In a moment Sarudine's life had undergone a complete change. Careless,
easy, and gay as it had been before, so now it seemed to him distorted,
dire, and unendurable. The laughing mask had fallen; the hideous face
of a monster was revealed.

Tanaroff had taken him home in a droschky. On the way he exaggerated
his pain and weakness so as not to have to open his eyes. In this way
he thought that he would avoid the shame levelled at him by thousands
of eyes so soon as they encountered his.

The slim, blue back of the droschky driver, the passers-by,
malicious, inquisitive faces at windows, even Tanaroff's arm round his
waist were all, as he imagined, silent expressions of undisguised
contempt. So intensely painful did this sensation become, that at last
Sarudine almost fainted. He felt as if he were losing his reason, and
he longed to die. His brain refused to recognize what had happened. He
kept thinking that there was a mistake, some misunderstanding, and that
his plight was not as desperate and deplorable as he imagined. Yet the
actual fact remained, and ever darker grew his despair.

Sarudine felt that he was being supported, that he was in pain, and
that his hands were blood-stained and dirty. It really surprised him to
know that he was still conscious of it all. At times, when the vehicle
turned a sharp corner, and swayed to one side, he partially opened his
eyes, and perceived, as if through tears, familiar streets, and houses,
and people, and the church. Nothing had become changed, yet all seemed
hostile, strange, and infinitely remote.