"No one has any mercy upon human creatures,—neither God nor we ourselves."
But when Pavl and I washed dying Davidov, who was eaten up with dirt and insects, a laugh was raised against us. They took off their shirts and invited us to search them, called us blockheads, and jeered at us as if we had done something shameful and very ludicrous.
From Christmas till the beginning of Lent drew near, Davidov lay in the loft, coughing protractedly, spitting blood, which, if it did not fall into the wash-hand basin, splashed on the floor. At night he woke the others with his delirious shrieks.
Almost every day they said:
"We must take him to the hospital!"
But it turned out that Davidov's passport had expired. Then he seemed better, and they said:
"It is of no consequence after all; he will soon be dead!"
And he would say to himself:
"I shall soon be gone!"
He was a quiet humorist and also tried to relieve the dullness of the workshop by jokes, hanging down his dark bony face, and saying in a wheezy voice: