"It is night, and so sad--but piercing the gloom, The moon throws its beams into my little room. It beckons and laughs in the friendliest way And paints a blue pattern so cheerful and gay, On the dull stone wall, that is damp and so cold, And over the carpet, all tattered and old. I sit there, fast bound by the spell of my thought And sleep never comes, though it's longed for and sought."
Pavel paused, sighed deeply, then went on more slowly, and in a lower voice:
"Grim fate has close gripped me in shuddering pain, It tears at my heart, and it strikes at my brain; It robbed me of all, when it caught at my dear, And leaves me for comfort--this brandy-flask here. See there, where it stands and gleams through the night, And beckons and smiles in the moon's faint light. The brandy shall heal me, my heart shall be well, It shall cloud o'er my brain with the power of its spell. Thoughts vanish in vapour, see, sleep is at hand, Another glass, come! and all trouble is banned. I drink yet again--who sleeps can endure, I build against trouble a stronghold sure."
As Gratschev ended, he looked inquiringly at Ilya, then let his head fall lower and said softly:
"That's the kind of thing generally--you see, it's silly enough."
He drummed on the edge of the table with his fingers, and shifted his chair uneasily to and fro. For a moment, Ilya looked at him with a searching glance and his face expressed incredulous astonishment. The bitter, smooth running lines yet rang in his ears, and it seemed to him hardly credible that this thin beardless lad, with restless eyes, in an old cotton shirt and heavy boots, should have composed this poem.
"Well, brother, I shouldn't call that silly," he said slowly and thoughtfully, while he still looked curiously at Pavel. "On the contrary, it's beautiful, it touched my heart--say it again, will you?"
Pavel raised his head, looked delightedly at his listener, and coming closer, asked in a whisper, "No--really--do you like it?"
"Good Lord, what a queer fellow you are. I shouldn't lie to you."
"Well, I'll believe you, you're honest; you're straight, anyhow."
Pavel softly declaimed it in melancholy tones, often stammering and sighing deeply when his voice failed him. When he had finished, Ilya's suspicion was strengthened, that Pavel was not really the author of the verses.