Or else you pull the skin around your eyes back till they're skinny slits just to see what happens; and what happens is that you see everything, but kind of blurry.

You can hang your head between your knees to the floor, and wait until the blood rushes down. There'll be a roar in your head, things'll go all foggy; and there'll be a buzzing and thumping in your ears.

You can weave your fingers together, one after the other, and then turn them inside out and wiggle them: here's the terem, here's the steeple, open the door, and there are the people. Or you can just wiggle your fingers. That's on your hands. But if you try it with your toes you'll get a cramp in your foot. Who can figure it? Your hands work this way and your feet that way. Well, hands are hands, and feet are feet. That's probably why.

Or you can just look at your fingernails.

And you don't see any visions: somehow they're all gone, the visions. Too bad. Benedikt used to see Olenka: beads, dimples, ribbons. And now what? Now there she is, Olenka herself. Right by your side. Dimples-she's got dimples over her whole body. Dimples so big you stick your finger in and it almost disappears. Stick your fingers in as much as you like. She won't get mad. You could even say she welcomes it: "You rapscallion, you. Why such a hurry?"

Only she used to kind of sparkle. Like a secret. And now there she is, sitting on the stool, her face spread thick with sour cream-to make it whiter; only the sour cream makes her look awful. She scratches her head. "Take a look, Benedikt. What is this here? Is it a rat's nest?"

There never used to be any rats' nests: her braid went all the way down to the ground. But now she's not supposed to wear a braid. Since she's a married Golubushka, Olenka has to have a woman's hairdo. And this is a lot of trouble. She divides her hair into locks, wets them down with water or rusht, and then starts winding the hair on wood bobbins. She wraps her whole head up this way and walks around with the bobbins rattling, knocking against each other all day long. She has to have curls, you see. And her face is smeared with sour cream: she looks like a real ghoul.

"Why did you wind all those things on yourself?"

"What do you mean? To be beautiful. It's for you."

She plops down on the bed. "Come here, Benedikt, let's make love."

"That's enough, enough."

"Just come here, come over here, don't talk."

"I feel sort of weak. I ate a bit too much."

"Don't make things up, you haven't eaten since breakfast."

"You'll scratch me."

"What do you mean, scratch you? Don't invent things."

"Your face is covered with sour cream."

"You've always got excuses! I'm sooo unhaaaappy…!"

And she starts wailing. But then she stops.

"Benedikt! Come here. Something itches. Over there, right there, what is it? Did something pop up?"

"Nothing popped up."

"No, look again, you didn't look carefully. Carefully now! Something itches, it's tingling."

"There's nothing there."

"What's tingling then? It's not a carbuncle, is it?"

"No."

"Maybe a blister? Is it swollen?"

"No."

"Is it red?"

"No, no!"

"Then what is it? It keeps on itching and itching, and then it stings so bad!… And over here? Benedikt! Pay attention! Right here-no, farther! Between the shoulder blades!"

"There isn't anything."

"Maybe scales?"

"No!"

"Some dandruff, then? It's itching. Brush it off me."

"It's all clear, I said! Don't invent things!"

"Maybe I broke out in freckles all over?"

"No!!!"

"Maybe it's a pimple or a wart! You have to be careful-they can pop up and that's it, you're dead!"

"Your back is fine, I tell you! You're imagining everything!"

"Of course, since I'm the one suffering, and not you, you don't care! But I've got an ache here under my arm, Benedikt."

"It'll stop."

"Other men would be sympathetic!… If I raise my arm this way and turn it that way, it starts aching! And if I lean over like that, and put my foot there, I get a stitch in my side right away, come on now, take a look, what's on my side, I can't see it!"

He was sure of it. If only he could lie around now with a book! Snow was falling softly in the yard, logs were crackling in the stove-it was the perfect time to lie in bed with a book. Put a bowl of firelings or something else delicious nearby, to stick behind your cheek, and let yourself go… into the book… Right now it's winter outside, for instance, and there it's summer. Here it's daytime and there it's evening. And they'll describe that summer for you and pretty it up, and tell you what kind of evening it is, who went where, what they were wearing, who sat on which bench by the river, who they're waiting for-it's always a lover-what birds are singing in the sky, how the sun goes down, how the gnats swarm… And you can hear something beyond the river, a song of some sort. And everything will be in the book: how there was a noise in the bushes-the lover arrived for the tryst. What they said to each other, what they settled on… Or who built a big ship and sailed it on the Ocean-Sea, and how many people crowded on that boat, and where they set sail for, and how the boat works, they'll tell you about everything. And about how the voyage goes, who argued about what with whom, about the chip one guy had on his shoulder, how he grew blacker than a storm cloud and got all sorts of ideas in his head… and who realized it and said, Ay, why is he looking at us like a stray dog that wants to bite, let's set him down on a desert island…

You read, move your lips, figure out the words, and it's like you're in two places at the same time: you're sitting or lying with your legs curled up, your hand groping in the bowl, but you can see different worlds, far-off worlds that maybe never existed but still seem real. You run or sail or race in a sleigh-you're running away from someone, or you yourself have decided to attack -your heart thumps, life flies by, and it's wondrous: you can live as many different lives as there are books to read. Like a werewolf or something: you're a man, and all of a sudden-you're a woman, or an old man, or a small child, or a whole battalion on guard, or I don't know what. And if it's true that it wasn't Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, who wrote all those books, well, who cares? Then it means there were other Fyodor Kuzmiches, ancient people, who sat, and wrote, and saw visions. Why not?

And just about now, the candles have probably been lighted in the Work Izba, the scrolls rolled up, Jackal Demianich is looking watchfully around. Konstantin Leontich is writing fast as can be, copying, from time to time he tosses down his writing stick, claps his hands and cries out! He always gets very worked up about what happens in books. And then he grabs his writing stick again, and goes on… And Varvara Lukinishna bends her head, her combs tremble, she's thinking about something… maybe that at home she has a book hidden? There was something there about a candle, about deceit… But neither Benedikt nor Olenka are in the Work Izba anymore… Olenka lies on the bed whining, covered in sour cream, and Benedikt is rocking on the stool. If only he could catch some mice right now, and trade them at the market for a book. Only there aren't any mice in the house.

What sort of book was it that Father-in-law shoved at Benedikt? Should he go and ask? Since Father-in-law didn't get sick, knock, knock, knock on wood, then it was true: you can touch them.