The last words were illegible. There was no address; it was not possible to send off the letter. The doctor discovered the manuscript of the Physics in the table drawer. It consisted of notes on slips of paper, mixed up with rubbish of all kinds. There was a little underlinen, a cloak lined with catskin, and an old black skirt, in the wardrobe.
While the doctor busied himself in this way, he suddenly noticed the boy who had been sent for the remedies in the schoolroom. He was huddled against a corner of the stove, treading from one foot to the other. Savage hatred sprang up in the doctor's heart.
"Why did you not come back in time?" he cried, running up to the boy.
"I lost my way in the fields ... the horse gave out.... I arrived on foot in the morning ... the young lady was already——"
"You lie!"
The boy did not answer. The doctor looked into his eyes, and was overcome by a strange feeling. Those eyes were weary and terrible; a peasant's stupid, mute, wild despair lurked in them as in an underground cavern.
"Here, sir, I have brought back the books the teacher lent me," he said, drawing some worn, soiled books from under his coat.
"Leave me alone! Be off!" the doctor cried, turning away and hurrying into the next room.
Here he stood among the rubbish, the books and papers thrown on the floor, and asked himself with a harsh laugh: "What am I doing here? I am no good; I have no right to be here!"
A feeling of profound reverence made him think the dead girl's thoughts in deep humility. Had he remained an hour longer, he would have risen to the heights where madness dwells. Without wishing to confess it to himself, he knew that it was fear on his own account which was taking possession of him. Throughout all that was overwhelming him at this moment, he felt that, a great lack of balance was threatening to deprive him of the essence of human feeling—of egoism. To stifle egoism would mean his allowing himself to be enveloped by the same rosy mist which had transported this girl from the earth. He must escape at once. Having decided on this, he began to despair in beautiful phrases which immediately brought him considerable relief. He ordered the sledge to be brought round.... Bending over Stasia's body, he whispered all the beautiful, empty things which people say in praise of greatness. He lingered once more in the doorway and looked back; for a second he wondered whether it would not be better to die at once. Then he pushed past the peasants crowding round the door, sprang into the sledge, tripped himself up, tumbled on his face, and was carried off, stifled by spasmodic sobs.