However, what is the good of straining your nerves with sleeplessness? It is already three o’clock. “If I can’t fall asleep, I shall have to take morphine.” He took two pills. “I will just look at Viérotchka once more.” But instead of walking over to her and looking at her, he removed his chair over to her sofa, took her hand and kissed it.
“Mílenki, you have been working too hard, and all for my sake; how kind you are, and how I love you!” said she, half asleep. No shipwreck of the spirit can resist morphine in sufficient quantity; at this time, two pills proved to be enough; he is overcome by sleep. Consequently, the shipwreck of the soul by itself is approximately equal, according to Lopukhóf’s materialistic views, to four glasses of strong coffee, to overcome which one pill would not have been enough in Lopukhóf’s case; but three pills would have been too much. He fell asleep laughing at this comparison.
XXII
A Theoretical Conversation
On the following day, Kirsánof had just thrown himself down like a sybarite, with a cigar, intending to read and rest after his late dinner upon returning from the hospital, when Lopukhóf came in.
“A guest at the wrong time is worse than a Tartar,” said Lopukhóf, in a jocular tone; but his tone proved not to be very successfully jocular. “I disturb you, Aleksandr; but even if it is so, you must put up with it. I want to speak to you seriously. I meant to have come earlier, but I overslept this morning, and I should not have found you.” Lopukhóf was now speaking without joking.
“What does it mean? Has he really suspected?” wondered Kirsánof.
“Let us have a little talk,” continued Lopukhóf, seating himself. “Look me in the eye.”
“Yes, he is going to speak about it; there is no doubt about it.”
“Listen, Dmitri,” said Kirsánof, in a tone still more serious. “You and I are friends; but there are things which even friends must not allow themselves. I beg of you to cease this conversation. I am not inclined now to serious conversations, and I am never ready for it.” Kirsánof’s eyes looked keenly and angrily, as though a man were before him whom he suspected of committing a murder.
“It is impossible not to speak, Aleksandr,” continued Lopukhóf, in a calm, but rather dull voice. “I have understood your maneuvers.”
“Silence! I forbid you to speak, unless you want me to be your enemy forever—if you don’t want to lose my respect.”
“Some time ago, you were not afraid of losing my respect; do you remember? Now I understand all. I did not understand it then.”
“Dmitri, I beg of you to leave the room, or I shall.”
“You cannot leave. What do you suppose—that I do not have your interests at heart?”
Kirsánof did not reply.
“My situation is a good one. Yours, judging by your words, is not. I appear to you in the guise of a man doing a noble deed. But that’s nonsense. I cannot act otherwise, according to common sense. I beg of you, Aleksandr, to cease your maneuvers; they will lead to nothing.”
“How? was it really too late? Forgive me,” cried Kirsánof, impetuously; and he could not decide whether it was joy or grief excited in him by the words, “they will lead to nothing.”
“No; you have not understood me. It was not too late. So far there has been no harm done; we shall see whether there will be. But now there is nothing to be seen. However, Aleksandr, I do not understand what you are speaking about; neither do you understand what I mean. We do not understand each other; isn’t that so? There is not any need of our understanding each other, is there? These are little enigmas which you do not understand; they are unpleasant. There was nothing of the sort; I have not said anything. I have nothing to say to you. Give me a cigar; I forgot mine. I’m forgetful. I am going to smoke and have a talk with you about scientific questions; that was all that I came for. I wanted to spend a little time in scientific talk, as I had nothing else to do. What do you think about these strange experiments on the mechanical production of albumen?” Lopukhóf moved from one chair to another, so as to have a comfortable place for his feet; he got into an easy position, and while he smoked his cigar he continued what he had to say. “According to my view it is a great discovery. Have you repeated the experiments?”
“No; but I shall have to.”
“How fortunate you are to have such a splendid laboratory at your disposal. I beg of you, try them for yourself; try them more carefully. A complete revolution of the whole question of food, and of all human life—the artificial production of the principal element of nutrition, directly from inorganic matter. It is a most extraordinary thing; it is equal to Newton’s discovery. Don’t you think so?”
“Certainly. Only I greatly doubt the accuracy of the experiments. Sooner or later we shall reach this without doubt; science is going on in that direction, that is evident. But now we have hardly come to it.”
“Do you think so? I think so myself. Then our conversation is ended. Goodbye, Aleksandr. But while I say goodbye, I will ask you to call on us often, just as you used to do. Dō svidánya.”
Kirsánof’s eyes, which all the time had been looking fiercely and steadily at Lopukhóf, flashed with indignation. “It seems to me, Dmitri, that you want me to get the opinion that you have low thoughts.”
“I don’t want anything of the sort. But you must come to see us. There is nothing strange in that, is there? You and I are friends. What is there strange in my request?”
“I cannot. You are beginning a foolish piece of work, and, therefore, wretched.”
“I
