living?” he asked himself, in despair.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
In the large corridor of the hospice there was an odour of samovars, and bread, and incense. A strong, active monk was hurrying along, carrying a huge tea-urn.
“Father,” exclaimed Yourii, confused somewhat at addressing him thus, and imagining that the monk would be equally embarrassed.
“What is it, pray?” asked the other politely, through clouds of steam from the samovar.
“Is there not a party of visitors here, from the town?”
“Yes, in number seven,” replied the monk promptly, as if he had anticipated such a question. “This way, please, on the balcony.”
Yourii opened the door. The spacious room was darkened by dense clouds of tobacco-smoke. Near the balcony there was more light, and one could hear the jingling of bottles and glasses above the noisy talk and laughter.