'Why, are you well now? Are you in a normal condition? Is what you're feeling – beneficial to you – good for you?'
'Why, what am I feeling?' I said, while in my heart I knew the doctor was right.
'Ah, young man, young man,' the doctor went on with an intonation that suggested that something highly insulting to me was contained in these two words, 'what's the use of your prevaricating, when, thank God, what's in your heart is in your face, so far? But there, what's the use of talking? I shouldn't come here myself, if ... (the doctor compressed his lips) ... if I weren't such a queer fellow.
Only this is what surprises me; how it is, you, with your intelligence, don't see what is going on around you?'
'And what is going on?' I put in, all on the alert.
The doctor looked at me with a sort of ironical compassion.
'Nice of me!' he said as though to himself, 'as if he need know anything of it.
In fact, I tell you again,' he added, raising his voice, 'the atmosphere here is not fit for you.
You like being here, but what of that! it's nice and sweet-smelling in a greenhouse – but there's no living in it.
Yes! do as I tell you, and go back to your Keidanov.'