Ilya's eager curiosity and a couple of glasses of beer brought Gratschev into the right mood. His eyes shone and his yellow cheeks reddened. "What shall I say to you?" he said, rubbing his forehead. "I've forgotten it all; by God, I've forgotten it. Wait, perhaps something'll come back to me. I've always a head full of this sort of stuff, like a swarm of bees inside, humming. Often when I sit down to compose, I'm in a fever, something boils away in my soul and tears come into my eyes." "I say! How does that happen?" asked Ilya, astonished and suspicious. "Oh! something burns and blazes in you, and you want to express it cleverly and you can't find words, and then it makes you rage." He sighed, shook his head, and went on: "Before it comes out, it seems tremendous, and when it's written down, it's nothing." "Say a verse or two now." The more closely Ilya observed Pavel, the keener grew his curiosity, and following the curiosity another warm, friendly, and at the same time sorrowful feeling. "Generally I make funny poems, about my own life," said Gratschev, and laughed constrainedly. "All right, say a funny poem." Gratschev looked round, coughed, rubbed his chest, and began to declaim hurriedly, in a dull voice, without looking at his friend: "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."