Only much later, when he was told that he might go, and was out in the street with a gendarme, did the meaning of the declaration he had just heard begin to dawn upon him.
“That’s not it … that’s not it. … It can’t be true! It’s absurd!” he said to himself, as he sat in the carriage that was taking him back to prison. He felt so full of vitality that he could not imagine death, could not connect the consciousness of his “I” with death—with the absence of that “I.”
When he returned to his cell he sat down on his bed, and closing his eyes, tried to imagine what awaited him, and could not manage to do so. He could not at all imagine that he would not be, nor that people could wish to kill him. “Me, young, kind, happy, loved by so many,” he thought, remembering his mother’s and Natásha’s affection for him, as well as that of his friends. “And they will kill me, hang me! … Who will do it? Why? … And then what will there be when I am not? … It’s impossible …” he said to himself.
The inspector came in. Svetlogoúb did not hear him enter.
“Who is it? What do you want?” asked Svetlogoúb, not recognizing him. “Ah, it’s you! … When is it to be?” he asked.
“I do not know,” answered the inspector, and, having stood still for a moment, suddenly began, in an insinuating, gentle voice:
“The priest is here … he would like to … to prep … he would like to see you.”
“I don’t want to—it is unnecessary! I want nothing. … Go away!” exclaimed Svetlogoúb.
“Don’t you want to write to anybody? … You can,” said the inspector.
“Yes, yes! Send what is necessary. I will write.”