silent
corridors were extinguished and in their place glowed the weak blue
night-lights. The nurses' cautious footsteps were heard less and less
frequently walking the rubber-tiled floor of the corridor.
Ivan now lay in sweet lassitude ; glancing at his bedside lamp, then at
the dim ceiling light and at the moon rising in the dark, he talked to
himself.
'I wonder why I got so excited about Berlioz falling under that tram?
' the poet reasoned. ' After all he's dead, and we all die some time. It's
not as if I were a relation or a really close friend either. When you come
to think of it I didn't even know the man very well. What did I really know
about him? Nothing, except that he was bald and horribly talkative. So,
gentlemen,' went on Ivan, addressing an imaginary audience,' let us consider
the following problem : why, I should like to know, did I get in such a rage
with that mysterious professor or magician with his empty, black eye? Why
did I chase after him like a fool in those underpants and holding a candle?
Why the ridiculous scene in the restaurant? '
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