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of the brain, and was not at all surprised by an admission
which Ivan had reluctantly made him. ‘Hallucinations are
quite likely in your condition,’ the doctor opined, ‘though it
would be better to verify them... you must take steps at once,
without a moment’s delay, or things will go badly with you.’
But Ivan did not follow this judicious advice and did not
take to his bed to be nursed. ‘I am walking about, so I am
strong enough, if I drop, it’ll be different then, anyone may
nurse me who likes,’ he decided, dismissing the subject.
And so he was sitting almost conscious himself of his
delirium and, as I have said already, looking persistently at
some object on the sofa against the opposite wall. Someone
appeared to be sitting there, though goodness knows how
he had come in, for he had not been in the room when Ivan
came into it, on his return from Smerdyakov. This was a
person or, more accurately speaking, a Russian gentleman
of a particular kind, no longer young, qui faisait la cinquan-
taine,* as the French say, with rather long, still thick, dark
hair, slightly streaked with grey and a small pointed beard.
He was wearing a brownish reefer jacket, rather shabby, ev-
idently made by a good tailor though, and of a fashion at
least three years old, that had been discarded by smart and
well-to-do people for the last two years. His linen and his
long scarf-like neck-tie were all such as are worn by people
who aim at being stylish, but on closer inspection his linen
was not overclean and his wide scarf was very threadbare.
The visitor’s check trousers were of excellent cut, but were
too light in colour and too tight for the present fashion. His
soft fluffy white hat was out of keeping with the season.

10 0 The Brothers Karamazov