He reached his rooms at last.
Then came an illness, something in the nature of a low fever, which all
at once removed him to a great distance from the perplexing actualities,
from his very room, even. He never lost consciousness; he only seemed to
himself to be existing languidly somewhere very far away from everything
that had ever happened to him. He came out of this state slowly, with an
effect, that is to say, of extreme slowness, though the actual number
of days was not very great. And when he had got back into the middle of
things they were all changed, subtly and provokingly in their nature:
inanimate objects, human faces, the landlady, the rustic servant-girl,
the staircase, the streets, the very air. He tackled these changed
conditions in a spirit of severity. He walked to and fro to the
University, ascended stairs, paced the passages, listened to lectures,
took notes, crossed courtyards in angry aloofness, his teeth set hard
till his jaws ached.
He was perfectly aware of madcap Kostia gazing like a young retriever
from a distance, of the famished student with the red drooping nose,
keeping scrupulously away as desired; of twenty others, perhaps, he
knew well enough to speak to. And they all had an air of curiosity and
concern as if they expected something to happen.
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