[Dark Saint Alaick]

And once again all became terrible, incomprehensible and strange--so intensely so that we were filled with horror, almost to the verge of losing consciousness. And we all began talking and shouting at the same time, bustling about, moving our glasses, touching each other's shoulders, hands, knees--and all at once became silent, giving way before the incomprehensible.

“At home?” cried somebody out of the darkness. His voice was hoarse and quivering with emotion, fear and hatred. And some of the words would not come out, as if he had forgotten how to say them.

“At home? What home? Why, is there home anywhere! Don't interrupt me or else I shall fire. At home I used to take a bath every day--can you understand?--a bath with water--water up to the very edges. While now—I do not even wash my face every day. My head is covered with scurf, and my whole body itches and over it crawl, crawl. . . I am going mad from dirt, while you talk of--home! I am like an animal, I despise myself, I cannot recognise myself and death is not at all terrifying. You tear my brain with your shrapnel-shots. Aim at what you will, all hit my brain--and you can speak of--home. What home? Streets, windows, people, but I would not go into the street now for anything. I should be ashamed to. You brought a samovar here, but I was ashamed to look at it.”

The other laughed again. Somebody called out: “D--n it all! I shall go home.”

“Home?”

“You don't understand what duty is!”