r anything else that is thought most shocking and dreadful in this
world--what a dilemma my judges would be in, with a criminal who only
has a fortnight to live in any case, now that the rack and other forms
of torture are abolished! Why, I should die comfortably in their own
hospital--in a warm, clean room, with an attentive doctor--probably much
more comfortably than I should at home.

"I don't understand why people in my position do not oftener indulge in
such ideas--if only for a joke! Perhaps they do! Who knows! There are
plenty of merry souls among us!

"But though I do not recognize any jurisdiction over myself, still I
know that I shall be judged, when I am nothing but a voiceless lump
of clay; therefore I do not wish to go before I have left a word of
reply--the reply of a free man--not one forced to justify himself--oh
no! I have no need to ask forgiveness of anyone. I wish to say a word
merely because I happen to desire it of my own free will.

"Here, in the first place, comes a strange thought!

"Who, in the name of what Law, would think of disputing my full personal
right over the fortnight of life left to me? What jurisdiction can
be brought to bear upon the case? Who would wish me, not only to be
sentenced, but to endure the sentence to the end? Surely there exists
no man who would wish such a thing--why should anyone desire it? For
the sake of morality? Well, I can understand that if I were to make
an attempt upon my own life while in the enjoyment of full health and
vigour--my life which might have been 'useful,' etc., etc.--morality
might reproach me, according to the old routine, for disposing of my
life without permission--or whatever its tenet may be. But now, NOW,
when my sentence is out and my days numbered! How can morality have need
of my last breaths, and why should I die listening to the consolations
offered by the prince, who, without doubt, would not omit to demonstrate
that death is actually a benefactor to me? (Christians like him always
end up with that--it is their pet theory.) And what do they want with
their ridiculous 'Pavlofsk trees'? To sweeten my last hours? Cannot they
understand that the more I forget myself, the more I let myself become
attached to these last illusions of life and love, by means of which
they try to hide from me Meyer's wall, and all that is so plainly
written on it--the more unhappy they make me? What is the use of all
your nature to me--all your parks and t