I am a completely changed man. I’ve no pity or affection for anyone, not even for my children. Pure hatred only inspires me. When I walk through the town and look at the houses and people, I think, and even smile at the thought, “I wish the earth would open and swallow you all up!” A beggar stretched his hand out to me today, and I gave him such a look that his tongue stuck, and his hand dropped to his side. What a look it must have been!
I can’t cry; I can’t remember how it’s done. Not only my tears have dried up, altogether I seem to have become dry; on the hottest day I never perspire. A curious thing; I must ask a doctor about it.
Sashenka took notice of me today. She cried to see me like this. But like what? She wondered that I did not read the newspapers, but what can one learn from the papers? That we have Miasoyedovs, that wholesale slaughter is going on, we know without their aid. I don’t want to read them.
“How is your digestion?” Sashenka asked.
“My digestion? Why? Have I got a digestion? Oh, yes! It’s quite well, thank you. How are your wounded?”
“They are your wounded, too.”
“Oh, no, I didn’t make them.”
“Why are you so hard-hearted, Ilenka?” she asked through her tears.
“How? my kindhearted Sashenka?”
She was annoyed at that and went back to the hospital, not forgetting to slam the door behind her, like a truly affectionate wife. I don’t care, only it’s not good for the children: and one must think of them sometimes.
I can hardly believe I have a wife; we so rarely see each other. She is always at the hospital. A great many wounded arrived on Saturday, so many that there were not enough beds for them all, and some had to be put on the floor. Sasha did not come home that day for the children’s bath. This is not the first occasion on which it has happened. Nurse usually bathes them under these circumstances, but that day it came into my head to do Jena myself. The boy has grown awfully thin. I could count all his ribs; he has such small bones. When I rubbed down his poor little body and thin hair, I wondered why I couldn’t cry. Even when I scratched the poor child in my clumsiness, and he burst into tears, I still felt no pity. His crying only annoyed me, and I handed him over to the nurse. What is the matter with me? There was a time, old men tell us, when people in my condition were healed by prayer in church, but who would pray for me? What nonsense I am talking, to be sure!
There is no pity in my heart for Russia even; her groans affect me not. I have no pity for myself, and I think if Sasha were to die this moment, I wouldn’t turn a hair. There is a rumour of cholera in town, but what do I care? Let there be cholera or an epidemic of smallpox or the plague, it makes no difference to me.