"Have you ever thought about death since you came away from the Front,
Durward? It used to occupy your mind a good deal while you were there, I
remember--in a foolish, romantic, sentimental way of course. You'll
forgive my saying that your views of death were those of a second-hand
novelist--all the same I'll do you the justice of acknowledging that you
had studied it at first hand. You're not a coward, you know."
I was struck most vividly with a sense of his uneasiness. During those
other days uneasy was the very last thing that I ever would have said
that he was--even after his catastrophe his grip of his soul did not
loosen. It was just that loosening that I felt now; he had less control
of the beasts that dwelt beneath the ground of his house, and he could
hear them snarl and whine, and could feel the floor quiver with the echo
of their movements.
I suddenly knew that I was afraid of him no longer.
"Now, see, Alexei Petrovitch," I said, "it isn't death that we want to
talk about now. It is a much simpler thing. It is, that you shouldn't
for your own amusement simply go in and spoil the lives of some of my
friends for nothing at all except your own stupid pride.
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