We will spend the evening there oh, it's jolly! Oh, the devil! How, vexing it Is I can't help you. I should like to take It and write it all for you. . . . Why is it our handwriting is not alike?"
"Yes," answered Vasya." Yes, I must make haste. I think it must be eleven o'clock; we must make haste. . . . To work!" And saying this, Vasya, who had been all the time alternately smiling and trying to interrupt with some enthusiastic rejoinder the flow of his friend's feelings, and had, in short, been showing the most cordial response, suddenly subsided, sank into silence, and almost ran along the street. It seemed as though some burdensome idea had suddenly chilled his feverish head; he seemed all at once dispirited.
Arkady Ivanovitch felt quite uneasy; he scarcely got an answer to his hurried questions from Vasya, who confined himself to a word or two, sometimes an irrelevant exclamation.
"Why, what is the matter with you, Vasya!" he cried at last, hardly able to keep up with him." Can you really be so uneasy?"
"Oh, brother, that's enough chatter!" Vasya answered, with vexation.
"Don't be depressed, Vasya come, come," Arkady interposed. "Why, I have known you write much more in a shorter time! What's the matter? You've simply a talent for it! You can write quickly in an emergency; they are not going to lithograph your copy. You've plenty of time! . . . The only thing is that you are excited now, and preoccupied, and the work won't go so easily."
Vasya made no reply, or muttered something to himself, and they both ran home in genuine anxiety.
Vasya sat down to the papers at once. Arkady Ivanovitch was quiet and silent; he noiselessly undressed and went to bed, keeping his eyes fixed on Vasya. . . . A sort of panic came over him. . . . "What is the matter with him?" he thought to himself, looking at Vasya's face that grew whiter and whiter, at his feverish eyes, at the anxiety that was betrayed in every movement
196
