Sitanov leaned over my shoulder, read something, and laughed, as he said:
"I shall copy that into my own note-book." Jikharev stood up and carried the book to his own table, but he turned back and said in an offended, shaky voice:
"We live like blind puppies—to what end we do not know. We are not necessary either to God or the devil! How are we slaves of the Lord? The Jehovah of slaves and the Lord Himself speaks with them! With Moses, too! He even gave Moses a name; it means 'This is mine'—a man of God. And we—what are we?"
He shut up the book and began to dress himself, asking Sitanov:
"Are you coming to the tavern?"
"I shall go to my own tavern," answered Sitanov softly.
When they had gone out, I lay down on the floor by the door, beside Pavl Odintzov. He tossed about for a long time, snored, and suddenly began to weep quietly.
"What is the matter with you?"
"I am sick with pity for all of them," he said. "This is the fourth year of my life with them, and I know all about them."
I also was sorry for these people. We did not go to sleep for a long time, but talked about them in whispers, finding goodness, good traits in each one of them, and also something which increased our childish pity.