But even he was not allowed to speak very long. The generality of the stories were rather poor and devoid of wit, but, to make up for that, they were interspersed with coarse and repulsive cynicisms. Viätkin, who had now returned from the street, where he had been paying his respects to Liech's "interment" and holy "departure," invited Romashov to sit down at the table. "Sit you here, my dear Georginka.[15] We will watch them. To-day I am as rich as a Jew. I won yesterday, and to-day I shall take the bank again." Romashov only longed to lighten his heart, for a friend to whom he might tell his sorrow and his disgust at life. After draining his glass he looked at Viätkin with beseeching eyes, and began to talk in a voice quivering with deep, inward emotion. "Pavel Pavlich, we all seem to have completely forgotten the existence of another life. _Where_ it is I cannot say; I only know that it exists. Even in that men must struggle, suffer, and love, but that life is rich--rich in great thoughts and noble deeds. For here, my friend, what do you suppose our life is, and how will such a miserable existence as ours end some day?" "Well, yes, old fellow--but it's life," replied Viätkin in a sleepy way. "Life after all is--only natural philosophy and energy. And what is energy?" "Oh, what a wretched existence," Romashov went on to say with increasing emotion, and without listening to Viätkin. "To-day we booze at mess till we are drunk; to-morrow we meet at drill--'one, two, left, right'--in the evening we again assemble round the bottle. Just the same, year in, year out. That's what makes up our life. How disgusting!" Viätkin peered at him with sleepy eyes, hiccoughed, and then suddenly started singing in a weak falsetto:-- "In the dark, stilly forest There once dwelt a maiden, She sat at her distaff By day and by night. "Take care of your health, my angel, and to the deuce with the rest. "Romashevich! Romaskovski! let's go to the board of green cloth. I'll lend you a----" "No one understands me, and I have not a single friend here," sighed Romashov mournfully. The next moment he remembered Shurochka--the splendid, high-minded Shurochka, and he felt in his heart a delicious and melancholy sensation, coupled with hopelessness and quiet resignation. He stayed in the mess-room till daybreak, watched them playing schtoss, and now and then took a hand at the game, yet without feeling the slightest pleasure or interest in it. Once he noticed how Artschakovski, who was playing at a little private table with two ensigns, made rather a stupid, but none the less successful, attempt to cheat. Romashov thought for a moment of taking up the matter and exposing the fraud, but checked himself suddenly, saying to himself: "Oh, what's the use! I should not improve matters by interfering."