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his head up from the lamp and look at the sky to see that the night had gone
beyond return. Waiters were hurriedly jerking the cloths off the tables. The
cats pacing the verandah had a morning look about them. Day broke inexorably
over the poet.
If next day someone had said to Stepa Likhodeyev 'Stepa! If vou don't
get up this minute you're going to be shot,' he would have replied in a
faint, languid voice : ' All right, shoot me. Do what you like to me, but
I'm not getting up! '
The worst of it was that he could not open his eyes, because when he
did so there would be a flash of lightning and his head would shiver to
fragments. A great bell was tolling in his head, brown spots with livid
green edges were swimming around somewhere between his eyeballs and his
closed lids. To cap it all he felt sick and the nausea was somehow connected
with the sound of a gramophone.
Stepa tried to remember what had happened, but could only recall one
thing--yesterday, somewhere. God knows where, he had been holding a table
napkin and trying to kiss a woman, promising her that he would come and
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