If he died to-morrow he did not care ...

it was all so absurd that it was not worth while to give it any attention.

He would grow very fat, he would die--he would love women, play cards, drink, quarrel, give his life for a sentimental moment, pour every farthing of his possessions into the lap of a friend, incur debts which he would not pay, quarrel wildly with a man about a rouble, remember things that you would expect him to forget, forget everything that he should remember--a pagan, a saint, a blackguard, a hero--anything you please so long as you do not take it seriously.
This morning he was dirty and looked as though he had slept for many nights without taking off his clothes--unshaven, his shirt open showing his hairy chest, his eyes blinking in the light.
"That's good," he said, seeing us.

"I've got to be off, leaving the place to you....

Fearful time they're having over there," pointing across the garden.