THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 A RAW YOUTH
 
 THE NOVELS OF FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY 
 
 Translated from the Russian by CONSTANCE 
 GARNETT, Crown 8vo, 
 
 THE BROTHERS KARAMAZOV 
 
 THE IDIOT 
 
 THE POSSESSED 
 
 CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 
 
 THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD 
 
 THE INSULTED AND INJURED 
 
 A RAW YOUTH 
 
 THE ETERNAL HUSBAND 
 
 THE GAMBLER AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 WHITE NIGHTS 
 
 .AN HONEST THIEF 
 
 THE FRIEND OF THE FAMILY
 
 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY 
 
 YOUTH 
 
 Translated from 
 
 the Kussiau by 
 
 CONSTANCE GARNETT 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANfY 
 
 1950
 
 William Heinemann Ltd 
 
 LONDON MELBOURNE TORONTO 
 JOHANNESBURG AUCKLAND 
 
 First published 1916 
 
 Reprinted 1923, 1950, 1956, 1964, 1970 
 
 434 20401 2 
 
 Reproduced and Printed by 
 Redwood Press Limited 
 Trowbridge & London
 
 о 
 
 ч 
 
 ^ 
 
 У& 
 
 3326 
 PART I r]/G 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 I CANNOT resist sitting down to write the history of the first steps 
 in my career, though I might very well abstain from doing so. ... 
 I know one thing for certain : I shall never again sit down to 
 write my autobiography even if I live to be a hundred. One 
 
 "^ must be too disgustingly in love with .self to be able without 
 shame to write about oneself. I can only excuse myself on 
 the ground that I am not writing with the same object with 
 
 ^ which other people write, that is, to win the praise of my readers. 
 ^ It has suddenly occurred to me to write out word for word all 
 V- that has happened to me during this last year, simply from an 
 ^ inward impulse, because I am so impressed by all that has 
 
 •^ happened. I shall simply record the incidents, doing my utmost 
 to exclude everything extraneous, especially all literary graces. 
 The professional writer writes for thirty years, and is quite 
 unable to say at the end why he has been writing for all that 
 time. I am not a professional writer and don't want to be, 
 and to drag forth into the literary market-place the inmost 
 secrets of my soul and an artistic description of my feelings 
 I should regard as indecent and contemptible. I foresee, how- 
 ever, with vexation, that it will be impossible to avoid describing 
 feelings altogether and making reflections (even, perhaps, cheap 
 ones), so corrupting is every sort of literary pursuit in its effect, 
 even if it be undertaken only for one's own satisfaction. The 
 reflections may indeed be very cheap, because what is of value 
 for oneself may very well have no value for others. But all 
 this is beside the mark. It will do for a preface, however. 
 There will be nothing more of the sort. Let us get to work, 
 though there is nothing more difficult than to begin upon some 
 sorts of work — perhaps any sort of work. 
 
 1773186
 
 I am beginning — or rather, I should like to begin — these notes 
 from the 19th of September of last year, that is, from the very 
 day I first met . . . 
 
 But to explain so prematurely who it was I met before any- 
 thing else is known would be cheap ; in fact, I believe my tone 
 is cheap. I vowed I would eschew all literary graces, and here 
 at the first sentence I am being seduced by them. It seems as 
 if writing sensibly can't be done simply by wanting to. I 
 may remark, also, that I fancy writing is more difficult in Russian 
 than in any other European language. I am now reading over 
 what I have just written, and I see that I am much cleverer 
 than what I have written. How is it that what is expressed 
 by a clever man is much more stupid than what is left in him ? 
 I have more than once during this momentous year noticed 
 this with myself in my relations with people, and have been 
 very much worried by it. 
 
 Although I am beginning from the 19th of September, I must 
 put in a word or two about who I am and where I had been till 
 then, and what was consequently my state of mind on the 
 morning of that day, to make things clearer to the reader, and 
 perhaps to myself also. 
 
 I have passed the leaving examination at the grammar school, 
 and now I am in my twenty-first year. My surname is Dol- 
 goruky, and my legal father is Makar Ivanov Dolgoruky, formerly 
 a serf in the household of the Versilovs. In this way I am a 
 legitimate son, although I am, as a matter of fact, conspicu- 
 ously illegitimate, and there is not the faintest doubt about 
 my origin. 
 
 The facts are as follows. Twenty-two years ago Versilov 
 (that is my father), being twenty-five years old, visited his 
 estate in the province of Tula. I imagine that at that time his 
 character was still quite unformed. It is curious that this man 
 who, even in my childhood, made such an impression upon me, 
 who had such a crucial influence on the whole bent of my mind, 
 and who perhaps has even cast his shadow over the whole of 
 my future, still remains, even now, a complete enigma to me 
 in many respects. Of this, more particulars later. There is 
 
 2
 
 no describing him straight ofiF. My whole manuscript will be 
 full of this man, anyway. 
 
 He had just been left a widower at that time, that is, when 
 he was twenty- five. He had married one of the Fanariotovs — 
 a girl of high rank but without much money — and by her he had 
 a son and a daughter. The facts that I have gathered about 
 this wife whom he lost so early are somewhat scanty, and are 
 lost among my materials, and, indeed, many of the circumstances 
 of VersUov's private life have eluded me, for he has always 
 been so proud, disdainful, reserved and casual with me, in spite 
 of a sort of meekness towards me which was striking at times. I 
 will mention, however, to make things clear beforehand, that 
 he ran through three fortunes in his lifetime, and very big ones 
 too, of over fourteen hundred souls, and maybe more. Now, of 
 course, he has not a farthing. 
 
 He went to the viHage on that occasion, " God knows why," 
 so at least he said to me afterwards. His young children were, 
 as usual, not with him but with relations. This was always bis 
 method with his children, legitimate and illegitimate ^.like. The 
 house-serfs on this estate were rather numerous, and among them 
 was a gardener called Makar Ivanov Dolgoruky. Here I will 
 note in parenthesis, to relieve my mind once and for all, I doubt 
 whether anyone can ever have raged against his surname as 
 I have all my life ; this is stupid, of course, but so it has been. 
 Every time I entered a school or met persons whom I had 
 to treat with respect as my elders, every wretched little 
 teacher, tutor, priest — anyone you Ике — on asking my name 
 and hearing it was Dolgoruky, for some reason invariably 
 thought fitting to add, " Prince Dolgoruky ? " And every single 
 time I was forced to explain to these futile people, " No, simply 
 Dolgoruky." 
 
 That simply began to drive me mad at last. Here I note 
 as a curious phenomenon that I don't remember a single excep- 
 tion ; every one asked the question. For some it was apparently 
 quite superfluous, and indeed I don't know how the devil it 
 could have been necessary for anyone. But all, every one of 
 them asked it. On hearing that I was simply Dolgoruky, the 
 questioner usually looked me up and down with a blank and 
 stupidly apathetic stare that betrayed that he did not know 
 why he had asked the question. Then he would walk away. 
 My comrades and schoolfellows were the most insulting of all. 
 How do schoolboys question a new-comer ? The new boy, 
 
 3
 
 abashed and confused on the first day of entering a school 
 (whatever school it may be), is the victim of all ; they order him 
 about, they tease him, and treat him like a lackey. A stout, 
 chubby urchin suddenly stands still before his victim and watches 
 him persistently for some moments with a stem and haughty 
 stare. The new boy stands facing him in silence, looks at him 
 out of the corner of his eyes, and, if he is not a coward, waits to 
 see what is going to happen. 
 " What's your name ? " 
 " Dolgoruky." 
 '• Prince Dolgoruky ? " 
 '■ No, simply Dolgoruky.'* 
 " Ah, simply ! Fool." 
 
 And he was right ; nothing could be more foolish than to be 
 called Dolgoruky without being a prince. I have to bear the 
 burden of that foolishness through no fault of my own. Later 
 on, when I began to get very cross about it, I always answered 
 the question " Are you a prmce ? " by saying, " No, I'm the son 
 of a servant, formerly a serf." 
 
 At last, when I was roused to the utm9St pitch of fury, I 
 resolutely answered : 
 
 " No, simply Dolgoruky, the illegitimate son of my former 
 owner." 
 
 I thought of this when I was in the sixth form of the grammar 
 school, and though I was very soon after thoroughly convinced 
 that I wa.<^ stupid, I did not at once give up being so. I remember 
 that one of the teachers opined — he was alone in his opinion, 
 however — that I was " filled with ideas of vengeance and civic 
 rights." As a rule this reply was received with a sort of medita- 
 tive pensiveness, anything but flattering to me. 
 
 At last one of my schoolfellows, a very sarcastic boy, to 
 whom I hardly talked once in a year, said to me with a serious 
 countenance, looking a little away : 
 
 " Such sentiments do you credit, of co\irse, and no doubt 
 you have something to be proud of ; but if I were in your р1аюе 
 I should not be too festive over being illegitimate . . . you seem 
 to expect congratulations ! " 
 
 From that time forth I dropped boasting of being illegitimate. 
 
 I repeat, it is very difficult to write in Russian : here I have 
 
 covered three pages with describing how furious I have been all 
 
 my life with my surname, and after all the reader will, no doubt, 
 
 probably have deduced that I was really furious at not being a 
 
 4
 
 prince but simply Dolgoruky. To explain again and defend 
 myself would be humiliating. 
 
 And so among the servants, of whom there were a great 
 number besides Makar Ivanitch, there was a maid, and she was 
 eighteen when Makar Dolgoruky, who was fifty, suddenly 
 announced his intention of marrying her. In the days of serfdom 
 marriages of house-serfs, as every one knows, only took place 
 with the sanction of their masters, and were sometimes simply 
 arranged by the latter. At that time " auntie " was living on 
 the estate ; not that ьЬе was my aunt, though : she had, in fact, 
 an estate of her own ; but, I don't know why, every one knew 
 her all her life as " auntie " — not mine in particular but an 
 aunt in general, even in the family of Versilov, to whom she can 
 hardly have been related. Her name was Tatyana Pavlovna 
 Prutkov. In those days she still had, in the same province and 
 district, a property of thirty-five serfs of her own. She didn't 
 exactly administer Versilov's estate (of five hundred serfs), but, 
 being so near a neighbour, she kept a vigilant eye on it, and 
 her superintendence, so I have heard, was as efficient as that of 
 any trained steward. However, her efficiency is nothing to 
 do with me. But, to dispose of all suspicion of cringing or 
 flattery on my part, I should like to add that this Tatyana 
 Pavlovna was a generous and even original person. 
 
 Well, far from checking the gloomy Makar Dolgoruky's matri- 
 monial inclinations (I am told he was gloomy in those days), 
 she gave them the warmest encouragement. 
 
 Sofia Andreyevna, the serf-girl of eighteen (that is, my mottier), 
 had been for some years fatherless and motherless. Her father, 
 also a serf, who had a great resj^ect for Makar Dolgoruky and 
 was under some obligation to him, had six years before, on his 
 death-bed, beckoned to the old gardener and, pointing signifi- 
 cantly to his daughter, had, in the presence of the pri(ist and all 
 the servants, bequeathed her to him, saying, " When she's grown 
 up, marry her." This was, so they say, a quarter of an hour 
 before he expired, so that it might, if need be, have been put 
 down to delirium ; besides which, he had no right to dispose of 
 property, being a serf. Every one heard his words. As for Makar 
 Ivanovitch, I don't know in what spirit he afterwards entered 
 upon the marriage, whether with great eagerness or simply as
 
 the fulfilment of a duty. Probably he preserved an appearance 
 of complete indifference. He was a man who even at that 
 time knew how to " keep up his dignity." It was not that he 
 was a particularly well-educated or reading man (though he 
 knew the whole of the church service and some lives of the saints, 
 but this was only from hearing them). It was not that he was a 
 sort of backstairs philosopher ; it was simply that he was a man 
 of obstinate, and even at timos rash character, was conceited in 
 his talk, autocratic in his judgment, and " respectful in his life," 
 to use his own surprising expression ; that is what he was like 
 at that time. Of course, he was universally respected, but, I 
 am told, disliked by every one. It was a different matter when 
 he ceased to be a house-serf ; then he was spoken about as a 
 saint and a man who had suffered much. That I know for a 
 fact. 
 
 As for my mother, Tatyana Pavlovna had kept her till the age 
 of eighteen in her house, although the steward had urged that 
 the girl should be sent to Moscow to be trained. She had given 
 the orphan some education, that is, taught her sewing and cutting 
 out clothes, ladyhke deportment, and even a little reading. My 
 mother was never able to write decently. She looked upon this 
 marriage with Makar Ivanovitch as something settled long ago, 
 and everything that happened to her in those days she considered 
 very good and all for the best. She went to her wedding looking 
 as unmoved as anyone could on such an occasion, so much so 
 that even Tatyana Pavlovna called her a fish. All this about 
 my mother's character at that time I heard from Tatyana 
 Pavlovna herself. Versilov arrived just six months after this 
 wedding. 
 
 I only want to say that I have never been able to find out 
 or to guess to my own satisfaction what led up to everything 
 between him and my mother. I am quite ready to believe, as 
 he himself assured me last year with a flushed face, though he 
 talked of all this with the most unconstrained and flippant air, 
 that there was no romance about it at all, that it had just hap- 
 pened. I believe that it did just happen, and that Uttle phrase 
 jiLst happened is delightful, yet I always wanted to know how it 
 could have come about. I have always hated that sort of nasti- 
 ness all my life and always shall. It's not simply a disgraceful 
 curiosity on my part, of course. I may remark that I knew
 
 absolutely nothing of my mother till a year ago. For the sake 
 of Versilov's comfort I was sent away to strangers, but of that 
 later, and so I can never picture what she looked like at that 
 time. If she had not been at all pretty, what could a man such 
 as Versilov was then have found attractive in her ? This ques- 
 tion is of importance to me because it throws a light on an 
 extremely interesting side of that man's character. It is for that 
 reason I ask it and not from depravity. Gloomy and reserved 
 as he always was, he told me himself on one occasion, with that 
 charming candour which he used to produce (from the devil 
 knows where — ^it seemed to come out of his pocket when he saw 
 it was indispensable) that at that time he was a " v( ry silly 
 young puppy " ; not tLat he was exactly sentimental, but just 
 that he had lately read " Poor Anton " and " Polinka Sachs," 
 two literary works which exerted an immense, humanizing 
 influence on the younger generation of that day. He added 
 that it was perhaps through " Poor Anton " that he went to 
 the country, and he added it with the utmost gravity. How 
 did that " silly puppy " begin at first with my mother ? I have 
 suddenly realized that if I had a single reader he would certainly 
 be laughing at me as a most ridiculous raw youth, still stupidly 
 innocent, putting himself forward to discuss and criticize what 
 he knows nothing about. It is true that I know nothing about 
 it, though I recognize that not at all with pride, for I know 
 how stupid such inexperience is in a great dolt of twenty ; only 
 I would tell such a gentleman that he knows nothing about it 
 himself, and I will prove it to him. It is true that I know nothing 
 about women, and I don't want to either, for I shall always 
 despise that sort of thing, and I have sworn I wUl all my life. 
 
 But I know for certain, though, that some women fascinate 
 by their beauty, or by anything you like, all in a minute, while 
 you may ruminate over another for six months before you 
 understand what is in her ; and that to see through and love 
 such a woman it is not enough to look at her, it is not enough 
 to be simply ready for anything, one must have a special gift 
 besides. Of that I am convinced, although I do know nothing 
 about it : and if it were not true it would mean degrading all 
 women to the level of domestic animals, and only keeping them 
 about one as such ; possibly this is what very many people 
 would like. 
 
 I know from several sources that my mother was by no means 
 a beauty, though I have never seen the portrait of her at that
 
 age which is in existence. So it was impossible to have fallen 
 in love with her at first sight. Simply to " amuse himself " Ver- 
 silov might have pitched on some one else, and there was some 
 one else in the house, an unmarried girl too, Anfisa Konstanti- 
 novna Sapozhkov, a housemaid. To a man who had brought 
 " Poor Anton " with him to the country it must have seemed 
 shameful to take advantage of his seignorial rights to violate the 
 sanctity of a marriage, even that of his serf, for I repeat, he 
 spoke with extreme seriousness of this " Poor Anton " only a 
 few months ago, that is, twenty years after the event. Why, 
 " Poor Anton " only had his horse taken from him, but this 
 was a wife ! So there must have been something peculiar in 
 this case, and Mile. Sapozhkov was the loser by it (or rather, 
 I should say, the gainer). I attacked him with all these ques- 
 tions once or twice last year when it was possible to talk to him 
 (for it wasn't always possible to talk to him). And, in spite 
 of all his society polish and the lapse of twenty years, I noticed 
 that he winced. But I persisted. On one occasion, anyway, 
 although he maintained the air of worldly superciliousness which 
 he invariably thought fit to assume with me, he muttered 
 strangely that my mother was one of those " defenceless " people 
 whom one does not fall in love with — quite the contrary, in fact — 
 but whom one suddenly pities for their gentleness, perhaps, 
 though one cannot teU what for. That no one ever knows, but 
 one goes on pitying them, one pities them and grows fond of 
 them. " In fact, my dear boy, there are cases when one can't 
 shake it off." That was what he told me. And if that was how 
 it really happened I could not look upon him as the " sUly 
 puppy " he had proclaimed himself. That is just what I wanted. 
 
 He went on to assure me, however, that my mother loved 
 him " through servility." He positively pretended it was 
 because he was her master ! He lied, thinking this was chic ! 
 He lied against his conscience, against all honour and generosity. 
 
 I have said all this, of course, as it were to the credit of my 
 mother. But I have explained already that I knew nothing 
 whatever of her as she was then. What is more, I know the 
 rigidity of her environment, and the pitiful ideas in which she 
 had become set from her childhood and to which she remained 
 enslaved for the rest of her life. The misfortune happened, 
 nevertheless. I must correct myself, by the way. Letting 
 my fancy run away with me, I have forgotten the fact which 
 I ought to have stated first of all, that is, that the misfortune 
 
 8
 
 happened at the very outset (I hope that the reader \ndll not be 
 too squeamish to understand at once what I mean). In fact, 
 it began with his exercising his seignorial rights, although Mile. 
 Sapozhkov was passed over. But here, in self-defence, I must 
 declare at once that I am not contradicting myself. For — good 
 Lord ! — ^what could a man like Versilov have talked about at 
 that date with a person like my mother even if he had felt the 
 most overwhelming love for her ? I have heard from depraved 
 people that men and women very often come together without 
 a word being uttered, which is, of course, the last extreme of 
 monstrous loathsomeness. Nevertheless, I do not see how 
 Versilov could have begun differently with my mother if he 
 had wanted to. Could he have begun by expounding " Polinka 
 Sachs " to her ? And besides, they had no thoughts to spare 
 for Russian literature ; on the contrary, from what he said 
 (he let himself go once), they used to hide in comers, wait for 
 each other on the stairs, fly apart like bouncing balls, with 
 flushed cheeks if anyone passed by, and the " tjrrant slave- 
 owner " trembled before the lowest scrubbing-maid, in spite 
 of his seignorial rights. And although it was at first an affair 
 of master and servant, it was that and yet not that, and after 
 all, there is no really explaining it. In fact, the more you go 
 into it the more obscure it seems. The very depth and duration 
 of their love makes it more mysterious, for it is a leading charac- 
 teristic of such men as Versilov to abandon as soon as their object 
 is attained. That did not happen, though. To transgress with 
 an attractive, giddy flirt who was his serf (and my mother 
 was not a flirt) was not only possible but inevitable for a depraved 
 young puppy (and they were all depraved, every one of them, 
 the progressives as well as the reactionaries), especially con- 
 sidering his romantic position as a young widower and his having 
 nothing to do. But to love her all his life is too much. I cannot 
 guarantee that he did love her, but he has dragged her about 
 with him all his life — that's certain. 
 
 I put a great many questions to my mother, but there is one, 
 most important, which, I may remark, I did not venture to ask 
 her directly, though I got on such familiar terms with her last 
 year ; and, what is more, like a coarse, ungrateful puppy, con- 
 sidering she had wronged me, I did not spare her feelings at 
 all. This was the question : how she after six months of 
 marriage, crushed by her ideas of the sanctity of wedlock, 
 crushed like some helpless fly, respecting her Makar Ivanovitch
 
 ae though he had been a god — how she cotdd have brought her- 
 self in about a fortnight to such a sin ? Was my mother a 
 depraved woman, perhaps ? On the contrary, I may say now 
 at once that it is difficult to imagine anyone more pure-hearted 
 than she was then and has been all her life. The explanation 
 may be, perhaps, that she scarcely knew what she wae doing 
 (I don't mean in the sense in which lawyers nowadays urge thie 
 in defence of their thieves and murderers), but was carried away 
 by a violent emotion, which sometimes gains a fatal and tragic 
 ascendancy when the victim is of a certain degree of simplicity. 
 There is no telling : perhaps she fell madly in love with . . . 
 the cut of his clothes, the Parisian style in which he parted 
 his hair, his French accent — yes, French, though she didn't 
 understand a word of it — the song he sang at the piano ; she 
 fell in love with something she had never seen or heard of (and 
 he was very handsome), and fell in love with him straight away, 
 once for all, hopelessly, fell in love with him altogether — manners, 
 song, and all. I have heard that this did sometimes happen to 
 peasant girls in the days of serfdom, and to the most virtuous, 
 too, I understand this, and the man is a scoundrel who puts 
 it down to nothing but servility. And so perhaps this young 
 man may have had enough direct power of fascination to attract 
 a creature who had till then been so pure and who was of a 
 different species, of an utterly different world, and to lead her on 
 to such evident ruin. That it was to her ruin my mother, I hope, 
 realized all her life ; only probably when she went to it she did 
 not think of ruin at all ; but that is how it always is with these 
 *' defenceless " creatures, they know it is ruin and they rush 
 upon it. 
 
 Having sinned, they promptly repented. He told me flip- 
 pantly that he sobbed on the shoulder of Makar Ivanovitch, 
 whom he sent for to his study expressly for the purpose, and 
 she — she meanwhile was lying unconscious in some httle back 
 room in the servants' quarters. . , , 
 
 But enough of questions and scandalous details. After pay- 
 ing Makar Ivanovitch a sum of money for my mother, Versilov 
 went away shortly afterwarda, and ever since, as I have men- 
 tioned already, he dragged her about with him, almost every- 
 where he went, except at certain times when he absented himself 
 
 10
 
 for a considerable period. Then, as a rule, he left her in the 
 care of " auntie," that is, of Tatyana Pavlovna Prutkov, who 
 always turned up on such occasions. They lived in Moscow, 
 and also in other towns and villages, even abroad, and finally 
 in Petersburg, Of all that later, though perhaps it is not worth 
 recording. I will only mention that a year after my mother left 
 Makar Ivanovitch, I made my appearance, and a year later 
 my sister, and ten or eleven years afterwards a sickly child, 
 my younger brother, who died a few months later. My mother's 
 terrible confinement with this baby was the end of her good 
 looks, so at least I was told : she began rapidly to grow older 
 and feebler. 
 
 But a correspondence with Makar Ivanovitch was always kept 
 up. Wherever the Versilovs were, whether they lived for some 
 years in the same place, or were moving about, Makar Ivanovitch 
 never failed to send news of himself to the " family." Strange 
 relations grew up, somewhat ceremonious and almost solemn. 
 Among the gentry there is always an element of something 
 comic in such relations, I know. But there was nothing of the 
 sort in this case. Letters were exchanged twice a year, never 
 more nor less frequently, and they were extraordinarily alike. 
 I have seen them. There wsis scarcely anything personal in 
 them. On the contrary, they were practically nothing but 
 ceremonious statements of the most public incidents, and the 
 most public sentiments, if one may use such an expression of 
 sentiments ; first came news of his own health, and inquiries 
 about their health, then ceremonious hopes, greetings and 
 blessings — that was all. 
 
 I believe that this pubUcity and impersonality is looked 
 upon as the essence of propriety and good breeding among the 
 peasants. " To our much esteemed and respected spouse, 
 Sofia Andreyevna, we send our humblest greetings. . . ." 
 " We send to our beloved children, our fatherly blessing, ever 
 unalterable." The children were mentioned by name, includ- 
 ing me. I may remark here that Makar Ivanovitch had so much 
 wit as never to describe " His high-bom most respected master, 
 Andrey Petrovitch " as his " benefactor " ; though he did 
 invariably, in each letter, send him his most humble greetings, 
 beg for the continuance of his favour, and call down upon him 
 the blessing of God. The answers to Makar Ivanovitch were 
 sent shortly after by my mother, and were always written in 
 exactly the same style. Versilov, of course, took no part in 
 
 II
 
 the correspondence, Makar Ivanovitch wrote from all parts 
 of Russia, from the towns and monasteries in which he some- 
 times stayed for a considerable time. He had become a pilgrim, 
 as it is called. He never asked for anything ; but he invariably 
 turned up at home once in three years on a holiday, and stayed 
 with my mother, who always, as it happened, had her own 
 lodgings apart from Versilov's. Of this I shall have to say 
 more later, here I will only mention that Makar Ivanovitch 
 did not loll on the sofa in the drawing-room, but always sat 
 discreetly somewhere in the background. He never stayed for 
 long : five days or a week. 
 
 I have omitted to say that he had the greatest afiEection and 
 respect for his surname, " Dolgoruky." Of course this was 
 ludicrous stupidity. And what was most stupid was that he 
 prized his name just because there were princes of the name. 
 A strange, topsy-turvy idea. 
 
 I have said that the family were always together, but I mean 
 except for me, of course. I was hke an outcast, and, almost 
 from my birth, had been with strangers. But this was done 
 with no special design, but simply because it had happened so. 
 When I was bom my mother was still young and good-looking, 
 and therefore necessary to Versilov ; and a screaming child, of 
 course, was always a nuisance, especiaUy when they were 
 travelling. That was how it happened that until I was nine- 
 teen I had scarcely seen my mother except on two or three brief 
 occasions. It was not due to my mother's wishes, but to 
 Versilov's lofty disregard for people. 
 
 Now for something quite different. A month earlier, that is 
 a month before the 19th of September, I had made up my 
 mind in Moscow to renounce them all, and to retire into my own 
 idea, finally. I record that expression " retire into my own 
 idea " because that expression may explain my leading motive, 
 my object in life. What that " idea " of mine is, of that there 
 will be only too much said later. In the solitary years of my 
 dreamy life in Moscow it sprang up in my mind before I had left 
 the sixth form of the grammar school, and from that time 
 perhaps never left me for an instant. It absorbed my whole 
 existence. Till then I had Uved in dreams; from my childhood 
 upwards I have lived in the world of dreams, always of a certain 
 colour. But after this great and all-absorbing idea turned up, 
 
 12
 
 my dreams gained in force, took a definite shape ; and became 
 rational instead of foolish. School did not hinder my dreams, 
 and it did not hinder the idea either. I must add, however, 
 that I came out badly in the leaving exam, though I had always 
 been one "of the first in all the forms up to the seventh, and 
 this was a result of that same idea, a result of a false deduction 
 from it perhaps. So it was not school work that hindered the 
 idea, but the idea that hindered school work, and it hindered 
 university work too. When I left school I intended at once 
 not only to cut myself off from my family completely, but from 
 all the world if necessary, though I was only nineteen at the 
 time. I wrote through a suitable person to tell them to leave 
 me entirely alone, not to send me any more money for my 
 maintenance, and, if possible, to forget me altogether (that is 
 if they ever did remember me), and finally " nothing would 
 induce " me to enter the university. An alternative presented 
 itself from which there was no escaping : to refuse to enter the 
 university and go on with my education, or to defer putting my 
 idea into practice for another four years. I went for the idea 
 without faltering, for I was absolutely resolved about it. In 
 answer to my letter, which had not been addressed to him, 
 Versilov, my father, whom I had only seen once for a moment 
 when I was a boy of ten (though even in that moment he made 
 a great impression upon me), summoned me to Petersburg in a 
 letter vsTitten in his own hand, promising me a private situa- 
 tion. This cold, proud man, careless and disdainful of me, 
 after bringing me into the world and packing me off to strangers, 
 knew nothing of me at all and had never even regretted his 
 conduct ; who knows, perhaps he had only a vague and confused 
 idea of my existence, for it appeared afterwards that the money 
 for my maintenance in Moscow had not been furnished by him 
 but by other people. Yet the summons of this man who so 
 suddenly remembered me and deigned to write to me with his 
 own hand, by flattering me, decided my fate. Strange to say, 
 what pleased me in his note (one tiny sheet of paper) was that he 
 said not a word about the university, did not ask me to change 
 my mind, did not blame me for not wanting to continue my 
 studies, did not, in fact, trot out any parental flourishes of the 
 kind usual in such cases, and yet this was wrong of him since it 
 betrayed more than anything his- lack of interest in me. I 
 resolved to go, the more readily because it would not hinder my 
 great idea. " I'll see what will come of it," I argued, " in any 
 
 13
 
 case I shall associate with them only for a time ; possibly a 
 very short time. But as soon as I see that this step, tentative 
 and trifling as it is, is keeping me from the great object, I shall 
 break off with them, throw up ever3rthing and retreat into my 
 shell." Yes, into my shell I " I shall hide in it like a tortoise." 
 This comparison pleased me very much. " I shall not be alone," 
 I went on musing, as I walked about Moscow those last days 
 like one possessed. " I shall never be alone as I have been 
 for so many awful years till now ; I shall have my idea to which 
 I will never be false, even if I like them all there, and they make 
 me^iappy, and I live with them for ten years 1 " It was, I may 
 remark beforehand, just that impression, that is, just the twofold 
 nature of the plans and objects definitely formed before 
 leaving Moscow, and never out of my mind for one instant in 
 Petersburg (for I hardly think there was a day in Petersburg 
 which I had not fixed on beforehand as the final date for breaking 
 off with them and going away), it was this, I say, that was, I 
 believe, one of the chief causes of many of the indiscretions I 
 have been guilty of during this year, many nasty things, many 
 even low things, and stupid ones of course. To be sure, a father, 
 something I had never had before, had appeared upon the 
 scene. This thought intoxicated me as I made my preparations 
 in Moscow and sat in the railway carriage. That he was my 
 father wou^ld be nothing. I was not fond of sentimentahty, but 
 this man had humiliated me and had not cared to know me, 
 while all those years I had been chewing away at my dreams 
 of him, if one may use such an expression. From my childhood 
 upward, my dreams were all coloured by him ; all hovered 
 about him as the final goal. I don't know whether I hated him 
 or loved him ; but his figure dominated the future and all my 
 schemes of life. And this happened of itself. It grew up with 
 me. 
 
 Another thing which influenced me in leaving Moscow was a 
 tremendous circumstance, a temptation which even then, three 
 months before my departure (before Petersburg had been men- 
 tioned), set my heart leaping and throbbing. I was drawn to 
 this unknown ocean by the thought that I could enter it as the 
 lord and master of other people's destinies, and what people, too 1 
 But the feelings that were surging in my heart were generous 
 and not despotic — I hasten to declare it that my words may 
 not be mistaken. Moreover, Veriilov might think (if he ever 
 deigned to think of me) that a small boy who had just left 
 
 14
 
 school, a raw youth, was coming who would be agape with wonder 
 at everything. And meanwhile I knew all his private life, and 
 had about me a document of the utmost importance, for which 
 (I know that now for a i&ct) he would have given some years of 
 his life, if I had told him the secret at the time. But I notice 
 that I am talking in riddles. One cannot describe feelings without 
 facts. Besides which, there will be enough about all this in its 
 proper place ; it is with that object I have taken up my pen. 
 Writing like this is like a cloud of words or the ravings of 
 delirium. 
 
 8 
 
 Finally, to pass once for all to the 19th of September, I 
 will observe briefly and, so to say, cursorily, that I found them 
 all, that ia Versilov, my mother and my sister (the latter I saw 
 for the first time in my life) in difficult circumstances, almost 
 destitute, or at least, on the verge of destitution. I knew of 
 this before leaving Moscow, but yet 1 was not prepared for 
 what I saw. I had been accustomed from childhood to imagine 
 this man, this " future father of mine " in brilliant surroundings, 
 and could not picture him except ae the leading figure every- 
 where. Versilov had never shared the same lodgings with my 
 mother, but had always taken rooms for her apart. He did this, 
 of course, out of regard for their very contemptible " proprieties." 
 But here they were all living together in a little wooden lodge 
 in a back street in the Semyonovsky Polk. All their things 
 were in pawn, so that, without Versilov's knowledge, I gave my 
 mother my secret sixty roubles. Secret, because I had saved 
 them up in the course of two years out of my pocket money, 
 which was five roubles a month. I had begun saving from the 
 very day I had conceived my " idea," and so Versilov must 
 know nothing about the money. I trembled at the thought of 
 that. 
 
 My help was like a drop in the ocean. My mother worked 
 hard and my sister too took in sewing. Versilov lived in 
 idleness, indulged his whims and kept up a number of his former 
 rather expensive habits. He grumbled terribly, especially at 
 dinner, and he was absolutely despotic in all his ways. But my 
 mother, my sister, Tatyana Pavlovna and the whole family of 
 the late Andronikov (the head of some department who used also 
 to manage Versilov's affairs and had died three months before), 
 consisting of innumerable women, groveUed before him ae 
 
 15
 
 though he were a fetish. I had not imagined this. I may 
 remark that nine years before he had been infinitely more 
 elegant. I have said already that I had kept the image of him 
 in my dreams surrounded by a sort of brilliance, and so I could 
 not conceive how it was possible after only nine years for him 
 to look so much older and to be so worn out ; I felt at once 
 sad, sorry, ashamed. The sight of him was one of the most 
 painful of my first impressions on my arrival. Yet he was by 
 no means an old man, he was only forty-five. Looking at him 
 more closely I found in his handsome face something even more 
 striking than what I had kept in my memory. There was less 
 of the brilliance of those days, less external beauty, less elegance 
 even ; but life had, as it were, stamped on that face something far 
 more interesting than before. 
 
 Meanwhile poverty was not the tenth or twentieth fraction of 
 his misfortunes, and I knew that. There was something in- 
 finitely more serious than poverty, apart from the fact that 
 there was still a hope that Versilov might win the lawsuit he 
 had been contesting for the last year with the Prmces Sokolsky 
 and might in the immediate future come into an estate to the 
 value of seventy thousand or more. I have said above that 
 Versilov had run through three fortunes in his life, and here 
 another fortune was coming to his rescue again ! The case was 
 to be settled very shortly. It was just then that I arrived. It 
 is true that no one would lend him money on his expectations, 
 there was nowhere he could borrow, and meanwhile they had 
 to suffer. 
 
 Versilov visited no one, though he sometimes was out for the 
 whole day. It was more than a year since he had been banished 
 from society. In spite of all my efforts, this scandal remained 
 for the most part a mystery though I had been a whole month 
 in Petersburg. Was Versilov guilty or not guilty — that was 
 what mattered to me, that is what I had come to Petersburg for ! 
 Every one had turned against him — among others all the influen- 
 tial and distinguished people with whom he had been particularly 
 clever in maintaining relations all his life — in consequence of 
 rumours of an extremely low and — what was much worse in the 
 eyes of the " world " — scandalous action which he was said to 
 have committed more than a year ago in Germany. It was 
 even reported that he had received a slap in the face from Prince 
 Sokolsky (one of those with whom he was now in litigation) and 
 had not foHowed it by a challenge. Even his children (the 
 
 i6
 
 legitimate ones), his son and daughter, had turned against him 
 and лл'сге iiolding aloof. It is true that through the influence of 
 the Fanariotovs and old Prince Sokolsky (who had been a friend 
 of Versilov) the son and daughter moved in the very highest 
 circles. Yet, watching him all that month, I saw a haughty 
 man WHO had rather cast off " society " than been cast ofi by 
 it, so independent was his air. But had he the right to look 
 like that — that was the question that agitated me. I absolutely 
 had to find out the whole truth at the earliest possible date, for 
 I had come — to judge this man. I still kept my power hidden from 
 him, but I had either to accept him or to reject him altogether. 
 But that would have been too painful to me and I was in torment. 
 I will confess it frankly at last : the man was dear to me ! 
 
 And meanwhile I was living in the same flat with him, working, 
 and scarcely refraining from being rude. In fact I did not 
 refrain. After spending a month with him I became more 
 convinced every day that I could not possibly appeal to him for 
 a full explanation. This man in his pride remained an enigma 
 to me, while he wounded me deeply. He was positively charming 
 to me, and jested with me, but I should have liked quarrels 
 better than such jests. There was a certain note of ambiguity 
 about all my conversations with him, or more simply, a strange 
 irony on his part. From our first meeting, on my arrival from 
 Moscow, he did not treat me seriously. I never could make 
 out why he took up this line. It is true that by this means he 
 succeeded in remaining impenetrable, but I would not have 
 humbled myself so far as to ask him to treat me seriously. 
 Besides, he had certain wonderful and irresistible ways which I 
 did not know how to deal with. In short he behaved to me as 
 though I were the greenest of raw j-ouths, which I was hardly 
 able to endure, though I knew it Avould be so. I, too, gave up 
 talking seriously in consequence, and waited ; in fact, I almost 
 gave up talking altogether. I waited for a person on whose 
 arrival in Petersburg I might finally learn the truth ; that was 
 my last hope. In any case I prepared myself for a final rupture, 
 and had already taken all necessary measures. I was sorry for 
 my mother but — " either him or me," that was the choice I 
 meant to ofTor her and my sister. I had even uxed on the day ; 
 and meanwhile I went to my wotk.
 
 CHAPTER П 
 
 On that 19th of September I was also to receive my first salary 
 for the first month of my work in Petersburg in my " private " 
 situation. They did not ask me about this job but simply 
 handed me over to it, I believe, on the very first day of my arrival. 
 This was very unmannerly, and it was almost my duty to protest. 
 The job turned out to be a situation in the household of old 
 Prince Sokolsky. But to protest then would have meant break- 
 ing off relations on the spot, and though I was not in the least 
 afraid of that, it would have hindered the attainment of my 
 primary objects ; and so in silence I accepted the job for the 
 time, maintaining my dignity by silence. I must explain from 
 the very first that this Prince Sokobky, a wealthy man and a 
 privy councillor, was no relation at all of the Moscow princes 
 of that name (who had been poor and insignificant for several 
 generations past) with whom Versilov was contesting his lawsuit. 
 It was only that they had the same name. Yet the old prince 
 took a great interest in them, and was particularly fond of one 
 of them who was, so to speak, the head of the family — a young 
 officer. Versilov had till recently had an immense influence 
 in this old man's affairs and had been his friend, a strange sort 
 of friend, for the poor old prince, as I detected, was awfully 
 afraid of him, not only at the time when I arrived on the scene, 
 but had apparently been always afraid of him all through their 
 friendship. They had not seen each other for a long time, 
 however. The dishonourable conduct of which Versilov was 
 accused concerned the old prince's family. But Tatyana Pav- 
 lovna had intervened and it was through her that I was pFaced 
 in attendance on the old prince, who wanted a " young man " 
 in his study. At the same time it appeared that he was very 
 anxious to do something to please Versilov, to make, so to speak, 
 the first advance to him, and Versilov allowed it. The old man 
 had made the arrangement in the absence of his daughter, the 
 widow of a general, who would certainly not have permitted him 
 to take this stop. Of this later, but I may remark that the 
 strangeness of hLs relations with Versilov impressed me in the 
 lattor's favour. It occurred to the imagination that if the head 
 of the injured family still cherished a respect for Versilov, the 
 
 i8
 
 rumours of Versilov's scoundrelly behaviour must be absurd, or 
 at least exaggerated, and might have more than one explanation. 
 It was partly this circumstance which kept me from protest- 
 ing against the situation ; in accepting it I hoped to verify all 
 this. 
 
 Tatyana Pavlovna was playing a strange part at the time when 
 I found her in Petersburg. I had almost forgotten her, and had 
 not at all expected to find her possessed of such influence. She 
 had met me three or four times during my life in Moscow, and 
 had always turned up, goodness knows where from, sent by 
 some one or other whenever I needed fitting out — to go into 
 Touchard's boarding school, or two and a half years later, when 
 I was being transferred to the grammar school and sent to 
 board with Nikolay Semyonovitch, a friend I shall never forget. 
 She used to spend the whole day with me and inspect my linen and 
 my clothes. She drove about the town with me, took me to 
 Kuznetsky Street, bought me what was necessary, provided me 
 with a complete outfit, in fact, down to the smallest box and pen- 
 knife. All the while she nagged at me, scolded me, reproached 
 me, cross-examined me, quoting as examples to me various phan- 
 tom boys among her relations and acquaintances who were all said 
 to be better than I was. She even pinched me and actually gave 
 me several vicious pokes. After fitting me out and installing 
 me, she would disappear completely for several years. On this 
 occasion, too, she turned up at once on my arrival to instal me 
 again. She was a spare little figure with a sharp nose like a beak, 
 and sharp little eyes like a bird's. She waited on Versilov like a 
 slave, and grovelled before him as though he were the Pope, 
 but she did it through conviction. But I soon noticed with 
 surprise that she was respected by all and, what was more, 
 known to every one everywhere. Old Prince Sokolsky treated 
 her with extraordinary deference ; it was the same thing with 
 his family ; the same with Versilov's haughty children ; the same 
 with the Fanariotovs ; and yet she lived by taking in sewing, and 
 washing lace, and fetched work from the shops. She and I fell 
 out at the first word, for she thought fit to begin naggmg at me 
 just as she had done six years, before. And from that time for- 
 ward we quarrelled every day, but that did not prevent us from 
 sometimes talking, and I must confess that by the end of the 
 month I began to like her : for her independent character, I 
 believe. But I did not tell her so. 
 
 I realized at once that I had only been given this post at the 
 
 19
 
 old invalid prince's in order to " amuse " him, and that that was 
 my \v!k)1c duty. Naturally this Avas humiliating, and I should 
 at once have taken steps, but the queer old fellow soon made an 
 unexpected impres^^ion upon me. I felt something like com- 
 pas.sion for him, and by the end jf the month 1 had become 
 strangeh'' attached to him ; anyway I gave up my intention of 
 being rude. He was not more than sixty, however, but there had 
 been a great to-do with him a year and a half before, when he 
 suddeiily had a fit. He was travelling somewhere and went mad 
 on the way, so there \vas sora 'thing of a scandal of Avhich people 
 talked in Petersburg. As is usual in such cases, he was instantly 
 taken abroad, but five months later he suddenly reappeared 
 perfectly well, though he gave up the service. Versilov asserted 
 seriously (and Avith noticeable heat) that he had not been insane 
 at all, but had only had some sort of nervous fit. I promptly 
 mule a note of Versilov's Avarmth about it. I may observe, 
 however, that I Avas disposed to share his opinion. The old man 
 only showed perhaps an excessive frivolity at times, not quite 
 apjiropriate to his years, of which, so they say, there was no sign 
 in hira bt^fore. It Mas said that in the past he had been a coun- 
 cillor of som^ sort, and on one occasion had quite distinguished 
 liimself in som ^ commission with which he had been charged. 
 After knowing him for a Avhole month, I should never have 
 supposed he could have any special capacity as a councillor. 
 People observed (though I saw nothing of it) that after his fit 
 he developed a marked disposition to rush into matrimony, 
 and it was said that he had more than once reverted to this idea 
 during the last eighteen months, that it was known in society and 
 a subject of interest. But as this weakness by no moans fell m 
 with the interests of certain persons of the prince's circle, the old 
 man was guarded on all sides. He had not .a large family of his 
 own ; he had been a widower for twenty 3'ears, and had only 
 one daughter, the general's widow, who was now daily expected 
 from iMoscow. 8he Mas a young person M'hose strength of Avill 
 was evidently a source of apprehension to the old man. But he 
 had masses of distant relatives, principally through his Avife, 
 who were all almost beggars, besitles a multitude of proteges of 
 all sorts, male and female, all of Avhom expected to be mentioned 
 in his will, and so they all suyjportfd the general's Avidow in 
 keeping Avateh over the old man. He had, moreover, had one 
 strange propensity from his youth up (I don't know Avhether it 
 was ridiculous or not) for making matches for poor girls. He 
 
 20
 
 had been finding husbands for the last twenty-five year? — fcr 
 distant relations, for the step-daughters of his wife's cousins, 
 for his god-daughters ; he even found a husband for the daughter 
 of his house porter. He used to take his protegees into his house 
 when they were little girls, provide them with governesses and 
 French mademoiselles, then have them educated in the best 
 boarding schools, and finally marry thtm oG with a dowry. 
 The calls upon him were continually increasing. When his 
 protegees were married the}' naturally produced more liitle girls ; 
 and all these little girls became his protegees. He was always 
 having to stand as god-father. The \vhole lot turned up to con- 
 gratulate him on his birthdays, and it was ajl very agreeable to him. 
 
 I noticed at с nee that the old msn had lurking in his mind 
 a painful conviction (it was impossible to avoid noticing it, 
 mdeed) that every one had begun to look at him strangely, that 
 everyone had begun to behave to bira not as before, not as to a 
 healthy man. This impression never left him even at the livelici-t 
 social functions. The old man had become suspicious, had begun 
 to detect something in every one's eyes. He was evidently 
 tormented by the idea that every one .susi^^ctcd him of beinp mad. 
 He sometimes looked mistrustfully even at me. And if he had 
 found out that some one was spreading or u];ho]ding such rumours, 
 the benevolent old man would have become his implacable foe. 
 I beg that this circumstance may be noted. I may add that it 
 was what decided me from the first day not to be rude to him ; 
 in fact, I was glad if I were able sometimes to amuse or entertain 
 him ; I don't think that this confession can cast any slur on my 
 dignity. 
 
 The greater part of his monf}' was invested. He had since his 
 illness become a partner in a large joint stock enterprise, a very 
 safe one, however. And though the management was in other 
 hands he took a great interest in it, too, attended the share- 
 holders' meetings, was appointed a director, presided at the 
 board- meetings, opposed motions, was noisy and obviously 
 enjoyed himself. He Avas very fond of making speeches ; every 
 one could judge of his brain anA'waj'. And in general he de- 
 veloped a great fancy for introducing profound reflections and 
 bon mots in his conversation, even ui the intimacj^ of private life. 
 I quite understand it. 
 
 On the ground floor of his house there was something like a 
 private оШсе where a single clerk kept the books and accounts 
 and also managed the house. This clerk was v^uite equal to the 
 
 21
 
 work alone, though he had some government job as well, but by 
 the prince's own wish I was engaged to assist him ; but I was 
 immediately transferred to the prince's study, and often had no 
 work before me, not even books or papers to keep up appearances. 
 I am writing now sobered by time ; and about many things feel 
 now almost like an outsider ; but how can I describe the de- 
 pression (I recall it vividly at this moment) that weighed down 
 my heart in those days, and still more, the excitement which 
 reached such a pitch of confused feverishness that I did not 
 sleep at night — all due to my impatience, to the riddles I had set 
 myself to solve. 
 
 To ask for money, even a salary, is a most disgusting business, 
 especially if one feels in the recesses of one's conscience that one 
 has not quite earned it. Yet the evening before, my mother had 
 been whispering to my sister apart from Versilov (" so as not to 
 worry Audrey Petrovitch ") that she intended to take the ikon 
 which for some reason was particularly precious to her to the 
 pawnbroker's. I was to be paid fifty roubles a month, but I had 
 no idea how I should receive the money ; nothing had been said 
 to me about it. 
 
 Meeting the clerk downstairs three days before, I inquired of 
 him whom one was to ask for one's salary. He looked at me 
 with a smile as though of astonishment (he did not like me). 
 
 " Oh, you get a salary ? " 
 
 I thought that on my answering he would add : 
 
 •• What for ? " 
 
 But he merely answered drily, that he " knew nothing about it,'* 
 and buried himself in the ruled exercise book into which he was 
 copying accounts from some bills. 
 
 He was not unaware, however, that I did something. A fort- 
 night before I had spent four days over work he had given me, 
 making a fair copy, and as it turned out, almost a fresh draft of 
 something. It was a perfect avalanche of " ideas " of the 
 prince's which he was preparing to present to the board of 
 directors. These had to be put together into a whole and 
 clothed in suitable language, I spent a whole day with the 
 prince over it afterwards, and he argued very warmly with me, 
 but was well satisfied in the end. But I don't know whether he 
 read the paper or not. I say nothing of the two or three letters, 
 also about business, which I wrote at his request. 
 
 22
 
 It was annoying to me to have to ask for my salary because 
 I had already decided to give up my situation, foreseeing that I 
 should be obliged through unavoidable circumstances to go aw ay. 
 When I waked up and dressed that morning in my garret up- 
 stairs, I felt that my heart was beating, and though I pooh- 
 poohed it, yet I was conscious of the same excitement as I walked 
 towards the prince's house. That morning there Mas expected 
 a луотап, whose presence I was reckoning upon for the 
 explanation of ail that was tormenting me ! This was the 
 prince's daughter, the 3'oung widow of General Ahmakov, of 
 whom I have spoken already and who was bitterly hostile to 
 Versilov. At last I have written that name ! I had never seen 
 her, of course, and could not imagine how I should speak to her 
 or whether I should speak, but I imagined (perhaps on sufficient 
 grounds) that with her arrival there "would be Fome light thjtoAvn 
 on the darkness surrounding Versilov in my eyes. I could not 
 remain unmoved. It was frightfully annoying that at the very 
 outset I should be so cowardly and awkward ; it was awfully 
 interesting, and, still more, sickening — three impressions at once. 
 I remember every detail of that day ! 
 
 My old prince knew nothing of his daughter's probable arrival, 
 and was not expectmg her to return from Moscow for a week. 
 I had learnt this the evenii^g before quite by chance : Tatyana 
 Pavlovna, who had received a letter from Mme. Ahmakov, let 
 it out to my mother. Though they were whispering and spoke 
 in veiled allusions, I guessed what was meant. Of course I 
 was not eavesdropping, I simply could not avoid listening wjhen I 
 saw how agitated my mother was at the news of this woman's 
 arrival. Versilov was not in the house. 
 
 I did not want to tell the old prince because I could not help 
 noticing all that time how he was dreading her arrival. He had 
 even let di-op three days before, though only by a timid and 
 remote hint, that he was afraid of her coming on my account ; 
 that is that he would Ijave trouble about me. I must add, how- 
 ever, that in his own family he preserved his independence and 
 was still master in his own house, especially in money matters. 
 My first judgment of him was that he was a regular old woman, 
 but I was afterwards oblig(>d to revise m}' opinion, and to recognize 
 that, if he were an old woman, there was still a fund of obstinacy, 
 if not of real manliness, in him. There were moments when one 
 could hardly do anything with him in spite of his apprehensive 
 and yielding character. Versilov explained this to me more 
 
 ^3
 
 fully later. I recall now with interest that the old prince and I 
 scarcely ever spoke of his daughter, we seemed to avoid it : I 
 in particular avoided it, while he, on his side, avoided mentioning 
 Versilov, and I guessed that he would not answer if I were to ask 
 him one of the delicate questions which interested me so much. 
 
 If anyone cares to know what we did talk about all that month 
 I must answer that we really talked of everj^hing in the world, 
 but alwsys of the queerest things. I was delighted with the 
 extraordinary simplicity with which he treated me. Sometimes 
 I looked with extreme astonishment at the old man and wondered 
 how he could ever have presided at meetings. If he had been 
 put into our school and in the fourth class too, what a nice school- 
 fellow he would have made. More than once, too, I was surprised 
 by his face ; it was very serious-looking, almost handsome and 
 thin ; he had thick curly grey hair, wide-open eyes ; and he was 
 besides slim and well built ; but there was an unpleasant, almost 
 unseemly, peculiarity about his face, it would suddenly change 
 from excessive gravity to an expression of exaggerated playfulness, 
 which was a complete surprise to a person who saw him for the 
 first time. I spoke of this to Versilov, who listened with curiosity ; 
 I fancy that he had not expected me to be capable of making 
 such observations ; he observed casually that this had come upon 
 the prince since his illness and probably only of late. 
 
 We used to talk principally of two abstract subjects — of God 
 and of His existence, that is, whether there was a God or not — 
 and of women. The prince was very religious and sentimental. 
 He had in his study a huge stand of ikons with a lamp burning 
 before them. But something seemed to come over him — and he 
 would begin expressing doubts of the existence of God and 
 would say astounding things, obviously challenging me to answer. 
 I was not much interested in the question, speaking generally, 
 but we both got very hot about it and quite genuinely. I recall 
 all those conversations even now with pleasure. But what he 
 liked best was goss ping about women, and he was sometimes 
 positively disappointed at my disl king this subject of conversa- 
 tion, and making such a poor response to it. 
 
 He began talking in that style as soon as I went in that morning. 
 I found him in a jocose mood, though I had left him the night 
 before extremely melancholy. Meanwhile it was absolutely 
 necessary for me to settle the matter of the salary — before the 
 arrival of certain persons. I reckoned that that morning we 
 should certainly be interrupted (it was not for nothing m}' heart 
 
 24
 
 was beating) and then perhaps I should not be able to bring my- 
 self to speak of money. But I did not know how to begin about 
 money and I was naturally angry at my stupidity. And, as I 
 remember now in my vexation at some too jocular question of his, 
 I blurted out my views on women point-blank and with great 
 vigour. 
 
 And this led him to be more expansive with me than ever. 
 
 " I don't like women because they've no manners, because 
 they are awkward, because they are not self-reliant, and becatise 
 they wear unseemly clothes ! " I wound up my long tirade 
 incoherently. 
 
 " My dear boy, spare us ! " he cried, immensely delighted, 
 which enraged me more than ever. 
 
 I am ready to give way and be trivial only about trifles. I 
 never give way in things that are really important. In trifles, 
 in little matters of etiquette, you can do anything you like with 
 me, and I curse this peculiarity in myself. From a sort of 
 putrid good nature I've sometimes been ready to knuckle 
 under to some fashionable snob, simply flattered by his affability, 
 or I've let myself be drawn into argument with a fool, which is 
 more unpardonable than anything. All this is due to lack of 
 self-control, and to my having grown up in seclusion, but next 
 day it would be the same thing again : that's why I was some- 
 times taken for a boy of sixteen. But instead of gaining self- 
 control I prefer even now to bottle myself up more tightly than 
 ever in my shell — " I may be clumsy — but good-bye ! " — 
 however misanthropic that may seem. I say that seriously 
 and for good. But I don't write this with reference to the 
 prince or even with reference to that conversation. 
 
 " I'm not speaking for your entertainment," I almost shouted 
 at him. " I am speaking from conviction." 
 
 " But how do you mean that women have no manners and 
 are unseemly in their dress ? That's something new." 
 
 " They have no manners. Go to the theatre, go for a walk. 
 Every man knows the right side of the road, when they meet 
 they step aside, he keeps to the right, I keep to the right. A 
 woman, that is a lady — it's ladies I'm talking about— dashes 
 straight at you as though she doesn't see you, as though you were 
 absolutely bound to skip aside and make way for her. I'm prepared 
 
 25
 
 to make way for her as a weaker creature, but why has she the 
 right, why is ehe so sure it's my duty — that's what's offensive. I 
 always curse when I meet them . And after that they cry out that 
 they're oppressed and demand equahty ; a fine sort of equahty 
 when she tramples me under foot and fills my mouth with sand." 
 
 " With sand ? " 
 
 " Yes, because they're not decently dressed — it's only depraved 
 people don't notice it. In the law-courts they close the doors 
 when they're trying cases of indecency. Why do they allow it 
 in the streets, where there are more people ? They openly 
 hang bustles on behind to look as though they had fine figures ; 
 openly ! I can't help noticing ; the young lad notices it too ; 
 and the child that's growing into a boy notices it too ; it's 
 abominable. Let old rakes admire them and nin after them 
 with their tongues hanging out, but there is such a thing as the 
 purity of youth which must be protected. One can only despise 
 them. They walk along the parade with trains half a yard long 
 behind them, sweeping up the dust. It's a pleasant thing to 
 walk behind them : you must run to get in front of them, or 
 jump on one side, or they'll sweep pounds of dust into yoxir 
 mouth and nose. And what's more it's silk, and they'll drag it 
 over the stones for a couple of miles simply because it's the 
 fashion, when their husbands get five hundred roubles a year in 
 the Senate : that's where bribes come in I I've always despised 
 them. I've cursed them aloud and abused them." 
 
 Though I describe this conversation somewhat humorously 
 in the style that was characteristic of me at that time, my 
 ideas are still the same. 
 
 " And how do you come off ? " the prince queried. 
 
 " I curse them and turn away. They feel it, of course, but 
 they don't show it, they prance along majestically without 
 turning their heads. But I only came to actual abuse on one 
 occasion with two females, both wearing tails on the parade ; 
 of course I didn't use bad language, but I said aloud that long 
 tails were offensive." 
 
 " Did you use that expression ? " 
 
 " Of course I did. To begin with, they trample upon the 
 rules of social life, and secondly, they raise the dust, and the 
 parade is meant for all. I walk there, other men walk, Fyodor, 
 Ivan, it's the same for all. So that's what I said. And I 
 dislike the way women walk altogether, when you look at their 
 back view ; I told them that too, but only hinted at it." 
 
 26
 
 " But, mj' dear boy, ^ou might get into serious trouble ; they 
 might have hauled 3'ou off to the police station." 
 
 " They couldn't do anything. They had nothing to complain 
 of : a man walks beside them talking to himself. Every one has 
 the right to express his convictions to the air. I spoke in the 
 abstract without addressing them. They began wTangling \\ ith 
 me of themselves ; they began to abuse me, they used much 
 worse language than I did ; they called me milksop, said I ought 
 to go without my dinner, called me a nihilist, and threatened to 
 hand me over to the police ; said that I'd attacked them because 
 they were alone and weak women, but if thcre'd been a man 
 with them I should soon sing another tunc. I very coolly told 
 them to leave off annoying me, and I would cross to the other 
 side of the street. And to show them that I was not in the 
 least afraid of their men, and was ready to accept their challenge, 
 I would follow them to their house, Avalking twenty paces 
 behind them, then I would stand before the house and wait for 
 their men. And so I did." 
 
 " You don't say so ? " 
 
 " Of course it was stupid, but 1 •was roused. They dragged 
 me over two miles in the heat, as far as the 'institutions,' 
 they went into a wooden house of one storey — a very respectable- 
 Ipoking one I must admit — one could see in at the windows 
 a great many flowers, two canaries, three pug-dogs and engrav- 
 ings in frames. I stood for half an hour in the street facing 
 the house. They peeped out two or three times, then pulled 
 down all the blinds. Finally an elderly government clerk came 
 out of the little gate ; judging from his appearance he had been 
 asleep and had been waked up on purpose ; he Avas not actually 
 in a dressing-gown, but he was in a very domestic-locking 
 attixe. He stcod at the gate, folded his hands behind him, and 
 proceeded to stare at me — I at him. Then he looked away, then 
 gazed at me again, and suddenly began smilmg at me. I turned 
 and walked алуау." 
 
 " My dear boy, how Schilleresque ! I've always wondered at 
 you ; with your rosy cheeks, your face blooming Avith health, 
 and such an aversion, one may say, for women ! How is it 
 possible that woman does not make a certain impression on you 
 at your age ? Why, when I was a boy of eleven, топ cher, my 
 tutor used to notice that I looked too attentively at the statues 
 in the Summer Gardens." 
 
 " You would like me to take up with some Josephine here, 
 
 27
 
 and come and tell you all about it ! Rather not ; I saw a 
 woman completely naked when I was thirteen ; I've had a 
 feeling of disgust ever since." 
 
 " Do you mean it ? But, cher enfant, about a fresh, beautiful 
 woman there's a scent of apples ; there's nothing disgusting." 
 
 " In the little boarding school I was at before I Avent to the 
 grammar school, there was a boy called Lambert. He was 
 always thrashing me, for he was three years older than I was, 
 and I used to \vait on him, and take off his boots. When he 
 was going to be confirmed an abbe, called Pi^igaud, came to 
 congratulate him on his first communion, and they di.ssolved in 
 t^ars on each other's necks, and the abbe hugged him tightly to 
 his bosom. I shed tears, too, and felt very envious. He left 
 school when his father died, and for two years I saw nothing of 
 him. Then I met him in the street. He said he would come 
 and see m'\ By that time I was at the grammar school and 
 living at Nikolay Semyonovitch's. He came in the morning, 
 showed me five hundred roubles, and told me to go Avith him. 
 Though he had thrashed me two j'cars before, he had always 
 wanted my company, not simply to take off his boots, but 
 because he liked to tell me things. He told me that he had 
 taken the money that day out of his mother's desk, to which he 
 had made a false key, for legally all his father's money was his, 
 and so much the worse for her if she wouldn't give it to him. He 
 said that the Abbe Rigaud had been to lecture him the day 
 before, that he'd come in, stood over him, begun whimpering, 
 and described all sorts of horrors, lifting up his hands to heaven. 
 " And I pulled oat a knife and told him Id cut his throat " 
 (he pronounced it ' thr-r-roat '). We went to Kuznetsky 
 Street. On the way he informed me that his mother was 
 the abbe's mistress, and that he'd found it out, and he didn't 
 care a hang for anything, and that all they said abou* the 
 sacrament was rubbish. He said a great deal more, and I 
 felt frightened. In Kuznetsky Street he bought a double- 
 barrellfd gun, a game bag, cartridges, a riding-whip, and after- 
 wards a pound of sweets. We were going out into the coimtry 
 to shoot, and on the way we met a bird-aitcher with cages of 
 birds. Lambert bought a canary from him. In a wood he let 
 the canary go, as it couldn't fly far after being in the cage, and 
 began shooting at it, but did not hit it. It was the first time 
 in his life he had fired off a gun, but he had wanted to buy a 
 gun years before ; at Touchard's even we were dreaming of one.
 
 He was almost choking with excitement. His hair was black, 
 awfully black, his face was white and red, like a mask, he had a 
 long aquiline nose, such as are common with Frenchmen, white 
 teeth and black eyes. He tied the canary by a thread to a 
 branch, and an inch away find off both barrels, and the bird 
 was blown into a hundred feathers. Then we returned, drove 
 to an hotel, took a room, and Ы gan eating, and drinking cham- 
 pagne ; a lady came in. ... I remember being awfully imj)rrssed 
 by her being so splendidly dressed ; she wore a green silk dress. 
 It was then I saw ... all that I told you about. . . . After- 
 wards, when we had begun drinking, he began taunting and 
 abusing her ; she was sitting with nothing on, he took away 
 her clothes and when she began scolding and asking for her 
 clothes to dress again, he began with all his might beating her 
 Avith the riding-whip on her bare shoulders. I got up, seized 
 him by the hair, and so neatly that I threw him on the ground 
 at once. He snatched up a fork and stuck it in my leg. Hearing 
 the outcry, people ran in, and I had time to- run away. Ever 
 since then it's disgusted me to think of nakedness ; and, believe 
 me, she was a beauty." 
 
 As I talked, the prince's face changed from a playful expression 
 to one of great sadness. 
 
 " J\Ion pauvre enfant ! I have felt convinced all along that 
 there have been very many unhappy days in your childhood." 
 
 " Please don't distress yourself ! " 
 
 " But you were alone, you told me so yourself, but for that 
 Lambert ; you have described it so well, that canary, the 
 confirmation and shedding tears on the abbe's breast, and only 
 a year or so later saying that of his mother and the abbe ! . . . 
 Oh, топ cher, the question of childhood in our day is truly 
 awful ; for a time those golden heads, curly and innocent, 
 flutter before one and look at one with their clear eyes like angels 
 of God, or little birds, and afterwards . . . and afterwards it 
 turns out that it would have been better if they had not grown 
 up at all ! " 
 
 " How soft you are, prince ! It's as though you had Httle 
 children of your own. Why, you haven't any and never will 
 have." 
 
 " Ticns ! " His whole face was instantly transformed, 
 " that's just what Alexandra Petrovna said — the day before 
 yesterday, he-he ! — Alexandra Petrovna Sinitsky — ^j-ou must 
 have met her here three weeks ago — only fancy, the day before 
 
 29
 
 yesterday, in reply to my jocular remark that if I do get married 
 now I could set my mind at rest, there'd be no children, she 
 suddenly said, and with such spite, ' On the contrary, there 
 certainly would be ; people like you always have them, they'll 
 arrive the very first year, you'll see.' He-he ! And they've all 
 taken it into their heads, for some reason, that I'm going to get 
 married ; but though it was spiteful I admit it was — ^witty ! " 
 
 " Witty — but insulting ! " 
 
 " Oh, cher enfant, one can't take offence at some people. 
 There's nothing I prize so much in people as wit, which is 
 evidently disappearing among us ; though what Alexandra 
 Petrovna said — can hardly be considered wit." 
 
 " What ? What did you say ? " I said, catching at his 
 words — " one can't take offence at some people. That's just it ! 
 Some people are not worth noticing — an excellent principle ! 
 Just the one I need. I shall make a note of it. You sometimes 
 say the most delightful things, prince." 
 
 He beamed all over. 
 
 " N'est ce pas ? Cher enfant, true wit is vanishing ; the 
 longer one lives the more one sees it. Eh, mais . . . c'est moi 
 qui connait les femmes ! Believe me, the life of every woman, 
 whatever she may profess, is nothing but a perpet\ial search for 
 some one to submit to ... so to speak a thirst for submission. 
 And mark ray words, there's not a single exception." 
 
 " Perfectly true ! Magnificent ! " I cried rapturously. An- 
 other time Ave should have launched into philosophical disqui- 
 sitions on this theme, lasting for an hour, but suddenly I felt as 
 though something had bitten me, and I flushed all over. I 
 suddenly imaghaed that in admiring his bon mots I was flattering 
 him as a prelude to asking for money, and that he would certainly 
 think so as soon as I began to ask for it. I purposely mention 
 this now. 
 
 " Prince, I humbly beg you to pay me at once the fifty roubles 
 you owe me for the month," I fired off like a shot, in a tone of 
 irritability that was positively' rude. 
 
 I remember (for I remember every detail of that morning) 
 that there followed betAveen us then a scene most disgusting in 
 its realistic truth. For the first minute he did not understand 
 me, stared at me for some time without understanding what 
 money I was talking about. It was natural that he should not 
 realize I was receiving a salary — and indeed, why should I ? 
 It is true that he proceeded to assure me afterwards that he had 
 
 30
 
 forgotten, and when he grasped the meaning of my words, he 
 instantly began taking out fifty roubles, but he was flustered 
 and turned crimson. Seeing how things stood, I got up and 
 abruptly announced that I could not take the money now, that 
 in what I had been told about a salary they had made a mistake, 
 or deceived me to induce me to accept the situation, and that I 
 saw only too well now, that I did nothing to earn one, for I had 
 no duties to perform. The prince was alarmed and began 
 assuring me that I was of the greatest use to him, that I should 
 be still more useful to him in the future, and that fifty roubles 
 was so little that he should certainly add to it, for he was bound 
 to do so, and that he had made the arrangement himself with 
 Tatyana Pavlovna, but had " unpardonably forgottei^ it." I 
 flushed crimson and declared resolutely that it was degrading 
 for me to receive a salary for telling scandalous stories of how 
 I had followed two draggle-tails to the 'institutions,' that 
 I had not been engaged to amuse him but to do work, and that 
 if there was no work I must stop it, and sa on, and so on. I 
 could never have imagined that anyone could have been so 
 scared as he was by my words. Of course it ended in my ceasing 
 to protest, and his somehow pressing the fifty roubles into my 
 hand : to this day I recall with a blush that I took it. Every- 
 thing in the world always ends in meanness, and what was worst 
 of all, he somehow succeeded in almost proving to me that I 
 had unmistakably earned the money, and I was so stupid as to 
 believe it, and so it was absolutely impossible to avoid taking it. 
 " Cher, cher enfant ! " he cried, kissing and embracing me 
 (I must admit I was on the point of tears myself, goodness faiows 
 why, though I instantly restrained myself, and even now I 
 blush as I write it). " My dear boy, you're like one of the 
 family to me now ; in the course of this month you've won a 
 warm place in my heart ! In * society ' you get ' society ' and 
 nothing else. Katerina Nikolaevna (that was his daughter's 
 name) is a magnificent woman and I'm proud of her, but she 
 often, my dear boy, very often, wounds me. And as for these 
 girls {elles sont charmantes) and their mothers who come on 
 my birthday, they merely bring their embroidery and never 
 know how to tell one anything. I've accumulated over sixty 
 cushions embroidered by them, all dogs and stags. I like them 
 very much, btit with you I feel as if you were my own — ^not son, 
 but brother, and I particularly like it when you argue against 
 me ; you're literary, you have read, you cau be enthusiastic. . . ." 
 
 31
 
 " I have read nothing, and I'm not literary at all. I used to 
 read what I came across, but I've read nothing for two years 
 and I'm not going to read." 
 
 " Why aren't you going to ? ** 
 
 " I have other objects." 
 
 " Cher . . . it's a pity if at the end of your life you say, like 
 me, ' Je sais tout, mats je ne sais rien de bon.^ I don't know in 
 the least what I have lived in this world for ! Put . . . I'm 
 so much indebted to you . . . and I should like, in fact . . ." 
 
 He suddenly broke off, and with an air of fatigue sank into 
 brooding. After any agitation (and he might be overcome by 
 agitation at any minute, goodness knows why) he generally 
 seemed for some time to lose his faculties and his power of self- 
 control, but he soon recovered, so that it really did not matter. 
 We sat still for a few minutes. His very full lower lip hung 
 down . . . what surprised me most of all was that he had 
 suddenly spoken of his daughter, and with such openness too. 
 I put it down, of course, to his being upset. 
 
 " Cher enfant, you don't mind my addressing j'ou so familiarly, 
 do you ? " broke from him suddenly. 
 
 " Not in the least. I must confess that at the very first I 
 was rather offended by it and felt iлclined to address you in the 
 same way, but I saw it was stupid because you didn't speak 
 like that to humiliate me." 
 
 But he had forgotten his question and was no longer listening. 
 
 " Well, how's your father ? " he said suddenly raising his 
 eyes and looking dreamily at me. 
 
 I winced. In the first place he called Versilov my father, 
 which heЪad never permitted himself to do before, and secondly, 
 he began of himself to speak of Versilov, which he had never 
 done before. 
 
 "He sits at home without a penny and is very gloomy," I 
 answered briefly, though 1 vas burning with curiosity. 
 
 " Yes, about money. His lawsuit is being decided to-day, 
 and I'm expecting Prince Sorgay as soon as he arrives. He 
 promised to come straight from the court to me. Their whole 
 future turns on it. It's a question of sixty or seventy thousand. 
 Of course, I've always wished well to Audrey Petrovitch " 
 (Versilov's name), " and I believe he'll win the suit, and Prince 
 Sergay has no case. It's a point of law." 
 
 " The case will be decided to-day ? " I cried, amazed. The 
 thought that Versilov had not deigned to tell me even that 
 
 32
 
 was a great shock to me. " Then he hasn't told my mother, 
 perhaps not anyone," it suddenly struck me. " What strength 
 of will ! " 
 
 " Then is Prince Sokolsky in Petersburg ? " was another idea 
 that occurred to me immediately. 
 
 " He arrived yesterday. He has come straight from Berlin 
 expressly for this day." 
 
 That too was an extremely important piece of news for me. 
 And he would be here to-day, that man who had given him a 
 slap in the face ! 
 
 " Well, what then ? " The old prince's face suddenly changed 
 again. " He'll preach religion as before and . . . and . . . maybe 
 run after little girls, unfledged girls, again. He-he ! There's 
 a very funny little story about that going about even now. . . . 
 He-he ! " 
 
 " Who will preach ? Who will run after little girls ? " 
 
 " Audrey Petrovitch ! Would you believe it, he used to 
 pester us all in those days. ' Where are we going ? ' he would say. 
 ' What are we thinking about ? ' That was about it, anyway. 
 He frightened and chastened us. ' If you're religious,' he'd 
 say, ' why don't you become a monk ? ' That was about what 
 he expected Mais qiielle idee ! If it's right, isn't it too severe ? 
 He was particularly fond of frightening me with the Day of 
 Judgment — me of all people ! " 
 
 " I've noticed nothing of all this, and I've been living with 
 him a month," I answered, listening with impatience. I felt 
 fearfully vexed that he hadn't pulled himself together and was 
 rambling on so incoherently. 
 
 " It's only that he doesn't talk about that now, but, believe 
 me, it was so. He's a clever man, and undoubtedly very learned ; 
 but is his intellect quite sound ? All this happened to him after 
 his three years abroad. And I must own he shocked me very 
 much and shocked every one. Cher enfant, j'aime le bon 
 Dieu. ... I believe, I believe as much as I can, but I really 
 was angry at the time. Supposing I did put on a frivolous 
 manner, I did it on purpose because I was annoyed — and besides, 
 the basis of my objection was as serious as it has been from the 
 beginning of the world. ' If there is a higher Being,' I said, 
 * and He has a personal existence, and isn't some sort of diffused 
 spirit for creation, some sort of fluid (for that's even more diffi- 
 cult to understand), where does He live ? ' C'etait bete, no doubt, 
 my dear boy, but, you know, all the arguments come to that. 
 
 33
 
 Un domicile is an important thing. He was awfully angry. 
 He had become a Catholic out there." 
 
 "I've heard that too. But it was probably nonsense." 
 
 " I assure you by everything that's sacred. You've only to 
 look at him. . . . But you say he's changed. But in those 
 days how he used to worry us all ! Would you believe it, he 
 used to behave as though he were a saint and his relics were 
 being displayed. He called us to account for our behaviour, 
 I declare he did ! Relics ! En voild un autre ! It's all very 
 well for a monk or a hermit, but here was a man going about in 
 a dress-coat and all the rest of it, and then he sets up as a saint ! 
 A strange inclination in a man in good society, and a curious 
 taste, I admit. I say nothing about that ; no doubt all that's 
 sacred, and anything may happen. . . . Besides, this is all 
 Vinconnu, but it's positively unseemly for a man in good 
 society. If anything happened to me and the offer were made 
 me I swear I should refuse it. I go and dine to-day at the club 
 and then suddenly make a miraculous appearance as a saint I 
 Why, I should be ridiculous. I put all that to him at the time. 
 . . . He used to wear chains." 
 
 I turned red with anger. 
 
 " Did you see the chains yourself ? " 
 
 " I didn't see. tl^em myself but . . .'* 
 
 " Then let me tell you that all that is false, a tissue of loath- 
 some fabrications, the calumny of enemies, that is, of one chief 
 and inhuman enemy — for he has only one enemy — ^your 
 daughter ! " 
 
 The old prince flared up in his turn. 
 
 " Mon cher, I beg and insist that from this time forth you 
 never couple with that revolting story the name of my daughter." 
 
 I stood up. He was beside himself. His chin was quivering. 
 
 " Cette histoire infame f . . . I did not believe it, I never 
 would believe it, but . . . they tell me, believe it, believe it, 
 I . . ." 
 
 At that instant a footman came in and announced visitors. 
 I dropped into my chair again. 
 
 Two ladies came in. They were both young and unmarried. 
 One was a stepdaughter of a cousin of the old prince's deceased 
 wife or something of the sort, a protegee of his for whom he had 
 
 34
 
 already set aside a dowry, and who (I mention it with a view to 
 later events) had money herself : the other was Anna Andreyevna 
 Versilov, the daughter of Versilov, three years older than I. 
 She Uved with her brother in the family of Mme. Fanariotov, 
 I had only seen her once before in my life, for a minute in the 
 street, though I had had an encounter, also very brief, with 
 her brother in Moscow. (I may very possibly refer to this 
 encounter later — ^if I have space, that is, for it is hardly worth 
 recording.) Anna Andreyevna had been from childhood a 
 special favourite of the old prince (Versilov's acquaintance 
 with the prince dated from very long ago). I was so overcome 
 by what had just happened that I did not even stand up on 
 their entrance, though the old prince rose to greet them. After- 
 wards I thought it would be humiliating to get up, and I remained 
 where I was. What overwhelmed me most was the prince's 
 having shouted at me like that three minutes before, and I 
 did not know whether to go away or not. But the old man, as 
 usual, had already forgotten everything, and was all pleasure 
 and animation at sight of the young ladies. At the very moment 
 of their entrance he hurriedly whispered to me, with a rapid 
 change of expression and a mysterious wink : 
 
 " Look at Ol3anpiada, watch her, watch her ; I'll tell you 
 why after. . . ." 
 
 I did look at her rather carefully, but I saw nothing special 
 about her. She was a plump, not very tall young lady, with 
 exceedingly red cheeks. Her face ^as rather pleasing, of the 
 sort that materialists like. She had an expression of kindness, 
 perhaps, but with a touch of something different. She could 
 not have been very brilliant intellectually — that is, not in the 
 higher sense — for one could see cunning in her eyes. She was not 
 more than nineteen. In fact, there was nothing remarkable 
 «■bout her. In our school we should have called her a cushion. 
 (I only give this minute description of her because it will be 
 useful later on.) 
 
 Indeed, all I have written hitherto with, apparently, such 
 unnecessary detail is all leading up to what is coming and is 
 necessary for it. It will all come in in its proper place ; I cannot 
 avoid it ; and if it is dull, pray don't read it. 
 
 Versilov's daughter was a very different person. She was 
 tall and somewhat slim, with a long and strikingly pale face 
 and splendid black hair. She had large dark eyes with an 
 earnest expression, a small mouth, and most crimson lips. She 
 
 35
 
 was the first woman who did not disgust me by her horrid way 
 of walking. She was thin and slender, however. Her expression 
 was not altogether good-natured, but was dignified. She was 
 twenty-two. There was hardly a trace of resemblance to Versilov 
 in her features, and yet, by some miracle, there was an extra- 
 ordinary similarity of expression. I do not know whether she 
 was pretty ; that is a matter of taste. They were both very 
 simple in their dress, so that it is not worth while to describe it. 
 I expected to be at once insulted by some glance or gesture of 
 Mile. Versilov, and I was prepared for it. Her brother had 
 insulted me in Moscow the first time we ever met. She could 
 hardly know me by sight, but no doubt she had heard I was in 
 attendance on the prince. Whatever the prince did or proposed 
 to do at once aroused interest and was looked upon as an event 
 in the whole gang of his relations and expectant beneficiaries, 
 and this was especially so with his sudden partiality for me. 
 I knew for a fact that the old prince was particularly soHcitous 
 for Anna Andreyevna's welfare and was on the look-out for a 
 husband for her. But it was more difficult to find a suitor for 
 Mile. Versilov than for the ladies who embroidered on canvas. 
 
 And, lo and behold ! contrary to all my expectations, after 
 shaking hands with the prince and exchanging a few light, 
 conventional phrases with him, she looked at me with marked 
 curiosity, and, seeing that I too was looking at her, bowed to 
 me with a smile. It is true that she had only just come into 
 the room, and so might naturally bow to anyone in it, but her 
 smile was so friendly that it was evidently premeditated ; and, 
 I remember, it gave me a particularly pleasant feefing. 
 
 " And this . . . this is my dear young friend Arkady Andreye- 
 vitch Dol . . ." The prince faltered, noticing that she bowed 
 to me while I remained sitting — and he suddenly broke off ; 
 perhaps he was confused at introducing me to her (that is, in 
 reality, introducing a brother to a sister). The " cushion " 
 bowed to me too ; but I suddenly leapt up with a clumsy scrape 
 of my chair : it was a rush of simulated pride, utterly senseless, 
 all due to vanity. 
 
 " Excuse me, prince, I am not Arkady Andreyevitch but 
 Arkady Makarovitch ! " I rapped out abruptly, utterly forgetting 
 that I ought to have bowed to the ladies. Damnation take that 
 unseemly moment ! 
 
 *' Mais tiens I " cried the prince, tapping his forehead with 
 his finger. 
 
 36
 
 " Where have you studied ? " I heard the stupid question 
 drawled by the " cushion," who came straight up to me. 
 
 " In Moscow, at the grammar school." 
 
 " Ah ! so I have heard. Is the teaching good there ? '* 
 
 " Very good." 
 
 I remained standing and answered like a soldier reporting 
 himself. 
 
 The young lady's questions were certainly not appropriate, 
 but she did succeed in smoothing over my stupid outbreak and 
 reUeving the embarrassment of the prince, who was meanwhile 
 listening with an amused smile to something funny Mile. 
 Versilov was whispering in his ear, evidently not about me. 
 But I wondered why this girl, who was a complete stranger to 
 me, should put herself out to smooth over my stupid behaviour 
 and all the rest of it. At the same time, it was impossible to 
 imagine that she had addressed me quite casually ; it was 
 obviously premeditated. She looked at me with too marked an 
 interest ; it was as though she wanted me, too, to notice her as 
 much as -possible. I pondered over all this later, and I was 
 not mistaken 
 
 " What, surely not to-day ? " the prince cried suddenly, 
 jumping up from his seat. 
 
 " Why, didn't you know ? " Mile. Versilov asked in surprise. 
 " Olympic ! the prince didn't know that Katerina Nikolaevna 
 would be here to-day. Why, it's to see her we've come. We 
 thought she'd have arrived by the morning train and have been 
 here long ago. She has just driven up to the steps ; she's come 
 straight from the station, and she told us to come up and she 
 would be here in a minute. . . . And here she is ! " 
 
 The side-door opened and — tJiat worruxn walked in ! 
 
 I knew her face already from the wonderful portrait of her that 
 hung in the prince's study. I had been scrutinizing the portrait all 
 that month. I spent three minutes in the study in her presence, 
 and I did not take my eyes off her face for a second. But if 
 I had not known her portrait and had been asked, after those 
 three minutes, what she was like, I could not have answered, 
 for all was confusion within me. 
 
 I only remember from those three minutes the image of a really 
 beautiful woman, whom the prince was kissing and signing with 
 the cross, and who looked quickly at once — the very minute 
 she came in — at me. I distinctly heard the prince muttering 
 something, with a little simper, about his new secretary and 
 
 37
 
 mentioning my name, evidently pointing at me. Her face 
 seemed to contract ; she threw a vicious glance at me, and 
 smiled so insolently that I took a sudden step forward, went 
 up to the prince, and muttered, trembling all over and unable to 
 finish my words (I beheve my teeth were chattering) : 
 
 " From this time I . . . I've business of my own. . . . I'm 
 going." 
 
 And I turned and went out. No one said a word to me, not 
 even the prince ; they all simply stared. The old prince told 
 me afterwards that I turned so white that he " was simply 
 frightened." 
 
 But there was no need. 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 Indeed there was no need : a higher consideration swallowed up 
 all petty feelings, and one powerful emotion made up to me for 
 everything. I went out in a sort of ecstasy. As I stepped into 
 the street I was ready to sing aloud. To match my mood it 
 was an exquisite morning, sunshine, people out walking, noise, 
 movement, joyousness, and crowds. Why, had not that woman 
 insulted me ? From whom would I have endured that look 
 and that insolent smile without instant protest however stupid 
 it might be. I did not mind about that. Note that she had 
 come expressly to insult me as soon as she could, although she 
 had never seen me. In her eyes I was an " envoy from Versilov," 
 and she was convinced at that time, and for long afterwards, 
 that VersUov held her fate in his hands and could ruin her at 
 once if he wanted to, by means of a certain document ; she 
 suspected that, anyway. It was a duel to the death. And yet 
 — I was not offended ! It was an insult, but I did not feel it. 
 How should I ? I was positively glad of it ; though I had 
 come here to hate her I felt I was beginning to love her. 
 
 I don't know whether the spider perhaps does not hate the 
 fly he has marked and is snaring. Dear little fly ! It seems to 
 me that the victim is loved, or at least may be loved- Here I 
 love my enemy ; I am delighted, for instance, that she is so 
 beautiful. I am delighted, madam, that you are so haughty 
 and majestic. If you were meeker it would not be so delightfid. 
 You have spat on me — and I am triumphant. И you were 
 
 38
 
 literally to spit in my face I should really not be angry because 
 you — are my victim ; mirie and not Ate. How fascinating was 
 that idea ! Yes, the secret consciousness of power is more 
 insupportably delightful than open domination, li I were a 
 millionaire I believe I should take pleasure in going about in 
 the oldest clothes and being taken for a destitute man, almost a 
 beggar, being jostled and despised. The consciousness of the 
 truth would be enough for me. 
 
 That is how I should interpret my thoughts and happiness, 
 and much of what I was feeUng that day. I will only add that 
 in what I have just written there is too much levity ; in reahty 
 my feeling was deeper and more modest. Perhaps even now I 
 am more modest in myself than in my words and deeds — God 
 grant it may be so ! 
 
 Perhaps I have done amiss in sitting down to write at all. 
 Infinitely more remains hidden within than comes out in words. 
 Your thought, even if it is an evil one, is always deeper wlule 
 it is in your mind ; it becomes more absurd and dishonourable 
 when it is put into words. Versilov once said to me that the 
 opposite was true only with horrid people, they simply tell lies, 
 it is easy for them ; but I am trying to write the whole truth, 
 and that's fearfully difficult ! 
 
 On that 19th of September I took one other " step." 
 For the first time since I arrived I had money in my pocket, 
 for the sixty roubles I had saved up in two years I had given 
 to my mother, as I mentioned before. But, a few days before, 
 I had determined that on the day I received my salary I would 
 make an " experiment " of which I had long been dreaming. 
 The day before I had cut out of the paper an address ; it was 
 an advertisement that on the 19th of September at twelve 
 o'clock in the morning, in such-and-such a street, at number 
 so-and-so, there would be a sale by the local police authority 
 of the effects of Mme. Lebrecht, and that the catalogue, 
 valuation, and property for sale could be inspected on the day 
 of the auction, and so on. 
 
 It was just past one, I hurried to the address on foot. I 
 had not taken a cab for more than two years — I had taken a 
 vow not to (or I should never have saved up my sixty roubles). 
 I had never been to an auction, I had never allowed myself this 
 indulgence. And though my present step was only an experiment 
 
 39
 
 yet I had made up my mind not to take even that step till I had 
 left the grammar school, when I should break off with everything, 
 hide myself in my shell, and become perfectly free. It is true 
 that I was far from being in my shell and far from being free 
 yet, but then I was only taking this step by way of an experi- 
 ment — simply to look into it, as it were to indulge a fancy, and 
 after that not to гесш: to it perhaps for a long while, till the 
 time of beginning seriously. For every one else this was only a 
 stupid little auction, but for me it was the first plank in the 
 ship in which a Columbus would set out to discover his America. 
 That was my feeling then. 
 
 When I arrived I went into the furthest comer of the yard of 
 the house mentioned in the advertisement, and entered Mme. 
 Lebrecht's fiat, which consisted of an entry and four small low- 
 pitched rooms. In the first room there was a crowd of about 
 thirty persons, half of them people who had come to bargain, 
 while the rest, judging from their appearance, were either 
 inquisitive outsiders, or connoisseurs, or representatives of Mme. 
 Lebrecht. There were merchants and Jews gloating over the 
 objects made of gold, and a few people of the well-dressed 
 class. The very faces of some of these gentlemen remain 
 stamped in my memory. In the doorway leading to the room 
 on the right there was placed a table so that it was impossible 
 to pass ; on it lay the things catalogued for sale. There was 
 another room on the left, but the door into it was closed, though 
 it was continually being opened a little way, and some one could 
 be seen peeping through the crack, no doubt some one of the 
 numerous family of Mme. Lebrecht, who must have been feeling 
 very much ashamed at the time. At the table between the 
 doors, facing the public, sat the warrant officer, to judge by his 
 badge, presiding over the sale. I found the auction half over ; 
 I squeezed my way up to the table as soon as I went in. Some 
 bronze candlesticks were being sold. I began looking at the 
 things. 
 
 I looked at the things and wondered what I could buy, and 
 what I could do with bronze candlesticks, and whether my 
 object would be attained, and how the thing would be done, 
 and whether my project would be successful, and whether my 
 project were not childish. All this I wondered as I waited. It 
 was like the sensation one has at the gambling table at the 
 moment before one has put down a card, though one has come 
 to do so, feeling, " if I like I'll put it down, if I don't I'll go 
 
 40
 
 away — I'm free to choose ! " One's heart does not begin to 
 throb at that point, but there is a faint thrill and flutter in it — 
 a sensation not without charm. But indecision soon begins to 
 weigh painfully upon one : one's eyes grow dizzy, one stretches 
 out one's hand, picks up a card, but mechanically, almost 
 against one's will, as though some one else were directing one's 
 hand. At last one has decided and thrown down the card — 
 then the feeling is quite different — immense. I am not writing 
 about the auction ; I am writing about myself ; who else would 
 feel his heart throbbing at an auction ? 
 
 Some were excited, some were waiting in silence, some had 
 bought things and were regretting it. I felt no sympathy with 
 a gentleman who, misunderstanding what was said, bought an 
 electro-plated milk-jug in mistake for a silver one for five roubles 
 instead of two ; in fact it amused me very much. The warrant 
 officer passed rapidly from one class of objects to another : 
 after the candlesticks, displayed earrings, after earrings an 
 embroidered leather cushion, then a money-box — probably for 
 the sake of variety, or to meet the wishes of the purchasers. I 
 could not remain passive even for ten minutes. I went up to 
 the cushion, and afterwards to the cash-box, but at the critical 
 moment my tongue failed me : these objects seemed to me 
 quite out of the question. At last I saw an album in the warrant 
 officer's hand. 
 
 " A family album in real morocco, second-hand, with sketches 
 in water-colour and crayon, in a carved ivory case with silver 
 clasps — priced two roubles ! " 
 
 I went up : it looked an elegant article, but the carving was 
 damaged in one place. I was the only person who went up to 
 look at it, all were silent ; there was no bidding for it. I might 
 have imdone the clasps and taken the album out of the case to 
 look at it, but I did not make use of my privilege, and only 
 waved a trembling hand as though to say " never mind." 
 
 '* Two roubles, five kopecks," I said. I believe my teeth 
 were chattering again. 
 
 The album was knocked down to me. I at once took out the 
 money, paid for it, snatched up the album, and went into a 
 com&r of the room. There I took it out of its case, and began 
 looking through it with feverish haste — it was the most trumpery 
 thing possible — a little album of the size of a piece of notepaper, 
 with rubbed gilt edges, exactly like the albums girls used to 
 keep in former days when they left school. There were crayon 
 
 41
 
 and colour sketches of temples on mountain-sides, Cupids, a 
 lake with floating swans ; there were verses : 
 
 On a far journey I am starting. 
 From Moscow I am departing. 
 From my dear ones I am parting. 
 And ърИЛ post-horses flying South. 
 
 They are enshrined in my memory ! 
 
 I made up my mind that I had made a mess of it ; if there 
 ever was anything no one could possibly want it was this. 
 
 " Never mind," I decided, " one's bound to lose the first 
 card ; it's a good omen, in fact." 
 
 I felt thoroughly light-hearted. 
 
 " Ach, I'm too late ; is it yours ? You have bought it ? " 
 I suddenly heard beside me the voice of a well-dressed, pre- 
 sentable-looking gentleman in a blue coat. He had come in 
 late. 
 
 " I am too late. Ach, what a pity ! How much was it 1 " 
 
 " Two roubles, five kopecks," 
 
 " Ach, what a pity ! Would you give it up ? " 
 
 " Come outside," I whispered to him, in a tremor. 
 
 We went out on the staircase. 
 
 " I'U let you have it for ten roubles," I said, feeling a shiver 
 run down my back. 
 
 " Ten roubles ! Upon my word ! " 
 
 *' As you Ике." 
 
 He stared at me open-eyed. I was well dressed, not in the 
 least like a Jew or a second-hand dealer. 
 
 " Mercy on us — why it's a wretched old album, what use is 
 it to anyone ? The case isn't worth anything certainly. You 
 certainly won't sell it to anyone." 
 
 " I see you will buy it." 
 
 " But that's for a special reason. I only found out yesterday. 
 I'm the only one who would. Upon my word, what are you 
 thiilking about ! " 
 
 " I ought to have asked twenty-five roubles, but as there was, 
 after all, a risk you might draw back. I only asked for ten to 
 make smre of it. I won't take a farthing less." 
 
 I turned and walked away. 
 
 " Well, take fovur roubles," he said, overtaking me in the 
 yard, " come, five ! " 
 
 I strode on without speaking. 
 
 42
 
 " WeU, take it then ! " 
 
 He took out ten roubles. I gave him the album. 
 
 " But you must own it's not honest ! Two roubles — and then 
 ten, eh ? " 
 
 " Why not honest ? It's a question of market," 
 
 " What do you mean by market 1 " He grew angry. 
 
 " When there's a demand one has a market — if you hadn't 
 asked for it I shouldn't have sold it for forty kopecks." 
 
 Though I was serious and didn't burst out laughing I was 
 laughing inwardly — not from delight — I don't know why myself, 
 I was almost breathless. 
 
 " Listen," I muttered, utterly unable to restrain myself, but 
 speaking in a friendly way and feeling quite fond of him. '' Listen, 
 when as a young man the late James Rothschild, the Parisian 
 one, who left seventeen hundred million francs (he nodded), 
 heard of the murder of the Due de Bern some hours before 
 anybody else he sent the news to the proper quarter, and by 
 that one stroke in an instant made several millions — ^that's how 
 people get on ! " 
 
 " So you're a Rothscluld, are you ? " he cried as though 
 indignant with me for being such a fool. 
 
 I walked quickly out of the house. One step, and I had 
 made seven roubles ninety-five kopecks. It was a senseless 
 step, a piece of child's play I admit, but it chimed in with my 
 theories, and I could not help being deeply stirred by it. But 
 it is no good describing one's feelings. My ten roubles were in 
 my waistcoat pocket, I thrust in two fingers to feel it — and 
 walked along without taking my hand out. After walking a 
 himdred yards along the street I took the note out to look at it, 
 I looked at it and felt like kissing it. A carriage rumbled up to 
 the steps of a house. The house porter opened the door and a 
 lady came out to get into the carriage. She ^v^as young, hand- 
 some and wealthy-looking, gorgeously dressed in silk and velvet, 
 with a train more than two yards long. Suddenly a pretty little 
 portfolio dropped out of her hand and fell on the ground ; she 
 got into the carriage. The footman stooped down to pick the 
 thing up, but I flew up quickly, picked it up and handed it to 
 the lady, taking off my hat. (The hat was a silk one, I was 
 suitably dressed for a young man.) With a very pleasant 
 smile, though with an air of reserve, the lady said to me : 
 " Merci, M'sieu ! " The carriage rolled away. I kissed the 
 ten -rouble note. 
 
 43
 
 That same day I was to go and see Efim Zvyerev, one of my 
 old schoolfellows at the grammar school, who had gone to a 
 special college in Petersburg. He is not worth describing, and 
 I was not on particularly friendly terms with him ; but I looked 
 him up in Petersburg. He might (through various circumstances 
 which again are not worth relating) be able to give me the 
 address of a man called Kraft, whom it was very important for 
 me to see as soon as he returned from Vilna, Efim was expecting 
 him that day or the next, as he had let me know two days 
 before. I had to go to the Petersburg Side, but I did not feel 
 tired. 
 
 I found Efim (who was also nineteen) in the yard of his aunt's 
 house, where he was staying for the time. He had just had 
 dinner and was walking about the yard on stilts. He told me 
 at once that Kraft had arrived the day before, and was staying 
 at his old lodgings close by, and that he was anxious to see me 
 as soon as possible, as he had something important to tell me. 
 
 " He's going off somewhere again," added Efim. 
 
 As in the present circumstances it was of great importance to 
 see Kraft I asked Efim to take me round at once to his lodging, 
 which it appeared was in a back street only a few steps away. 
 But Efim told me that he had met him an hour ago and that he 
 was on his way to Dergatchev's. 
 
 " But come along to Dergatchev's. Why do you always cry 
 off ? Are you afraid ? " 
 
 Kraft might as a fact stay on at Dergatchev's, and in that 
 case where could I wait for him ? I was not afraid of going to 
 Dergatchev's, but I did not want to go to his house, though Efim 
 had tried to get me there three times already. And on each 
 occasion had asked " Are you afraid ? " with a very nasty smile 
 at my expense. It was not a case of fear I must state at once ; 
 if I was afraid it was of something quite different. This time T 
 made up my mind to go. Dergatchev's, too, was only a few 
 steps away. On the way I asked Efim if he still meant to run 
 away to America. 
 
 " Maybe I shall wait a bit," he answered with a faint smile. 
 
 I was not particularly fond of him ; in fact I did not like him 
 at all. He had fair hair, and a full face of an excessive fairness, 
 an almost unseemly childish fairness, yet he was taller than I 
 
 44
 
 was, but he would never have been taken for more than seven- 
 teen. I had nothmg to talk to him about. 
 
 " What's going on there ? Is there always a crowd ? " I 
 asked. 
 
 " But why are you always so frightened ? " he laughed again. 
 
 " Go to hell ! " I said, getting angry. 
 
 " There won't be a crowd at all. Only friends come, and 
 they're all his own set. Don't worry yourself." 
 
 " But what the devil is it to me whether they're his set or 
 not ! I'm not one of his set. How can they be sure of me ? " 
 
 " I am bringing you and that's enough. They've heard of 
 you already. Kraft can answer for you, too." 
 
 " I say, will Vassin be there ? " 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " If he is, give me a poke and point him out as soon as we go 
 in. As soon as we go in. Do you hear ? " 
 
 I had heard a good deal about Vassin already, and had long 
 been interested in him. 
 
 Dergatchev lived in a little lodge in the courtyard of a wooden 
 house belonging to a merchant's wife, but he occupied the 
 whole of it. There were only three living rooms. All the four 
 windows had the blinds drawn down. He was a mechanical 
 engineer, and did work in Petersburg. I had heard casually 
 that he had got a good private berth in the provinces, and that 
 he was just going away to it. 
 
 As soon as we stepped into the tiny entry we heard voices. 
 There seemed to be a heated argument and some one shouted : 
 
 " Quae medicamenta non sanant, ferrum sanat, quae ferrum 
 non sanat — ignis sanat ! " 
 
 I certainly was in some uneasiness. I was, of course, not 
 accustomed to society of any kind. At school I had been on 
 familiar terms with my schoolfellows, but I was scarcely friends 
 with anyone ; I made a little comer for myself and lived in it. 
 But this was not what disturbed me. In any case I vowed not 
 to let myself be dra\NTi into argument and to say nothing beyond 
 what was necessary, so that no one could draw any conclusions 
 about me ; above all — to avoid argument. 
 
 In the room, which was really too small, there were seven 
 men ; counting the ladies, ten persons. Dergatchev was five- 
 and-twenty, and was married. His wife had a sister and another 
 female relation, who lived with them. The room was furnished 
 after a lashion, sufficiently though, and was even tidy. There 
 
 45
 
 was a lithographed portrait on the wall, but a very cheap one ; 
 in the comer there was an ikon without a setting, but with a 
 lamp burning before it. 
 
 Dergatchev came up to me, shook hands and asked me to sit 
 down. 
 
 " Sit down ; they're all our own set here." 
 
 " You're very welcome," a rather nice-looking, modestly 
 dressed young woman added immediately, and making me a 
 slight bow she at once went out of the room. This was his wife, 
 and she, too, seemed to have been taking part in the discussion, 
 and went away to nurse the baby. But there were two other 
 ladies left in the room ; one very short girl of about twenty, 
 weiring a black dress, also rather nice-looking, and the other a 
 thin, keen-eyed lady of thirty. They sat listening eagerly, but 
 not taking part in the conversation. All the men were standing 
 except Kraft, Vassin and me Efim pointed them out to me 
 at once, for I had never seen Kraft before, either. I got up and 
 went up to make their acquaintance. Kraft's face I shall never 
 forget. There was no particular beauty about it, but a positive 
 excess of mildness and delicacy, though personal dignity was 
 conspicuous in everything about him. He was twenty-six, 
 rather thin, above medium height, fair haired, with an earnest 
 but soft face ; there was a peculiar gentleness about his whole 
 personality. And yet if I were asked I would not have changed 
 my own, possibly very commonplace, countenance for his, 
 which struck me as so attractive. There was something in his 
 face I should not have cared to have in mine, too marked a calm 
 (in a moral sense) and something like a secret, unconscious 
 pride. But I probably could not have actually formed this 
 judgment at the time. It seems so to me now, in the light of 
 later events. 
 
 " I'm very glad you've come," said Kraft. " I have a letter 
 which concerns you. We'll stay here a little and then go home." 
 
 Dergatchev was a strong, broad-shouldered, dark-complexioned 
 man of medium height, with a big beard. His eyes showed 
 acuteness, habitual reserve, and a certain incessant watchfulness ; 
 though he was for the most part silent, he evidently controlled 
 the conversation. Vassin's face did not impress me much, 
 though I had heard of him as extraordinarily intelligent : he 
 had fair hair, large light grey eyes, and a very open face. But 
 at the same time there was something, as it were, too hard in it ; 
 one had a presentiment that he would not be commimicative, 
 
 46
 
 but he looked undeniably clever, cleverer than Dergatchev, of 
 a more profound intelleot — cleverer than anyone in the room. 
 But perhaps I am exaggerating. Of the other young men I only 
 recall two ; one a tall, dark man of twenty-seven, with black 
 whiskers, who talked a great deal, a teacher or something of the 
 sort ; the other was a fellow of my own age, with good lines in 
 his face, wearing a Russian tunic without sleeves. He was 
 silent, and listened attentively. He turned out afterwards to 
 be a peasant. 
 
 " No, that's not the way to put it," the black-whiskered 
 teacher began, obviously continuing the previous discussion. 
 He talked more than anyone in the room. 
 
 " I'm not talking of mathematical proofs, but that idea which 
 I am prepared to believe without mathematical proof ..." 
 
 " Wait a bit, Tihomirov," Dergatchev interrupted loudly, 
 " the new-comers don't understand. Ypu see," he suddenly 
 addressed himself to me alone (and I confess if he intended 
 to put me as a novice through an examination or to make 
 me speak, it was adroitly done on his part ; I felt it and 
 prepared myself) " it's all our friend Kraft, who is well known 
 to us all for his character and the solidity of his convictions. 
 From a very ordinary fact he has deduced a very extraordinary 
 conviction that has surprised us all. He has deduced that the 
 Russians are a second-rate people . . ." 
 
 " Third-rate," shouted some one. 
 
 " A second-rate people destined to serve as the raw material 
 for a nobler race, and not to play an independent part in the 
 history of humanity. In view of this theory of his, which is 
 perhaps correct, Kraft has come to the conclusion that 'the 
 activity of every Russian must in the future be paralysed by this 
 idea, that all, so to speak, will fold their hands and . . ." 
 
 " Excuse me, Dergatchev, that's not the way to put it," 
 Tihomirov interrupted impatiently again (Dergatchev at once 
 gave way), "considering that Kraft has made a serious study of 
 the subject, has made on a physiological basis deductions which 
 he regards as mathematically proved, and has spent perhaps 
 two years on his idea (which I should be prepared a priori to 
 accept with equanimity), considering all this, that is considering 
 Kraft's excitement and earnestness, the caee must be considered 
 as a phenomenon. All this leads up to a question which Kraft 
 cannot understand, and that's what we must attend to — I mean, 
 Kraft's not understanding it, for that's the phenomenon. We 
 
 47
 
 must decide whether this phenomenon belongs to the domain 
 of pathology as a solitary instance, or whether it is an occurrence 
 which may be normally repeated in others ; that's what is of 
 interest for the common cause. I believe Kraft about Russia, 
 and I will even say that I am glad of it, perhaps ; if this idea 
 were assimilated by all it would free many from patriotic preju- 
 dice and imtie their hands ..." 
 
 " I am not influenced by patriotism," said Kraft, speaking with 
 a certain stiffness. All this debate seemed distasteful to him. 
 
 " Whether patriotism or not we need not consider," observed 
 Vassin, who had been very silent. 
 
 " But how, tell me, please, could Kraft's deduction weaken the 
 impulse to the cause of humanity," shouted the teacher. (He 
 was the only one shouting. АД the others spoke in a low voice.) 
 "Let Russia be condemned to second -rateness, but we can still 
 work and not for Russia alone. And, what's more, how can 
 Kraft be a patriot if he has ceased to believe in Russia ? " 
 
 " Besides being a German," a voice interrupted again. 
 
 " I am a Russian," said Kraft. 
 
 " That's a question that has no direct bearing on the subject," 
 observed Dergatchev to the speaker who had interrupted. 
 
 " Take a wider view of your idea," cried Tihomirov, heeding 
 nothing. " If Russia is only the material for nobler races why 
 shouldn't she serve as such material ? It's a sufficiently attrac- 
 tive part for her to play. Why not accept the idea calmly, con- 
 sidering how it enlarges the task ? Humanity is on the eve of 
 its regeneration, which is already beginning. None but the 
 blind deny the task before us. Let Russia alone, if you've lost 
 faith in her, and work for the future, for the future imknown 
 people that will be formed of all humanity without distinction 
 of race. Russia would perish some time, anjrway ; even the most 
 gifted peoples exist for fifteen hundred or at the most two thou- 
 sand years. Isn't it all the same whether it's two thousand or 
 two hundred 1 The Romans did not last fifteen hundred years 
 as a vital force, they too have turned into material. They ceased 
 to exist long ago, but they've left an idea, and it has become 
 an element in the future of mankind. How can one tell a man 
 there's nothing to be done 1 I can't conceive of a position in 
 which there ever could be nothing to do ! Work for humanity 
 and don't trouble about the rest. There's so much to do that 
 life isn't long enough if you look into it more closely." 
 
 " One must live in harmony with the laws of nature and 
 
 48
 
 truth," Mme. Dergatchev observed from the doorway. The 
 door was slightly ajar and one could see that she was standing 
 there, listening eagerly, with the baby at her breast which was 
 covered. 
 
 Kraft listened with a faint smile and brought out at last 
 with a somewhat harassed face, but with earnest sincerity : 
 
 " I don't understand how, if one is under the influence of 
 some over-mastering idea which completely dominates one's 
 mind and one's heart, one can live for something else which is 
 outside that idea." 
 
 " But if it is logically, mathematically proved to you that your 
 deduction is erroneous — that your whole idea is erroneous, that 
 you have not the slightest right to exclude yourself from working 
 for the welfare of humanity simply because Russia is predestined 
 to a second-rate part, if it is pointed out to you, that in place of 
 your narrow horizon infinity Ues open before you, that instead 
 of your narrow idea of patriotism ..." 
 
 " Ah ' " Kraft waved his hand gently, " I've told you there 
 is no question of patriotism." 
 
 " There is evidently a misunderstanding," Vassin interposed 
 suddenly, " the mistake arises from the fact that Kraft's con- 
 clusion is not a mere logical theory but, so to say, a theory that 
 has been transmuted into a feeling. АД natures are not aUke ; 
 in some men a logical deduction is sometimes transmuted into a 
 very powerful emotion which takes possession of the whole being, 
 and is sometimes very difficult to dislodge or alter. To cure such 
 a man the feeling itself must be changed, which is only possible 
 by replacing it by another, equally powerful one. That's always 
 difficult, and in many cases impossible." 
 
 " That's a mistake," roared the argumentative teacher, " a 
 logical proof of itself will dissipate prejudices. A rational con- 
 viction will give rise to feeling, too. Thought arises from feeling 
 and dominating a man in its turn formulates new feeling." 
 
 " People are very different. Some change their feelings 
 readily, while for others it's hard to do so," responded Vassin, 
 as though disinclined to continue the argument ; but I was 
 delighted by his idea. 
 
 " That's perfectly true what you say," I said, turning to him, 
 all at once breaking the ice and suddenly beginning to speak; 
 " that to change a feeling one must replace it by another. Four 
 years ago a general in Moscow ... I didn't know him, you see, 
 but . . . Perhaps he couldn't have inspired respect of himself 
 
 49
 
 . . . And the fact itself may seem irrational but . . . But he 
 had lost a child, that's to say two little girls who had died one 
 after another of scarlatina. And he was utterly crushed, and did 
 nothing but grieve, so that one couldn't bear to go and look at 
 him, and he ended by dying scarcely six months later. It's a 
 fact that he died of it ! What could have saved him ? The 
 answer is — a feeling of equal strength. One would have had to 
 dig those two little girls out of the grave and give them back to 
 bi"i — that would .have been the only thing, I mean in that 
 way. And he died. Yet one might have presented him with 
 excellent reflections : that life is transitory, that all are mortal ; 
 one might have produced statistics to show how many children 
 do die of scarlatina ... he was on the retired list. ..." 
 
 I stopped, out of breath, and looked rovmd. 
 
 " That's nothing to do with it," said some one. 
 
 " The instance you have quoted, though it's not quite in the 
 same category, is very similar and illustrates tKe subject," said 
 Vassin, turning to me. 
 
 Here I must confess why I was so delighted with what Vassin 
 had said about the " idea transmuted into feeling," and at the 
 same time I mvist confess to a fiendish disgrace. Yes, I was 
 afraid to go to Dergatchev's, though not for the reason Efim 
 imagined. I dreaded going because I had been afraid of them 
 even before I left Moscow. I knew that they (or some of their 
 sort, it's all the same) were great in argument and would perhaps 
 shatter " my idea." I was firmly resolved in myself that I 
 wouldn't give away my idea or say a word to them about it ; 
 but they (or again some of their sort) might easily say something 
 to me which would destroy my faith in my " idea," even though 
 I might not utter a syllable about it. There were questions 
 connected with my " idea " which I had not settled, but I did 
 not want anyone to settle them but myself. For the leist two 
 years I had even given up reading for fear of meeting with some 
 passage opposed to my " idea " which might shake me. And all 
 at once Vassin had solved the difficulty and reassured me on the 
 most essential point. After all, what was I afraid of and what 
 could they do to me, whatever skill in argument they might have ? 
 I perhaps was the only one who understood what Vassin meant 
 by "an idea transformed into an emotion." It's not enough 
 to refute a fine idea, one must replace it by something fine of 
 
 50
 
 equal strength ; or else, refusing absolutely to part with my 
 feeling, in my heart I should refute the refutation, however 
 strong the argument might be, whatever they might say. And 
 what could they give me in place of it ? And therefore I might 
 be braver, I was bound to be more manly. While I was de- 
 lighted with Vassin, I felt ashamed, and felt myself an insigni- 
 ficant child. 
 
 Then there followed fresh ignominy. It was not a contemptible 
 desire to show o£F my intelligence that made me break the ice 
 and speak, it was an impulse to " throw myself on his neck." 
 The impulse to throw myself on people's necks that they might 
 think well of me and take me to their hearts or something of the 
 sort (pure beastliness, in fact) I look upon as the most abject of my 
 weaknesses, and I suspected it in myself long ago ; in fact, when 
 I was in the comer in which I entrenched myself for so many 
 years, though I don't regret doing so, I knew I ought to behave 
 in company with more austerity. What comforted me after 
 every such ignominious scene was that my " idea " was as great 
 a secret as ever, and that I hadn't given it away. With a sinking 
 at my heart I sometimes imagined that when I did let out my 
 idea to some one I should suddenly have nothing left, that I 
 should become Uke every one else, and perhaps I should give up 
 the idea ; and so I was on my guard and preserved it, and 
 trembled at the thought of chattering. And now at Dergatchev's, 
 almost at the first contact with anyone, I broke down. I hadn't 
 betrayed, anything, of course, but I had chattered unpardonably ; 
 it was ignotainious. It is a horrid thing to remember ! No, I 
 must not associate with people, I think so even now. Forty 
 years hence I will Epeak. My idea demands a comer. 
 
 As soon as Vassin expressed approval I felt irresistibly impelled 
 to talk. 
 
 " I consider that every one has aright to have his own feelings 
 ... if they are from conviction . , , and that no one should 
 reproach him with them," I went on, addressing Vassin. Though 
 I spoke boldly, it was as though I was not speaking, not my own 
 tongue moving in my mouth. 
 
 " Re-all-ly ? " the same voice which had interrupted Dergat- 
 chev and shouted at Kraft that he was a German interposed 
 with an ironical drawl. Regarding the speaker as a complete 
 
 51
 
 nonentity, I addressed the teacher as though he had called out 
 to me. 
 
 " It's my conviction that I should not dare to judge anyone," 
 I said, quivering, and conscious that I was going to make a fool 
 of myself. 
 
 " Why so mysterious 1 " cried the voice of the nonentity again. 
 " Every man has his own idea," I went on, gazing persistently 
 at the teacher, who for his part held his tongue and looked at me 
 with a smile. 
 
 " Yours is ? " cried the nonentity. 
 
 *' Too long to describe. . . . But part of my idea is that I 
 should be left alone. As long as I've two roubles I want to be 
 independent of every one (don't excite yourself, I know the 
 objection that will be made) and to do nothing — not even to work 
 for that grand future of humanity which Mr. Kraft is invited to 
 work for. Personal freedom, that is, my ownf is the first thing, 
 and I don't care about anything else." 
 My mistake was that I lost my temper. 
 
 " In other words you advocate the tranquillity of the well-fed 
 cow ? " 
 
 " So be it. Cows don't hurt anyone. I owe no one anything. 
 I pay society in the form of taxes that I may not be robbed, 
 killed or assaulted, and no one dare demand anything more. 
 I personally, perhaps, may have other ideas, and if I want to serve 
 humanity I shall, and perhaps ten times as much as those who 
 preach about it ; only I want no one to dare to demand it of me, 
 to force me to it like Mr. Kraft. I must be perfectly free not to 
 lift a finger if I like. But to rush and ' fall on everybody's neck ' 
 from love to humanity, and dissolve in tears of emotion — is only a 
 fashion. And why should I be bound to love my neighbour, or 
 your future humanity which I shall never see, which will never 
 know anything about me, and which will in its turn disappear 
 and leave no trace (time counts for nothing in this) when the 
 earth in its turn will be changed into an iceberg, and will fly off 
 into the void with an infinite multitude of other similar icebergs ; 
 it's the most senseless thing one could possibly imagine. That's 
 your teaching. Tell me why I am bound to be so noble, 
 especially if it all lasts only for a moment ? " 
 " Р-}юоЬ ! " cried a voice. 
 
 I had fired off all this with nervous exasperation, throwing 
 off all restraint. I knew that I was making a fool of myself, 
 but I hurried on, afraid of being interrupted. I felt that my 
 
 52
 
 words were poiiring out like water through a sieve, incoherently, 
 nineteen to the dozen, but I hurried on to convince them and get 
 the better of them. It was a matter of such importance to me. 
 I had been preparing for it for three years. But it was remark- 
 able that they were all suddenly ^bnt, they said absolutely 
 nothing, every one was listening. I went on addressing my 
 remarks to the teacher. 
 
 " That's just it. A very clever man has said that nothing is 
 more difficult than to answer the question ' Why we must be 
 honoiirable.' You know there are three sorts of scoundrels in 
 the world ; naive scoundrels, that is, convinced that their 
 villany is the highest virtue ; scoundrels who are ashamed, that 
 is, ashamed of their own villany, though they fully intend to 
 persevere with it ; and lastly simple scoundrels, pure-bred scoun- 
 drels. For example I had a schoolfellow called Lambert who 
 told me at sixteen that when he came into his fortune it would 
 be his greatest satisfaction to feed on meat and bread while the 
 children of the poor were dying of hunger ; and when they had 
 no fuel for their fires he would buy up a whole woodstack, build 
 it up in a field and set fire to it there, and not give any of it to 
 the poor. Those were his feelings ! Tell me, what am I to say 
 to a pure-blooded scoundrel like that if he asks me why he should 
 be honourable ? Especially now in these times which you have 
 so transformed, for things have never been worse than they are 
 now. Nothing is clear in our society. You deny God, you see, 
 deny heroism. What blind, deaf, dull-witted stagnation of mind 
 can force me to act in one way, if it's more to my advantage to 
 do the opposite ? You say ' a rational attitude to humanity is 
 to your own advantage, too ' ; but what if I think all these 
 rational considerations irrational, and dislike all these socialist 
 barracks and phalanxes ? What the devil do I care for them 
 or for the future when I shall only live once on earth ! Allow 
 me to judge of my advantage for myself ; it's more amusing. 
 What does it matter to me what will happen in a thousand years 
 to your humanity if, on your principles, I'm to get for it neither 
 love, nor future life, nor recognition of my heroism ? No, if 
 that's how it is I'd rather live in the most ignorant way for 
 myself and let them all go to perdition ! " 
 
 " An excellent sentiment ! " 
 
 " Though I'm always ready to go with them.** 
 
 " That's one better ! " — the same voice again. 
 
 The others still remained silent, they all scrutinized me, 
 
 53
 
 staring ; but little by little in different parts of the room there 
 rose a titter, subdued indeed, but they were all laughing at me to 
 my face. Vassin and Kraft were the only ones not laughing, 
 the gentleman with the black whiskers was sniggering too ; he 
 sneered at me persistently and listened. 
 
 " I'm not going to tell you my idea," I cried, quivering all 
 over, " nothing would induce me, but I ask you on the other hand, 
 from yoiu" point of view — don't imagine I'm speaking for myself, 
 for I dare say I love humanity a thousand times more than all 
 of you put together ! Tell me, and you must, you are bound now 
 to answer because you are laughing, tell me, what inducement 
 do you hold out to me to follow you ? Tell me, how do you 
 prove to me that you'll make things better ? How will you deal 
 with my individual protest in your barracks ? I have wanted to 
 meet you, gentlemen, for ever so long. You will have barracks, 
 communistic homes, stride necessaire, atheism, and communistic 
 wives without children — that's your ideal, I know all about it. 
 And for all this, for this little part of mediocre advantage which 
 your rational system guarantees me, for a bit of bread and a 
 warm comer you take away all my personal liberty ! For in- 
 stance ; if my wife's carried off, are you going to take away my 
 personal liberty so that I mayn't bash my rival's brains in ? 
 You'll tell me I shall be more sensible then myself, but what will 
 the wife say to a husband so sensible, if she has the slightest self- 
 resx)ect ? Why it's unnatural ; you ought to be ashamed ! " 
 
 " You're a specialist on the woman question then 1 " the voice 
 of the nonentity pronounced malignantly. 
 
 For one instant I had an impulse to fly at him and pommel 
 him with my fists. He was a short fellow with red hair/and 
 freckles . . . though what the devil does his appearance matter ? 
 
 " Don't excite yourself. I've never once had relations with a 
 woman," I rapped out, for the first time addressing him directly. 
 
 " A priceless avowal which might have been made more 
 politely in the presence of ladies." 
 
 But there was a general movement among them ; they were 
 all looking for their hats and taking leave — not on my account, of 
 course, but simply because it was time to break up. But I was 
 crushed with shame at the way they all ignored me. I jumped 
 up, too. 
 
 " Allow me to ask your name. You kept looking at me." 
 said the teacher, coming up to me with a very nasty smile. 
 
 " Dolgoruky." 
 
 . 54
 
 ** Prince Dolgoruky ? " 
 
 " No, simply Dolgoruky, legally the son of a former serf, 
 Makar Dolgoruky, but the illegitimate son of my former master, 
 Monsieur Versilov. Don't make a mistake, gentlemen, I don't 
 tell you this to make you all fall upon my neck and begin howling 
 like calves from sentimentality." 
 
 There was a loud and imceremonious roar of laughter, so much 
 so that the baby, who was asleep in the next room, waked up 
 and began squealing. I trembled with fury. Every one shook 
 hands with Dergatchev and went out without taking the shghtest 
 notice of me. 
 
 " Come along," said Kraft, touching me. 
 
 I went up to Dergatchev, pressed his hand and shook it 
 vigorously several times. 
 
 " You must excuse Kudryumov's being so rude to you " 
 (Kudryumoiv was the red-haired man), said Dergatchev. 
 
 I followed Kraft out. I wa^ not in the least ashamed. 
 
 There is of course an immense difference between what I am 
 now and what I was then. 
 
 Still " not in the least ashamed " I overtook Vassin on the 
 stairs, leavirg Kraft behind as of secondary importance, and with 
 the most natural air as though nothing had happened I asked ; 
 
 " I believe you know my father, I mean Versilov. 
 
 " He's not exactly an acquaintance of mine," Vassin answered 
 at once (and without a trace of that insulting refinement of 
 politeness which deUcate people adopt when they speak to people 
 who have just disgraced themselves), " but I do know him a little ; 
 I have met him and I've heard him talk." 
 
 " If you've heard him no doubt you do know him, for you are 
 you ! What do you think of him ? Forgive the abrupt question 
 but I need to know. It's what you would think, just your 
 opinion that I need." 
 
 " You are asking a great deal of me. I believe that man is 
 capable of setting himself tremendous tasks and possibly carry- 
 ing them through — but without rendering an accoxmt of his 
 doings to anyone." 
 
 " "That's true, that's very true — he's a very proud man ! Is he 
 a sincere man ? Tell me, what do you think about his being a 
 CathoUo ? But I forgot, perhaps you don't know ? " 
 
 55
 
 If I had not been so excited I should not, of course, have fired 
 ofi such questions so irrelevantly at a man of whom I had heard 
 but whom I had never seen before. I was surprised that Vassin 
 did not seem to notice how rude I was. 
 
 " I heard something about it, but I don't know how far it 
 may be true," he answered in the same calm and even tone as 
 before.' 
 
 " Not a bit ! It's fabe ! Do you suppose he can believe in 
 God ? " 
 
 " He — is a very proud man, as you said just now, and many 
 very proud people like to believe in God, especially those who 
 despise other people. Many strong natures seem to have a 
 sort of natural craving to find some one or soaiething to which 
 they can do homage. Strong natures often find it very difficult 
 to bear the burden of their strength." 
 
 " Do you know that must be awfully true," I cried again. 
 " Only I should like to understand . . ." 
 
 " The reason is obvious. They turn to God to avoid doing 
 homage to men, of course without recognizing how it comes about 
 in them ; to do homage to God is not so humiliating. They 
 become the most fervent of believers — or to be more accurate 
 the most fervently desirous of believing ; but they take this 
 desire for belief itself. These are the people who most frequently 
 become disillusioned in the end. As for Monsieur Versilov, I 
 imagine that he has some extremely sincere characteristics. 
 And altogether he interested me." 
 
 " Vassin ! " I cried, " you rejoice my heart! It's not your 
 intelligence I wonder at ; I am astonished that you, a man of 
 such a lofty nature and so far above me, can walk with me and 
 talk to me as simply and courteously as though nothing had 
 happened ! " 
 
 Vassin smiled. 
 
 *' You are too flattering, and all that has happened is that you 
 have shown a weakness for abstract conversation. You have 
 probably been through a long period of silence." 
 
 " For three j'ears I have been silent ; for three years I hare 
 been preparing to speak . . . You couldn't of course have thought 
 me a fool, you're eg traordinarily clever, though no one could 
 have behaved more stupidly ; but you must have thought me a 
 scoundrel." 
 
 " A scoundrel ! " 
 
 " Yes, certainly ! Tell me, don't you secretly despise me for 
 
 56
 
 saying I was Versilov's illegitimate son. . . . Boasting I was 
 the son of a serf ? " 
 
 " You worry yourself too much. If you think you did wrong 
 in saying so you've only to avoid saying it again. You have 
 fifty years before you." 
 
 *' Oh, I know that I ought to be very silent with other people. 
 This throwing oneself on people's necks is the lowest of all 
 vices ; I told them so just now, and here I am doing it to you ! 
 But there is a difference, isn't there ? If you realize that differ- 
 ence, if you are capable of realizing it, then I bless this moment I " 
 
 Vassin smiled again. 
 
 " Come and see me if you care to," he said. " I have work 
 now and am busy, but I shall be pleased to see you." 
 
 " I thought from your face just now that you were too hard 
 and uncommunicative." 
 
 " That may very well be true. I saw something of your sister 
 Lizaveta Makarovna at Luga, last year. . . . Kraft has stopped 
 and I believe is waiting for you. He has to turn here." 
 
 I pressed Vassin's hand warmly, and ran up to Kraft, who had 
 walked on ahead all the while I talked to Vassin. We walked 
 in silence to his lodgings. I could not speak to him and did not 
 want to. One of the strongest traits in Kraft's character was 
 delicacy. 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 Kraft had been somewhere in the service, and at the same time 
 had been a paid assistant of Andronikov's in the management 
 of the private business which the deceased gentleman had always 
 carried on in addition to his official duties. What mattered 
 to me was, that from his close association with Andronik6v, 
 Kraft might well know a great deal of what interested me. But 
 Marie Ivanovna, the wife of Nikolay Semyonovitch, with whom 
 I had boarded so many years while I was at the grammar school 
 in Moscow, was a favourite niece of Andronikov and was 
 brought up by him, and from her I learnt that Kraft had actually 
 been " commissioned " to give me something. I had been 
 e2фecting him for a whole month. 
 
 He lived in a little flat of two rooms quite apart from the rest 
 of the house, and at the moment, having only just returned, he 
 
 57
 
 had no servant. His trunk stood open, not yet unpacked. His 
 belongings l?iy about on the chairs, and were spread out on the 
 table in front of the sofa : his travelling bag, his cashbox, hie 
 revolver and so on. As we went in, Kraft seemed lost in thought, 
 as though he had altogether forgotten me. He had perhaps 
 not noticed that I had not spoken to him on the way. He began 
 looking for something at once, but happening to catch a glimpse 
 of himself in the looking-glass he stood still for a full minute 
 gazing at his own face. Though I noticed this peculiar action, 
 and recalled it all afterwards, I was depressed and disturbed. 
 I was not feeling equal to concentrating my mind. For a 
 moment I had a sudden impulse to go straight away and to give 
 it all up for ever. And after all what did all these things amount 
 to in reality ? Was it not simply an unnecessary worry I had 
 taken upon myself ? I sank into despair at the thought that 
 I was wasting so much energy perhaps on worthless trifles from 
 mere sentimentality, while I had facing me a task that called 
 for all my powers. And meanwhile my incapacity for any 
 real work was clearly obvious from what had happened at 
 Dergatchev's. 
 
 " Kjraft, shall you go to them again ? " I asked him suddenly. 
 
 He turned slowly to me as though hardly understanding me. 
 I sat down on a chair. 
 
 " Forgive them," said Kj-aft suddenly. 
 
 I fancied, of course, that this was a sneer, but looking attentively 
 at him, I saw such a strange and even wonderful ingenuousness 
 in his face that I positively wondered at his asking me so earnestly 
 to " forgive " them. He brought up a chair and sat down 
 beside me. 
 
 " I know that I am perhaps a medley of all sorts of vanities 
 and nothing more," I began, " but I'm not apologizing." 
 
 " And you've no need to apologize to anyone," he said, quietly 
 and earnestly. He talked all the time quietly and very slowly. 
 
 " I may be guilty in my own eyes. ... I hke being guilty in my 
 own eyes. . . . Kraft, forgive me for talking nonsense. Tell me, 
 surely you don't belong to that circle ? That's what I wanted 
 to ask." 
 
 " They are no sillier than other people and no wiser ; they are 
 mad like every one else. . . ." 
 
 " Why, is every one mad ? " I asked, turning towards him with 
 involuntary curiosity. 
 
 " All the best people are mad nowadays ; it's the carnival of 
 
 53
 
 mediocrity and ineptitude and nothing else. . . , But it's not 
 worth talking about." 
 
 As he talked he looked away into the air and began sentences 
 and broke off without finishing them. I was particularly struck 
 by a note of despondency in his voice. 
 
 " Surely Vassin Ls not one of them, Vassin has a mind, Vassin 
 has a moral idea ! " I cried. 
 
 " There are no moral ideas now. It suddenly appears that 
 there is not one left and, what's worse, that there never have 
 been any." 
 
 " Never have been any in the past ? " 
 
 " Let us leave that ! " he brought out with unmistakable 
 weariness. 
 
 I was touched by his sorrowful earnestness. Ashamed of 
 my own egoism I began to drop into his tone. 
 
 " The present day," he began after a pause lasting two minutes, 
 looking away into space, " the present day is the golden age 
 of mediocrity and callousness, of a passion for ignorance, idleness, 
 inefficiency, a craving for everything ready-made. No one 
 thinks ; it's rare for anyone to work out an idea for himself." 
 
 He broke off again and paused for a while ; I listened. " Now- 
 adays they are stripping Russia of her forests, and exhausting 
 her natural wealth, turning the country into a waste and making 
 it only fit for the Kalmucks. If a man looks forward and plants 
 a tree every one laughs at him, and tells him he won't live to 
 enjoy it. On the other hand those with aspirations discuss 
 nothing but what will be in a thousand years. The idea that 
 sustained men has utterl}' gone. It's as though they were all 
 at an hotel and were leaving Russia to-morrow. They are alive 
 if they could only . . ." 
 
 " Excuse me, Kraft, you said they worried their heads about 
 what would happen in a thousand years. But you despair 
 about the future of Russia . . . isn't that an anxiety of the 
 same sort ? " 
 
 " It — it's the most essential question in the world ! " he said 
 irritably, and jumped up quickly from his seat. 
 
 " Ah, yes ! I forgot," he said suddenly in quite a different voice, 
 looking at me in perplexity. " I asked you to come for something 
 special and meanwhile . . . for heaven's sake excuse me." 
 
 He seemed suddenly to wake up from a sort of dream, and was 
 almost disconcerted ; he took a letter out of a portfolio on the 
 table and gave it to me. 
 
 59
 
 " This is what I have to give you. It's a document of 
 some importance," he began, speaking collectedly and with a 
 businesslike air. Long afterwards, when I recalled it, I was 
 struck by this faculty in him (at an hour such as this was — 
 for him !) of turning such wholehearted attention on another 
 person's affairs and going into them with such firmness and 
 composure. 
 
 "It is a letter of Stolbeyev's, that is of the man whose will 
 gave rise to Versilov's lawsuit with the Princes Sokolsky. The 
 case is just being decided in the court, and will certainly be 
 decided in Versilov's favour ; the law is on his side. Meanwhile, 
 in this letter, a private letter written two years ago, the deceased 
 sets forth his real dispositions, or more accurately his desires, 
 and expresses them rather in favour of the Sokolskys than of 
 Versilov. At any rate the points on which the Sokolskys rest 
 their case in contesting the will are materially strengthened by 
 this letter. Ver'^ilov's opponents would give a great deal for 
 this letter, thougu it really has no positive legal value. Alexey 
 Nikanoritch (Andronikov), who managed Versilov's affairs, kept 
 this letter and not long before his death gave it to me, telling me 
 to ' take care of it ' ; perhaps he had a presentiment that he 
 was dying and was anxious about his papers. I was unwilling 
 to judge of Alexey Nikanoritch's intentions in the case, and I 
 must confess that at his death I found myself in disagreeable 
 uncertainty what to do with this document, especially as the 
 case was so soon to be concluded. But Marie Ivanovna, in whom 
 Alexey Nikanoritch seems to have put great confidence in his 
 lifetime, helped me out of the difficulty. She wrote to me three 
 weeks ago telling me that I was to give the letter to you, as this 
 would, she believed (her own expression) be in accordance with 
 the wishes of the deceased, and I am very glad that I can at last 
 give it to you." 
 
 " Tell me," I said, dumbfoundered at this new and unexpected 
 information, " what am I to do with this letter now ? How am 
 I to act ? " 
 
 " That's for you to decide.** 
 
 " Impossible ; my hands are tied, you must admit that ! 
 Versilov is so reckoning on this fortune . . . and, you know, 
 he'll be utterly lost without it ; and it suddenly appears that a 
 document like this exists ! " 
 
 " It only exists here in this room." 
 
 *' Is that really so ? " I looked at him attentively. 
 
 60
 
 " If you can't decide how to act in this case, what can I advise 
 you ? " 
 
 " But I can't give it to the Sokolskys either. I should ruin 
 all Versilov's hopes, and be a traitor to him besides. . . . On the 
 other hand if I give it to Versilov I plunge the innocent into 
 poverty, and I should put Versilov in a hopeless dilemma too ; 
 he would either have to give up the fortune or become a thief." 
 
 " You exaggerate the importance of the matter." 
 
 " Tell me one thing : is this letter decisive, conclusive ? " 
 
 " No, it isn't. I'm not much of a lawyer. A lawj'er on the 
 other side would, no doubt, know how to make use of such a 
 document and to turn it to account ; but Alexey Nikanoritch 
 considered positiv'ely that if this letter were put forward it would 
 have no great legal x^alue, so that Versilov's case might be won all 
 the same. This letter is more a matter of conscience, so to say. . . ." 
 
 " But that's what matters most of all," I interrupted, " just 
 because it would put Versilov in a hopeless dilemma." 
 
 " He may on the contrary destroy the document, and so escape 
 all danger." 
 
 " Have you any grounds for supposing such a thing of him, 
 Kraft ? That s what I want to know ; that's why I'm here." 
 
 " I believe every one would do the same iii his place." 
 
 " Would you behave so, yourself ? " 
 
 " I'm not going to receive a fortune, so I can't tell about 
 myself." 
 
 " Very well," I said, putting the letter in my pocket. "The 
 matter's settled for the present. Listen, Kraft. Marie Ivanovna, 
 who has, I assure you, told me a great deal, said to me that you 
 and only you could tell me the truth of what happened at Ems 
 a year and a half ago between Versilov and Mme. Ahmakov. 
 I've been looking forward to seeing you as a sun that would 
 throw light on everything. You don't know my position, 
 Kraft. I beseech you to tell me the whole truth. What I want 
 to know is what kind of man he is, and now — now I need to know 
 it more than ever." 
 
 " I wonder Marie Ivanovna did not tell you all about it herself ; 
 she might have heard it all from Andronikov, and of course she 
 has heard it and very likely knows more than I do." 
 
 " Andronikov was not clear about it himself, so Marie Ivanovna 
 told me. It seems a maze to which no one has the clue. The 
 devil himself would be lost in it. I know that you were at Ems 
 yourself at the time." 
 
 6i
 
 " I never knew the whole of it, but what I do know I will 
 willingly tell you if you like, though I doubt whether I shall 
 satisfy you." 
 
 2 
 
 I won't reproduce his story word for word, but will only give 
 a brief summary of it. 
 
 A year and a half before, Versilov (through the old prince) 
 oecame a constant visitor at the Ahraakovs' (they were all 
 abroad then, at Ems) and made a great impression on the 
 general himself, a man who had during three years of marriage 
 squandered all his wife's large dowry over cards, and as a result 
 of his irregular life had already had a paralytic stroke, though 
 he was not an old man. He had recovered from it before going 
 abroad, and was staying at Ems for the sake of his daughter by 
 his first wife. She was a girl of seventeen, in delicate health — 
 consumptive — and said to be extremely beautiful, but at the 
 same time very fantastical. She had no dowry ; but they 
 rested their hopes, as usual, on the old prince. Mme. Ahmakov 
 was said to be a good stepmother, but the girl, for some reason, 
 became particularly attached to Versilov. He was preaching 
 at that time " something impassioned," as Kraft expressed it, 
 some sort of new life ; " was in a state of religious fervour of 
 the most exalted kind," in the strange and perhaps ironical 
 phrase of Andronikov, which was repeated to me. But it was 
 noticeable that they all soon began to dislike him. The general 
 was positively afraid of him. Kraft did not altogether deny 
 the rumour that Versilov succeeded in instilling into the invalid 
 husband's mind the suspicion that his wife, Katerina Niko- 
 laevna, was not indifferent to the young Prince SokoLsky (who 
 had left Ems and was at that time in Paris). He did this not 
 directly, but " after his usual fashion " — ^by hints, inferences, 
 and all sorts of roundabout ways, " at which he is a great master," 
 said Kraft. I may say that Kraft considered him, and preferred 
 to consider him, altogether rather as an impostor and an invete- 
 rate intriguer than as a man genuinely possessed by some exalted, 
 or at least original, idea. I knew, apart from Kraft, that 
 Versilov, who had at first had an extraordinary influence on 
 Katerina Nikolaevna, had by degrees come to an open rupture 
 with her. What lay behind all this I could not find out from 
 Kraft, but every one confirmed the story of the mutual hatred 
 that had sprung up between them after their friendship. Then 
 
 62
 
 came a strange circumstance : Katerma Nikolaevna's invalid 
 stepdaughter apparently fell in love with Versilov, or was struck 
 by something in him, or was inflamed by his eloquence or I 
 don't know what ; but it is known that at one time Versilov 
 spent almost every day at her side. It ended by the young 
 lady's suddenly announcing to her father that she wanted to 
 marry Versilov. That this actually had happened was con- 
 firmed by every one — by Kraft, by Andronikov, and by Marie 
 Ivanovna, and even Tatyana Pavlovna once spoke about it 
 before me. They asserted also that Versilov not only desired 
 it himself but positively insisted on a marriage with this girl, 
 and that these two creatures of such different species, one old 
 and the other young, were in complete agreement about it. But 
 the father was alarmed at the idea. As he became more estranged 
 from Katerina Nikolaevna, whom he had been very fond of, 
 he now began almost to idolize his daughter, especially after his 
 stroke. But the bitterest opposition to the idea of such a 
 marriage came from Katerina Nikolaevna. There followed a 
 great number of secret and extremely unpleasant family wrangles, 
 disputes, mortifying and in fact revolting scenes. At last the 
 father began to give way before the persistence of the love-sick 
 girl who was, as Kraft expressed it, " fanaticized " by Versilov. 
 But Katerina Nikolaevna still resisted it with implacable hatred. 
 And it is at this stage that the muddle begins which no one can 
 understand. But this was Kraft's conjecture based on the 
 facts — only a conjecture, however. 
 
 He thought Versilov had succeeded, in his characteristic гоау, 
 in subtly suggesting to the young person that the reason Katerina 
 Nikolaevna would not agree was that she was in love with h im 
 herself, and had been for a long time past worrying him with 
 her jealousy, pursuing him and intriguing ; that she had declared 
 her feeling to him and was now ready to horsewhip him for 
 loving some one else : something of that sort, anyway. Worst 
 of all, that he had " hinted " this to the girl's father, the husband 
 of the " unfaithful " wife, explaining that the prince had only 
 been a passing amusement. The house, of course, began to be 
 a perfect hell. In some versions of the story Katerina Niko- 
 laevna was devoted to her stepdaughter and now was in despair 
 at being calumniated to her, to say nothing of her relations 
 with her invalid husband. And, what is more, there existed 
 another version, which, to my grief, I found Kraft fully beheved, 
 and therefore I believed myself (of all this I had heard already). 
 
 63
 
 It was maintained (Andronikov, it was said, had heard it from 
 Katerina Nikolaevna herself) that, on the contrary, Versilov 
 had in the past, before his feehng for the girl, made love to 
 Katerina Nikolaevna ; that though she had been his friend 
 and had been for a time carried away by his religious exaltation, 
 yet she had constantly opposed and mistrusted him, and that 
 she had met Versilov's declaration with deep resentment and 
 had ridiculed him vindictively ; that she had formally dismissed 
 him for having openly suggested that she should become his 
 wife as her husband was expected to have a second attack very 
 shortly. On this theory Katerina Nikolaevna must have felt 
 a peculiar hatred for Versilov when she saw him afterwards so 
 openly trying to win her stepdaughter's hand. Marie Ivanovna, 
 who told me all this in Moscow, believed in both versions — both 
 together, that is ; she maintained that there was nothing incon- 
 sistent in all this, that it was something in the style of la haine 
 dans Varnour, of the wounded pride of love on both sides, etc. 
 etc. — something, in fact, like a very subtle, intricate romance, 
 quite out of keeping with any serious and common-sense man 
 and, moreover, with an element of nastiness in it. But Marie 
 Ivanovna, in spite of her estimable character, had been from 
 childhood upwards saturated with sentiment, from the novels 
 which she read day and night. The sequel exhibited Versilov's 
 evident baseness, his lying and intriguing, something dark and 
 loatlisome in him, the more so as the affair had a tragic ending. 
 The poor infatuated girl poisoned herself, they say, by means 
 of phosphorus matches, though even now I don't know whether 
 to believe that last detail. They did their utmost to hush it 
 up, anyway. The young lady was ill for a fortnight and then 
 died. So the matches remained an open question, but Kraft 
 firmly believed in them. Shortly afterwards the young lady's 
 father died too — it was said from his grief, which brought on 
 a second stroke, though this did not occur till three months 
 later. But after the young lady's funeral the young Prince 
 Sokolsky, who had returned to Ems from Paris, gave Versilov 
 a slap in the face in a public garden, and the latter had not 
 replied with a challenge but had, on the contrary, showed himself 
 next day on the promenade as though nothing had happened. 
 Then every one turned against him, in Petersburg as well. 
 Though Versilov kept up with some acquaintances, they were 
 quite in a different circle. All his aristocratic friends 
 blamed him, though, as a fact, scarcely' anyone knew the details ; 
 
 64
 
 they only knew something of the young lady's romantic death 
 and the slap in the face. Only two or three persons knew the 
 story fully, so far as that was possible. The one who had known 
 most of all was the deceased, Andronikov, who had for many 
 years had business relations with the Ahmakovs, and had had 
 to do with Katerina Nikolaevna particularly in one case. But 
 he kept all these secrets even from his own family and had only 
 told part of the story to Kraft and Marie Ivanovna, and that 
 from necessity. 
 
 " The chief point is that there is a document in existence," 
 concluded Kraft, " which Mme. Ahmakov is very much afraid 
 of." 
 
 And this was what he told me about that. When the old 
 prince, Katerina Nikolaevna's father, was abroad, beginning to 
 recover from his attack, she was so indiscreet as to write to 
 Andronikov in dead secret (Katerina Nikolaevna put impUcit 
 faith in him) an extremely compromising letter. During his 
 convalescence the old prince actually did, it was said, display 
 a propensity to waste his money — almost to fling it away, in 
 fact ; he began buying, when he was abroad, quite useless but 
 expensive objects, pictures, vases, making donations and sub- 
 scriptions of large sums to various institutions out there, and 
 goodness knows what. He almost bought, on the sly, for an 
 immense sum, a ruined and encumbered estate from a fashionable 
 Russian spendthrift ; and, finally, began even dreaming of 
 matrimony. And in view of all this, Katerina Nikolaevna, who 
 had never left her father's side during his illness, wrote to 
 Andronikov, as a " lawyer " and " an old friend," inquiring 
 whether " it would be legally possible to put the old prince 
 under guardianship or to declare him incompetent to manage 
 his own affairs, and, if so, how it could best be done without 
 scandal, that no one might blame her and that her father's 
 feelings might be spared, etc. etc." It was said that Andronikov 
 advised her against this and dissuaded her ; and later on, when 
 the old prince had completely recovered, it was impossible to 
 return to the idea : but the letter remained in Andronikov's 
 hands. And now he had died, and Katerina Nikolaevna had 
 at once remembered the letter : if it turned up among the 
 deceeused's papers and fell into the old prince's hands, he would, 
 no doubt, have cast her ofif for ever, cut her out of his will and 
 not have given her another farthing during his lifetime. The 
 thought that his own daughter did not believe in his sanity, 
 
 65
 
 and even wanted to have him certified as a hmatic would change 
 the lamb into a wild beast. Her husband's gambling habits 
 had left her at his death without a farthing, and she had only her 
 father to look to. She fully hoped to receive from him a second 
 dowry as ample as the first. 
 
 Kraft did not quite know what had become of the letter, but 
 observed that Andronikov never tore up papers of consequence, 
 and he was, besides, a man of " broad principles " as well as 
 *' broad intelligence." (I was positively surprised at the inde- 
 pendence of Kraft's criticism of Andronikov, whom he had 
 loved and respected so much.) But Kraft felt convinced that 
 Versilov had obtained possession of the compromising document 
 through his close relations Avith Andronikov's widow and 
 daughters ; it was known, indeed, that they had at once, of 
 necessity, handed over all the deceased's papers to Wrsilov. 
 He knew, too, that Katerina Nikolaevna was already aware 
 that the letter was in Versilov's possession and that she was 
 frightened on account of it, imagining that Versilov would take 
 the letter straight to her old father ; that on her return from 
 abroad she had searched for the document in Petersburg, had been 
 at the Andronikovs', and was still hunting for it now, so that 
 she must still have some hope that the letter was not in Versilov's 
 hands ; and, finally, that she had gone to Moscow simply with 
 the same object, and had entreated Marie Ivanovna to look for 
 it among the papers that had remained with her. She had 
 only recently, since her return to Petersburg, heard of the 
 existence of Marie Ivanovna, and of the footing on which the 
 latter had stood with Andronikov, 
 
 " You don't think she found it at Marie Ivanovna's ? " I 
 asked. " I have my own ideas." 
 
 " If Marie Ivanovna has not told even you about it, probably 
 she hasn't got it." 
 
 " Then you suppose the document is in Versilov's hands ? " 
 
 " Most likely it is. I don't know, though. Anything is 
 possible," he answered with evident weariness. 
 
 I gave up questioning him, and indeed there was no object in 
 doing so. All that mattered most had been made clear to me, in 
 spite of all this sordid tangle ; all that I feared most was confirmed. 
 
 " Its all like a delirious nightmare," I said, deeply dejected, 
 as I took up my hat. 
 
 " Is the man so dear to you ? " asked lu-aft. I read his deep 
 sympathy on his face at that minute. 
 
 66
 
 " I felt I shouldn't learn the whole story from you," said I. 
 " Mme. Ahmakov is the only hope left me. I was resting my 
 hopes on her. Perhaps I shall go to her and perhaps not." 
 
 Kraft looked at me with some surprise. 
 
 " Good-bye, Kraft," I said. " Why force oneself on people 
 who don't want to see one ? Isn't it better to break with every- 
 thing, eh ? " 
 
 " And what then ? " he asked almost sullenly, keeping his eyes 
 on the ground. 
 
 " Retreat within oneself 1 Break with everything and with- 
 draw within oneself !" 
 
 " To America ? " 
 
 " To America ! Within oneself, simply within oneself ! 
 That's my whole idea, Kraft ! " I said enthusiastically. 
 
 He looked at me with some curiosity. 
 
 " Have you such a place ' within j^urself ' ? " 
 
 " Yes. Good-bye, Kraft ; thank you. I am sorry to have 
 troubled you. If I were in your place and had that sort of 
 Russia in my head I'd send them all ^o hell ; I'd say : ' Get 
 out with 3'OU ; keep your fretting and intriguing to yourselves — 
 it's nothing to do with me.' " 
 
 ** Stay a little longer," he said suddenly when he was already 
 with me at the front door. 
 
 I was a little surprised. I went back and sat down again. 
 ICraft sat opposite. We looked at each other with a sort of 
 smile. I can see it all now. I remember that I felt a sort of 
 wonder at him. 
 
 " What I like in you is that you're so — courteous," I said 
 suddenly. 
 
 " Yes ? " 
 
 " I feel that, because I don't often succeed in being courteous 
 myself, though I should like to. And yet perhaps it's better 
 for people to be rude to one ; at least they save one from the 
 misfortune of liking them." 
 
 " What hour of the day do you like best ? " he asked, evidently 
 not listening to me. 
 
 " What hour ? I don't know. I don't like sunset." 
 
 " No ? " he brought out with a peculiar curiosity, 
 
 " Are you going away again ? " 
 
 " Yes. I'm going away." 
 
 " Soon ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 67.
 
 " Surely you don't want a revolver to get to Vilna ? " I asked, 
 without the faintest hidden meaning in my words — and indeed 
 there was no meaning at all ! I asked the question simply 
 because I happened to glance at the revolver and I луаз at a 
 loss for something to say. 
 
 He turned and looked intently at the revolver. 
 
 " No, I take it simply from habit." 
 
 *' If I had a revolver I should keep it hidden somewhere, 
 locked up. It really is a temptation, you know. I may not 
 believe in an epidemic of suicide, but if it's always catching my 
 eye, there really are moments, you know, when it might tempt 
 one." 
 
 " Don't talk about it," he said, and suddenly got up from 
 his chair. 
 
 " I wasn't thinking of myself," I said, standing up too. " I'm 
 not going to use it. If you were to give me three lives it wouldn't 
 be enough for me." 
 
 " Long life to you," broke from him. 
 
 He gave me an absent-minded smile and, strange to say, 
 walked straight into the passage as though to show me out, 
 probably not noticing what he was doing. 
 
 " I wish you every sort of success, Kraft," I said, as I went 
 out on to the stairs. 
 
 " That's as it may be," he answered firmly, 
 
 " Till we meet again." 
 
 " That's as it may be, too." 
 
 I remember his last glance at me. 
 
 And this was the man for whom my heart had been beating 
 all those years ! And what had I expected from Kraft, what 
 new information ? 
 
 As I came away from Kraft's I felt very hungry. It was 
 evening and I had had no dinner. I went to a little restaurant 
 in Great Prospeot that I might not have to spend more than 
 twenty, or at most twenty-five, kopecks — ^I would not have 
 allowed myself to spend more at that time. I took some soup 
 for myself, and as I ate it I sat looking out of window. There 
 were a great many people in the room, and there was a smell of 
 burnt meat, restaurant napkins, and tobacco. It was nasty. 
 Over my head a dumb nightingale, gloomy and pensive, was 
 
 68
 
 pecking at the bottom of its cage. There was a noise in the 
 adjoining Ь1Шаг(1-гоот, but I sat there and sank into deep 
 thought. The setting sun (why was Kraft surprised at my not 
 liking the sunset ?) aroiised in me a new and unexpected sensa- 
 tion quite out of keeping with my surroundings. I was haunted 
 by the soft look in my mother's eyes, her dear eyes which had 
 been watching me so timidly the whole month. Of late I had 
 been very rude at home, to her especially. I had a desire to be 
 rude to Versilov, but not daring, in my contemptible way 
 tormented her instead. I had thoroughly frightened her, in 
 fact ; often she looked at me with such imploring eyes when 
 Andrey Petrovitch came in, afraid of some outburst on my 
 part. It was a very strange thing that, sitting here in the 
 restaurant, I realized for the first time that, while Versilov spoke 
 to me familiarly, she always addressed me deferentially. I 
 had wondered at it before and had not been impressed in her 
 favour by it, but now I realized it particularly, and strange ideas 
 passed one after another through my brain. I sat there a long 
 time, till it got quite dark. I thought about my sister too. 
 
 It was a fateful moment for me. At all costs I must decide. 
 Could I be incapable of decision ? What is the difficulty of 
 breaking with them if they don't want me either ? My mother 
 and sister ? But I should not leave them, anyway, however 
 things turned out. 
 
 It is true that the entrance of that man into my life, though 
 only for an instant in my early childhood, was the turning- 
 point from which my conscious development began. Had he 
 not met mc; then, my mind, my way of thinking, my fate, would 
 certainly have been different, even in spite of the character 
 ordained me by destiny, which I could not anyway have escaped. 
 
 But it turned out that this man was only a dream, the dream 
 of my childhood. I had invented him myself, and in reality 
 he was a different man who fell far below my imagination. I 
 had come to find a genuine man, not a man like this. And why 
 had I fallen in love with him once and for ever in that brief 
 moment when I saw him as a child ? That " for ever " must 
 vanish. Some time, if I have space for it, I will describe that 
 meeting, the most futile incident leading up to nothing. But 
 I had built it up into a pyramid. I had begiin building that 
 pyramid as I lay in my little bed, when, falling asleep, I could 
 dream and weep — ^what for I cannot tell. Because I had been 
 abandoned ? Because I was tormented ? But I was only
 
 tormented a little, and only for two years at Touchard's, the 
 school into which he thrust me before leaving me for ever. 
 Afterwards no one tormented me ; quite the contrary ; I looked 
 scornfully at my schoolfellows. And I can't endure the self-pity 
 of the forlorn. There is no role more revolting than that of the 
 orphan, the illegitimate, the outcast and all such wretched 
 creatures, for whom I never feel any pity when they solemnly 
 parade before the public and begin piteously but insistently 
 whining of how they have been treated. I could beat them all ! 
 Will none of the filthy, conventional herd understand that it 
 would be ten times as creditable to hold their tongues, not to 
 whine and not to deign to complain ! And if he does deign he 
 deserves his fate, the bastard. That's my view ! 
 
 But what is absurd is not that I used to dream of him in my 
 little bed but that, almost forgetting my chief object, I have 
 come here for the sake of him, of that " imagined " man, I 
 have come to help him to stamp out a calumny, to crush his 
 enemies. The document of which Kraft had spoken, that 
 woman's letter to Andronikov about which she was so afraid, 
 which might ruin her and reduce her to poverty, which she 
 supposed to be in Versilov's hands, was not in his possession 
 but in mine, sewn up in my coat pocket ! I had sewn it there 
 myself, and no one in the whole world knew of it. The fact that 
 the romantic Marie Ivanovna, in whose keeping the letter was 
 left " to be preserved," thought fit to give it to me and to no 
 one else was only her own idea and a matter for her to decide, 
 which I am not called upon to explain, though I may discuss it 
 later if it seems appropriate. But, armed with this unexpected 
 weapon, I could not help yielding to the temptation to come to 
 Petersburg. Of course, I proposed to assist this man secretly 
 without display or excitement, without expecting his praise or 
 his embraces. And never, never would I condescend to reproach 
 him for anything. And indeed, was it his fault that I had fallen 
 in love with him and had created a fantastic ideal of him ? 
 Though, indeed, I did not perhaps love him at all ! His original 
 mind, his interesting character, his intrigues and adventures, 
 and what my mother had been to him — all that, it seemed 
 could not keep me. It was enough that my fantastic doll was 
 shattered, and that I could not, perhaps, love him any more. 
 And so what was keeping me ? why was I sticking there ? — 
 that was the question. The upshot of it all was that only I 
 was a fool, no one else. 
 
 70
 
 But, expecting honesty from others, I will be honest myself. 
 I must confess that the letter sewn up in my pocket did not 
 only arouse in me the passionate desire to rush to Versilov's 
 aid. Now it is quite clear to me, and even then J thought of 
 it with a blush. I had visions of a woman — a proud, aristocratic 
 creature — ^whom I should meet face to face. She would laugh 
 at me, despise me, as though I were a mouse ; she would not 
 even suspect that her future was in my power. This idea 
 intoxicated me even in Moscow, and still more in the train on 
 the way ; I have confessed this already. Yes, I hated that 
 woman, but already I loved her as my victim ; and all this was 
 true, all this was real. But this was childishness which I should 
 not have expected even from anyone like me. I am describing 
 my feelings then, that is, what passed through my mind as I 
 sat in the restaurant under the nightingale and made up my 
 mind to break with them for ever. The memory of my recent 
 meeting with that woman sent a rush of colour to my face. An 
 ignominious meeting ! An ignominious and stupid impression, 
 and — ^what mattered most — ^it showed my incapacity for action. 
 It proved — I thought then — ^that I was not strong enough to 
 withstand the stupidest lure, though I told Kraft myself just 
 now thatlhsul my place "within myself," and work of my own, 
 and that if I had three lives they wouldn't be enough for me. 
 I said that proudly. My having abandoned my idea and mixed 
 myself up with Versilov's affairs was to some extent excusable, 
 but that I should run from side to side like a frightened hare 
 and be drawn into every trifle — that, of course, was simply 
 my own folly. What induced me to go to Dergatchev's and 
 to burst out with my imbecilities, though I knew long ago 
 that I am incapable of saying anj^hing cleverly or sensibly, 
 that it is always better for me to be silent ? And some Vassin 
 or other reassures me with the reflection that I've fifty years of 
 life ahead of me and so I've no need to worry. It was a good 
 reply, I admit, and did credit to his unmistakable intelligence ; 
 it was good because it was the simplest, and what is simplest is 
 never understood till the last, when everything that is cleverer 
 or stupider has been tried already. But I knew that answer 
 before Vassin ; I'd had an inkling of that thought more than 
 three years ago ; what's more, my " idea " was to some extent 
 included in it. Such were my reflections in the restaurant. 
 
 . I felt disgusted as I made my way towards Semyonovsky Polk 
 at eight o'clock in the evening, worn out with walking and with 
 
 71
 
 thinking. It was quite dark by then and the weather had 
 changed ; it was dry, but a horrid Petersburg wind had sprung 
 up, blowing keenly and malignantly on my back and whirUng 
 up the dust and sand. How many sullen faces of poor people 
 hurrying home to their comers from work and trade ! Every 
 one had his own sullen anxiety in his face, and there was perhaps 
 not one common uniting thought in the crowd ! Kraft was 
 right ; every one was different. I met a httle boy, so little 
 that it was strange he could be out alone in the street at that 
 hour ; he seemed to have lost his way. A peasant- woman 
 stopped for a minute to listen to him, but, not understanding 
 what he said, waved her hand and wenf on, leaving him alone 
 in the darkness. I was going towards him, but he suddenly 
 took fright and ran away. 
 
 As I approached the house I made up my mind that I should 
 never go and see Vassin. I had an intense longing as I went 
 up the stairs to find them at home alone, without Versilov, that 
 I might have time before he came in to say something nice to 
 my mother or to my dear sister, to whom I had scarcely said 
 anything particular all that month. It so happened that he 
 was not at home. 
 
 By the way, as I am bringing on to the scene this " new 
 character " (I am speaking of Versilov), I will introduce briefly 
 a formal account of him, though it is of no significance. I do 
 this to make things more comprehensible for the reader, and 
 because I can't foresee where this account could fit in in the 
 later part of my story. 
 
 He studied at the imiversity but went into a cavalry regiment 
 of the guards. He married Mile. Fanariotov and retired from 
 the army. He went abroad, and on his return lived a life of 
 worldly gaiety in Moscow. On his wife's death he spent some 
 time in the country ; then came the episode with my mother. 
 Then he lived for a long time somewhere in the south. During 
 the war with Europe he served in the army but did not reach 
 the Crimea and was never in action. At the conclusion of the 
 war he left the service and went abroad. He took my mother 
 with him, though he left her at Konigsberg, The poor woman 
 used sometimes, shaking her head, to tell with a sort of horror 
 how she had spent six months there with her little girl, not 
 knowing the language, absolutely friendless, and in the end 
 
 72
 
 penniless, as though she were lost in a forest. Then Tatyana 
 Pavlovna came to fetch her and took her back to some place in 
 the Novgorod Province. Then, on the emancipation of the 
 serfs, Versilov became one of the first " mediators," and is said 
 to have performed his duties admirably ; but he soon gave this 
 up, and in Petersburg was occupied with the conduct of various 
 private lawsuits. Andronikov always had a high opinion of 
 his capacity ; he had a great respect for him, and only said 
 he did not understand his character. Then Versilov gave that 
 up too, and went abroad again — this time for a long period, 
 several years. Then came his close intimacy with old Prince 
 Sokolsky. During this period his financial position underwent 
 two or three radical changes. At one time he fell into complete 
 poverty, then grew wealthy and rose again. 
 
 Having brought my story to this point, I am determined to 
 describe my " idea " too. For the first time since its conception 
 I will translate it into words. I am determined to reveal it, so 
 to speak, to the reader, partly for the sake of greater clearness 
 in what I have to explain further. And it is not only confusing 
 for the reader ; even I, the author, am beginning to get muddled 
 by the difficulty of explaining each step without explaining what 
 led up to it and induced me to take it. By keeping up this 
 " attitude of silence " I have clumsily descended to one of those 
 " literary graces " which I have ridiculed above. Before entering 
 upon my Petersburg romance with all my ignominious adventures 
 in it, I find this preface is necessary. But I was not tempted to 
 silence for the sake of literary " grace " but was forced to it 
 by the nature of the case, that is, the difficulty of the case ; even 
 now, when it is all over, I find it very difficult to put this idea 
 into words. Besides, I must describe it in its aspect at that 
 time, that is, the form it took and the way I looked at it, not 
 now, but then, and that is a fresh difficulty. To describe some 
 things is almost impossible. The ideas that are the simplest 
 and the clearest are the most difficult to understand. If before 
 the discovery of America Columbus had begun telling his idea 
 to other people, 1 am convinced that for a very long time people 
 would not have imderstood him. And indeed they did not 
 understand him . I don't mean to compare myself with Columbus, 
 and if anyone imagines that I do he ought to be ashamed of 
 himself, that's all. 
 
 73
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 1 
 
 My " idea " is — to become a Rothschild. I invite the reader to 
 keep calm and not to excite himself. 
 
 I repeat it. My " idea " is to become a Rothschild, to become 
 as rich as Rothschild, not simply rich, but as rich as Rothschild. 
 What objects I have in view, what for, and why — all that shall 
 come later. First I will simply show that the attainment of 
 my object is a mathematical certainty. 
 
 It is a very simple matter ; the whole secret lies in two words : 
 obstinacy and perseverance. 
 
 " We have heard that ; it's nothing new," people will tell me. 
 Every " vater,^* in Germany repeats this to his children, and 
 meanwhile your Rothschild (James Rothschild the Parisian, 
 is the one I mean) is unique while there are millions of such 
 " vatersr 
 
 I should answer : 
 
 " You assert that you've heard it, but you've heard nothing. 
 It's true that you're right about one thing. When I said that 
 this was ' very simple,' I forgot to add that it is most difficult. 
 All the religions and the moralities of the world amount to 
 one thing : ' Love virtue and avoid vice.' One would think 
 nothing could be simpler. But just try doing something virtuous 
 and giving up any one of your vices ; just try it. It's the same 
 with this. 
 
 " That's why your innumerable German ' vaters ' may, for 
 ages past reckoning, have repeated those two wonderful words 
 which contain the whole secret, and, meanwhile, Rothschild 
 remains imique. It shows it's the same but not the same, and 
 these ' vaters ' don't repeat the same idea. 
 
 " No doubt they too have heard of obstinacy and perseverance, 
 but to attain my object what I need is not these German 
 ' vaters^ ' obstinacy or these ' vaters' ' perseverance." 
 
 " The mere fact that he is a ' vater ' — I don't mean only the 
 Germans — that he has a family, that he is living like other 
 people, has expenses like other people, has obligations like other 
 people, means that he can't become a Rothschild, but must 
 remain an average man. I understand quite clearly that in 
 
 74
 
 becoming a Rothschild, or merely desiring to become one, not 
 in the German ' vaters' ' way but seriously, I must at the same 
 time cut myself off from society." 
 
 Some years ago I read in the newspaper that on one of the 
 steamers on the Volga there died a beggar who went about beg- 
 ging in rags and was known to every one. On his death they 
 foimd sewn up in his shirt three thousand roubles in notes. 
 The other day I read of another beggar of the " respectable " 
 sort, who used to go about the restamrants holding out his hand. 
 He was arrested and there was foxmd on him five thousand 
 roubles. Two conclusions follpw directly from this. The first, 
 that obstinacy in saving even the smallest coin will produce 
 enormous results in the long rim (time is of no account in this), 
 and secondly that the most unskilful form of accumulation if 
 only persevering is mathematically certain of success. 
 
 Meanwhile there are perhaps a good number of respectable, 
 clever, obstinate people who cannot save either three or five 
 thousand, however much they struggle, though they would be 
 awfully glad to have such a sum. Why is that ? The answer 
 is clear : it is because not one of them, in spite of all their wishing 
 it, desires it to such a degree that, for instance, if he is not able 
 to save by other means, he is ready to become a beggar, and so 
 persistent that after becoming a beggar, he will not waste the 
 first farthing he is given on an extra crust of bread for himself 
 or his family. With this system of saving, that is in beggary, 
 one must live on bread and salt and nothing more, to save up 
 such sums ; at least, so I imagine. That is no doubt what the 
 two beggars I have mentioned above did do ; they must have 
 eaten nothing but bread and have lived almost in the open air. 
 There is no doubt that they had no intention of becoming 
 Rothschilds ; they were simply Harpagons or Ilyushkins in 
 their purest form, nothing more ; but, when there is intelligent 
 accumulation in quite a different form with the object of be- 
 coming a Rothschild, no less strength of will is needed than in the 
 case of those two beggars. The Oerman " vater " does not 
 show such strength of will. There are many kinds of strength 
 in the world, especially of strength of will and of desire. There 
 is the temperature of boiling water and there is the temperature 
 of molten iron. 
 
 One wants here the same thing as in a mona^stery, the same 
 heroic asceticism. Feeling is wanted, not only idea. What 
 for ? W^y 1 Is it moral and not monstrous to wear sackcloth 
 
 75
 
 and eat black bread all one's life to heap up filthy lucre ? These 
 questions I will consider later. Now I am discussing only the 
 possibility of attaining the object. When I thought of my 
 " idea " and it was forged in white heat, I began asking myself — 
 am I capable of asceticism ? With this object, for the whole of 
 the first month I took bread and water, not more than two and 
 a half poimds of black bread a day. To do this I was obliged 
 to deceive Nikolay Semyonovitch who was clever, and Marie 
 Ivanovna who was anxious for my welfare. Though I wounded 
 her and somewhat surprised Nikolaj' Semyonovitch who was a 
 man of great delicacy, I insisted on having my dinner brought 
 to my room. There I simply got rid of it. I poured the soup 
 out of window on to the nettles or elsewhere, the meat I either 
 flung out of window to a dog, or wrapping it up in paper put 
 it in my pocket and threw it away after, and so on. As the 
 bread given me for dinner was much less than two and a half 
 pounds I bought bread on the sly. I stood this for a month 
 perhaps, only upsetting my stomach a little, but the next month 
 I added soup to the bread and drank a glass of tea morning and 
 evening, and I assure you I passed a year like that in perfect 
 health and content, as well as in a moral ecstasy and perpetual 
 secret delight. Far from regretting the dainties I missed, I was 
 overjoyed. At the end of the year, having convinced myself 
 I was capable of standing any fast, however severe, I began 
 eating as they did, and went back to dine with them. Not satis- 
 fied with this experiment I made a second ; apart from the sum 
 paid to Nikolay Semyonovitch for my board I was allowed 
 five roubles a month for pocket money. I resolved to spend 
 only half. This was a very great trial, but after at most two 
 years I had in my pocket by the time I went to Petersburg 
 seventy roubles saved entirely in this way, besides other money. 
 The result of these two experiments was of vast importance to 
 me : I had learnt positively that I could so will a thing as to 
 attain my objects, and that I repeat is the essence of " my idea " 
 — the rest is all nonsense. 
 
 Let us, however, look into the nonsense too. 
 
 I have described my two experiments. In Petersburg, as 
 the reader knows, I made a third. I went to the auction and 
 at one stroke made a profit of seven roubles ninety-five kopecks. 
 This of course was not a real experiment, it was only by way of 
 
 76
 
 sport and diversion. I simply wanted to filch a moment from 
 the future, and to test how I should go and behave. I had 
 decided even at the very first, in Moscow, to put oflf really be- 
 ginning till I was perfectly free. I fully realized . that I must, 
 for instance, finish my work at school. (The imiversity, as the 
 reader knows already, I sacrificed.) There is no disputing that 
 I went to Petersburg with concealed anger in my heart. No 
 sooner had I left the grammar school and become free for the 
 first time, than I suddenly saw that Versilov's affairs would 
 distract me from beginning my enterprise for an indefinite 
 period. But though I was angry I went to Petersburg feeling 
 perfectly serene about my object. 
 
 It is true I knew nothing of practical life ; but I had been 
 thinking about it for three years and could have no doubt about 
 it. I had pictured a thousand times over how I should begin. 
 I should suddenly find myself, as though dropped from the 
 clouds, in one of our two capitals (I pitched on Petersburg or 
 Moscow for my beginning, and by choice Petersburg, to which 
 I gave the preference through certain considerations), perfectly 
 free, not dependent on anyone, in good health, and with a 
 hundred roubles hidden in my pocket, as the capital for my first 
 investment. Without a hundred roubles it would be impossible 
 to begin, as, without it, even the earliest period of success would 
 be too remote. Apart from my hundred roubles I should have, 
 as the reader knows already, courage, obstinacy, perseverance, 
 absolute isolation and secrecy. Isolation was the principal 
 thing. I greatly disliked the idea of any connection or association 
 with others until the last moment. Speaking generally I pro- 
 posed beginning my enterprise alone, that was a sine qua поп. 
 People weigh upon me, and with them I should have been uneasy, 
 and uneasiness would have hindered my success. Generally 
 speaking, all my life up to now, in all my dreams of how I would 
 behave with people, I always imagined myself being very clever ; 
 it was very different in reality — I was always very stupid ; and 
 I confess sincerely, with indignation, I always gave myself away 
 and was flustered, and so I resolved to cut people off altogether. 
 I should gain by it independence, tranquilhty of mind and 
 clearness of motive. 
 
 In spite of the terrible prices in Petersburg I determined once 
 for all that I should never spend more than fifteen kopecks on 
 food, and I knew I should keep my word. This question of 
 food I had thought over minutely for a long time past. I 
 
 77
 
 resolved, for instance, sometimes to eat nothing but bread and 
 salt for two days together, and to spend on the third day what 
 I had saved on those two days. I fancied that this would be 
 better for my health than a perpetual uniform fast on a minimum 
 of fifteen kopecks. Then I needed a comer, literally a " corner," 
 solely to sleep the night in and to have a refuge in very bad 
 weather. I proposed living in the street, and, if necessary, I 
 was ready to sleep in one of the night refuges where they give 
 you a piece of bread and a glass of tea as well as a night's lodging. 
 Oh, I should be quite capable of hiding my money so that it 
 sho<uld not be stolen in the " corner," or in the refuge, and should 
 not even be suspected, I'll answer for that ! 
 
 " Steal from me ? Why, I'm afraid of stealing myself ! " I 
 once heard a passer-by in the street say gaUy. Of coiirse I 
 only apply to myself the caution and smartness of it, I don't 
 intend to steal. What is more, while I was in Moscow, perhaps 
 from the very first day of my " idea," I resolved that I would 
 not be a pawnbroker or usurer either ; there are Jews for that 
 job, and such Russians as have neither intelligence nor character. 
 Ралуп broking and usury are for the commonplace. 
 
 As for clothes, I resolved to have two suits, one for every day 
 and one for best. When once I had got them I felt sure I should 
 wear them a long time. I purposely trained myself to wear a 
 suit for two and a half years, and in fact I discovered a secret : 
 for clothes always to look new ajtid not to get shabby they should 
 be brushed as often as possible, five or six times a day. Briishing 
 does not hurt the cloth. I speak from knowledge. What does 
 hiu't it is dust and dirt. Dust is the same thing as stones if you 
 look at it through the microscope, and, however hard a brush 
 is, it is almost the same as fur. I trained myself to wear my 
 boots evenly. The secret lies in putting down the whole sole 
 at once, and avoiding treading on the side. One can train 
 oneself to this in a fortnight, after that the habit is imconscious. 
 In this way boots last on an average a third as long again. That is 
 the experience of two years.* 
 
 Then followed my activity itself. 
 
 I started with the hypothesis that I had a hundred roubles. 
 In Petersburg there are so many auction sales, petty hucksters' 
 booths and people who want things, that it would be impossible 
 not to sell anything one bought for a little more. Over the 
 album I had made seven roubles ninety-five kopecks profit 
 on two roubles five kopecks of capital invested. This immense 
 
 78
 
 profit was made without any risk : I could see from his eyes that 
 the purchaser would not back out. Of course I know quite well 
 that this was only a chance ; but it is just such chances I am on 
 the look-out for, that is why I have made up my mind to live in the 
 street. Well, granted that such a chance is unusual, no matter ; 
 my first principle will be to risk nothing, and the second to make 
 every day more than the minimum spent on my subsistence, 
 that the process of accumulation may not be interrupted for a 
 single day. 
 
 I shall be told that " all this is a dream, you don't know the 
 streets, and you'll be taken in at the first step." But I have will 
 and character, and the science of the streets is a science Uke any 
 other : persistence, attention and capacity can conquer it. In 
 the grammar school right up to the seventh form I was one of the 
 first ; I was very good at mathematics. Why, can one possibly 
 exaggerate the value of experience and knowledge of the streets 
 to such a fantastic pitch as to predict my failure for certain ? 
 That is only what people say who have never made an experiment 
 in anything, have never begun any sort of life, but have grown 
 stifE in second-hand stagnation. " One man breaks his nose, 
 so another must break his." No, I won't break mine. I have 
 character and if I pay attention I can learn anything. But is it 
 possible to imagine that with constant persistence, with incessant 
 vigilance, and continual calculation and reflection, with perpetual 
 activity and alertness one could fail to find out how to make 
 twenty kopecks to spare every day ? Above all I resolved not 
 to struggle for the maximum profit, but always to keep calm. 
 As time went on after heaping up one or two thousand I should, 
 of course, naturally rise above second-hand dealing and street 
 trading. T know, of course, far too little as yet about the stock 
 exchange, about shares, banking and all that sort of thing. But 
 to make up for that I know, as I know I have five fingers on my 
 hand, that I should learn all the stock exchange and banking 
 business as well as anyone else, and that the subject would turn 
 out to be perfectly simple, because one is brought to it by practice. 
 What need is there of the wisdom of Solomon so long as one has 
 character ; efficiency, skiU and knowledge come of themselves. 
 If only one does not leave off " willing." 
 
 The great thing is to avoid risks, and that can only be done 
 if one has character. Not long ago in Petersburg I had before 
 me a subscription list of shares in some railwaj' investments ; 
 those who succeeded in getting shares made a lot of money. 
 
 79
 
 For some time the shares went up and up. Well, if one day 
 some one who had not succeeded in getting a share, or was 
 greedy for more, had offered to buy mine at a premium of so 
 much per cent., I should certainly have sold it. People would 
 have laughed at me, of course, and have said that if I had waited 
 I should have made ten times as much. Quite so, but my 
 premium is safer, for it's a bird in the hand while yours is on the 
 bush. I shall be told that one can't make much like that ; 
 excuse me, that's your mistake, the mistake of all our Kokorevs, 
 Polyakovs, and Gubonins. Let me tell you the truth ; per- 
 sefverance and persistence in money making and still more in 
 saving is much more effective than these cent, per cent, profits. 
 Not long before the French Revolution there was a man called 
 Law in Paris who invented of himself a scheme what was theo- 
 retically magnificent but which came utterly to grief in practice 
 afterwards. АД Paris was in excitement. Law's shares were 
 bought up at once before allotment. Money from all parts of 
 Paris poured as from a sack into the house where the shares 
 were subscribed. But the house was not enough at last, the 
 public thronged the street, people of all callings, all classes, all 
 ages : bourgeois, noblemen, their children, countesses, marquises, 
 prostitutes, were all struggling in one infuriated, half -crazy, rabid 
 mob. Rank, the prejudices of birth and pride, even honour and 
 good name were all trampled in the same mire ; all, even women, 
 were ready to sacrifice anyone to gain a few shares. The list at 
 last was passed down into the streets, but there was nothing to 
 VkTite on. Then it was suggested to a hunchback that he should 
 lend his back for the time as a table on which people could sign 
 their names for shares. The hunchback agreed — one can fancy 
 at what a price. Some time (a very short time) after, they were 
 all bankrupt, the whole thing went smash, the whole idea was 
 exploded and the shares were worth nothing. Who got the best 
 of it ? Why, the hunchback, because he did not take shares but 
 louis-d'or in cash. Well, I am that hunchback ! I had strength 
 of will enough not to eat, and to save seventy-two roubles out 
 of my kopecks ; I shall have strength enough to restrain myself and 
 prefer a safe profit to a large one, even when every one aroimd me 
 is carried away by a fever of excitement. I am trivial only 
 about trifles, not in what is important. I have often lacked 
 fortitude for enduring little things ever since the inception of 
 my idea, but for enduring big things I shall always have enough. 
 When in the morning my mother gave me cold coffee before I 
 
 80
 
 set out to work, I was angry and rude to her, and yet 1 was the 
 same person who had Jived a whole month on bread and water. 
 
 In short not to make money, not to learn how to make money, 
 would be uimatural. It would be unnatural, too, in spite 
 of incessant and regular saving, unllaggmg care and mental 
 sobriety, self-control, economy, and growing energy — it would be 
 unnatural, I repeat, to fail to become a millionaire. How did 
 the beggar make his money if not by fanatical determination 
 and perseverance ? Am I inferior to a beggar ? " And after 
 all, supposing I don't arrive at anything, suppose my calculation 
 is incorrect, suppose I fail and come to grief ; no matter, I shall 
 go on, I shall goon, because I want to." That is what I said in 
 Moscow. 
 
 I shall be told that there is no " idea " in this, absolutely 
 nothing new. But I say, and for the last time, that there are an 
 immense number of ideas in it, and a vast amount that is new. 
 
 Oh, I foresaw how trivial all objections would be, and that I 
 should be as trivial myself in expounding my " idea " : why, what 
 have I said after all ? I haven't told a hundredth part of it. I 
 feel that it is trivial, superficial, crude, and, somehow, too young 
 for my age. 
 
 I've still to answer the questions, " What for ? " and " Why 1 " 
 " Whether it's moral," and all the rest of it. I've imdertaken 
 to answer them. 
 
 I am sad at disappointing the reader straight off, sad and 
 glad too. Let him know that in my idea there is absolutely 
 no feeling of " revenge," nothing " Byxonic " — no curses, no 
 lamentations over my orphaned state, no tears over my illegiti- 
 macy, nothing, nothing of the sort. In fact, if a romantic lady 
 should chance to come across my autobiography she would 
 certainly turn up her nose. The whole object of my " idea " is — 
 isolation. But one can arrive at isolation without straining to 
 become a Rothschild. What has Rothschild got to do with it ? 
 
 Why, this. That besides isolation I want power. 
 
 Let me tell the reader, he will perhaps be horrified at the 
 candour of my confession, and in the simplicity of his heart will 
 wonder how the author could help blushing : but my answer is 
 that I'm not writing for publication, and I may not have a 
 reader for ten years, and by that time everything will be so 
 thoroughly past, settled and defined that there will be no need 
 
 8i *•
 
 to blush. And 80. if I sometimes in my autobiography appeal 
 to my reader it is simply a form of expression. My reader is an 
 imaginary figure. 
 
 No, it was not being illegitimate, with which I was so taunted at 
 Touchard's, not my sorrowful childhood, it was not revenge, nor 
 the desire to protest, that was at the bottom of my idea ; my 
 character alone was responsible for everything. At twelve years 
 old, I believe, that is almost at the dawn of real consciousness, 
 I began to dislike my fellow-creatures. It was not that I 
 disliked them exactly, but that their presence weighed upon me. 
 I was sometimes in my moments of pxirest sincerity quite sad 
 that I never could express everything even to my nearest and 
 dearest, that is, I could but will not ; for some reason I restrain 
 myself, so that I'm mistrustful, sullen and reserved. Again, I 
 have noticed one characteristic in myself almost from childhood, 
 that I am too ready to find fault, and given to blaming others. 
 But this impulse was often followed at once by another which 
 was very irksome to me : I would ask myself whether it were 
 not my fault rather than theirs. And how often I blamed 
 myself for nothing ! To avoid such doubts I naturally sought 
 solitude. Besides, I found nothing in the company of others, 
 however much I tried, and I did try. All the boys of my own 
 age anyway, all my schoolfellows, all, every one of them, turned 
 out to be inferior to me in their ideas. I don't recall one single 
 exception. 
 
 Yes, I am a gloomy person ; I'm always shutting myself up. 
 I often love to walk out of a room full of people. I may perhaps 
 do people a kindness, but often I cannot see the slightest reason 
 for doing them a kindness. People are not such splendid 
 creatures that they are worth taking much trouble about. Why 
 can't they approach me openly and directly, why must I always 
 be forced to make the first overtures ? 
 
 That is the question I asked myself. I am a grateful creature, 
 and have shown it by a hundred imbeciUties. If some one were 
 frank with me, I should instantly respond with frankness and 
 begin to love them at once. And so I have done, but they 
 have all deceived me promptly, and have withdrawn from me 
 with a sneer. The most candid of them all was Lambert, who 
 beat me so much as a child, but he was only an open brute and 
 scoundrel. And even his openness was only stupidity. Such 
 was my state of mind when I came to Petersburg. 
 
 When I came out from Dergatchev's (and goodness only 
 
 82
 
 knows what made me go to him) I had gone up to Vassin, and 
 in a rush of enthusiasm I had begun singing his praises. And 
 that very evening I felt that I liked him much less. Why ? 
 Just because by my praise of him I had demeaned myself before 
 him. Yet one might have thought it would have been the other 
 way • a man just and generous enough to give another his due, 
 even to his own detriment, ought to stand higher in personal 
 dignity than anyone. And though I quite understood this, I did 
 like Vassin less, much less in fact. I purposely choose an 
 example with which the reader is familiar. I even thought of 
 Kraft with a bitter, sickly feeling, because he had led me into 
 the passage, and this feeling lasted till the day when ICraft's 
 state of mind at the time was revealed, and it was impossible 
 to be angry with him. From the time when I was in the-lowest 
 class in the grammar-school, as soon as any of my comrades 
 excelled me in school work, or witty answers or physical strength, 
 I immediately gave up talking or havmg anything to do with 
 them. Not that I disliked them or wished them not to succeed ; 
 1 simply turned away from them because such was my character. 
 
 Yes, I thirsted for power, I've thirsted for it all my life, power 
 and solitude. I dreamed of it at an age when every one would 
 have laughed at me to my face if they could have guessed what 
 was in my head. That was why I so liked secrecy. And indeed 
 all my energy went into dreams, so much so that I had no time 
 to talk. This led to my being unsociable, and my absent- 
 mindedness led people to more unpleasant conclusions about riae, 
 but my rosy cheeks belied their suspicions. 
 
 I was particularly happy when, covering myself up in bed at 
 night, I began in complete solitude, with no stir or sound of 
 other people roimd me, to re-create life on a different plan. I 
 was most desperately dreamy up to the time of the " idea," 
 when all my dreams became rational instead of foolish, and passed 
 Irom the fantastic realms of romance to the reasonable world of 
 reality. 
 
 Everything was concentrated into one object. Not that they 
 were so very stupid before, although there were masses and 
 masses of them. But I had favourite." . . there is no need to 
 bring them in here, however. 
 
 Power ! I am convinced that very many people would think 
 it very funny if they knew that such a " pitiful " creature was 
 struggling for power. But I shall surprise them even more : 
 perhaps from my very first dreams that is, almost from my 
 
 83
 
 earliest childhood, I could never imagine myself except in the 
 foremost place, always and in every situation in life. I will 
 add a strange confession : it is the same perhaps to this day. 
 At the same time, let me observe that I am not apologizing 
 for it. 
 
 That is the point of my idea, that is the force of it, that money 
 is the one means by which the humblest nonentit}' may rise to 
 the foremost place. I may not be a nonentity, but I know from 
 the looking-glass that my exterior does not do me justice, for 
 my face is commonplace. But if I were as rich as Rothschild, 
 who would find fault with my face ? And wouldn't thousands 
 of women be ready to fly to me with all their charms if I whistled 
 to them ? I am sure that they луоиЫ honestly consider me 
 good-looking. Suppose I am clever. But were I as wise as 
 Solomon some one would be found wiser still, and I should be 
 done for. But if I were a Rothschild what Avould that wise man 
 be beside me ? Why, they would not let him say a word 
 beside me ! I may be witty, but with Talleyrand or Pii'on I'm 
 thrown into the shade ; but if I were Rothschild, where would 
 Piron be, and where Talleyrand even, perhaps ? Money is, of 
 course, despotic power, and at the same time it is the greatest 
 leveller, and that is its chief power. Money levels all inequality. 
 I settled all that in Moscow. 
 
 You will see, of course, in this idea nothing but insolence, 
 violence, the triumph of the nonentity over the talented. I 
 admit that it is an impudent idea (and for that reason a sweet 
 one). But let it pass : you imagine that I desire power to be 
 able to crush, to avenge myself. That is just the point, that 
 that is how the commonplace would behave. What is more, 
 I'm convinced that thousands of the wise and talented who are 
 so exalted, if the Rothschilds' millions suddenly fell to their lot 
 could not resist behaving like the most vulgar and commonplace, 
 and would be more oppressive than any. My idea is quite 
 different. I'm not afraid of money. It won't crush me and it 
 won't make me crush others. 
 
 What I want isn't money, or rather money is not necessary 
 to me, nor power either. I only want what is obtained by 
 power, and cannot be obtained without it ; that is, the calm 
 and solitary consciousness of strength ! That is the fullest 
 definition of liberty for which the whole world is struggling ! 
 Liberty ! At last I have written that grand word. . . . Yes, 
 the solitary consciousness of strength is splendid and alluring. 
 
 84
 
 I have strength and I am serene. With the thunderbolts in his 
 hands Jove is serene ; are his thunders often heard ? The fool 
 fancies that he is asleep. But put a literary man or a peasant- 
 woman in Jove's place, and the thimder would never cease ! 
 
 If I only have power, I argued, I should have no need to use 
 it. I assure you that of my own free will I should take the 
 lowest seat everj^^here. If I were a Rothschild, I would go 
 about in an old overcoat with an umbrella. What should I care 
 if I were jostled in the crowd, if I had to skip through the mud 
 to avoid being run over 1 The consciousness that I was myself, 
 a Rothschild, would even amuse me at the moment. I should 
 know I could have a dinner better than anyone, that I could 
 have the best cook in the world, it would be enough for me to 
 know it. I woTild eat a piece of bread and ham and be satie-fied 
 with the consciousness of it. I think so even now. 
 
 I shouldn't run after the aristocracy, but they would run 
 after me. I shouldn't pursue women, but they would fly to 
 me like the wind, offering me all that women can offer. " The 
 vulgar " run after money, but the intelligent are attracted by 
 curiosity to the strange, proud and reserved being, indifferent 
 to everjrthing. I would be kind, and would give them money 
 perhaps, but I would take nothing from them. Curiosity aroust s 
 passion, perhaps I may inspire passion. They will take nothing 
 away with them I assiu"e you, except perhaps presents that wi.ll 
 make me twice as interesting to them. 
 
 , . . to me enough 
 
 The consciousness of this. 
 
 It is strange, but true, that I have been fascinated by this 
 picture since I was seventeen. 
 
 I don't want to oppress or torment anyone and I won't, but I 
 know that if I did want to ruin some man, some enemy of mine, 
 no one could prevent me, and every one would serve me, and 
 that would be enough again. I would not revenge myself on 
 anyone. I could never understand how James Rothschild could 
 consent to become a Baron ! Why, for what reason, wIk n he 
 was already more exalted than anyone in the world. " Oh, let 
 that insolent general insult me at the station where we are both 
 waiting for our horses ! If he knew who I was he луоиИ run 
 himself to harness the horses and would hasten to assist me 
 into my modest vehicle ! They say that some foreign count or 
 baron at a Vienna railway station put an Austrian banker's 
 
 S5
 
 slippers on for him in public ; and the latter was so vulgar as 
 to allow him to do it. Oh, may that terrible beauty (yes, terrible, 
 there are such !), that daughter of that luxurious and aristocratic 
 lady meeting me by chance on a steamer or somewhere, glance 
 askance at me and turn up her nose, wondering contemptuously 
 how that humble, unpresentable man with a book or paper in 
 his hand could dare to be in a front seat beside her ! If only she 
 knew who was sitting beside her ! And she will find out, she 
 will, and will come to sit beside me of her own accord, humble, 
 timid, ingratiating, seeldng my glance, radiant at my smile." . . . 
 I purposely introduce these eariy day-dreams to express what 
 was in my mind. But the picture is pale, and perhaps trivial. 
 Only reality will justify everything. 
 
 I shall be told that such a life would be stupid : why not have 
 a mansion, keep open house, gather society round you, why not 
 have influence, why not marry ? But what would Rothschild 
 be then ? He would become like every one else. All the charm 
 of the " idea " would disappear, all its moral force. When I 
 was quite a child I leamt Pushkin's monologue of the " Miserly 
 Knight." Pushkin has written nothing finer in conception than 
 that ! I have the same ideas now. 
 
 " But yours is too low an ideal," I shall be told with contempt. 
 " Money, wealth. Very different from the common weal, from 
 self-sacrifice for humanity." 
 
 But how can anyone tell how I should use my wealth 1 In 
 what way is it immoral, in what way is it degrading, that these 
 millions should pass out of dirty, evil, Jewish hands into the 
 hands of a sober and resolute ascetic with a keen outlook upon 
 life 1 All these dreams of the future, all these conjectures, 
 seem like a romance now, and perhaps I am wasting time in 
 recording them. I might have kept them to myself. I know, 
 too, that these lines will very likely be read by no one, but if 
 anyone were to read them, would he believe that I should be 
 unable to stand the test of the Rothschild millions ? Not 
 because they would crush me, quite the contrary. More than 
 once in my dreams I have anticipated that moment in the 
 future, when my consciousness wHl be satiated, and power will 
 not seem enough for me. Then, not from ennui, not from 
 aimless weariness, but because I have a boundless desire for 
 what is great, I shall give all my millions away, let society 
 distribute all my wealth, and I — I will mix with nothingness 
 again ! Maybe I will turn into a beggar like the one who died 
 
 86
 
 on the steamer, with the only difference that they wouldn't find 
 money sewn up in my shirt. The mere consciousness that I 
 had had millions in" my hands and had flung them away into 
 the dirt like trash would sustain me in my sohtude. I am ready 
 to think the same even now. Yes, my " idea " is a fortress in 
 which I can always, at every turn, take refuge from every one, 
 even if I were a beggar dying on a steamer. It is my poem ! 
 And let me tell you I must have the whole of my vicious will, 
 simply to prove to myself that I can renounce it. 
 
 No doubt I shall be told that this is all romance, and that if 
 I got my millions I should not give therii up and become a beggar. 
 Perhaps I should not. I have simply sketched the ideal in my 
 mind. 
 
 But I will add seriously that if I did succeed in piling up as 
 much money as Rothschild, that it really might end in my 
 giving it all up to the public (though it would be difficult to do 
 so before I reached that amount). And I shouldn't give away 
 half because that would be simply vulgar ; I should be only 
 half as rich, that would be all. I should give away aU, all to 
 the last farthing, for on becoming a beggar I should become 
 twice as rich as Rothschild ! If other people don't understand 
 this it's not my fault ; I'm not going to explain it. 
 
 " The fanaticism, the romanticism of insignificance and 
 impotence ! " people will pronounce, " the triumph of common- 
 placeness and mediocrity ! " Yes, I admit that it is in a way 
 the triumph of commonplaceness and mediocrity, but surely not 
 of impotence. I used to be awfully fond of imagining just such 
 a creature, commonplace and mediocre, facing the world and 
 saying to it with a smile, " You are Galileos, and Copemicuses, 
 Charlemagnes and Napoleons, you are Pushkius and Sbake- 
 speares, you are field-marshals and generals, and I am incom- 
 petence and illegitimacy, and yet I am higher than all of you, 
 because you bow down to it yourself." I admit that I have 
 pushed this fancy to such extremes that I have struck out even 
 my education It seemed to me more picturesque if the man 
 were sordidly ignorant. This exaggerated dream had a positive 
 influence at the time on my success in the seventh form of the 
 grammar-school. I gave up working simply from fanaticism, 
 feeling that lack of education would add a charm to my ideal. 
 Now I've changed my views on that point ; education does not 
 detract from it. 
 
 Gentlemen, can it be that even the smallest independence of 
 
 87
 
 mind is so distasteful to you ? Blessed he who has an ideal of 
 beauty, even though it be a mistaken one ! But I believe in 
 mine. It is only that I've explained it clumsily, crudely. In 
 ten years, of course, I should explain.it better, and I treasure 
 that in my memory. 
 
 I've finished with my idea. If my account of it has been 
 commonplace and superficial it is I that am to blame and not 
 the idea. I have already pointed out that the simplest ideas 
 are always the most difficult to understand. 
 
 Now I will add that they are also the most difficult to explain ; 
 moreover, I have described my " idea " in its earliest phase. 
 The converse is the rule with ideas : commonpl ace an d^skallow. 
 ideas are extraordinarily quickly understood^ and are invariably 
 understood by the crowd, bythc whole street. What is more, 
 they are regarded as very great, and as the ideas of genius, but 
 only for the day of their appearance. The cheap never wears. 
 For a thing to be quickly understood is only a sign of its common- 
 placeness. Bismarck's idea was received as a stroke of genius 
 instantly, and Bismarck himself Avas looked on as a genius, but 
 the very rapidity of its reception was suspicious. Wait for 
 ten years, and then we shall see what remains of the idea and 
 of Bismarck himself. I introduce this extremely irrelevant 
 observation, of course, not for the sake of comparison, but also 
 for the sake of remembering it. (An explanation for the too 
 unmannerly reader.) 
 
 And now I will tell two anecdotes to wind up my account of 
 the " idea," that it may not hinder my story again. 
 
 In July, two months before I came to Petersburg, when my 
 tim'i was all my own, Marie Ivanovna asked me to go to see 
 an old maiden lady who was staying in the Troitsky suburb to 
 take her a message of no interest for my story. Returning the 
 same day, I noticed in the railway carriage an unattractive- 
 looking young man, not very poorly though grubbily dressed, 
 with a pimply face and a muddy dark complexion. He distin- 
 guished himself by getting out at evvry station, big and little, 
 to have a drink. Towards the end of the journey he was sur- 
 rounded by a merry throng of very low companions. One 
 merchant, also a little drunk, was particularly delighted at the 
 young man's power of drinking incessantly without becoming
 
 drunk. Another person, who was awfully pleased with him, 
 was a very stupid young fellow who talked a groat deal. He 
 was wearing European dress and smelt most unsavoury — he was 
 a footman as I found out afterwards ; this fellow got quite 
 friendly with the young man who was drinking, and, everj' time 
 the train stopped, roused him with the invitation : " It's, time 
 for a drop of vodka," and they got out with their arras round 
 each other. The young man who drank scarcely said a word, 
 but 3'et more and more companions joined him. He only 
 listened to their chatter, grinning incessantly with a drivelling 
 snigger, and only from time to time, always unexpectedly, 
 brought out a sound something like " Ture- lure-loo ! " while he 
 put his finger up to his nose in a very comical way. This diverted 
 the merchant, and the footman and all of them, and they burst 
 into very loud and free and easy laughter. It is sometimes 
 impossible to understand why people laugh. I joined them too, 
 and, I don't know why, the young man attracted me too, perhaps 
 by his very opsn disregard for the generally accepted conventions 
 and proprieties. I didn't see, in fact, that he was simply a fool. 
 Anyway, I got on to friendly terms with him at once, and, as I 
 got out of the train, I learnt from him that he would be in the 
 Tverskoy Boulevard between eight and nine. It appeared that 
 hs had been a student. I went to the Boulevard, and this was 
 the diversion he taught me : we walked together up and down 
 the boulevards, and a little later, as soon as we noticed a 
 respectable woman walking along the street, if there were no 
 one else near, we fastened upon her. Without uttering a word 
 we walked one on each side of hor, and with an air of perfect 
 composure as though we didn't see her, bogan to carry on a 
 most unseemly conversation. We called things by their names, 
 preserving unruffled countenances as though it were the natural 
 thing to do ; we entered into such subtleties in our description 
 of all sorts of filth and obscenity as the nastiest mind of the 
 lewdest debauchee could hardly have conceived. (I had, of 
 course, acquired all this knowledge at the boarding school before 
 I went to the grammar school, though I knew only words, 
 nothing of the reality.) The woman was dreadfully frightened, 
 and made haste to try and get away, but we quickened our pace 
 too — and went on in the same way. Our victim, of course, 
 could do nothing ; it was no use to cry out, there were no 
 spectators ; besides, it would be a strange thing to complain of. 
 I repeated this diversion for eight days. I can't think how I 
 
 89
 
 can have liked doing it ; though, indeed, I didn't like doing it — 
 I simply did it. At first I thought it original, as something 
 outside everyday conventions and conditions, besides I couldn't 
 endure women. I once told the student that in his "Confes- 
 sions" Jean Jacques Rousseau describes how, as a youth, he 
 used to behave indecently in the presence of women. The 
 student responded with his " ture-lure-Ioo ! " I noticed that 
 he was extraordinarily ignorant, and that his interests were 
 astonishingly limited. There was no trace in him of any latent 
 idea such as I had hoped to find in him. Instead of originality I 
 found nothing in him but a wearisome monotony. I disliked 
 him more and more. The end came quite unexpectedly. One 
 night when it was quite dark, we persecuted a girl who wae 
 quickly and timidly walking along the boulevard. She was very 
 young, perhaps sixteen or even less, very tidily and modestly 
 dressed ; possibly a working girl hurrying home from work to 
 an old widowed mother with other children ; there is no need to 
 be sentimental though. The girl listened for some time, and 
 hurried as fast as she could with her head bowed and her veil 
 drawn over her face, frightened and trembling. But suddenly 
 she stood still, threw back her veil, showing, as far as I remember, 
 a thin but pretty face, and cried with flashing eyes : 
 
 " Oh, what scoundrels you are ! " 
 
 She may have been on the verge of tears, but something 
 different happened. Lifting her thin little arm, she gave the 
 student a slap in the face which could not have been more 
 dexterously delivered. It did come with a smack ! He would 
 have rushed at her, swearing, but I held him back, and the girl 
 had time to run away. We began quarrelling at once. I told 
 him all I had been saving up against him in those days. I told 
 him he was the paltriest commonplace fool without the trace of 
 an idea. He swore at me. ... (I had once explained to him 
 that I was illegitimate), then we spat at each other, and I've 
 never seen him since. I felt frightfully vexed with myself that 
 evening, but not so much the next day, and by the day after I 
 had quite forgotten it. And though I sometimes thought of 
 that girl again, it was only casually, for a moment. It was only 
 after I had been a fortnight in Petersburg, I suddenly recalled 
 the whole scene. I remembered it, and I was suddenly so 
 ashamed that tears of shame literally ran down my cheeks. 
 I was wretched the whole evening, and all that night, and I am 
 rather miserable about it now. I could not understand at first 
 
 90
 
 how I could have sunk to such a depth of degradation, and still 
 less how I could have forgotten it without feeling shame or 
 remorse. It is only now that I understand what was at the root 
 of it ; it was all due to my " idea." Briefly, I conclude that, 
 having something fixed, permanent and overpowering in one's 
 mind in which one is terribly absorbed, one is, as it were, removed 
 by it from the whole world, and everything that happens, except 
 the one great thing, slips by one. Even one's impressions are 
 hardly formed correctly. And what matters most — one always 
 has an excuse. However much I worried my mother at that time, 
 however disgracefully I neglected my sister," Oh, I've my * idea,' 
 nothing else matters," was what I said to myself, as it were. If 
 I were slighted and hurt, I withdrew in my mortification and 
 at once said to myself, " Ah, I'm humiliated, but still I have my 
 idea, and they know nothing about that." The " idea " 
 comforted me in disgrace and insignificance. But all the nasty 
 things I did took refuge, as it were, imder the " idea." It, so 
 to speak, smoothed over everything, but it also put a mist 
 before my eyes ; and such a misty understanding of things and 
 events may, of course, be a great hindrance to the " idea " 
 itself, to say nothing of other things. 
 
 Now for another anecdote. 
 
 On the let of April last year, Marie Ivanovna was keeping 
 her name-day ; some visitors, though only a few, came for the 
 evening. Suddenly Agrafena rushed in, out of breath, announc- 
 ing that a baby was crying in the passage before the kitchen, 
 and that she didn't know what to do. We were all excited at 
 the news. We .wpnt out and saw a bark basket, and in the 
 basket a three or four weeks old child, crying. I picked up the 
 basket and took it into the kitchen. Then I immediately found 
 a folded note : " Gracious benefactors, show kind charity to 
 the girl christened Arina, and we will join with her to send our 
 tears to the Heavenly throne for you for ever, and congratulate 
 you on your name-day, 
 
 Persons unknown to you." 
 
 Then Nikolay Semyonovitch, for whom I have such a respect, 
 greatly disappointed me. He drew a very long face and decided 
 to send the child at once to the Foundling Home. I felt very 
 sad. They lived very frugally but had no children, and Nikolay 
 Semyonovitch was always glad of it. I carefully took little 
 Arina out of the basket and held her up under the arms. The 
 basket had that sour, pungent odour characteristic of a small 
 
 91
 
 child which has not been washed for a long time. I opposed 
 Nikolcy Semyonovitch, and suddenly announced that I would 
 keep the child at my expense. In spite of his gentleness he 
 protested with some severity, and, though he ended by joking, 
 he adhered to his intention in regard to the foundling. I got 
 my way, however. In the same block of buildings, but in a 
 different wing, there lived a very poor carpenter, an elderly man, 
 given to drink, but his wife, a very healthy and still youngish 
 peasant woman, had only just lost a baby, and, what is more, 
 the only child she had had in eight years of marriage, also a girl, and 
 by a strange piece of luck also called Arina. I call it good luck, 
 because while we were arguing in the kitchen, the woman, 
 hearing of what had happened, ran in to look at the chiJd, and 
 when she learned that it was called Arina, she was greatly 
 touched. She still had milk, and unfastening her dress ehe put 
 the baby to her breast. I began persuading her to take the 
 child home with her, saying I would pay for it every month. 
 She was afraid her husband лгоиИ not allow it, but she took it 
 for the night. Next morning, her husband consented to her 
 keeping it for eight roubles a month, and I immediately paid 
 him for the first mouth in advance. He at once spent the 
 money on drink. Nikolay Semyonovitch, still with a strange 
 smile, agreed to guarantee that the money should be paid 
 regularly every month. I would have given my sixty roubles 
 into Nikolay Semyonovitch's keeping as security, but he would 
 not take it. He knew, however, that I had the money, and 
 trusted me. Our momentary quarrel was smoothed over by 
 this delicacy on his part. Marie Ivanovna said nothing, but 
 wondered at my undertaking such a responsibility. I par- 
 ticularly appreciated their dc licacy in refraining from the slightest 
 jest at my expense, but, on the contrary, taking the matter with 
 proper seriousness. I used to run over to the carpenter's wife 
 three times a day, and at the end of a week I slipped an extra 
 three roubles into her hand Avithout her husband's knowledge. 
 For another three I bought a little quilt and swaddling clothes. 
 But ten days later little Arina fell ill. I called in a doctor at 
 once, he wrote a prescription, and we were up all night, tormenting 
 the mite with horrid medicine. Next day he declared that he 
 had been sent for too late, and answered my entreaties — which 
 I fancy were more like reproaches — by saying with majestic 
 evasiveness : " I am not God." The baby's httle tongue and 
 lips and whole mouth were covered wnth a minute white rash, 
 
 92
 
 and towards evening she died, gazing at me with her big black 
 eyes, as though she understood already. I don't know why I 
 never thought to take a photograph of the dead baby. But will 
 it be believed, that I cried that evening, and, in fact, I howled 
 as I had never let myself do before, and Marie Ivanovna had to 
 try to comfort me, again without the least mockery either on 
 her part or on Nikolay Semyonovitch's. The carpenter made a 
 little coffin, and Marie Ivanovna finished it with a frill and a 
 pretty little pillow, while I bought flowers and strewed them 
 on the baby. So they carried away my poor little blossom, 
 whom it will hardly be believed I can't forget even now. A 
 little afterwards, however, this sudden adventure made me 
 reflect seriously. Little Arina had not cost me much, of course ; 
 the coffin, the burial, the doctor, the flowers, and the payment 
 to the carpenter's wife came altogether to thirty roubles. As I 
 was going to Petersburg I made up this sum from the forty 
 roubles sent me by Versilov for the journey, and from the sale 
 of various articles before my departure, so that my capital 
 remained intact. But I thought : " If I am going to be turned 
 aside like this I shan't get far." The affair with the student 
 showed that the " idea " might absorb me till it blurred my 
 impressions and drew me away from the reaUties of Life. The 
 incident with little Arina proved, on the contrary, that no 
 " idea " was strong enough to absorb me, at least so completely 
 that I should not stop short in the face of an overwhelming fact 
 and sacrifice to it at once all that I had done for the " idea " by 
 years of labour. Both conclusions were nevertheless true. 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 My hopes were not fully realized. I did not find them alone 
 though Versilov was not at home, Tatyana Pavlovna was sitting 
 with my mother, and she was, after all, not one of the family. 
 Fully half of my magnanimous feelings disappeared instantly. 
 It is wonderful how hasty and changeable I am in such cases ; 
 a straw, a grain of sand is enough to dissipate my good mood 
 and replace it by a bad one. My bad impressions, I regret to 
 say, are not so quickly dispelled, though I am not resentful. . . 
 When I went in. I had a feeling that my mother immediately 
 
 93
 
 and hastily broke off what she was saying to Tatyana Pavlovna ; 
 I fancied they were talking very eagerly. My sister turned from 
 her work only for a moment to look at me and did not come out 
 of her little alcove again. The flat consisted of three rooms. 
 The room in which we usually sat, the middle room or drawing- 
 room, was fairly large and almost presentable. In it were soft, 
 red armchairs and a sofa, very much the worse for wear, however 
 (Versilov could not endure covers on furniture) ; there were rugs 
 of a sort and several tables, including some useless little ones. On 
 the right was Versilov's room, cramped and narrow with one 
 window ; it was furnished with a wretched -looking writing-table 
 covered with unused books and crumpled papers, and an equally 
 wretched-looking easy chair with a broken spring that stuck up 
 in one corner and often made Versilov groan and swear. On an 
 equally threadbare sofa in this room he used to sleep. He 
 hated this study of his, and I believe he never did anything in it ; 
 he preferred sitting idle for hours together in the drawing-room. 
 On the left of the drawing-room there was another room of the 
 same sort in which my mother and sister slep , The drawing- 
 room was entered from the passage at the end of which was the 
 kitchen, where the cook, Lukerya, lived, and when she cooked, 
 she ruthlessly filled the whole flat with the smell of burnt fat. 
 There were moments when Versilov cursed his life and fate aloud 
 on account of the smell from the kitchen, and in that one matter 
 I sympathized with him fufly ; I hated that smell, too, though it 
 did not penetrate to my room : I lived upstairs in an attic under 
 the roof, to which I climbed by a very steep and shaky ladder. 
 The only tkings worth mentioning in it were a semicircular 
 window, a low-pitched ceiling, a sofa covered with American 
 leather on which at night Lukerya spread sheets and put a pillow 
 for me. The rest of the furniture consisted of two articles, 
 a perfectly plain deal table and a wooden rush-bottomed chair. 
 We still preserved, however, some relics of former comfort. In 
 the drawing-room, for instance, we had a fairly decent china 
 lamp, and on the wall himg a large and splendid engraving of 
 the Sistine Madonna ; facing it on the other wall was an immense 
 and expensive photograph of the cast-bronze gates of the cathedral 
 of Florence. In the comer of the same room was a shrine of 
 old-faehioned family ikons, one of which had a gilt-silver setting 
 — the one they had meant to pawn, while another (the image of 
 Our Lady) had a velvet setting embroidered in pearls. Under 
 the ikons himg a Uttle lamp which was lighted on every holiday. 
 
 94
 
 Versilov evidently had no feeling for the ikons in their inner 
 meaning and religious significance, but he restrained himself. 
 He merely screwed up his eyes, sometimes complaining that the 
 lamplight reflected in the gilt setting hurt them, but he did 
 not hinder my mother from lighting the lamp. 
 
 I usually entered in gloomy silence, looking away into some 
 comer, and sometimes without even greeting anyone. As a 
 rule I returned earlier than to-day, and they used to send my 
 dinner to me upstairs. Going into the room I said, " Good even- 
 ing, mother," a thing I had never done before. Though even 
 this time I was unable from a sort of bashfulnesstomake myself 
 look at her, and I sat down in the opposite corner of the room. 
 I was awfully tired, but I did not think of that. 
 
 "That lout of yours still walks in as rudely as ever," Tatyana 
 Pavlovna hissed at me. She had been in the habit in old days 
 of using abusive epithets to me and it had become an established 
 tradition between us. 
 
 My mother faltered " Good evening " to me, using the formal 
 mode of address, and evidently embarrassed at my greeting her. 
 " Your dinner has been ready a long while," she added, almost 
 overcome by confusion : " I hope the soup is not cold, I will 
 order the cutlets at once. . . ." She was hastily jumping up 
 to go to the kitchen and, for the first time perhaps during that 
 whole month, I felt ashamed that she should run about to wait 
 on me so humbly, though till that moment I had expected it of 
 her. 
 
 " Thank you very much, mother, I have had dinner already. 
 May I stay and rest here if I am not in the way ? " 
 
 " Oh ... of course. . . . how can you ask, pray sit down 
 
 " Don't worry yourself, mother, I won't be rude to Andrey 
 Petrovitch again," I rapped out all at once. 
 
 " Good heavens ! how noble of him," cried Tatyana Pavlovna. 
 " Sonia darling, you don't mean to say you still stand on cere- 
 mony with him ? Who is he to be treated with such deference, 
 and by his own mother, too ! Look at you, why you behave 
 as though you were afraid of him, it is disgraceful." 
 
 " I should like it very much, mother, if you would call me 
 Arkasha." 
 
 " Oh . . . yes . . . certainly, yes I will," my mother said 
 hurriedly. " I . . . don't always . . . henceforward I will," 
 
 She blushed all over. Certainly her face had at times a great 
 
 95
 
 charm. ... It had a look of simplicity, but by no means of stu- 
 pidity. It was rather pale and anaemic, her cheeks were very thin, 
 even hollow ; her forehead was already lined by many wrinkles, but 
 there were none round her eyes, and her eyes were rather large and 
 wide open, and shone with a gentle and serene light which had 
 drawn me to her from the very first day. I liked her face, too, 
 because it did not look particularly depressed or dra\Mi ; on 
 the contrary, her expression would have been positively cheerful, 
 if she had not been so often agitated, sometimes almost panic- 
 stricken over trifles, starting up from her seat for nothing at 
 all, or listening in alarm to anything new that was said, till 
 she was sure that all was well and as before. What mattered to 
 her was just that all should be as before ; that there should 
 be no change, that nothing new should hai)pen, not even new 
 happiness. ... It might have been thought that she had been 
 frightened as a child. Besides her eyes, I liked the oval of her 
 rather long face, and I believe if it had been a shade less broad 
 across the cheekbones she might have been called beautiful, 
 not only in her youth but even now. She v s not more than 
 thirty-nine, but grey hairs were already visible in her chestnut 
 hair. 
 
 Tatyana Pavlovna glanced at her in genuine indignation. 
 
 " A booby like him ! And you tremble before him, you are 
 ridiculous, Sofia, you make me angry, I tell you ! " 
 
 "Ah, Tatyana Pavlovna, why should you attack him now? 
 But you are joking perhaps, eh ? " my mother added, detecting 
 something like a smile on Tatyana Pavlovna's face. Her 
 scoldings could not indeed be always taken seriously. But she 
 smUed (if she did smile) only at my mother, of course, because 
 she loved her devotedly, and no doubt noticed how happy she 
 was at that moment at my meekness. 
 
 " Of course, I can't help feeling hurt, if you will attack people 
 unprovoked, Tatyana Pavlovna, and just when I've come in 
 saying ' Good evening, mother,' a thing I've never done before," 
 I thought it necessary to observe at last. 
 
 " Only fancy," she boiled over at once : "He considers it as 
 something to be proud of. Am I to go down on my knees to you, 
 pray, because for once in your life you've been polite ? and 
 as though it were politeness ! Why do you stare into the comer 
 when you come in ? I know how you tear and fling about 
 before her ! You might have said ' Good evening ' to me, too, 
 1 wrapped )^ou in your swaddling clothes, 1 am your godmother." 
 
 96
 
 I need not say I did not deign to answer. At that moment 
 my sister came in and I made haste to turn to her. 
 
 " Liza, I saw Vassin to-day and he inquired after you. You 
 have met him ? " 
 
 " Yes, last year in Luga," she answered quite simply, sitting 
 down beside me and looking at me affectionately. I don't 
 know why, but I had fancied she would flush when I spoke of 
 Vassin. My sister was a blonde ; very fair with flaxen hair, 
 quite unlike both her parents. But her eyes and the oval of 
 her face л\'еге like our mother's. Her nose was very straight, 
 small, and regular ; there were tiny freckles in her face, however, 
 of which there was no sign in my mother's. There was very 
 little resemblance to Versilov, nothing but the slenderness of 
 figure, perhaps, her tallness and something charming in her 
 carriage. There was not the slightest likeness between us — we 
 were the opposite poles. 
 
 " I knew his honour for three months," Liza added. 
 
 " Is it Vassin you call ' his honour,' Liza ? You should call 
 him by his name. Excuse my correctmg you, sister, but it grieves 
 me that they seem to have neglected your education." 
 
 " But it's shameful of you to remark upon it before your 
 mother," cried Tatyana Pavlovna, firing up ; " and you are 
 talking nonsense, it has not been neglected at all." 
 
 '■ I am not saying anything about my mother," I said sharpl}', 
 defendmg myself. " Do you know, mother, that when I look 
 at Liza it's as though it were you over again ; j'ou have given 
 her the same charm of goodness, which you must have had 
 yourself, and you have it to this day and always will have it. . . . 
 I was only talking of the surface polish, of the silly rules of 
 etiquette, which are necessary, however. I am only indignant 
 at the thought that when Versilov has heard you call \'assin ' his 
 honour ' he has not troubled to correct you at all — hLs disdain 
 and his indifference to us are so complete. That's Avhat makes 
 me furious." 
 
 " He is a perfect bear himself, and he is giving us lessons in 
 good manners ! Don't you dare talk of Versilov before your 
 mother, sir, or before me either, I won't stand it ! " Tatyana 
 Pavlovna flashed out. 
 
 " I got my salary to-dav, mother, fifty roubles ; take it, please ; 
 here ! " 
 
 1 went up to her and gave her the money ; she was in a tremor 
 of anxiety at once. 
 
 97
 
 " Oh, I don't know about taking it," she brought out, as though 
 afraid to touch the money. I did not understand. 
 
 " For goodness' sake, mother, if you both think of me as one 
 of the family, as a son and a brother. . . ." 
 
 " Oh, I've been to blame, Arkady : I ought to have confessed 
 something to you, but I am afraid of you. . . ." 
 
 She said this with a timid and deprecating smile ; again I did 
 not understand and interrupted. 
 
 " By the way, did you know, mother, that An drey Petrovitch's 
 case against the Sokolskys is being decided to-day ? " 
 
 " Ah ! I knew," she cried, clasping her hands before her (her 
 favourite gesture) in alarm. 
 
 " To-day ? " cried Tatyana Pavlovna startled, " but it's 
 impossible, he would have told us. Did he tell you ? " she 
 turned to my mother, 
 
 " Oh ! no . . . that it was to-day ... he didn't. But I 
 have been fearing it all the week. I would have praj^ed for him 
 to lose it even, only to have it over and off one's mind, and to 
 have things as they used to be again." 
 
 " What ! hasn't he even told you, mother ? " I exclaimed. 
 " What a man ! There's an example of the indifference and 
 contempt I spoke of just now." 
 
 " It's being deoided, how is it being decided ? And who told 
 you ?" cried Tatyana Pavlovna, pouncing upon me. " Speak, 
 do." 
 
 " Why, here he is himself ! Perhaps he will tell you," I 
 announced, catching the sound of his step in the passage and 
 hastily sitting down again beside Liza. 
 
 " Brother, for God's sake, spare mother, and be patient with 
 Andrey Petrovitch . . ." she whispered to me. 
 
 " I will, I will," with that I turned to her and pressed her 
 hand. 
 
 Liza looked at me very mistrustfully, and she was right. 
 
 He came in very much pleased with himself, so pleased that 
 he did not feel it necessary to conceal his state of mind. And, 
 indeed, he had become accustomed of late to displaying himself 
 before us without the slightest ceremony, not only in his bac' 
 points but even where he was ridiculous, a thing which most 
 people are afraid to do ; at the same time, he fully recognized 
 
 98
 
 that we should understand to the smallest detail. In the course 
 of the last year, so Tatyana Pavlovna observed, he had become 
 slovenly in his dress : his clothes though old were always well 
 cut and free from foppishness. It is true that he was prepared 
 to put on clean linen only on every alternate day, instead of 
 every day, which was a real distress to my mother ; it was 
 regarded by them as a sacrifice, and the whole group of devoted 
 women looked upon it as an act of heroism. He alwaj's wore 
 soft wide-brimmed black hats. When he took off his hat his 
 very thick but silvery locks stood up in a shock on his head ; 1 
 liked looking at his hair when he took off his hat. 
 
 " Good evening ; still disputing ; and is he actually one of the 
 ;^Arty ? I heard his voice from outside in the passage ; he 
 has been attacking me I suppose ? " 
 
 It was one of the signs of his being in a good humour for him 
 to be witty at my expense ; I did not answer, of course. Lukerya 
 came in with a regular sackful of parcels and put them on the 
 table. 
 
 "Victory! Tatyana Pavlovna! the case is won, and the 
 Sokolskys certainly won't venture to appeal. I've won the day ! 
 I was able to borrow a thousand roubles at once. Sonia, put 
 down your work, don't try youi eyes. Back from work, Liza ? " 
 
 " Yes, father," answered Liza, looking at him affectionately ; 
 she used to call him father ; nothing would have induced me 
 to submit to doing the same. 
 
 "Tired?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Give up your worK, don't go to-morrow, and drop it alto- 
 gether." 
 
 " Father, that will be worse for me." 
 
 " I beg you will ... I greatly dishke to see women working, 
 Tatyana Pavlovna," 
 
 " How can they get on without work ? a луотап'в not to 
 work ? " 
 
 " I know, I know ; that's excellent and very true, and I agiee 
 with it beforehand, but — I mean needlework particularly. 
 Only imagine, I believe that's one of the morbid anomalous 
 impressions of my childhood. In my dim memories of the time 
 when I was five or six years old I remember more often than 
 anything — with loattiing, of course — a solemn coimcil of wise 
 women, stem and forbidding, sitting at a round table with 
 scissors, material, patterns, and a fashion-plate. They thought 
 
 99
 
 they knew all about it, and shook their heads slowly and majesti- 
 cally, measuring, calculating, and preparing to cut out. All those 
 kiiid people who were so fond of me had suddenly become un- 
 approachable, and if I began to play I was carried out of the room 
 at once. Even my poor nurse, who held me by the hand and took 
 no notice of my shouting and pulling at her, was listening and 
 gazing enraptured, as though at a kind of paradise. The stern- 
 ness of those sensible faces and the solemnity with which they 
 faced the task of cutting out is for some reason distressing for 
 me to picture even полу. Tatyana Pavlovna, you are awfully 
 fond of cutting out. Although it may be aristocratic, yet I do 
 prefer a woman who does not work at all. Don't take that as 
 meant for you, Sonia. . . . How could you, indeed ! Woman 
 is an immense power without working. You know that, though, 
 Sonia. What's your opinion, Arkady Makarovitch ? No doubt 
 you disagree ? " 
 
 " No, not at all," I answered — " that's a particularly good 
 saying that woman is an immense power, though I don't under- 
 stand why you say that about work. And she can't help work- 
 ing if she has no money — as you know yourself." 
 
 '• Well, that's enough," and he tiuned to my mother, who 
 positively beamed all over (when he addressed me she was all 
 of a tremor) ; " at least, to begin with, I beg you not to let me 
 see you doing needlework for me. No doubt, Arkady, as a young 
 man of the period you are something of a socialist ; well, would 
 you believe it, my dear fellow, none are so fond of idleness as 
 the toiling masses." 
 
 " Rest perhaps, not idleness." 
 
 " No, idleness, doing nothing ; that's their ideal ! I knew a 
 man who was for ever at work, though he was not one of the 
 common people, he was rather intellectual and capable of 
 generalizing. Every day of his life, perhaps, he brooded with 
 blissful emotion en visions of litter idleness, raising the ideal to 
 infinity, so to speak, to unlimited independence, to everlasting 
 freedom, dreaming, and idle contemplation. So it went on till 
 he broke down altogether from overwork. There was no mend- 
 ing him, he died in a hospital. I am sometimes seriously dis- 
 posed to believe that the delights of labour have been invented 
 by the idle, from virtuous motives, of course. It is one of the 
 ' Geneva ideas ' of the end of last century. Tatyana Pavlovna, 
 I cut an advertisement out of the newspaper the day before 
 yesterday, here it is " ; he took a scrap of paper out of his waist- 
 
 100
 
 coat pocket. " It is one of those everlasting students, proficient 
 in classics and mathematics and prepared to travel, to sleep 
 in a garret or anywhere. Here, listen : ' A teacher (lady) 
 prepares for all the scholastic establishments (do you hear, for 
 all) and gives lessons in arithmetic ! ' Prepares for all the 
 scholastic establishments — in arithmetic, therefore, may we 
 assimie ? No, arithmetic is something apart for her. It is a 
 case of simple hunger, the last extremity of want. It is ju&t 
 the ineptitude of it that's so touching : it's evident that the lady 
 has never prepared anyone for any school, and it is doubtful 
 whether she is fit to teach anything. Yet at her last gasp she 
 wastes her one remaining rouble and prints in the paper that 
 she prepares for all the scholastic establishments, and what's 
 more, gives lessons in arithmetic. Per tuUo mundo e in aliri 
 sitiy 
 
 " Oh, Andrey Petrovitch, she ought to be helped I Where 
 does she live ? " cried Tatyana Pavlovna. 
 
 " Oh, there are lots of them ! " He put the advertisement 
 in his pocket. " That bag's full of treats for you, Liza, and 
 you, Tatyana Pavlovna ; Sonia and I don't care for sweet things. 
 And perhaps for you, young man. I bought the things myself 
 at Eliseyev's and at Balle's. Too long we've gone hungry, as 
 Lukerya said. (N.B. — None of us had ever gone hungry.) Here 
 are grapes, sweets, duchesses and strawberry tarts ; I've even 
 brought some excellent liqueur ; nuts, too. It's curious that to this 
 day I'm fond of nuts as I have been from a child, Tatyana 
 Pavlovna, and of the commonest nuts, do you know. Liza 
 takes after me ; she is fond of cracking nuts like a squirrel. But 
 there's nothing more charming, Tatyana Pavlovna, than some- 
 times when recalling one's childhood to imagine oneself in a 
 wood, in a copse, gathering nuts. . . . The days are almost 
 autumnal, but bright ; at times it's so fresh, one hides in the 
 bushes, one wanders in the wood, there's a scent of leaves. . . . 
 I seem to see something sympathetic in your face, Arkady 
 Makarovitch ? " 
 
 " The early years of my childhood, too, were spent in the 
 country." 
 
 " But I thought you were brought up in Moscow, if I am not 
 mistaken." 
 
 " He was Hving in Moscow at the Andronikovs' when you 
 went there ; but till then he used to live in the country with 
 your aunt, Varvara Stepanovna," Tatyana Pavlovna put in. 
 
 lOI
 
 " Sonia, here's some money, put it away. I promise you, in a 
 few days, five thousand." 
 
 " So there's no hope then for the Sokolskys ? " asked Tatyana 
 Pavlovna. 
 
 " Absolutely none, Tatyana Pavlovna." 
 
 " I have always sympathized with you and all of yours, 
 Audrey Petrovitch, and I have always been a friend of the family, 
 but though the Sokolskys are strangers, yet, upon my word, I 
 am sorry for them. Don't be angry, Audrey Petrovitch." 
 
 " I have no intention of going shares with them, Tatyana 
 Pavlovna ! " 
 
 " You know my idea, of course, Audrey Petrovitch ; they 
 would have settled the case out of court, if at the very beginning 
 you had offered to go halves with them ; now, of course, it is 
 too late. Not that I venture to criticize. ... I say so because 
 I don't think the deceased would have left them out of his will 
 altogether." 
 
 " Not only he wouldn't have left them out, he'd have certainly 
 left them everything, and would have left none out but me, if 
 he'd known how to do things and to write a will properly ; but 
 as it is, the law's on my side, and it's settled. I can't go shares, 
 and I don't want to, Tatyana Pavlovna, and that is the end of 
 the matter." 
 
 He spoke with real exasperation, a thing he rarely allowed him- 
 self to do. Tatyana Pavlovna subsided. My mother looked 
 down mournfully. Versilov knew that she shared Tatyana 
 Pavlovna's views. 
 
 " He has not forgotten that slap in the face at Ems," I thought 
 to myself. The document given me by Kraft and at that 
 moment in my pocket would have a poor chance if it had fallen 
 into his bands. I suddenly felt that the whole responsibility 
 was still weighing upon me, and this idea, together with all the 
 rest, had, of course, an irritating effect upon me. 
 
 " Arkady, I should like you to be better dressed, my dear 
 fellow ; your suit is all right, but for future contingencies I 
 might recommend you to an excellent Frenchman, most consci- 
 entious and possessed of taste." 
 
 " I beg you never to make such suggestions again," I burst 
 out suddenly. 
 
 " What's that ? " 
 
 " It is not that I consider it humiliating, of course, but we are 
 not agreed about anything ; on the contrary, our views are entirely 
 
 102
 
 opposed, for in a day or two — to-morrow — I shall give up going 
 to the prince's, as I find there is absolutely no work for me to 
 do there." 
 
 " But you are going and sitting there with him — that is the 
 work." 
 
 " Such ideas are degrading." 
 
 " I don't understand ; but if you are so squeamish, don't take 
 money from him, but simply go. You Mill distress him horribly, 
 he has already become attached to you, I assure з^ои. . . How- 
 ever, as you please. . . ." He was evidently put out. 
 
 " You say, don't ask for money, but thanks to you I did a 
 mean thing to-day : you did not warn me, and I demanded my 
 month's salary from him to-day." 
 
 " So you have seen to that already ; I confess I did not 
 expect you to ask for it ; but how sharp you all are nowadays ! 
 There are no young people in these days, Tatyana Pavlovna." 
 He was very spiteful : I was awfully angry too. 
 
 " I ought to have had things out with you . . . you made me 
 do it, I don't know now how it's to be." 
 
 " By the way, Sonia, give Arkady back his sixty roubles at 
 once ; and you, my dear fellow, don't be angry at our repaying 
 it so quickly. I can guess from your face that you have some 
 enterprise in your mind and that you need it. ... So invest it 
 ... or something of the sort." 
 
 " I don't know what my face expresses, but I did not expect 
 mother would have told you of that money when I so particularly 
 asked her. ..." I looked at my mother with flashing eyes, I 
 cannot express how wounded I felt. 
 
 " Arkasha, darling, for God's sake forgive me, I couldn't 
 possibly help speaking of it. . . ." 
 
 " My dear fellow, don't make a grievance of her telling me your 
 secrets : besides, she did it with the best intentions — it was 
 simply a mother's longing to boast of her son's feelmg for her. 
 But I assure you I should have guessed without that you were 
 a capitalist. All your secrets are written on your honest 
 countenance. He has ' his idea,' Tatyana Pavlovna, as I told 
 you." 
 
 " Let's drop my honest countenance," I burst out again. 
 " I know that you often see right through things, but in some 
 cases you see no further than your own nose, and I have marvelled 
 at your powers of penetration. Well then, I have ' my idea,' 
 That j'ou should use that expression, of course, was an accident, 
 
 103
 
 but I am not afraid to admit it ; I have ' an idea ' of my own, 
 I am not afraid and I am not ashamed of it." 
 
 " Don't be ashamed, that's the chief thing." 
 
 " And all the same I shall never tell it you." 
 
 " That's to say you won't condescend to ; no need to, my dear 
 fellow, I know the nature of 3'our idea as it is ; in any case it 
 implies : 
 
 Into the wilderness I flee. 
 
 Tatyana Pavlovna, my notion is that he wants ... to become a 
 Rothschild, or something of the kind, and shut himself up in his 
 grandeur. . . . No doubt he'll magnanimously allow us a jDension, 
 though perhaps he won't allow me one — but in any case he will 
 vanish from our sight. Like the new moon he has risen, only 
 to set again." 
 
 I shuddered in my inmost being; of course, it was all chance; 
 he knew nothing of my idea and was not speaking about it, though 
 he did mention Rothschild ; but how could he define my feelings 
 so precisely, my impulse to break with them and go away ? He 
 divined everything and wanted to defile beforehand with his 
 cynicism the tragedy of fact. That he was horribly angry, of 
 that there could be no doubt. 
 
 " Mother, forgive my hastiness, for I see that there's no hiding 
 things from Andrey Petrovitch in any case," I said, affecting to 
 laugh and trying if only for a moment to turn it into a joke. 
 
 " That's the very best thing you can do, my dear fellow, to 
 laugh. It is difficult to realize how much every one gains by 
 laughing even in appearance ; I am speaking most seriously. 
 He always has an air, Tatyana Pavlovna, of having something 
 so important on his mind, that he is quite abashed at the circum- 
 stance himself." 
 
 " I must ask you in earnest, Andrey Petrovitch, to be more 
 careful what you say." 
 
 " You are right, my dear boy ; but one must speak out once 
 for all, so as never to touch upon the matter again. You have 
 come to us from Moscow, to bogin making trouble at once. 
 That's all we know as yet of 3-our object in coming. I say 
 nothing, of course, of your having come to surprise us in some 
 way. And all this month you have been snorting and sneering 
 at us. Yet you are obviously an intelligent person, and as such 
 you might leave such snorting and sneering to those who have 
 no other moans of avenging themselves on others for their own 
 
 104
 
 insignificance. You are always shutting yourself up, though 
 your honest countenance and your rosy cheeks bear witness that 
 you might look every one straight in the face with perfect 
 innocence. He's a neurotic ; I can't make out, TatyanaPavlovna, 
 why they are all neurotic nowadays. . . ? " 
 
 " If you did not even know where I was brought up, you are 
 not likely to know why a man's neurotic." 
 
 " Oh, so that's the key to it ! You are offended at my being 
 capable of forgetting where you were brought up ! " 
 
 " Not in the least. Don't attribute such silly ideas to me. 
 Mother ! Andrey Petrovitch praised me just now for laughing ; 
 let us laugh — why sit like this ! Shall I tell you a little anec- 
 dote about myself ? Especially as Andrey Petrovitch knows 
 nothing of my adventures." 
 
 I was boiling. I knew this was the last time we should be 
 sitting together like this, that when I left that house I should 
 never enter it again, and so on the eve of it all I could not restrain 
 myself. He had challenged me to such a parting scene himself. 
 
 " That will be delightful, of course, if it is really amusing," he 
 observed, looking at me searchingly. " Your manners were 
 rather neglected where you were brought up, my dear fellow, 
 though they are pretty passable. He is charming to-day, 
 Tatyana Pavlovna, and it's a good thing you have undone that 
 bag at last." 
 
 But Tatyana Pavlovna frowned ; she did not even turn round 
 at his words, but went on untying the parcels and laying out 
 the good things on some plates which had been brought in. My 
 mother, too, was sitting in complete bewilderment, though she 
 had misgivings, of course, and realized that there would be 
 trouble between us. My sister touched my elbow again. 
 
 " I simply want to tell you all," I began, with a very free- 
 and-eas}' air, " how a father met for the first time a dearly 
 foved son : it happened ' wherever you were brought up ' . . ." 
 
 " My dear fellow, won't it be ... a dull story ? You know, 
 tous les genres. ..." 
 
 " Don't frown. Andrey Petrovitch, I am not speaking at all 
 with the object \'ou imagine. All I want is to make every one 
 laugh.'' 
 
 " Well, God hears you, my dear boy. I know that you love us 
 
 105
 
 all . . . and don't want to spoil our evening," he mumbled with 
 a sort of affected carelessness. 
 
 " Of course, you have gusesed by my face that I love you ? " 
 
 " Yes, partly by your face, too." 
 
 " Just as I guessed from her face that Tatyana Pavlovna's in 
 love with me. Don't look at me so ferociously, Tatyana Pavlovna, 
 it is better to laugh ! it is better to laugh ! " 
 
 She turned quickly to me, and gave me a searching look which 
 lasted half a minute. 
 
 " Mind now," she said, holding up her finger at me, but so 
 earnestly that her words could not have referred to my stupid 
 joke, but must have been meant as a warning in case I might 
 be up to some mischief. 
 
 " Audrey Petrovitch, is it possible you don't remember how 
 we met for the first time in our lives ? " 
 
 " Upon my word I've forgotten, my dear fellow, and I am really 
 very sorry. All that I remember is that it was a long time ago 
 . . . and took place somewhere. . . ." 
 
 " Mother, and don't you remember how you were in the 
 country, where I was brought up, till I was six or seven I believe, 
 or rather were you really there once, or is it simply a dream that 
 I saw you there for the first time ? I have been wanting to ask 
 you about it for a long time, but I've kept putting it off ; now 
 the time has come." 
 
 " To be sure, Arkasha, to be sure I stayed with Varvara 
 Stepanovna three times ; my first visit was when you were 
 only a year old, I came a second time when you were nearly four, 
 and afterwards again when you were six." 
 
 " Ah, you did then ; I have been wanting to ask you about it 
 all this month." 
 
 My mother seemed overwhelmed by a rush of memories, and 
 she asked me with feeling : 
 
 " Do you really mean, Arkasha, that you remembered ma 
 there ? " 
 
 " I don't know or remember anything, only something of your 
 face remained in my heart for the rest of my life, and the fact, 
 too, that you were my mother. I recall everything there as 
 though it were a dream, I've even forgotten my nurse. I have 
 a faint recollection of Varvara Stepanovna, simply that her face 
 was tied up for toothache. I remember huge trees near the house 
 — lime-trees I think they were — then sometimes the brilliant sun- 
 shine at the open windows, the little flower garden, the little 
 
 1 06
 
 path, and you, mother, I remember clearly only at one moment 
 when I was taken to the church there, and you held me up 
 to receive the sacrament and to kiss the chalice ; it was in the 
 summer, and a dove flew through the cupola, in at one window 
 and out at another. . , ." 
 
 " Mercy on us, that's just how it was," cried my mother, 
 throwing up her hands, " and the dear dove I remember, too, 
 now. With the chalice just before you, you started, and cried 
 out, ' a dove, a dove.' " 
 
 " Your face or something of the expression remained in my 
 memory so distinctly that I recognized you five years after in 
 Moscow, though nobody there told me you were my mother. But 
 when I met Audrey Petrovitch for the first time, I was brought 
 from the Andronikovs' ; I had been vegetating quietly and 
 happily with them for five years on end. I remember their flat 
 down to the smallest detail, and all those ladies who have all 
 grown so much older here ; and the whole household, and how 
 Andronikov himself used to bring the provisions, poultry, fish, 
 and sucking-pigs from the town in a fish-basket. And how at 
 dinner instead of his wife, who always gave herself such air.^, 
 he used to help the soup, and how we aU laughed at his doing it, 
 he most of all. The young ladies there used to teach me French. 
 But what I liked best of all was KJrylov's Fables. I learned a 
 number of them by heart and every day I used to recite one to 
 Andronikov. . . .going straight into his tiny study to do so 
 without considering whether he were busy or not. Well, it was 
 through a fable of ELrylov's that I got to know you, Audrey 
 Petrovitch. I see you are beginning to remember." 
 
 '■ I do recall something, my dear fellow, that you repeated 
 something to me ... a fable or a passage from ' Woe from Wit,* 
 I fancy. What a memory you have, though ! " 
 
 " A memory ! I should think so ! it's the one thing I've 
 remembered all my life." 
 
 " That's all right, that's all right, my dear fellow, you are 
 quite waking me up." 
 
 He actually smiled ; as soon as he smiled, my mother and 
 sister smiled after him, confidence was restored ; but Tatyana 
 Pavlovna,who had finished laying out the good things on the 
 table and settled herself in a corner, still bent upon me a keen and 
 disapproving eye. " This is how it happened," I went on : " one 
 fine morning there suddenly appeared the friend of my childhood, 
 Tatyana Pavlovna, who always made her entrance on the stage 
 
 107
 
 of my existence with dramatic suddenness. She took me away 
 in a carriage to a grand house, to sumptuous apartments. You 
 were staying at Madame Fanariotov's, Audrey Petrovitch, in 
 her empty house, which she had bought from you ; she was 
 abroad at that time. I always used to wear short jackets ; 
 now all of a sudden I was put into a pretty little blue greatcoat, 
 and a very fine shirt. Tatyana Pavlovna was busy with me all 
 day and bought me lots of things ; I kept walking through all the 
 empty rooms, looking at myself in all the looking-glasses. And 
 wandering about in the same way the next morning, at ten 
 o'clock, I walked quite by chance into your study. I had seen you 
 already the evening before, as soon as I was brought into the house, 
 but only for an instant on the stairs. You were coming down- 
 stairs to get into your carriage and drive off somewhere ; j'ou 
 were staying alone in Moscow then, for a short time after a very 
 long absence, so that you had engagements in all directions 
 and were scarcely ever at home. When you met Tatyana 
 Pavlovna and me you only drawled ' Ah ! ' and did not even 
 stop." 
 
 " He describes it with a special love," observed Versilov, 
 addressing Tatyana Pavlovna ; she turned away and did not 
 answer. 
 
 " I can see you now as you were then, handsome and flourish- 
 ing. It is wonderful how much older and less good-looking j'ou 
 have grown in these years ; please forgive this candour, you were 
 thirtj'-seven even then, though. I gazed at you with admiration ; 
 what wonderful hair you had, almost jet black, with a brilliant 
 lustre without a trace of grey ; moustaches and whiskers, like 
 the setting of a jewel : I can find no other expression for it ; 
 your face of an even pallor ; not like its sickly pallor to-day, 
 but like your daughter, Anna Andreyevna, whom I had the 
 honour of seeing this morning ; dark, glowing eyes, and gleam- 
 ing teeth, especially when you laughed. And you did laugh, 
 when you looked round as I came in ; I was not very discrimin- 
 ating at that time, and j'our smile rejoiced my heart. That 
 morning you were wearing a dark blue velvet jacket, a sulphur 
 coloured necktie, and a magnificent shirt with А1еп90п lace on 
 it ; you were standing before the looking-glass with a manu- 
 script in your hand, and were busy declaiming Tchatsky's mono- 
 logue, and especially his last exclamation : * A coach, I want 
 a coach.' " 
 
 " Good heavens 1 " cried Versilov. " Why, he's right ! 
 
 I08
 
 Though I was only in Moscow for so short a time, I undertook to 
 play Tchatsky in an amateur performance at Alexandra Petrovna 
 Vitovtov's in place of Zhileyko, who was ill ! " 
 
 " Do you mean to say you had forgotten it ? " laughed 
 Tatyana Pavlovna. 
 
 " He has brought it back to my mind ! And I own that those 
 few days in Moscow were perhaps the happiest in my life ! We 
 were still so young then . . . and all so fervently expecting 
 sometliing. ... It was then in Moscow I unexpectedly met so 
 much. . . . But go on, my dear fellow : this time you've done 
 well to remember it all so exactly. ..." 
 
 " I stood still to look at you and suddenly cried out, ' Ah, how 
 good, the real Tchatsky ' You turned round at once and 
 asked : ' Why, do you know Tchatsky already ? ' and you sat 
 down on a sofa, and began drinking your coffee in the most 
 charming humour — I could have kissed you. Then I informed 
 you that at the Andronikovs' every one read a great deal, and 
 that the young ladies knew a great deal of poetry by heart, 
 and used to act scenes out of ' Woe from Wit ' among themselves, 
 and that all last week we had been reading aloud in the evening 
 ' A Sportsman's Sketches,' but what I liked best of all was 
 Krylov's Fables, and that I knew them by heart. You told 
 me to repeat one, and I repeated ' The Girl who was Hard to 
 Please.' " 
 
 A maid her suitor shrewdly scanned. 
 
 " Yes ! Yes ! I remember it all now," cried Versilov again ; 
 " but, my dear fellow, I remember you, too, clearly now ; 3'ou 
 were such a charming boy then, a thoughtful boy even, and, I 
 assure you, you, too, have changed for the worse in the course of 
 these nine years." 
 
 At this point all of them, even Tatyana Pavlovna, laughed. 
 It was evident that Andrey Petrovitch had deigned to jest, and 
 had i)aid me out in the same coin for my biting remark about his 
 having grown old. Every one was amused, and indeed, it was 
 well said. 
 
 " As I recited, you smiled, but before I was half-way through 
 the fable you rang the bell and told the footman who answered 
 it to ask Tatyana Pavlovna to come, and she ran in with such 
 a delighted face, that though I had seen her the evening before 
 I scarcely knew her. For Tatyana Pavlovna, I began the fable 
 again, I finished it brilliantly, even Tatyana Pavlovna smiled, 
 
 109
 
 and you, Andrey Petrovitch cried ' Bravo ! ' and observed 
 with warmth that if it had been ' The Ant and the Grasshopper ' 
 it would not be wonderful that a sensible boy of my age should 
 ecite it sensibly, but this fable 
 
 A maid her suitor shrewdly scanned. 
 Indeed, that's not a crime. 
 
 was different. " Listen how he brings "out * Indeed, that's not a 
 crime,' " you said ; in fact, you were enthusiastic. Then you said 
 something in French to Tatyana Pavlovna, and she instantly 
 frowned and began to protest, and grew very hot, in fact ; but as 
 it was impossible to oppose Andrey Petrovitch if he once took 
 an idea into his head, she hurriedly carried me ofiF to her room, 
 there my hands and face were washed again, my shirt was 
 changed, my hair was pomaded and even curled. 
 
 " Then towards evening Tatyana Pavlovna dressed herself up 
 rather grandly as I had never expected to see her, and she took 
 me with her in the carriage. It was the first time in my life 
 I had been to a play ; it was at a private performance at Mmei 
 Vitovtov's. The lights, the chandeliers, the ladies, the officers, 
 the generals, the young ladies, the curtain, the rows of chairs, 
 were utterly unlike an)rthing I had seen before. Tatyana 
 Pavlovna took a very modest seat in one of the back rows, and 
 made me sit down beside her. There were, of course, other 
 children like me in the room, but I had no eyes for anything, 
 I simply waited with a sinking of my heart for the performance. 
 When you came on, Andrey Petrovitch, I was ecstatic to the 
 point of tears. What for and why, I don't understand. Why 
 those tears of rapture ? It has been a strange recollection for 
 me ever since, for these last nine years ! I followed the drama 
 with a throbbing heart ; all I understood of it, of course, was that 
 she was deceiving him, and that he was ridiculed by stupid people 
 who were not worth his little finger. When he was reciting at 
 the ball I understood that he was humiliated and insulted, that he 
 was reproaching all these miserable people, but that he was — 
 great, great ! No doubt my training at the Andronikovs' helped 
 me to understand, and your acting, Andrey Petrovitch ! It 
 was the first time I had seen a play ! When you went off shout- 
 ing ' A coach, a coach ! * (and you did that shout wonderfully) 
 I jumped up from my seat, and while the whole audience burst 
 into applause, I, too, clapped my hands and cried ' bravo ' at 
 the top of my voice. I vividly recall how at that instant I felt 
 
 no
 
 as though I had been pierced by a pin in my back 'a little 
 below the waist ' ; Tatyana Pavlovna had given me a 
 ferocious pinch ; but I took no notice of it. As soon as 
 ' Woe from Wit ' was over, Tatyana Pavlovna took me 
 home, of course. * You can't stay for the dancing, and it's only 
 on your account J am not staying ! ' you hissed at Ine all the 
 way home in the carriage, Tatyana Pavlovna. All night I was 
 delirious, and by ten o'clock the next morning I was standing 
 at the study door, but it was shut ; there were people with you 
 and you were engaged in some business with them ; then you 
 drove off and were away the whole day till late at night — so I 
 did not see you again ! What I meant to say to you, I have 
 forgotten, of course, and indeed I did not know then, but I 
 longed passionately to see you as soon as possible. And at eight 
 o'clock next morning you were graciously pleased to set off for 
 Serpuhov ; at that time you had just sold уопт Tula estate to 
 settle with your creditors, but there was still left in your hands 
 a tempting stake ; that was why you had come at that time to 
 Moscow, where you had not been able to show yourself till then 
 for fear of your creditors, and this Serpuhov ruffian was the 
 only one of them who had not agreed to take half of what you 
 owed him instead of the whole. When I questioned Tatyana 
 Pavlovna, she did not even answer me. * It's no business of 
 yours, but the day after to-morrow I shall take you to yoiur 
 boarding school : get your exercise-books ready, take your 
 lesson books, put them all in order, and you must learn to pack 
 your little box yourself, you can't expect to be waited on, sir.' 
 You were drumming this and that into my ears all those three 
 days, Tatyana Pavlovna. It ended in my being taken in my 
 innocence to school at Touchard's, adoring you, Andrey 
 Petrovitch ; our whole meeting was a trivial incident, perhaps, 
 but would you believe it^ six months afterwards I longed to run 
 away from Touchard's to you ! " 
 
 " You describe it capitally, you have brought it all back so 
 vividly," Versilov pronounced incisively ; " but what strikes me 
 most in your story is the wealth of certain strange details, con- 
 cerning my debts, for instance. Apart from the fact that these 
 details are hardly a suitable subject for you to discuss, I can't 
 imagine how you managed to get hold of them." 
 
 " Details ? how I got hold of them ? Why I repeat, for the 
 last nine years I have been doing nothing but getting hold of 
 facts about you." 
 
 Ill
 
 " A strange confession, and a strange way of spending your time." 
 
 He turned half-reclining in his easy chair, and even yawned 
 slightly, whether intentionally or not I could not say. 
 
 " Well, shall I go on telling you how I wanted to run to you 
 from Touchard's ? " 
 
 '■ Forbid him, Andrey Petrovitch ; suppress him and send him 
 away," Tatyana Pavlovna burst out. 
 
 " That won't do, Tatyana Pavlovna," Versilov answered her 
 impressively. " Arkasha has evidently something on his mind, 
 and so he must be allowed to finish. Well, let him speak ! 
 When he's said what he's got to say, it will be off his mind, and 
 wljat matters most to him is that he should get it off his mind. 
 Begin your new story, my dear fellow ; I call it new, but you may 
 rest assured that I кполу how it ends." 
 
 " I ran away, that is, I tried to run away to you, very simply. 
 Tatyana Pavlovna, do you remember after I had been there a 
 fortnight Touchard wrote you a letter — didn't he ? Marie 
 Ivanovna showed me the letter afterwards ; that turned up 
 among Andronikov's papers, too. Touchard suddenly discovered 
 that the fees he had asked were too small, and with ' dignity ' 
 announced in his lettr to you ' that little princes and senator's 
 children were educated in his establishment, and that it was 
 lowering its tone to keep a pupil of such humble origin as me 
 unless the remuneration were increased." 
 
 '* Mon cher, you really might. ..." 
 
 " Oh that's nothing, that's nothing," I interrupted, " I am 
 only going to say a little about Touchard. You Aviote from the 
 provinces a fortnight later, Tatyana Pavlovna, and answered 
 with a flat refusal. I remember how he walked into our class- 
 room, flushing crimson. He was a very short thick-set little 
 Frenchman of five-and-forty, a Parisian cobbler by origin, 
 though he had from time immemorial held a position in Moscow 
 as an instructor in the French language, and even had an 
 official rank, of which he was extremely proud ; he was a man of 
 crass ignorance. There were only six of us pupils ; among them 
 tjiere actually was a nephew of a Moscow senator ; and we all 
 lived like one family under the supervision of his wife, a very 
 affected lady, who лгаз the daughter of a Russian government 
 clerk. During that fortnight I had given myself great airs 
 
 112
 
 before my school-fellows. I boasted of my blue overcoat, and 
 my papa, Andrey Petrovitch, and their questions : why I was 
 called Dolgoruky and not Vei-silov did not embarrass rae in the 
 least, since I did not know why." 
 
 " Andrey Petrovitch ! " cried Tatyana Pavlovna, in a v4)icc 
 almost menacing. My mother, on the contrary, was watching 
 me intently, and evidently wished me to go on. 
 
 " Ce Touchard ... I actually recall liim now ... he was a 
 fussy little man," Versilov admitted ; '" but he was recommended 
 to me by the very best people. . . ." 
 
 " Ce Touchard walked in with the letter in his hand, went up 
 to the big oak table, at which all six of us were seated learning 
 something by heart ; he seized mc firmly b}- the shoulder, picked 
 me up from the chair, and ordered me to collect my exercise- 
 books. ' Your place is not here but there,' he said, pointing to 
 a tiny room on the left of the passage, where there was nothing 
 but a plain deal table, a rush-bottom chair, and an American 
 leather sofa — exactly like what I have upstairs in the attic. 
 I went into it in amazement, very much dowiicast ; I had never 
 been roughly treated before. Half an hour later when Touchard 
 had gone but of the schoolroom, I began to exchange glances and 
 smiles with my schoolfellows ; they, of course, were laughing at 
 me ; but I had no suspicion of it and thought we were laughing 
 because we were merry. At that moment Touchard darted in, 
 seized me by the forelock, and dragged me about. 
 
 " ' Don't you dare sit with gentlemanly boys, you are a child 
 of low origin and no better than a lackey.' 
 
 " And he gave me a stinging blow on my chubby, rosy cheek. 
 He must have enjoyed doing so and ho struck me a second'time,' 
 and a third. I cried violently and was terribly astonished. For 
 a whole hour I sat with my face hidden in my hands crying and 
 crying. Something had happened Avhich was utterly beyond 
 my comprehension. 1 don't understand how a man, not of 
 spiteful character, a foreigner like Touchard, who rejoiced at 
 th"; emancipation of the Russian peasants, could have beaten 
 a foolish child like me. I was only amazed, not resciitful, how- 
 ever. I had not yet learnt to resent an insult. It seemed to me 
 that I had somehow been naughty, that when I was good again 
 I should be forgiven, and that we should all be merry again at 
 once, that we should go out to play in the yard and live happv 
 ever after." 
 
 " My dear fellow, if I had only known. . . .'" Versilov drawiod 
 
 113
 
 with the careless smile of a rather weary man. " What a scoundrel 
 that Touchard was, though ! I have not given up all hope, 
 however, that you may make an effort and forgive us for all that 
 at last, and that we may all live happy ever after." 
 
 He yawned decisively. 
 
 " But I am not blaming you at all, and believe me, I am 
 not complaining of Touchard," I cried, a little disconcerted. 
 " Though, indeed, he beat me for ten months or so. I re- 
 member I was always trying to appease him in some way ; I used 
 to rush to kiss his hands, I was always kissing them, and I was 
 always crying and crying. My schoolfellows laughed at me and 
 despised me, because Touchard began to treat me sometimes like a 
 servant, he used to order me to bring him his clothes when he was 
 dressing. My menial instincts were of use to me there ; I did my 
 very utmost to please him, and was not in the least offended, be- 
 cause I did not at that time understand it at all, and I am sur- 
 prised to this day that I could have been so stupid as not to realize 
 that I was not on an equal footing with the rest. It's true my 
 schoolfellows made many things clear to me even then ; it was a 
 good school. Touchard came in the end to prefer giving me a 
 kick to slapping me in the face, and six months later he even 
 began to be affectionate ; only he never failed to beat me once 
 a month or so to remind me not to forget myself. He soon let 
 me sit with the other boys, too, and allowed me to play with 
 them, but not once during those two and a half years did Touchard 
 forget the difference in our social positions, and from time to 
 time, though not very frequently, he employed me in menial 
 tasks, I verily believe, to remind me of it. 
 
 *' I was running away ; that's to say, I was on the point of 
 running away for five months after those first two months. I 
 have always been slow in taking action. When I got into bed 
 and pulled the quilt over mc, I began thinking of you at once, 
 Andrey Petrovitch, only of you, of no one else ; I don't in the 
 least know why it was so. I dreamed about you too. I used 
 always to be passionately imagining that you would walk in, 
 and I would rush up to you and you would take me out of that 
 place, and bring me home with you to the same study, and that 
 we would go to the theatre again, and so on. Above all, that we 
 should not part again — that was the chief thing ! As soon as I 
 had to wake up in the morning the jeers and contempt of the 
 boys began again ; one of thcra actually began beating me and 
 making me put on his boots for him ; he called me the vilest 
 
 114
 
 names, particularly aiming at making my origin clear to me, to 
 the div'ersion of all who heard him. When at last Touchard 
 himself became comprehensible, something unbearable began in 
 my soul. I felt that I should never be forgiven here. Oh, I 
 was beginning by degrees to understand what it was they would 
 not forgive me and of what I was guilty ! And so at last I 
 resolved to run away. For two whole months I dreamed of it 
 incessantly ; at last — it was September — I made up my mind, 
 I waited for Saturday, when my schoolfellows used to go home 
 for the week-end, and meanwhile I secretly and carefully got 
 together a bundle of the most necessary things ; all the money 
 I had was two roubles. I meant to wait till dusk ; ' then I will 
 go downstairs,' I thought, ' and I'll go out and walk away ! ' 
 Where ? I knew that Andronikov had moved to Petersburg, 
 and I resolved that I луоиИ look for Mme. Fanariotov's house in 
 Arbaty ; ' I'll spend the night walking or sitting somewhere, 
 and in the morning I'll asl^some one in the courtyard of the house, 
 where Audrey Petrovitch 'is now, and if not in Moscow, in what 
 town or country. They will be sure to tell me. I'll walk away, 
 and then ask some one, somewhere else, by which gate to go out 
 to reach such a town ; and then I'll go and walk and л\'а1к, I 
 shall keep on walking ; I shall sleep somewhere under the 
 bushes ; I shall eat nothing but bread, and for two roubks I can 
 get bread enough for a long time.' 
 
 " I could not manage to run away on Saturday, liov.evcr ; 
 I had to wait till next day, Sunday, and as luck would have it, 
 Touchard and his wife were going away somewhere for the 
 Sunday ; there was no one left in the house but Agafya and me. 
 I awaited the night in terrible agitation, I remember. I sat at 
 the window in the schoolroom, looking out at the dusty street, 
 the little wooden houses, and the few passers-by. Touchard 
 lived in an out-of-the-waj'' street ; from the windows I could see 
 one of the city gates ; ' Isn't it the one ? ' I kept wondering. The 
 sun set in a red glow, the sky was so cold-looldng, and a piercing 
 wind was stirring up the dust, just as it is to-day. It was quite 
 dark at last ; I stood before the ikon and began to pray, only 
 very, very quickly, I was in haste ; I caught up my bundle, and 
 went on tip- toe down the creaking stairs, horribly afraid that 
 Agafya would hear me from the kitchen. The door was locked, 
 I turned the key, and at once a dark, dark night loomed black 
 before me like a boundless perilous unknown land, and the wind 
 snatched off my cap. I was just going out on the same side of 
 
 IIS
 
 the pavement ; I heard a hoarse volley of oaths from a drunken 
 man in the street. I stood, looked, and slowly turned, slowly 
 went upstairs, slowly took off my things, put down my little 
 bundle and lay down flat, without tears, and without thoughts, 
 and it was from that moment, Andrey Petrovitch, that I began 
 to think. It was from that moment that I realized that besides 
 being a Iack?y, I was a coward, too, and my real development 
 began ! " 
 
 " Well, I see through you once and for all from this minute," 
 cried Tatyana Pavlovna, jumping up from her seat, and so 
 suddenly, that I was utterly unprepared for it ; " yes, you were 
 not only a lackey then, you are a lackey now ; you've the soul 
 of a lackey ! Why should not Andrey Petrovitch have appren- 
 ticed you to a shoemaker ? it would have been an act of charity 
 to have taught you a trade ! Who would have expected more 
 than that of him ? Your father, Makar Ivanovitch, asked — in 
 fact, he insisted — that you, his children, should not be brought 
 up to be above your station. Why, 3'ou think nothing of his 
 having educated you for the university, and that through him 
 you have received class rights. The little rascals teased him, 
 to be sure, so he has sworn to avenge himself on humanity. . . . 
 You scoundrel ! " 
 
 I must confess I was struck dumb by this outburst, I got up 
 and stood for some time staring and not knowing what to saj . 
 
 " Well, certainly Tatyana Pavlovna has told me something 
 new," I said at last, turning resolutely to Versilov ; " yes, 
 certainly I am such a lackey that I can't be satisfied with Versilov's 
 not having apprenticed me to a shoemaker ; even ' rights ' did 
 not touch me. I wanted the whole of Versilov, I wanted a 
 father . . . that's what I asked for — like a regular lackey. 
 Mother, I've had it on my conscience for eight years — when you 
 came to Moscow alone to see me at Touchard's, the way I re- 
 ceived you then, but I have no time to speak of it now. Tatyana 
 Pavlovna won't let me tell my story, Good-bye till to-morrow, 
 mother; we may see each other again. Tatj'ana Pavlovna! 
 what if I am so xitterly a lackey that I am quite unable to admit 
 the pos.'sibility of a man's marrying again when his wife is alive? 
 Yet you know that all but happened to Andrey Petrovitch at 
 Ems ! Mother, if you don't want to stay with a husband who 
 may take another wife to-morrow, remember you have a son 
 who promi.ses to be a dutiful son to you for ever ; remember, and 
 let us go away, only on condition that it is 'either he, or I * will 
 
 116
 
 you ? I don't ask you for an answer at once, of course : I 
 know that such questions can't be answered straight off." 
 
 But I could not go on, partly because I was excited and 
 confused. My mother turned pale and her voice seemed to 
 fail her : she could not utter a uord. Tatyana Pavlovna said 
 something in a very loud voice and at great ler.gth which I could 
 not make out, and twnce she pushed me on the shoulder Mith 
 her fist. I only remember that she shouted that " my words 
 were a sham, the broodings of a petty soul, counted over and 
 turned inside out." Versilov sat motionless and very serious, 
 he was not smiling. I went upstairs to my room. The last 
 thing I saw as I went out was the reproach in my sister's eyes ; 
 she shook her head at me sternly. 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 I DESCRIBE all these scenes without sparing myself, in order to 
 recall it clearly and revive the impression. As I went up to my 
 attic, I did not know in the least whether I ought to be ashamed 
 or triumphant as though I had done my duty. Had I been 
 ever so little more experienced, I should have had a misgiving 
 that the least doubt in such cases must be taken as a bad sign. 
 but another fact threw me out in my reckoning : I don't know 
 what J was pleased about, but I felt awfully pleased, in spite of 
 my being uncertain, and of my realizing distinctly that I had 
 not come off with flying colours dovviistairs. Even Tatyana 
 Pavlovna's spiteful abuse of me struck me as funny and amusing 
 and did not anger me at all. Probably all this was because I had 
 anpvay broken my chains and for the first time felt myself free. 
 I felt, too, that I had weakened my position : how I was to 
 act in regard to the letter about the inheritance was more obscure 
 than ever. Now it would be certainly taken for granted that I 
 was revenging myself on Versilov. But while all this discussion 
 was going on downstairs I had made up my mind to s ibmit the 
 question of the letter to an impartial outsider and to appeal to 
 Vassinfor his decision, or, failuig Vassin, to take it to some one 
 else. Ihadalready made up ray mind to whom. I would go to see 
 Vassin once, for that occasion оп1з% I thought to m3'self , and thei* 
 — then I would vanish for a long while, for some months, from the 
 
 117
 
 sight of all, especially of Vassin. Only my mother and sister I 
 might see occasionally. It was all inconsistent and confused ; 
 I felt that I had done something, though not in the right way, 
 and I was satislSed : I repeat, I was awfully pleased anyway, 
 
 I meant to go to bed rather early, foreseeing I should have a lot 
 to do' next day. Besides finding a lodging and moving, I had 
 another project which in one way or another I meant to carry out. 
 But the evening was not destined to end without surprises, and 
 Versilov succeeded in astonishing me extremely. He had 
 certainly never been into my attic, and lo and behold, before I 
 had been an hour in my room I heard his footsteps on the ladder : 
 he called to me to show a light. I took a candle, and stretching 
 out my hand, which he caught hold of, I helped him up. 
 
 " Merci, my dear fellow ; I've never climbed up here before, 
 not even when I took the lodgings, I imagined what sort of place 
 it \vas, but I never supposed it was quite such a hole as this." 
 He stood in the middle of my attic, looking around with curiosity. 
 " Why, this is a coffin, a regular coffin." 
 
 It really had a resemblance to the inside of a coffin, and I 
 positively admired the way he had described it in one word. 
 It was a long narrow box of a room, the ceiling sloped away from 
 the Avail at the height of my shoulder, and the top of it was 
 within easy reach of my hand. Versilov unconsciously stood 
 stoopuig, afraid of hitting his head against the ceiling ; he did not 
 knock it, however, and, finally more or less reassured, he seated 
 himself on the sofa, where my bed had already been made up. 
 But I did not sit do\ni, I looked at him in the greatest amazement. 
 
 " Your mother says she does not know whether to take the 
 money З'ои gave her this evening for your board for the month. 
 But for a coffin like this, instead of taking your money, we ought 
 rather to offer you compensation ! I have never been up and 
 .... I can't conceive how you can exist here ! " 
 
 " I am used to it. But what I can't get used to is seeing you 
 in m}- room after what has just happened downstairs." 
 
 " O, yes, you were distinctly rude downstairs, but ... I, too, 
 have a special object which I will explain to you, though indeed 
 there is nothing extraordinary in my coming ; even the scene 
 downstairs is in the regular order of things ; but for mercy's sake 
 do explain this : what you told us downstairs after preparing 
 us and approaching the subject so solemnly was surely not all you 
 meant to discloseorcommnnicate ? Was there really nothing else ?" 
 
 " That was all, or we'll assume it was all." 
 
 iiS
 
 " It's not much, my dear fellow : I must own that from your 
 beginning and the way you urged us to laugh, in fact from your 
 eagerness to talk, I expected more." 
 
 " But that does not matter to you, surely ? " 
 
 *' But I speak simply from a sense of proportion ; it Avas not 
 worth making such a fuss about, it was quite disproportionate ; 
 you've been sitting mute a whole month, preparing to speak, 
 and when it comes — it's nothing." 
 
 " I meant to say more, but I am ashamed of having said even 
 that. Not everjrthing can be put into words, there are things 
 it's better never to say at all ; I said a good deal, but you did not 
 understand." 
 
 "Why, so you,too,are sometimes distressed at the impossibility 
 of putting thought into words ! That's a noble sorrow, my dear 
 fellow, and it's only vouchsafed to the elect : the fool is always 
 satisfied лvitb what he has said, and always, too, says more than 
 he need ; they love to have something to spare." 
 
 " As I see I did, for instance ; I said more than I need : I asked 
 for the ' whole of Versilov,' that was a great deal too much ; 
 I don't need Versilov at all." 
 
 " My dear fellow, I see you want to retrieve 3'our failure down- 
 stairs. It is very evident you repent it, and as repentance among 
 us always involves immediately attacking some one, з'ои are very 
 anxious to hit hard this time. I have come too soon, and you 
 have not yet cooled down, and besides you are not very good at 
 standing criticism. But sit down, for mercy's sake ; I have come 
 to tell you something ; thank you, that's right. From what you 
 said to уош- mother, as you went out, it's quite clear that it is 
 better for us to separate. I have come to persuade you to do 
 so as gently end with as little fuss as possible, to avoid grieving 
 and alarming your mother any further. My coming up here 
 even has cheered her. She believes in a way that we may still 
 be reconciled and that e «^erything will go on as before. I imagine 
 that if we were to laugh heartily once or twice we should fill 
 their timid hearts with delight. They may be simple souls, but 
 they are sincere and true-hearted in their love. \^"hy not humour 
 them on occasion ? Well, that's one thing. Another thing : 
 why should we necessarily part thirsting for revenge, gna&hing 
 o\ir teeth, vowing vengeance, etc. Of course there is no manner 
 of need to fall on each other's necks, but we might part, so to say, 
 with mutual respect, mightn't we ? " 
 
 " That's all nonsense ! 1 promise to go away without a fuss — 
 
 119
 
 and that's enough. And is it for my mother's sake you are 
 anxious ? But it strikes me that ray mother's peace of mind has 
 absolutely nothing to do with it, and you are simply saying that." 
 
 " You don't believe it ? " 
 
 " You talk to me just as though I were a baby." 
 
 " I am ready to beg your pardon a thousand times over for 
 that, in fact for everything you bring up against me, for those 
 years of your childhood and the rest of it, but, cher enfant, what 
 will be the use of it ? You are too clever to want to be put into 
 such a stupid position. To say nothing of my not understanding, 
 so far, the exact nature of your accusations. What is it you 
 blame me for in reality ? For your not having been bom a 
 Vcrsilov 1 Bah ! You laugh contemptuously and wave your 
 hands, so that's not it ? " 
 
 " No, I assure you. I assure you I don't think it an honouj 
 to be called Versilov." 
 
 " Let's leave honour out of the question ; and, besides, your 
 answer was bound to be democratic ; but if so, what are you 
 blammg rae for ? " 
 
 " Tatyana Pavlovna told me just now ail I needed to know, 
 and had always failed to grasp, till she spoke. That is, that you 
 did not apprentice me to a shoemaker, and that consequently I 
 had to be grateful, too. I can't understand why it is I am not 
 grateful, even now, even after I have been taught my lesson. 
 Isn't it the pride of yoiu- race showing itself in me, Audrey 
 Fetrovitoh ? " 
 
 " Probably not, and apart from that, you must admit that by 
 your sallies do^rtTistairs you've only bullied and tormented your 
 mother instead of crushing me, as you intended. Yet I should 
 have thought it was not for you to judge her. Besides, what 
 wrong has she done you ? Explain to me, too, by the way, 
 my dear fellow : for what reason and with what object did you 
 spread abroad that you were illegitimate, at your boarding school 
 and at the grammar school, and everywhere you have been, 
 to every casual stranger, as I hear you have ? I hear that you 
 did tills with a peculiar relish. And yet that's all nonsense, and 
 a revolting calumny : you are legitimate, a Dolgoruky, the son of 
 Makar Ivanovitch Dolgoruky, a respectable man, remarkable for 
 his intelligence and character. That you have received a superior 
 education is entirely owing to your former master, Versilov, and 
 what's the upshot of it ? }^y proclaiming your illegitimacy, which 
 Ls a calumny in itself, you first and foremost gave away your 
 
 120
 
 mother's secret, and from a false pride exposed your mother to 
 the criticism of every dirty stranger. My dear fellow, that was 
 very discreditable, especially as your mother is in no way to 
 blame : she has a nature of the greatest purity, and that her name 
 is not Versilov is simply because her husband is still living." 
 
 " Enough, I entirely agree with you, and I have enough faith 
 in your intelligence to hope that you won't go on rating at me too 
 long for it. You are so fond of moderation ; and yet there's 
 a moderation in all things, even in your sudden love for my 
 mother. I'll tell you what would be better : since you have gone 
 so far as to come up and see me and mean to spend a quarter of 
 an hour or half an hour with me (I still don't know what for, 
 we'll assume for my mother's peace of mind), and what's more, in 
 spite of the scene downstairs, seem so eager to talk to me, you had 
 better tell me about my father — tell me about Makar Ivanovitch 
 the pilgrim. I want to hear from you about him : I have been 
 intending to ask you for some time past. Now that we are 
 parting perhaps for a long time, I should very much Uke to get 
 from you an answer to another question : has it really been 
 impossible for you during these twenty years to affect my mother's 
 traditional ideas — and now my sister's, too — so as to dissipate 
 by your civilizing influence the primitive darkness of her en- 
 vironment ? Oh, I am not speaking of the purity of her nature. 
 She's infinitely nobler than j'ou, morally any^vay, excuse my 
 saying so . . . but she's only an infinitely noble corpse. Versilov 
 is the only one living, everything else about him and everything 
 connected with him exists only on the express condition of having 
 the honour to nourish him with its force, its living sap. But I 
 suppose she, too, was once alive, wasn't she ? I suppose you 
 loved something in her, didn't you ? I suppose she was once a 
 woman ? " 
 
 '■ My dear fellow, she never was, if you will have it," he assured 
 me, at once dropping into his habitual manner with me, with 
 which I was so familiar, and by which I was so enraged, that is 
 he was apparently all sincerity and open-heartedness, but if one 
 looked more closely there was nothing in him but the deepest 
 irony : " she never was. The Russian woman never is a woman." 
 
 " Is the Polish woman, the French woman ? Or the Italian, 
 the passionate Italian, that's the sort to fascinate the civilized 
 upper-class Russian of the type of Versilov ? " 
 
 " Well, I certainly did not expect to meet a Slavophil," laughed 
 Versilov. 
 
 121
 
 I remember his story, word for word : he began talking with 
 great readiness indeed, and with evident pleasure. It was quite 
 clear to me, that he had come up not to have a gossip with me, 
 and not to pacify my mother either, but with some other object. 
 
 " Your mother and I have spent these twenty years together 
 in silence," he began, prattling on (it was utterly affected and 
 unnatural), " and all that passed between us took place in silence. 
 The chief characteristic of our twenty years' connection has been 
 its — dumbness. I believe we have never once quarrelled. It 
 is true I have often gone away and left her alone, but it has always 
 ended in my coming back. Noiis revenons toujours ; indeed, it's 
 a fimdamental characteristic of men ; it's due to their magna- 
 nimity. If marriage depended on women alone, not a single 
 marriage would last. Meekness, submissiveness, self-abasement, 
 and at the same time firmness, strength, real strength, that's your 
 mother's character. Take note, that she's the best of all the 
 women I've met in my life. And that she has strength I can bear 
 witness : I have seen how that strength has supported her. 
 When it's a matter, I won't say of convictions — convictions are 
 out of the question — but what they look upon as convictions, 
 and so, to their thinking, sacred, she is ready to face torture. 
 Well, I leave you to judge, whether I am much like a torturer. 
 That's why I have preferred to remain silent about almost every- 
 thing, and not simply because it Avas more convenient, and 
 I confess I don't regret it. In this way our life has gone on of 
 itself on bioad and humane lines, so that indeed I take no credit 
 to myself for it. I must say by the way in parenthesis, that for 
 some reason she never beheved in my humanity, and so was 
 always in a tremor ; but, though she has trembled, she has never 
 given in to any advanced ideas. They are so good at that, while 
 we never understand that sort of thing, and in fact they are much 
 better at managing things for themselves than we are. They are 
 able to go on living their ovm. lives in positions most unnatural 
 to them, and in positions most strange to them they remain 
 always the same. But we can't do that." 
 
 " Who are ' they ' ? I don't quite understand you." 
 " The people, my dear fellow, I'm speaking of the common 
 people. They have shown their great living force, and their 
 historical breadth both morally and politically. But, to come 
 
 122
 
 back to oui selves, I may remark about your mother, that she is 
 not always dumb ; your mother sometimes speaks, but she speaks 
 in such a way that you see at once that you simply waste time 
 in talking to her, even though you might have been preparing 
 her for five years beforehand. Moreover, she makes the most 
 unexpected objections. Note again, that I am far from calling 
 her a fool ; on the contrary, she has intelligence of a sort, and 
 even remarkable intelligence ; though perhaps you wiU not be- 
 lieve in her intelligence ..." 
 
 " Why not ? What I don't believe is that you really believe 
 in her intelligence yourself, and are not pretending." 
 
 " Yes ] You look upon me as such a chameleon ? My dear 
 fellow, I am allowing you a little too much licence . . . like a 
 spoilt son . . . So be it for the time." 
 
 " TeU me if you can the truth about my father." 
 " About Makar Ivanovitch ? Makar Ivanovitch was, as you 
 are aware, a house-serf, who, so to speak, had a yearning for 
 glory of a sort ..." 
 
 " I bet that at this minute you feel envious of him ! " 
 " On the contrary, my dear fellow, on the contrary, and if you 
 like I am very glad to see you in such a flippant mood ; I swear 
 that I am in a penitent frame of mind, and just now, at this 
 moment, I regret a thousand times over all that happened twenty 
 years ago. And besides, God knows, it all happened quite 
 accidentally . . . well, and, so far as in me lay, humanely too ; 
 — as I conceived of an act of humanity in those days anyway. 
 Oh, in those days we were all boiling over with zeal for doing good, 
 for serving the public weal, for a higher ideal ; we disapproved of 
 class distinctions, of the privileges of our rank, of our property 
 and even of usury, at least some of us did. ... I declare we 
 did. There were not many of us, but we said good things, and 
 sometimes, I assure you, did good things, too." 
 " That was Avhen you sobbed on his shoulder." 
 " I am ready to agree with you on every point beforehand. 
 By the way, you heard of that shoulder from me, and so, at this 
 moment, you are making spiteful use of my frankness and confi- 
 dence in you ; but you must admit that there was not so much 
 harm in that episode as might seem at the first glance, especially 
 for that period. To be sure we were only making a beginning 
 then. Of course it was a pose, but I did not know at the time 
 that it was a pose. Have you, for instance, never posed in 
 practical affairs ? " 
 
 123
 
 " I was rather sentimental downstairs, just now, and as I came 
 up here I felt horribly ashamed at the thought that you might 
 imagine I had been posing. It is true in some cases, though one's 
 feelings are sincere, one makes a display of one's feelings. I swear 
 that everything I said downstairs was absolutely genuine." 
 
 " That's exactly it ; you have very successfully defined it in a 
 phrase, ' though one's feelings are sincere one makes a display 
 of one's self ' ; but do you know it was just the same with me. 
 Though I was making a display of them, my sobs were perfectly 
 genuine. I don't deny that Makar Ivanovitch might, if he had been 
 wittily disposed, have looked upon my sobs as the climax of 
 mockery, but in those days he was too honest to be so clear- 
 sighted. I don't know whether he felt sorry for me or not. I 
 remember that I had a great desire that he should." 
 
 " Do you know," I interrupted him," you're jeering now 
 when you say that ? And in fact, all this last month whenever 
 you have talked to me, you have been jeering. Why have you 
 done so, whenever you have talked with me ? " 
 
 " You think so ? " he answered mildly ; " you are very sus- 
 picious ; however, if I do laugh it's not at you, or, at least not only 
 at you, don't be uneasy. But I am not laughing now, and then — 
 in short I did everything I could then, and, believe me, not for 
 my personal advantage. We, that is, superior people, unlike the 
 common people, do not know how to act for our personal ad- 
 vantage : on the contrary, we made a mess of it as far as we 
 possibly could, and I suspect that that was considered among 
 us in those days ' our higher advantage,' in an exalted sense of 
 course. The present generation of advanced people are much 
 keener on the main chance than we were. Even before our 
 ' sin ' I explained the whole position to Makar Ivanovitch with ex- 
 traordinary directness. I am ready to admit now, that a great 
 deal need not have been explained at all, especially with such 
 directness ; to say nothing of humanity it would have been far 
 more polite, but . . . but there's no pulling up when you once 
 begin dancing, and want to cut a fine caper. And perhaps our 
 cravings for the fine and exalted only amount to that in reality. 
 All my life I have never been able to make up my mind about it. 
 However, that is too deep a subject for our superficial conversa- 
 tion, but I assure you I am sometimes ready to die with shame, 
 when I recall it. I offered him at the time three thousand 
 roubles, and I remember he did not say a word and I did all the 
 talking. Only fancy, I imagined that he was afraid of me, that 
 
 124
 
 is of my rights of ownership over him, and I remember I did my 
 utmost to reassure him ; I kept trying to persuade him to have 
 no apprehension, but to tell me his wishes frankly and without 
 sparing me. By way of guarantee I promised him, that if he did 
 not accept my terms, that is three thousand with freedom (for 
 himself and his wife, of course) — and a journey wherever he 
 pleased (without his wife, of course) — then let him say so straight 
 out, and I would at once give him his freedom, let his wife go, 
 and compensate them both Tvith the same three thousand, I be- 
 lieve, and the J' should not go away from me, but I would go away 
 myself in solitude for three years to Italy. Mon ami, I should 
 not have taken Mile. Sapozhkov with me to Italy, you may be sure 
 of that. I was extremely pure at that epoch. And, do you know, 
 Makar Ivanovitch knew perfectly well that I should do as I 
 promised ; but he still remained silent, and only when I was about 
 to throw myself on his neck, for the third time, he drew back, 
 waved his hand, and went out of the room with a certain lack 
 of ceremony, indeed, which I assure you surprised me at the time. 
 I caught a gUmpse of myself in the looking-glass and I can't 
 forget it. 
 
 " As a rule when they don't speak it's worst of all, and he was a 
 gloomy character, and I must confess that far from feeling sure 
 of him I was awfully afraid of him, when I summoned him to my 
 study. In that class there are types, and many of them, who 
 are, so to speak, the very incarnation of all that's ill-bred, and 
 one's more afraid of that than a beating. Sic. And what a risk 
 I was running, what a risk ! Why, what if he had begun shouting 
 for all the servants to hear, had howled, this village Uriah, what 
 would have become of me, such a juvenile David, and what 
 should I have done then ? That's why I trotted out the three 
 thousand first of all, that was instinctive ; but luckily I was mis- 
 taken : this Makar Ivanovitch was something quite different." 
 
 " Tell me, had you ' sinned ' then ? You said just now that 
 you summoned the husband beforehand." 
 
 " Well, do you see . . . that is ... as one understands 
 it . . ." 
 
 " Oh, you had then. You said just now you were mistaken in 
 him, that he was something different ; how different ? " 
 
 " Well, how exactly I don't know to this day, but somehow 
 different, and, do you know, positively very decent. I think so 
 because in the end I felt more than ever ashamed to face him. Next 
 day he agreed to the journey, without any words, but without, 
 
 125
 
 o£ course, forgetting one of the inducements I had offered 
 him." 
 
 " He took the money ? " 
 
 " I should think so ! And you know, my dear fellow, in that 
 point he surprised me too. I had not, of course, three thousand 
 at the time in my pocket, but I procured seven hundred and 
 handed it over to him as the first instalment ; and what do you 
 think ? He demanded the remaining two thousand three 
 hundred from nie in the form of a credit note made payable 
 to a certain merchant for security. And two years later, by 
 means of that credit note, he got the money out of me before a 
 court, and with interest too, so that he surprised me again, 
 especially as he had literally gone collecting funds for building 
 a church, and has been a pilgrim ever since, that is, for the last 
 twenty years. I don't understand what a pilgrim should want 
 money of his own for. . . . money which is such a worldly 
 thing. ... I offered the money at the minute of course with 
 perfect sincerity, and, so to speak, in the first flush of feeling, 
 but afterwards, after the lapse of so many minutes, I might 
 naturally have thought better of it . . . and might have reckoned 
 that he would spare me ... or, so to say, spare us, me and her, 
 and would have waited for a time at least. But he lust no time 
 however ..." 
 
 Here I must make a necessary note. If my mother were to 
 outlive M. Versilov, she would have been left literally without a 
 farthing in her old age, had it not been for Makar Ivanovitch's 
 three thousand, which had been doubled long ago by the ac- 
 cumulation of interest, and which he had the previous year 
 left her intact in his will. He had seen through Versilov even 
 in those days. 
 
 " You told me once that Makar Ivanovitch had come several 
 times on a visit to you, and always stayed at mother's 
 lodgings ? " 
 
 " Yes, my dear boy : and I must confess at first I was awfully 
 frightened of these visits. He has come six or seven times alto- 
 gether during this period, that is, the last twenty years, and on 
 the first occasions I used to hide myself if I were in the house 
 when he arrived. At first I could not make out what it meant, 
 and why he had turned up. But afterwards I thought that from 
 certain points of view it was by no means so stupid on his part. 
 Afterwards it somehow occiu-red to me to feel curious about him ; 
 I came out to have a look at him, and formed, I assure you, a very 
 
 126
 
 original impression of him. This was on his third or fourth visit, 
 at the time when I had just been appointed a mediator, and when, 
 of course, I was getting all my energies to work to study Russia. 
 I heard from him a very great deal that was new to me. I found 
 in him, besides, what I had never expected to find : a sort of 
 benign serenity, an evenness of temper, and what was more 
 surprising than anything, something almost like gaiety. Not the 
 faintest allusion to that (tu comprends) and a very great capacity 
 for talking sense, and talking extremely well, that is, with none of 
 that silly servantish profundity, which I confess to you I can't 
 endure, democratic as I am, and with none of those far-fetched 
 Russian expressions which ' the genuine Russian peasant ' 
 makes use of in novels and on the stage. At the same time very 
 little about religion, unless one begins upon the subject, and most 
 charming descriptions of the monastery and monastic life, if one 
 asks questions about it. And above all — respectfuhiess, that 
 modest courtesy, just that courtesy which is essential for the 
 truest equality, and without which, indeed, in my opinion, 
 one cannot be really superior. The truest good-breeding is in 
 such cases attained through the complete absence of conceit, and 
 the man shows himself secure in his self-respect in his own station 
 of life whatever that may be, and whatever fate may befall him. 
 This power of respecting one's self in one's own position is ex- 
 tremely rare, as rare, anyway, as real personal dignity. . . . 
 You will see that for yourself if you live long enough. But what 
 struck me most of all, especially later on, and not at the begin- 
 ning," added Versilov, " was the fact that this Makar had an 
 extraordinary stateliness, and was, I assure you, very handsome. 
 It is true he луаз old, but — 
 
 Dark visaged, tall, erect, 
 
 simple and dignified ; I actually wondered how my poor Sonia 
 could have preferred me then ; at that time he was fifty, but he 
 was still a fine fellow, and compared with bim I was such a 
 featherhead. I remember, however, that he was unpardonably 
 grey even then ; so he must have been just as grey-headed when 
 he married her. , . . Perhaps that had an influence." 
 
 Versilov had a very nasty aristocratic trick : after saying 
 (when he could not help it) some particularly clever and fine things, 
 he would all at once intentionally cap them with some stupid 
 saying such as this remark about Makar Ivanovitch's grey hair, 
 and the influence it had on my mother. He did this on purpose 
 
 127
 
 probably without knowing why he did it, from a silly snobbish 
 habit. To hear him, one would suppose he was speaking quite 
 seriously, and all the while he was posing to himself, or laughing. 
 
 I don't know why but I was suddenly overcome by an intense 
 exasperation, In fact, 1 recall with extreme dissatisfaction some 
 of mj' behaviour during those minutes ; I suddenly got up from 
 my seat. 
 
 " I tell you what," I said : " you gay you came up chiefly that 
 my mother might imagine we were reconciled. Time enough 
 has passed for her to imagine it ; will you be so good as to leave 
 me alone ? " 
 
 He flushed slightly and got up from his place. 
 
 " My dear boy, you are extremely unceremonious with me. 
 However, good-bye ; there is no winning love by force. I will 
 only venture upon one question : do you really want to leave 
 the prince ? " 
 
 " Aha ! I knew you had some object in your mind " 
 
 " That is, you suspect I came up to induce you to stay with the 
 prince, for some purpose of my own. But do you suppose, my 
 dear fellow, that I sent for you from Moscow for some purpose 
 of my own ? Oh I how suspicious you are. On the contrary, 
 I was anxious for your good in every way. And even now, since 
 my position has so improved, I should have liked you to let me 
 and your mother help you sometimes." 
 
 " I don't like you, Versilov." 
 
 " And ' Versilov ' too ! By the way, I greatly regret that I 
 can't transmit you the name, seeing that in reality constitutes 
 my whole offence, if offence there is, doesn't it ? but again I 
 couldn't marry a married woman, could I ? " 
 
 " That was why, I suppose, you wanted to m .rry an unmarried 
 one ? " 
 
 A slight spasm passed over his face. 
 
 " You are thinking of Ems. Listen, Arkady, you went so 
 far as to allude to that downstairs, pouring contempt upon me 
 before your mother. You must know that that's where you make 
 your greatest mistake. You know nothing -whatever of what 
 happened with Lidya Ahmakov. You don't know how much 
 your mother had to do with it all, although she was not with 
 me at the time, and if I have ever seen a good woman it was when 
 
 128
 
 I looked at 3'our mother then. But that's enough ; all that is 
 a secret still, and you — you talk of what you don't know, and 
 have heard about from outsiders." 
 
 " Only to-day the prince told me that \'ou have a special fancy 
 for unfledged girls." 
 
 "The prince said that ? " 
 
 " Yes, listen, would j'ou like me to tell you exactly what you 
 have come up to me for ? I have been sitting here all this time 
 wondering what was the secret object of this visit, and now 
 I believe I've guessed it." 
 
 He was just going out, but he stopped and turned to me in 
 expectation. 
 
 '■ I blurted out just now that Touchard's letter to Tatyana 
 Pavlovna was among Andronikov's papers, and at his death 
 came into the hands of Marie Ivanovna. I saw how your face 
 suddenly twitched, and I only guessed why just полу, when your 
 face twitched again in the same way. The idea suddenly oc- 
 curred to you that if one letter in Andronikov's keeping had 
 come into Marie Ivanovna's hands, why shouldn't another ? And 
 Andronikov might have left very important letters, mightn't 
 he ? " 
 
 " So I came up here hoping to make you talk about it ? " 
 
 " You know that yourself." 
 
 He turned very pa If . 
 
 " You did not imagine that of yourself ; there's a Avoman's 
 influence in it ; ar.d wh it hatred there is in j'our words — in your 
 coarse supposition ! " 
 
 " A woman ? I have seen that woman for the first time to- 
 day ! Perhaps it's just to spy on her you want me to stay on 
 with the old prince." 
 
 " I see, though, that you will do well i:i your new line. Itn't 
 that perhaps ' your idea ' ? Go on, m}' dear fellow, you have 
 an unmistakable gift for detective work. Given talent, one 
 must perfect it." 
 
 He paused to take breath. 
 
 " Take care, Versilov, don't make me your enemy ! " 
 
 " My dear felloAv, in such cases no one gives utterance to his 
 last thoughts, but keeps them to him.self. And with that, show 
 me a light, if you please ; though you are тл^ enemy you are not 
 so much so as to want me to break my neck, I suppose. Tiens, 
 топ ami, only fancy," he went on. as he descended the ladder, 
 "all this month I have been taking you for a good-naturtd 
 
 129
 
 fellow. You so want to live and are so thirsting for life that I do 
 believe three lives would not be enough for you : one can see that 
 in your face, and people like that' are generally good-natured. 
 And how mistaken I've been ! " 
 
 I can't express how my heart ached when I was left alone ; 
 it was as though I had cut off a piece of my own living flesh ! 
 Why I had so suddenly lost my temper, and why I had so in- 
 sulted him — so persistently and intentionally — I couldn't say 
 now ; nor could I at the time, of course. And how pale he had 
 turned ! And who knows, perhaps that paleness was the 
 expression of the truest and purest feeling and the deepest 
 sorrow, and not of anger or of offence. I always fancied that 
 there had been a moment when he really loved me. Why, why 
 could I not believe that now, especially when so much had been 
 made clear ? 
 
 I had flown into a sudden fury and actually driven him away, 
 partly perhaps by my sudden guess that he had come to find out 
 whether there were not another letter left by Andronikov in Marie 
 Ivanovna's possession. That he must have been on the look- 
 out for those letters, and that he was on the look-out for them 
 I knew. But who knows, perhaps at that minute I had made a 
 horrible blunder ! And who knows, perhaps, by that blunder 
 I had led. him to think of Marie Ivanovna and the possibility 
 of her having letters. 
 
 And finally, there was something else that was strange : again 
 he had repeated word for word my own thought (about three 
 lives), which I had expressed to Kraft that evening, and, what 
 is more, in my very words. The coincidence was of course 
 a chance again, but how he knew the inmost core of my nature ; 
 what insight, what penetration ! But if he so well understood 
 one thing, why was it he utterly failed to understand something 
 else ? Was it possible he was not pretending, could he really 
 be incapable of divining that it was nqt the noble rank of a 
 Versilov I wanted, that it was not my birth I could not forgive 
 him, but that all my life I had wanted Versilov himself, the 
 whole man, the father, and that this idea had become part of 
 myself. Was it possible that so subtle a man could be so crude 
 and so stupid ? And if not, why did he drive me to fury, why 
 did he pretend 1 
 
 130
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 1 
 
 I TRIED to get up as early as possible in the morning. As a rule 
 we, that is my mother, my sister and I, used to get up about eight 
 o'clock. Versilov used to lie comfortably in bed till half-past 
 nine. Punctually at half-past eight my mother used to bring 
 me up my coffee. But this time I sUppcd out of the house at 
 eight o'clock without waiting for it. I had the day before 
 mapped out roughly my plan of action for the whole of this 
 day. In spite of my passionate resolve to carry out this plan 
 I felt that there was a very great deal of it that was uncertain 
 and indefinite in its most essential points. That was why I lay 
 all night in a sort of half -waking state; I had an immense number 
 of dreams, as though I were light-headed, and I hardly fell asleep 
 properly all night. In spite of that I got up feeling fresher and 
 more confident than usual. I was particularly anxious not to 
 meet my mother. I could not have avoided speaking to her on 
 a certain subject, and I was afraid of being distracted from the 
 objects I was pursuing by some new and unexpected impression. 
 
 It was a cold morning and a damp, milky mist hovered over 
 everytlung. I don't know why, but I always like the early 
 workaday morning in Petersburg in spite of its squalid air ; 
 and the self-centred people, always absorbed in thought, 
 and hurrying on their affairs, have a special attraction for 
 rae at eight o'clock in the morning. As I hasten on my road 
 I particularlj' like either asking some one a practical question, 
 or being asked one by some passer-by : both question and 
 answer arc always brief, clear, and to the point ; they are spoken 
 without stopping and almost always in a friendly manner, and 
 there is a greater readiness to answer than at any other hour. 
 In the middle of the day, or in the evening, the Petcrsburger 
 is far more apt to be abusive or jeering. It is quite different 
 early in the morning, before л\'огк has begun, at the soberest and 
 most serious hour of the day. I have noticed that. 
 
 I set off again for the Petersburg Side. As I had to be back 
 in Fontanka by twelve o'clock to see Vassin (who was alwajs 
 more likely to be at ho"^e at midday), I hurried on without 
 stopping, though I had a great longing to have a cup of coffee. 
 It was absolutely necessary to find Efim Zvyerev at home too ; 
 
 ^3^
 
 I went, to him and nlmost missed him ; he had finished his coffee 
 and was just ready to go out. 
 
 " What brings you here so often ? " was how he greeted me 
 without getting up from his seat. 
 
 " I Avili explain that directly." 
 
 The early morning everywhere, including Petersburg, has a 
 sobering effect on a man's nature. Some of the passionate 
 dreams of night evaporate completely with the light and chill 
 of morning, and it has happened to me myself sometimes to 
 recall in the mcrnirg my ch-eams and even my actions of 
 the ргс\-1оиз night, with shame and self-reproach. But I will 
 remark, however, in passing, I consider a Petersburg morning — 
 which might be thought the most prosaic on the terrestrial 
 globe — almost the most fantastic in the луогк!. That is my 
 personal view, or rather impression, but I am prepared to defend 
 it. On such a Petersburg morning, foul, damp and foggy, the 
 wild dream of some Herman out of Pushkin's " Queen of Spades " 
 (a colossal figure, an extraordinary and regular Petersburg type 
 — the type of the Petersburg period !) would, I believe, be 
 more like solid reality. A hundred times over, in such a fog, I 
 have been haunted by a strange but persistent fancy : " \^'Llat 
 if this fog should part and float away, would not all this rotten 
 and slimy tovTi go with it, rise up with the fog, and vanish like 
 smoke, and the old Finnish marsh be left as before, and in the 
 midst of it, perhaps, to complete the picture, a bronze horseman 
 on a panting, overdriven steed." In fact I cannot find words 
 for my sensations, for all this is fantastic after all — poetic, and 
 therefore nonsensical ; nevertheless I have often been and often 
 am haimted by an utterly senseless question : " Here they are 
 all flitting to and fro, but how can one tell, perhaps all this is 
 some one's dream, and there is not one real person here, nor 
 one real action. Some one \vho is dreaming all this will suddenly 
 wake up — and everything will suddenly disappear." But I 
 am digressing. 
 
 I must say by way of preface that there are projects and 
 dreams in every one's expci'ience so eccentric that they might 
 well be taken at first sight for madness. It was with such a 
 phantasy in my mind that I arrived that morning at Efim's, — 
 I went to Efim because I had no one else in Petersburg to whom 
 I could apply on this occasion. Yet Efim was the last person 
 to whom 1 should have gone with such a proposition if I had 
 had anj' choice. When I was sitting opposite him, I was actually 
 
 132
 
 struck myself with the thought that I was the incarnation of 
 fever an(f delirium, sitting opposite the incarnation of prose and 
 the golden mean. Yet on my side there Avas an idea and true 
 feeling, wliile on liis there was nothing but the practical con- 
 viction, that thing'^ \\ ere not done like that. In short I explained 
 to him briefly and clearly that I had absolutely no cne else in 
 Petersburg whom I could send by way of a second in a matter 
 vitally affecting my honour ; that he, tfim, was an old comrade, 
 and therefore had no right to refuse, and that I Avanted to 
 challenge a lieutenant in the Guards, Prince Sokolsky, because 
 more than a year ago he had given my father a slap in the face 
 at Ems. I may mention by the way that Efim knew all the 
 details of my family circumstances, my relations with Versilov, 
 and almost all that I кпелу myself of Versilov's career ; I had 
 on various occasions talked to him of my private affairs, except, 
 of course, of certain secrets. He sat and listened as his habit 
 was, all ruffling up his feathers like a sparrow in a cage, silent 
 and serious, with his puffy face and his untidy, flaxen-white hair. 
 A set smile of mockery never left his lips. This smile w^as all the 
 nastier for being quite unintentional and unccr/cious ; it was 
 evident that he genuinely and sincerely considered himself at 
 that moment vastly superior to me in intellect and character. 
 I suspected, too, that he despised me for the scene the evening 
 before at Dergatchcv's ; that was bound to be so. Efim was the 
 crowd, Efim луаз the man in the street, and the man in the street 
 has no reverence for anything but suec^^^;. 
 
 " And Versilov knows nothing of this ? " he asked. 
 " Of course not." 
 
 " Then what right have you to meddle in his affairs ? That's 
 the first question. j\nd the second one is, what do you want to 
 show by it ? " 
 
 I was prepared for the objection, and at once explained to him 
 that it was not so stupid as he supposed. To begin with, the 
 insolent prince would be shown that there are people, even in 
 our cleiss, who know what is meant by honour ; and secondly, 
 Versilov would be put to shame and learn a lesson. And in the 
 third place, what mattered most of all, even if Versilov had been 
 right in refusing to challenge him in accordance with liis con- 
 victions at the time, he would see that there was some one who 
 was capable of feeling the insult to him so keenly that he accepted 
 it as an insult to himself, and was prepared to lay di)^л^l his life ior 
 hiSjVersriov's, mterests . . . although he was leaving Lim forever 
 
 133
 
 " Wait a minute, don't shout, my aunt does not like it. Tell 
 rae, is it this same Prince Sokolsky that Versilov is at law with 
 about a will ? If so, this wiU be quite a new and original way of 
 winning a lawsuit — to kill your opponent in a duel." 
 
 I explained to him en toiites leitres, that he was simply silly 
 and impertinent, and that if his sarcastic grin was growing 
 broader and broader, it only showed his conceit and common- 
 placeness, and that he was incapable of imagining that I had had 
 the lawsuit in my mind from the very beginning, and that re- 
 flection on that subject was not confined to his sagacity. Then 
 I informed him that the case was already decided, and, moreover, 
 it had not been brought by Prince Sokolsky but b}' the Princes 
 Sokolsky, so that if a Prince Sokolsky were killed the others 
 would be left, but that no doubt it would be necessary to put off 
 the challenge till the end of the time within which an appeal 
 was possible, not that the Solkoskys would as a fact appeal, 
 but simply as a matter of good form. When the latest possible 
 date for an appeal had passed, the challenge would follow ; 
 that I had come about it now. not that the duel would take place 
 immediately, but that I must be prepared at any rate in time 
 to find a second, if he, Efim, refused, as I knew no one. That 
 was why, I said, I had come. 
 
 " Well, come and talk about it then, or else you'll be leading 
 us a wild-goose chase." 
 
 He stood up and took his cap. 
 
 " So you'll go then ? " 
 
 " No, of course I won't." 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 " Well, for one reason if I agreed now that I would go then, 
 you would begin hanging about here every evening till the time 
 for the appeal was over. And besides, it's simply nonsense, 
 and that's all about it. And am I going to mess up my career 
 for you ? Why, Prince Sokolsky will ask me at once : ' Who 
 sent you ? ' — ' Dolgoruky ' — ' And what's Dolgoruky got to 
 do with Versilov ? ' And am I to explain your pedigree to him, 
 pray ? Why, he'd bvurst out laughing ! " 
 
 " Then you give him a punch in the face ! "' 
 
 " But it's all gibberish." 
 
 " You're afraid ! You so tall and the strongest at the 
 grammar school ! " 
 
 " I'm afraid, of coiu-se, I am afraid. Besides, the prince won't 
 fight, for they only fight their equals." 
 
 134
 
 " I am a gentleman, too, by education. I have rights, I am his 
 equal ... on the contrary, he is not my equal." 
 
 " You are a small boy." 
 
 " How a smaU boy ? " 
 
 " Just a small boy ; we are both boys but he is grown up." 
 
 " You fool ! But I might have been married a year ago by 
 the law." 
 
 " Well, get married then, but anyway you are a ! you 
 
 will grow up one day ! " 
 
 I saw, of course, that he thought fit to jeer at me. I might not 
 indeed have told all this foolish episode, and it would have been 
 better in fact for it to have perished in obscurity ; besides, it's 
 revolting in its pettiness and gratuitousness, though it had rather 
 -serious consequences. 
 
 But to punish myself still further I will describe it fully. 
 Realizing that Efim was jeering at me, I permitted myself to 
 push him on the shoulder with my right hand, or rather my right 
 fet. Then he took me by the shoulder, turned me upside down 
 and — proved to me conclusively that he was the strongest of us 
 at the grammar school. 
 
 The reader will doubtless imagine that I was in a terrible 
 state of mind when I came out from Efim's ; he will be mistaken, 
 however. I quite realized that what had happened was only 
 8choolbo)dshness, but the gravity of my purpose remained 
 unchanged. I got some coffee at Vassilyevsky Island, purposely 
 avoiding the restaurant I had been at the evening before on the 
 Petersburg Side ; the restaurant and its nightingale were doubly 
 hateful to me. It is a strange characteristic of mine that I am 
 capable of hating places and things as though they were people. 
 On the other hand I have happy places in Petersbxirg, that is 
 places where I have at some time or other been happy. And I 
 am careful of those places, and рш -posely avoid x-isiting them as 
 far as possible, that later on when I am alone and unhappy I 
 may go back to them to brood over my griefs and my memories. 
 Over my coffee I did full justice to Efim and his common sense. 
 Yes, he was more practical than I was, but I doubt whether he 
 was in closer touch with reality. A realism that refuses to look 
 beyond the end of its nose is more dangerous than the maddest 
 romanticism, because it is blind. But while I did justice to 
 Efim (who probably at that moment imagined that I was 
 
 135
 
 wandering about the streets swearing) — I did not give up one 
 point in my convictions, and I have not to this day. I have 
 seen people who at the first bucket of cold water have abandoned 
 their course of action, and even their idea, and begun laughing 
 themselves at what an hour before they looked и^юп as sacred. 
 Oh, how easily that is done ! Even if Efim were more right than 
 I in the main, and I wore foolish beyond all foolishness and giving 
 myself airs, yet at the very bottom of it all there was a point 
 of view upon which I was right : there was something to be said 
 on my side also, and what is more, too, it was something they 
 could never understand. 
 
 I reached Vassin's in Fontanka, near the Semyor.ov^ky bridge, 
 at twelve o'clock pimctually, but I did not find him at home. 
 His work was in Vassilyevsky Island, and he was only at home 
 at certain fixed hours, almost always at midday. And as it was 
 a holiday I made sure of finding him ; not finding him I decided 
 to wait, although it v/as my first visit. 
 
 I reasoned that the matter of the letter was a question of 
 conscience, and in choosing Vassin to decide it I was showing 
 him the deepest respect, which no doubt must be flattering to 
 him. Of course, I was really worried by this letter and was 
 genuinely persuaded of the necessity of an outside opinion ; 
 but I suspect that I could have got out of my difficulty without 
 any outside help. And what is more I was aware of that myself ; 
 I had only to give the letter to Versilov, to put it into his hands 
 and then let him do what he liked with it — that would have 
 settled it. To set myself up as judge, as arbitrator in a matter 
 of this sort was indeed utterly irregular. By confining myself 
 to handing over the letter, especially in silence, I should have 
 scored at once, putting myself into a position of superiority 
 over Versilov. For renouncing all the advantages of the in- 
 heritance as far as I луаз concerned (for some part of it would 
 have been sure, sooner or later, to have fallen to me as Vcrsilov's 
 son), I should have sectu-ed for ever a superior moral attitude in 
 regard to Versilov's future action. Nobody, on the other hand, 
 could reproach me for ruinmg the Sokolskj's, since the document 
 had no decisive legal value. All this I thought over and made 
 perfectly clear to myself, sitting in Vassin's empty room, and 
 it even occurred to me suddenly that I had come to Vassin's, 
 80 thirsting for his advice how to act, simply to show him what a 
 generous and irreproachable person I was, and so to avenge 
 myself for my humiliation before him the previous evening. 
 
 136
 
 As I recognized all this, I felt great vexation ; nevertheless 
 I did not go away, but sat on, though I knew for certain that 
 my vexation would only grow greater every five minutes. 
 
 First of all, I began to feel an intense dislike for Vassin's 
 room. " Show me your room and I will tell you your character," 
 one really may say that. Vassin had a fui'nished room in a flat 
 belonging to people evidently poor, who let lodgings for tl^cir 
 hving and had other lodgers besides Vassin. I was familiar 
 with poky apartments of this sort, scarcely furnished, yet with 
 pretensions to comfort : there is invariably a soft sofa from the 
 second-hand market, which is dangerous to move ; a washing- 
 stand and an iron bed shut off by a screen. Vassin was evidently 
 the best and the most to be depended on of the lodgers. Lodging- 
 house keepers always have one such best lodger, and particularly 
 try to please him. They sweep and tidy his roc m more carefully, 
 and hang lithographs over his sofa ; under the table they lay 
 an emaciated-looking rug. People who are fond of stuffy tidi- 
 ness and, still more, of obsequious deference in their landladies 
 are to be suspected. I felt convinced that Vassin himself was 
 flattered by his position as best lodger. I don't know why, but 
 the sight of those two tables piled up with books gradually 
 enraged me. The books, the papers, the inkstand, all were 
 arrayed лvith a revolting tidiness, the ideal of which would have 
 coincided with the loftiest conceptions of a German landlady 
 and her maidservant. There were a good many books, not 
 merely magazines and reviews, but real books, and he evidently 
 read them, and he probably sat down to read or to \\Tite with 
 an extremely important and precise expression. I don't know why, 
 but I prefer to see books lying about in disorder. Then, at any 
 rate, work is not made into a sacred rite. No doubt Vassin 
 was extremely polite to his visitors, but probably every gesture 
 he made told them plainly, " I will spend an hour and a half 
 with you, and afterward-, when you go away, I'll set to work." 
 No doubt one might have a very interesting conversation with 
 him and hear something new from him, but he would be thinking, 
 '■ Here we are talking now, and I am interesting you very much, 
 but when you go away, I shall proceed to something more 
 interesting. . . ." Yet I did not go away, but went on sitting 
 there. That I had absolute!}- no need of his advice I was by 
 now thoroughly convinced. 
 
 I stayed for over an hour sitting on one of the two rush- 
 bottom chairs which had been placed by the window. It 
 
 137
 
 enraged me, too, that time was passing and that before evening 
 I had to find a lodging. I was so bored that I felt inclined to 
 take up a book, but I did not. At the very thought of distracting 
 my mind I felt more disgusted than ever. For more than an 
 hour there had been an extraordinary silence, when I began 
 gradually and unconsciously to distinguish the sound of whisper- 
 ing, which kept growing louder, and came from somewhere close 
 by, the other side of a door that was blocked up by the sofa. 
 There were two voices, evidently women's, so much I- could 
 hear, but I could not distinguish the words. And yet I was so 
 bored that I began to listen. It was obvious that they were 
 talking earnestly and passionately, and that they were not 
 talking about patterns. They were discussing or disputing 
 about something, or one voice was persuading, or entreating, 
 while the other was refusing or protesting. They must have 
 been other lodgers. I soon got tired, and my car became 
 accustomed to the sound, so that though I went on listening, it 
 was only mechanically, and sometimes quite without remember- 
 ing that I was listening, when suddenly something extraordinary 
 happened, as though some one had jumped down off a chair on 
 to both feet, or had suddenly leapt up and stamped ; then I 
 heard a moan, then suddenly a shriek, or rather not a shriek 
 but an infuriated animal squeal, reckless whether it could be 
 overheard or not. 
 
 I rushed to the door and opened it ; another door at the end 
 of the corridor was opened simultaneous!}', the door of the 
 landlady's room as I learned later, and from it two inquisitive 
 faces peeped out. The shriek, however, ceased at once, and 
 suddenly the door next to mine opened, and a young woman — 
 so at least she seemed to me — dashed out, and rushed downstairs. 
 The other woman, who was elderly, tried to stop her, but did 
 not succeed, and could only moan after her : 
 
 " Olya, Olya, where are you going ? Och ! " But noticing 
 our two open doors, she promptly closed hers, leaving a crack 
 through which she listened till Olya's footsteps had died away 
 completely on the stairs. I turned to my window. All was 
 silence. It was a trivial and perhaps ridiculous incident, and 
 I left off thinking of it. 
 
 About a quarter of an hour later I heard in the corridor at 
 
 Vassin's door a loud and free-and-easy masculine voice. Some one 
 
 took hold of the door-handle, and opened the door far enough 
 
 -for mc to see in the passage a tall man who had already obviously 
 
 138
 
 seen and indeed had carefully scrutinized me, although he had 
 not yet entered the room, but stUl holding the door-handle went 
 on talking to the landlady at the other end of the passage. The 
 landlady called back to him in a thin, piping little voice which 
 betrayed that he was an old acquaintance, respected and valued 
 by her as a visitor of consequence, and a gentleman of a merry 
 disposition. The merry gentleman shouted witticisms, but his 
 theme was only the impossibility of finding Vassin at home. He 
 declared that this was his destiny from his birth up, that he 
 would wait again as before. And all this, no doubt, seemed the 
 height of wit to the landlady. Finally the visitor flimg the door 
 wide open and came in. 
 
 He was a well-dressed gentleman, evidently turned out by a 
 good tailor, as they say, " like a real gentleman," though there 
 was nothing of " the real gentleman " about him, in spite, I 
 fancy, of his desire to appear one. He was not exactly free and 
 easy, but somehow naturally insolent, which is anjrway less 
 offensive than an insolence practised before the looking-glass. 
 His brown, slightly grizzled hair, his black eyebrows, big beard 
 and large eyes instead of helping to define his character, actually 
 gave him something universal, like every one else. This sort of 
 man laughs and is ready to laugh, but for some reason one is 
 never cheerful in his company. He quickly passes from a 
 jocular to a dignified air, from dignity to playfulness or winking, 
 but all this seems somehow put on and causeless. . . . However, 
 there is no need to describe him further, I came later on to 
 know this gentleman more intimately, and therefore I have a 
 more definite impression of him now than when he opened the 
 door and came into the room. However, even now I should 
 find it difficult to say anything exact or definite about him, 
 because the chief characteristic of such people is just their 
 incompleteness, their artificiality and their indefiniteness. 
 
 He had scarcely sat down when it dawned upon me that he 
 must be Vassin's stepfather, one M. Stebelkov, of whom I had 
 already heard something, but so casually that I couldn't tell 
 what it was : I could only remember that it was not to his 
 advantage. I knew that Vassin had long ago been left an 
 orphan under this gentleman's control, but that for some years 
 past he had not been under his influence, that their aims and 
 interests were different, and that they lived entirely separated 
 in all respects. It came back to my mind, too, that this 
 Stebelkov had some money, that he was, indeed, something of 
 
 139
 
 a speculator and spendthrift ; in fact I had probably heard 
 something more definite about him, but I have forgotten. He 
 looked me up and down, without bowing to me, however, put 
 his top hat down on a table in front of the sofa, kicked away 
 the table with an air of authority, and instead of quietly sitting 
 do^v^l, flung himself full length on the sofa (on which I had not 
 ventured to sit) so that it positively creaked, and dangling 
 his legs held his right foot up in the air and began admiring 
 the tip of his patent-leather boot. Of course he turned at once 
 to ШС and stared at me with his big and rather fixed-looking 
 eyes. 
 
 " I don't find him ui," he gave me a slight nod, 
 
 I did not speak. 
 
 " Not punctual ! He has his own ideas From the Petersburg 
 Side ? " 
 
 " You mean you've come from the Petersburg Side '\ "' I asked 
 him in my turn. 
 
 '■ No, I a&kcd whether you had." 
 
 " I . . . yes, I have . . . but how did you know ? " 
 
 '■ How did I know ? H'm ! " He winked, but did not deign 
 to explain. 
 
 " 1 don't live on the Petersbiu-g Side, but I've just been there 
 and have come from there." 
 
 He remained silent, still v/ith the same significant smile, which 
 1 disliked extremely. There was something stupid in his 
 winking. 
 
 " From M. Dergatchcv's ? " he said at last. 
 
 " From Dergatchcv's ? " I opened my eyes. He gazed at me 
 triumphantly. " I don't Icnow him." 
 
 "H'm : ' 
 
 " Well, as you please," I answered. I began to loathe him. 
 
 " H'm. ... To be sure. No, excuse me : j^u buy a thing 
 at a shop, at another shop next door another man buys some- 
 tiiing else, and w l>at. do you suppose ? Money from a tradesman 
 who is called a money-lender . . . for money too is an article 
 of sale, and a money-lender is a tradesman too. . . . You follow 
 me?" 
 
 " Certamly I follow." 
 
 " A third purchaser comes along, and pointing to one shop, he 
 says, 'This Ls sound.' Then he points to the other shop and 
 says, ''This is unsound.' What am I to conclude about this 
 piurchaser ? " 
 
 140
 
 " How can I tell." 
 
 " No, excuse me. I'll take an example, man lives by good 
 example. I walk along the Nevsky Prospect, and observe 
 on the other side of the street a gentleman whose character I 
 should like to investigate more closely. We walk, one each 
 side of the street as far as the gate leading to Mcr^kaya, 
 and there, just where the English shop is, we observe a third 
 gentleman, who has just been run over. Now mark : a fourth 
 gentleman walks up, and. wishes to mvestigate the character of 
 all three of us, including the man who has been run over, from 
 the point of view of practicability and soundness. . . . Do you 
 follow ? " 
 
 " Excuse me, with great difficulty." 
 
 " Quite so ; just what I thought. I'll change the subject. 
 I was at the springs in Germany, the mineral sprii-gs, as I had 
 frequently been before, no matter which springs. I go to drink 
 the waters and see an Englishman. It is difficult as you know 
 to make acquaintance with an Englishman ; two months later, 
 having finished my cure, we were Avalking, a whole party of u?, 
 with alpenstocks on the mountain, no matter what mor.ntain. 
 At a pass there is an etape, the one where the monks make 
 Chartreuse, note that. I meet a native standing in solitude 
 looking about him in silence. I wish to form my conclusions 
 in regard to his soundness : what do yo.u think, can I applj- 
 for conclusions to the crowd of Englishmen with \vhom I am 
 travelling solely because I was unable to talk to them at the 
 springs ? " 
 
 " How can I tell ? Excuse me, it's very difficult to follow 
 you." , 
 
 " Difficult, is it ? " 
 
 " Yes, you weary me."' 
 
 " H'm." He winked and made a gesture, probably intended 
 to suggest victory and triumph ; then with, stolid composure 
 he took out of his pocket a newspaper which he had evidently 
 only just bought, unfolded it and began reading the last page, 
 apparently intending to leave me undisturbed. For five minutes 
 he did not look at me. 
 
 " Brestograevskies haven't gone smash, eh! Once they've 
 started, they go on ! I know a lot that have gone smash." 
 
 He looked at me with intense earnestness. 
 
 " I don't know much about the Stock Exchange so f;;ir," 
 I answered, 
 
 141
 
 " You disapprove of it." 
 
 " What ? " 
 
 " Money." 
 
 " I don't disapprove of money but . . . but I think ideaa 
 come first and money second." 
 
 " That is, allow me to say. . . . Here you have a man, so to 
 say, with his own capital. . . ." 
 
 " A lofty idea comes before money, and a society with money 
 but without a lofty idea comes to grief." 
 
 I don't know why, but I began to grow hot. He looked at 
 me jather blankly, aj though he were perplexed, but suddenly 
 his whole face relaxed in a gleeful and cunning smile. 
 
 " Versilov, hey ? He's fairly scored, he has ! Judgment 
 given yesterday, eh ? " 
 
 I suddenly perceived to my surprise that he knew who I was, 
 and perhaps knew a great deal more. But I don't understand 
 why I flushed and stared in a most idiotic way without taking 
 my eyes off him. He was evidently triumphant. He looked at 
 me in high glee, as though he had found me out and caught me 
 in the cleverest way. 
 
 " No," he said, raising both his eyebrows ; " you ask me 
 about M. Versilov. What did I say to you just now about 
 soundness ? A year and a half ago over that baby he might 
 have made a very perfect little job, but he came to grief." 
 
 " Over what baby ? " 
 
 " The baby who is being brought up now out of the way, but 
 he won't gain anything by it . . . because ..." 
 
 " What baby 1 What do you mean ? " 
 
 " His baby, of cotu-se, his own by Mile. Lidya Ahmakov. 
 . . . ' A charming girl very fond of me. . . .' phosphorus 
 matches — eh ? " 
 
 " What nonsense, what a wild story ! He never had a baby 
 by Mile. Ahmakov ! " 
 
 " Go on ! I've been here and there, I've been a doctor and 
 I've been an accoucheur. My name's Stebelkov, haven't you 
 heard of me ? It's true I haven't practised for a long time, but 
 practical advice on a practical matter I could give." 
 
 " You're an accoucheur . . . did you attend Mile. 
 Ahmakov ? " 
 
 " No, I did not attend her. In a suburb there was a doctor 
 Granz, burdened with a family ; he was paid half a thaler, 
 such i3 the position of doctors out there, and no one knew him 
 
 142
 
 either, so he was there instead of me. ... I recommended him, 
 indeed, because he was so obscure and unknown. You follow ? 
 I only gave practical advice when Versilov, Andrey Petrovitch, 
 asked for it ; but he asked me in dead secret, Ше -d-tete. But 
 Andrey Petrovitch wanted to catch two hares at once." 
 
 I listened in profound astonishment. 
 
 " ' Chase two hares, catch neither,' according to the popular, 
 or rather peasant, proverb. What I say is : exceptions con- 
 tinually repeated become a general rule. He went after another 
 hare, or, to speak plain Russian, after another lady, and with no 
 results. Hold tight What you've got. When he ought to be 
 hastening a thing on, he potters about : Versilov, that ' petticoat 
 prophet,' as young Prince Sokolsky well described him before me 
 at the time. Yes, you had better come to me ! If there is 
 anything you want to know about Versilov, you had better come 
 to me ! " 
 
 He was evidently delighted at my open-mouthed astonish- 
 ment. I had never heard anything before about a baby. And 
 at that moment the door of the next room slammed as some one 
 walked rapidly in. 
 
 " Versilov lives in Mozhaisky Street, at Lit vino v's house. 
 No. 17 ; I have been to the address bureau myself ! " a woman's 
 voice cried aloud in an irritable tone ; we could hear every 
 word. Stebelkov raised his eyebrows and held up his finger. 
 " We talk of him here, and there already he's. . . . Here you 
 have exceptions continually occurring ! Quand on parle d'une 
 corde. . . ." 
 
 He jumped up quickly and sitting down on the sofa, began 
 listening at the door in front of which the sofa stood, I too wtis 
 tremendously struck. I reflected that the speaker was probably 
 the same young girl who had run down the stairs in such excite- 
 ment. But how did Versilov come to be mixed up in this too ? 
 Suddenly there came again the same shriek, the furious shriek 
 of some one savage with anger, who has been prevented from 
 getting or doing something. The only difference was that the 
 cries and shrieks were more prolonged than before. There were 
 sounds of a struggle, a torrent of words, ** I won't, I won't," 
 " Give it up, give it up at once ! " or something of the sort, I 
 don't remember exactly. Then, just as before, some one nished 
 to the door and opened it. Both the people in the room rushed 
 out into the passage, one just as before, trjdng to restrain the 
 other. Stebelkov, who had leapt up from the sofa, and been 
 
 43
 
 listening with relish, fairly flew to the door, aiul with extreme 
 lack of ceremony dashed into the passage straight upon (he two. 
 I too, of course, ran to the door. But his appearance in the 
 passage acted like a pail of cold water. The two women 
 vanished instanth', and shut the door with a slam. 
 
 Stebelkov was on the point of dashing after them, but he 
 stopped short, held up his finger with a smile, and stood con- 
 sidering. This time I detected in his smile something nasty, 
 evil and malignant. Seeing the landlady, who was again stand- 
 ing in her doorway, he ran quickly across the passage to her on 
 tiptoe ; after whispering to her for a minute or two, and no 
 doubt receiving information, he came back to the room, re- 
 suming his air of ponderous dignity, picked up his top-hat from 
 the table, looked at himsc If in the looking-glass as he passed, 
 ruffled up his hair, and with self-complacent dignity went 
 to the next door without even a glance in my direction. For 
 an instant he held his ear to the door, listening, then winked 
 triumphantly across the passage to the landlady, who shook 
 her finger and wagged her head at him, as though to say, " Och, 
 naughty man, naughty man ! " Fir.all}^ Avith an air of rcsclute, 
 even of shrinking delicacy, he knocked with his knuckles at the 
 door. A voice asked : 
 
 " Who's there V " 
 
 " Will you allow mo to enter on urgent business ? " Stebelkov 
 pronounced in a loud and dignified voice. 
 
 There was a brit f delay, yet they did open the door, first only 
 a little way ; but Stebelkov at once clutched the door-handle 
 and would not let them close it again. A conversation followed, 
 Stebelkov began talking loudly, still pushing his way into the 
 room. I don't remember the words, but he was speaking about 
 V(>rsilov, saying that he could tell them, could explain every- 
 thing — "Yes, i can tell you," "Yes, you come to me" — or 
 something to that effect. They quickly let him in, I went back 
 to the sofa and began to listen, but I could not catch it all, 
 1 could only hear that Versilov's name was frequently mentioned. 
 From the intonations of his voice I guessed that Stebelkov by 
 now had control of the conversation, that he no longer spoke 
 insinuatingly but authoritatively, in the same style as he had 
 talk;;el to m.; — " you follow ? " " kindly ne^te that," and so on. 
 With women, though, he must have been extraordinarily affable. 
 Already I hael twice heard his loud laugh, probably most in- 
 appropriate, because accompanying his voice, and sometimes 
 
 44
 
 rising above it, couid Le heard the voices ^f the -.vomcn, aiici 
 they sounded anything but cheerful, aiA fsp, ■ L\!Iy that of tiic 
 young woman, the one who had shrieked : -ho talked a great 
 deal, rapidly and nervousl}^, making apparently ьоте accusation 
 or complaint, and seeking judgment or redress. But Stebelkov 
 did not give way, he raised his voice higher and higher, and 
 laughed more and more often ; such men are unable to listen to 
 other people. I soon jumped up from the sofa, for it seemed to 
 me shameful to be eavesdropping, and went back again to the 
 rush-bottom chair by the window. I felt convinced that Vassin 
 did not think much of this gentleman, but that, if anyone else 
 had expressed the .same opinion, he would have at once defended 
 him with grave dignity, and have observed that, " he was a 
 practical man, and one of those modern bu.sincss people \vho 
 were not to be judged from our theoretical and abstract stand- 
 points." At that instant, hov/ever, I felt somehow morally 
 shattered, my heart was throbbing and I was unmistakably 
 expecting something. 
 
 About ten minutes passed ; suddenly in the mid.-t of a resou rid- 
 ing peal of laughter some one leapt up from a chair with just 
 the same noise as before, then I heard .shrieks from both the 
 women. I heard Stebelkov jump up too and &a\ something in 
 quite a different tone of voice, as thouuh lie were justifying 
 himself and begging them to listen. . . . But they did not listen 
 to him ; I heard cries of anger : " Go away I You're a scoundrel, 
 you're a shameless villain ! " In fact it was clear that he was 
 being turned out of the room. I opened the door at the very 
 minute when he skipped into the passage, as it seemed literally 
 thrust out by thoir hands. Seeing me he cried out at once, 
 pointing at me : " This is VersUov's .son '. If you don't btlieve 
 me, here is his son. his own son ! I assure you ! " And he 
 seized me by the arm as though I belonged to him. " This is 
 his son, his own son ! " he repeated, though he added nothing 
 by way of explanation, as he led me to the ladies. 
 
 The young woman was standing in the passage, the elderly 
 one a step behind her, in the doorway. I only remember that 
 this poor girl was about twenty, and pretty, though thin and 
 sickly looking ; she had red hair, and was somehow a little like 
 ray sister ; this likeness flashed upon mo at the time, and re- 
 mained in my memory ; but Liza never had been, and never 
 could have been in the wrathful frenzy by which the girl stand- 
 ing before me was pos.sessed : her lips were white, her light grey 
 
 45 ^
 
 eyee were flashing, she wae trembling all over with indignation. 
 I remember, too, that I was in an exceedingly fooUsh and un- 
 dignified position, for, thanks to this insolent scoundrel, I wae 
 at a complete loss what to say. 
 
 " What do you mean, his son ! If he's with you he's a 
 scoundrel too. If you are Versilov's son," she turned suddenly 
 to me, " tell yoiw father from me that he is a scoundrel, that 
 he's a mean, shameless wretch, that I don't want his money. . . . 
 There, there, there, give him this money at once ! " 
 
 She hurriedly took out of her pocket several notes, but the 
 older lady (her mother, as it appeared later) clutched her hand : 
 
 " Olya, but you know . . . perhaps it's not true . . . perhaps 
 it's not his son ! " 
 
 Olya looked at her quickly, reflected, looked at me con- 
 temptuously and went back into the room ; but before she 
 slammed the door she stood still in the doorway and shouted 
 to Stebelkov once more : 
 
 '* Go away ! " 
 
 And she even stamped her foot at him. Then the door was 
 slammed and locked. Stebelkov, still holding me by the 
 shoulder, with his finger raised and his mouth relaxed in a slow 
 doubtful grin, bent a look of inquiry on me. 
 
 " I consider the way you've behaved with me ridiculous and 
 disgraceful," I muttered indignantly. But he did not hear 
 what I said, though he was still staring at me. 
 
 " This ought to be looked into," he pronounced, pondering. 
 
 " But how dare . you drag me in ? Who is this ? What is 
 this woman ? You took me by the shoulder, and brought me 
 in — ^what does it mean ? " 
 
 " Yes, by Jove ! A young person who has lost her fair fame 
 ... a frequently recurring exception — ^you follow ? " And he 
 poked me in the chest with his finger. 
 
 " Ech, damnation ! " I pushed away his finger. But he 
 suddenly and quite unexpectedly went off into a low, noiseless, 
 prolonged chuckle of merriment. Finally he put on his hat 
 and, with a rapid change to an expression of gloom, he observed, 
 frowning : 
 
 *' The landlady must be informed . . . they must be tum6d 
 out of the lodgings, to be sure, and without loss of time too, or 
 they'll be . . . you will see ! Mark my words, you will see ! 
 Yes, by Jove! " he was gleeful again all at once. " You'll wait 
 for Grisha, I suppose ? " 
 
 146
 
 " No, I shan't wait," I answered resolutely. 
 
 " Well, it's all one to me. . . ." 
 
 And without adding another syllable he turned, went out, 
 and walked downstairs, without vouchsafing a glance in the 
 landlady's direction, though she was evidently expecting news 
 and explanations. I, too, took up my hat, and asking the 
 landlady to tell Vassin that I, Dolgoruky, had called, I ran 
 downstairs. 
 
 I had merely wasted my time. On coming out I set to work 
 at once to look for lodgings ; but I was preoccupied. I 
 wandered about the streets for several ho\irs, and, though I went 
 into five or six flats with rooms to let, I am sure I passed by 
 twenty without noticing them. To increase my vexation I 
 found it far more difficult to get a lodging than I had imagined. 
 Everywhere there were rooms like Vassin's, or a great deal worse, 
 while the rent was enormous, that is,. not what I had reckoned 
 upon. I asked for nothing more than a " corner " where I could 
 turn round, and I was informed contemptuously that if that was 
 what I wanted, I must go where rooms were let "in corners." 
 Moreover, I found everyivhere numbers of strange lodgers, in 
 whose proximity I could not have lived ; in fact, I would have 
 paid anything not to have to Uve in their proximity. There 
 were queer gentlemen in their waistcoats without their coats, 
 who had dishevelled beards, and were inquisitive and free-and- 
 easy in their manners. In one tiny room there were about a 
 dozen such sitting over cards and beer, and I was offered the 
 next room. In another place I answered the landlady's in- 
 quiries so absurdly that they looked at me in surprise, and in 
 one flat I actually began quarrelling with the people. How- 
 ever^ I won't describe these dismal details ; I only felt that I 
 was awfully tired. I had something to eat in a cookshop when 
 it was almost dark. I finally decided that I would go and give 
 Versilov the letter concerning the will, with no one else present 
 (making no explanation), that I would go upstairs, pack my 
 things in my trunk and bag, and go for the night, if need be, to 
 an hotel. At the end of the Obuhovsky Prospect, at the Gate 
 of Triumph, I knew there was an inn where one could get a 
 room to oneself for thirty kopecks ; I resolved for one night to 
 sacrifice that sum, rather than sleep at Versilov 's. And as I 
 
 147
 
 was passing the Institute of Technology, the notion suddenly 
 struck me to call on Tatyana Pavlovna, who lived just opposite 
 the institute. My pretext for going in was this same letter 
 about the will, but my overwhelming impulse to go in was due 
 to some other cause, which I cannot to this day explain. My 
 mind was in a turmoil, brooding qver "the baby,'' the "excep- 
 tions that pass into rules." I had a longing to tell some one, 
 or to make a scene, or to fight, or even to have a cry — I can't 
 tell which, but I went up to Tatyana Pavlovna's. I had only 
 been there once before, with some message from my mother, 
 soon after I came from Moscoav, and I remember I went in, gave 
 my message, and went out a minute later, without sitting do^vn, 
 and indeed she did not ask me to. 
 
 I rang the bell, and the cook at once opened the door to me, 
 and showed me into the room without speaking. All these 
 details are necessary that the reader may understand how the 
 mad adventure, which had so vast an influence on all that 
 followed, was rendered possible. And to begin with, as regards 
 the cook. She луаз an ill-tempered, snub-nosed Finnish 
 woman, and I believe hated her mistress Tatyana Pavlovna, 
 while the latter, on the contrary, could not bring herself to part 
 with her from a peculiar sort of infatuation, such as old maids 
 sometimes show for damp-nosed pug dogs, or somnolent cats. 
 The Finnish woman was either spiteful and rude or, after a 
 quarrel, would be silent for weeks together to punish her 
 mistress. I must have chanced upon one of these dumb days, 
 for even when I asked her, as I remember doing, whether her 
 mistress were at home, she made no answer, but walked off to 
 the kitchen in silence. Feeling sure after this that Tatyana 
 Pavlovna was at home, I Avalked into the room, and finding no 
 one there, v/aitcd expecting that she would come out of her 
 bodroora before long ; otherwise, why should the cook have 
 shown me in ? Without sitting down, I waited two minutes, 
 three ; it was dusk and Tatyana Pavlovna's dark flat seemed 
 even less hospitable from the endless yards of cretonne hanging 
 about. A couple of words about that horrid little flat, to explain 
 the i^urroundings of лvhat followed. With her obstinate and 
 peremptory character, and the tastes she had formed from 
 jiving in the country in the past, Tatyana Pavlovna could not 
 put up Avith furnished lodgings, and had taken this parocjy of a 
 flat simply in order to live apart and be her own mistress. The 
 two rooius were exactly like two bird-cages, set side by side, one 
 
 148
 
 smaller than the other ; the flat was on the third storey, and 
 the windows looked into the courtyard. Coming into the flat, 
 one stepped straight into a tiny passage, a yard and a half wide ; 
 on the left, the two afore-mentioned bird-cages, and at the end 
 of the passage the tiny kitchen. The five hundred cubic feet 
 of air required to last a human being twelve hours were perhaps 
 provided in this room, but hardly more. The rooms Mere 
 hideously low-pitched, and, what was stupider than anything, 
 the windows, the doors, the furniture, all were hung or draped 
 with cretonne, good French cretonne, and decorated with 
 festoons ; but this made the room twice as dark and more 
 than evar like the inside of a travelling-coach. In the room 
 where I was waiting it was possible to turn round, though it 
 was cumbered up with furniture, and the furniture, by the way, 
 was not at all bad : there were all sorts of little inlaid tables, 
 with bronze fittings, boxes, an. elegant and even sumptuous 
 toilet table. But the next room, from which I expected her to 
 come in, the bedroom, screened off by a thick curtain, consisted 
 literally of a bedstead, as appeared afterward.s. All tlicse 
 details are necessary to explain the fooli?hnes'> of whirh I was 
 guilty. 
 
 So 1 had no doubts and was waiting, when there came a ring 
 at the bell. I heard the cook cro.ss the little passage with lagging 
 footsteps, and admit the visitors, still in silence, just as she had 
 m-^. They were two ladies and both were talking loudly, but 
 what was my amazement when from their voices I recognized 
 one as Tatyana Pavlovna, and the other as the woman I ^\as 
 least prepared to meet now, above all in such circ^imstaiiees ! 
 I could not be mistaken : I had heard that powerful, mellow, 
 rmging voice the day before, only for three minutes it is true, 
 but it still resounded ш my heart. Yes, it Avas " j-esterday"s 
 woman." What was I to do ? I am not asking the reader 
 thi^ question, I am only picturing that moment to myself, and 
 I am utterly unable to imagine even now how it came to ]xiss 
 that I suddenly rushed behind the curtain, and found myself 
 in Tatyana Pavlovna's bedroom. In short, I hid myself, and 
 had scarcely time to do so when thej' walked in. Why I hid 
 and did not come forward to meet them, I don't know. It all 
 happened accidentally and absolutely лvithout premeditation. 
 
 After rushing mto the bedroom and knocking against the 
 bed, I noticed at once that there was a door leading from the 
 bedroom into the kitchen, and so there was a v.Ry out cif my 
 
 149
 
 horrible position, and I could make my escape but — oh, horror ! 
 the door was locked, and there was no key in it. I sank on 
 the bed in despair ; I realized that I should overhear their talk, 
 and from the first sentence, from the first sound of their con- 
 versation, I guessed that they were discussing deUcate and 
 private matters. Oh, of course, a straightforward and honour- 
 able man should even then have got up, come out, said 
 aloud, " I'm here, stop ! " and, in spite of his ridiculous position, 
 walked past them ; but I did not get up, and did not come out ; 
 I didn't dare, I was in a most despicable funk. 
 
 " My darling Katerina Nikolaevna, you distress me very 
 much," Tatyana Pavlovna was saying in an imploring voice. 
 " Set your mind at rest once for all, it's not like you. You 
 bring joy with you wherever you go, and now suddenly . . . 
 I suppose you do still believe in me ? Why, you know how 
 devoted I am to you. As much so as to Audrey Petrovitch, 
 and I make no secret of my undying devotion to him. . . . But 
 do believe me, I swear on my honour he has no such document 
 in his possession, and perhaps no one else has either ; and he 
 is not capable of anything so underhand, it's wicked of you to 
 suspect him. This hostility between you two is simply the 
 work of your own imaginations. . . ." 
 
 " There is such a document, and he is capable of anything. 
 And there, as soon as I go in yesterday, the first person I meet 
 is ce petit espion, whom he has foisted on my father." 
 
 " Ach, ce petit espion ! To begin with he is not an espion at all, 
 for it was I, I insisted on his going to the prince, or else he would 
 have gone mad, or died of hunger in Moscow — that was the 
 account they sent us of him ; and what's more, that unmannerly 
 urchin is a perfect little fool, how could he be a spy ? " 
 
 " Yes, he is a fool, but that does not prevent his being a 
 scoundrel. If I hadn't been so angry, I should have died of 
 laughing yesterday : he turned pale, he ran about, made bows 
 and talked French. And Marie Ivanovna talked of him in 
 Moscow as a genius. That that unlucky letter is still in existence 
 and is in dangerous hands somewhere, I gathered chiefly from 
 Marie Ivanovna's face." 
 
 " My beauty ! why you say yourself she has nothing ! " 
 
 " That's just it, that she has ; she does nothing but tell lies, 
 and she is a good hand at it, I can tell you ! Before I went to 
 Moscow, I still had hopes that no papers of any sort were left, 
 but then, then. . . ." 
 
 150
 
 " Oh, it's quite the contrary, my dear, I am told she is a good- 
 natured and sensible creature ; Andronikov thought more of her 
 than of any of his other nieces. It's true I don't know her well — 
 but you should have won her over, my beauty ! It's no trouble 
 to you to win hearts — ^why, I'm an old woman, but here I'm 
 quite in love with you already, and can't resist kissing you. . . . 
 But it would have been nothing to you to win her heart." 
 
 "' I did, Tatyana Pavlovna, I tried ; she was enchanted with 
 me, but she's very sly too. . . . Yes, she's a regular type, and 
 a peculiar Moscow type. . . . And would you believe it, she 
 advised me to apply to a man here culled Kraft, who had been 
 Andronikov's assistant. ' Maybe he knows something,* she 
 said. I had some idea of what Kraft wais like, and in fact, I had 
 a faint recollection of him ; but as she talked about Kraft, I 
 suddenly felt certain that it w£is not that she simply knew nothing 
 but that she knew all about it and was lying." 
 
 " But why, why ? Well, perhaps you might find out from 
 him ! That German, Kraft, isn't a chatterbox, and I remember 
 him as very honest — ^you really ought to question him ! Only 
 I fancy he is not in Petersburg now. ..." 
 
 " Oh, he came back yesterday evening, I have just been to 
 see him. ... I have come to you in such a state, I'm shaking 
 all over. I wanted to ask you, Tatyana Pavlovna, my angel, 
 for you know every one, wouldn't it be possible to find out from 
 his papers, for he must have left papers, to whom they will come 
 now ? They may come into dangerous hands again ! I wanted 
 to ask your advice." 
 
 " But what papers are you talking about ? " said Tatyana 
 Pavlovna, not understanding. " Why, you say you have just 
 been at Kraft's ? " 
 
 " Yes, I have been, I have, I have just been there, but he's 
 shot himself 1 Yesterday evening." 
 
 I jumped up from the bed. I was able to sit through being 
 called a spy and an idiot, and the longer the conversation went 
 on the more impossible it seemed to show myself. It was 
 impossible to contemplate ! I inwardly determined with a 
 sinking heart to stay where I was till Tatyana Pavlovna went 
 to the door with her visitor (if, that is, I were lucky, and she 
 did not before then come to fetch something from the bedroom), 
 and afterwards, when Mme. Ahmakov had gone out, then, 
 if need be, I'd fight it out with Tatyana Pavlovna. . . . But 
 when, now, suddenly hearing about Kraft, I jumped up from 
 
 151
 
 bhe bed, I shuddered all over. Without thinking, without 
 reflecting, or realizing what I was doing, I took a step, lifted 
 the curtain, and appeared before the two of them. It was still 
 light enough for them to see me, pale and trembling. . . . They 
 both cried out, and indeed they well might. 
 
 " Kraft ? " I muttered, turning to Mme. Ahmakov — " he has 
 shot himself ": Yesterday ? At sunset ? " 
 
 " Where were you ? Where have j'ou come from ? " screamed 
 Tatyana Pavlovna, and she literally clawed my shoulder. 
 " You've been spying ? Yon have been eavesdropping ? " 
 
 " What did I tell you just now ? " said Katerina Nikolaevna, 
 getting up from the sofa and pointing at me. 
 
 I was beside myself. 
 
 " It's a lie, it's nonsense ! " I broke in furiously. " You called 
 me a spy just now, my God ! You are not worth spying on, 
 life's not worth living in the same world with such people as you, 
 in fact ! A great-hearted man has killed himself, Kraft has 
 shot himself — for the sake of an idea, for the sake of Hecuba. 
 . . . But how should you know about Hecuba ? . . . And 
 here — one's to live among your intrigues, to linger in the midst 
 of your lying, 3*our deceptions and underhand plots. . . . 
 Enough ! " 
 
 " Slap him in the face ! Slap him in the face ! " cried Tat^'ana 
 PavloTna, and as Katerina Nikolaevna did not move, though 
 she stared fixedly at me (I remember it all minutely), Tatyana 
 Pavlovna would certainly have done so herself without loss of 
 time, so that I instinctively raised my hand to protect my face ; 
 and this gesture led her to imagine that I meant to strike her. 
 
 " Weil, strike me, strike me, show me that you are a low cur 
 from your birth up : you are stronger than women, why stand 
 on ceremony with them ! " 
 
 " That's enough of 3'our slander!" I cried. " I have never 
 raised my hand against a woman ! You are shameless, Tatyana 
 Pavlovna, you'vo always treated me with contempt. Oh, 
 fv^rvanls mu=:* be treated without respect ! You laugh, Katerina 
 Nikolaevna, at my appearance I suppose ; yes, God has not 
 blessed m^ ^\ith the elegance of your young officers. And, yet 
 I don't feel humbled before you, on the contrary I feel exalted, 
 . . . T don't care how I express myself, only I'm not to blame ! 
 I got here b}' accident, Tatyana Pavlovna, it's all the fault of 
 your cook, or rather of your devotion to her : why did she 
 bring me in here without answering my question ? And after- 
 
 152
 
 wards to dash out of a woman's bedroom seemed so monstrous, 
 that I made up my mind not to show myself, but to sit and put 
 up with your insults. . . . You are laughing again, Katerina 
 Nikolaevna ! " 
 
 '■ Leave the room, leave the room, go away ! '' screamed Tatyana 
 Pavlovna, almost pushing me out. " Don't think anything of his 
 abuse, Katerina Nikolaevna : I've told you that they sent us 
 word that he was mad ! " 
 
 " Mad ? They sent word ? Who sent you word ? No 
 matter, enough of this, Katerina Nikolaevna ! I swear to you 
 by all that's sacred, this conversation and all that I've heard 
 shall remain hidden. ... Am I to blame for having learned 
 your secrets ? Especially as I am leaving j'our father's service 
 to-morrow, so as regards the letter \'ou are looking for, you need 
 not worry yourself ! " 
 
 '■ Wliat's that. . . . \Miat letter are you talking about ? " 
 asked Katerina Nikolaevna in such confusion that she turned 
 pale, or perhaps I fancied it. I realized that I had said too 
 much. 
 
 I walked quickly out; they watched mc go without a word, 
 with looks of intense amazement. I had in fact set them a 
 riddle. 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 1 
 
 I HURRIED home and — marvellous to relate — I was very well 
 satisfied with myself. That's not the way one talks to women, 
 of course, and to such women too — it would be truer to say such 
 a woman, for I was not considering Tatyana Pavlovna. Perhaps 
 it's out of the question to say to a woman of that class that one 
 spits on her intrigues, but I had said that, and it was just that 
 that I was pleased with. Apart from anj-thing else, I was 
 convinced that by taking this tone I had effaced all that was 
 ridiculous in my position. But I had not time to think much 
 about that : my mind was full of Kraft. Not that the thought 
 of him distressed me very greatly, but yet I was shaken to my 
 inmost depths, and so much so that the ordinary human feeling 
 of pleasure at another man's misfortune — at his breaking his 
 leg or covering himself with disgrace, at his losing some one 
 dear to him, and so on — even this ordinary feeling of mean 
 
 153
 
 satisfaction was completely eclipsed by another absolutely 
 single-hearted feeling, a feeling of sorrow, of compassion for 
 Kraft — at least I don't know whether it was compassion, but 
 it was a strong and warm-hearted feeling. And I was glad of 
 this too. It's marvellous how many irrelevant ideas can flash 
 through the mind at the very time when one is shattered by some 
 tremendous piece of news, which one would have thought must 
 overpower all other feelings and banish all extraneous thoughts, 
 especially petty ones ; yet petty ones, on the contrary, obtrude 
 themselves. I remember, too, that I was gradually overcome 
 by a quite perceptible nervous shudder, which lasted several 
 minutes, in fact all the time I was at home and talking to 
 Versilov. 
 
 This interview followed imder strange and exceptional circum- 
 stances. I had mentioned already, that we lived in a separate 
 lodge in the courtyard ; this lodging was marked " No. 13." 
 Before I had entered the gate I heard a woman's voice asking 
 loudly, with impatience and irritation, " Where is No. 13 ? " 
 The question was asked by a lady who was standing close to 
 the gate and had opened the door of the little shop ; but appar- 
 ently she got no answer there, or was even repulsed, for she 
 came down the steps, resentful and angry. 
 
 " But where is the porter ? " she cried, stamping her foot. 
 I had already recognized the voice. 
 
 " I am going to No. 13," I said, approaching her. " Whom 
 do you want ? " 
 
 " I have been looking for the porter for the last hour. I 
 keep asking every one ; I have been up all the staircases." 
 
 " It's in the yard. Don't you recognize me ? " 
 
 But by now she had recognized me. 
 
 " You want Versilov ; you want to see him about something, 
 and so do I," I went on. " I have come to take leave of him 
 for ever. Come along." 
 
 " You are his son ? " 
 
 " That means nothing. Granted, though, that I am his son, 
 yet my name's Dolgoruky ; I am illegitimate. This gentleman 
 has an endless supply of illegitimate children. When conscience 
 and honour require it a son will leave his father's house. That's 
 in the Bible. He has come into a fortune too, and I don't wish 
 to share it, and I go to live by the work of my hands. A noble- 
 hearted man will sacrifice life itself, if need be ; Kraft has shot 
 himself, Kraft for the sake of an idea, imagine, a young man, 
 
 154
 
 yet he overcame hope. . . . This way, this way ! We live in 
 a lodge apart. But that's in the Bible ; children leave their 
 parents and make homes for themselves. ... If the idea draws 
 one on ... if there is an idea 1 The idea is what matters, the 
 idea is everything. . . ." 
 
 I babbled on Uke this while we were making our way to the 
 lodge. The reader will, no doubt, observe that I don't spare 
 myself much, though I give myself a good character on occasion ; 
 I want to train myself to tell the truth. Versilov was at home. 
 I went in without taking off my overcoat ; she did the same. 
 Her clothes were dreadfully thin : over a wretched gown of 
 some dark coloiu* was hung a rag that did duty for a cloak or 
 mantle ; on her head she wore an old and frayed sailor-hat, 
 which was very unbecoming. When we went into the room 
 my mother was sitting at her usual place at work, and my sister 
 came out of her room to see who it was, and was standing in 
 the doorway. Versilov, as usual, was doing nothing, and he 
 got up to meet us. He looked at me intently with a stem and 
 inquiring gaze. 
 
 " It's nothing to do with me," I hastened to explain, and 
 I stood on one side. " I only met this person at the gate ; she 
 was trying to find you and no one could direct her. I have come 
 about my own business, which I shall be delighted to explain 
 afterwards, . . ." 
 
 Versilov nevertheless still scrutinized me curiously. 
 
 " Excuse me," the girl began impatiently. Versilov turned 
 towards her. 
 
 " I have been wondering a long while what induced you to 
 leave money for me yesterday. ... I ... in short . . . here's 
 your money ! " she almost shrieked, as she had before, and flung 
 a bundle of notes on the table. " I've had to hunt for you 
 through the address bureau, or I should have brought it before. 
 Listen, you ! " She suddenly addressed my mother, who had 
 turned quite pale. " I don't want to insult you ; you look honest, 
 and perhaps this is actually your daughter. I don't know 
 whether you are his wife, but let me tell you that this gentleman 
 gets hold of the advertisements on which teachers and gover- 
 nesses have spent their last farthing and visits these luckless 
 wretches with dishonourable motives, trj'ing to lure them to 
 ruin by money. I don't understand how I could have taken 
 his money yesterday : he looked so honest. . . . Get away, 
 don't say a word ! You are a villain, sir ! Even if you had 
 
 155
 
 honourable intentions I don't want your charity. Not a word, 
 not a word ! Oh, how glad I am that I have unmasked you now 
 before your women ! Curse you ! " 
 
 She ran to the door, but turned for one instant in the doorway 
 to shout. 
 
 '■ You've come into a fortune, I'm told." 
 
 With that she vanished like a shadow. I repeat again, it 
 was frenzy, Versilov was greatly astonished ; he stood as 
 though pondering and reflecting on something. At last he 
 turned suddenly to me : 
 
 " You don't know her at all 1 " 
 
 " I happened to see her this morning when she was raging 
 in the passage at Vassin's ; she was screaming and cursing 
 you. But 1 did not speak to her and I know nothing about 
 it, and just now I met her at the gate. No doubt she is that 
 teacher you spoke of yesterday, who also gives lessons in 
 arithmetic." 
 
 ' '■ Yes, shp is. For once in my life I did a good deed and . . . 
 But what's the matter with you 1 " 
 
 ''Here is this letter," I answered. "I don't think explana- 
 tion necessary : it comes from Kraft, and he got it from Andro- 
 nikov. You will understand what's in it. I will add that no 
 one but me in the whole world knows about that letter, for 
 Ixjaft, who gave me that letter yesterday just as I was leaving 
 him, has shot himself." 
 
 \Vhi!c I was speaking with breathless haste he took the letter 
 and, holding it lightly poised in his left hand, watched me 
 attentively. When I told him of Kraft's suicide I looked at 
 him with particular attention to see the effect. And Avhat did 
 1 see ? Tiie news did not make the .slightest imprcs.'ion on him. 
 If he had even raised an eyebrow ! On the contrary, seeing 
 that I had paused, he drew out his eyeglasses, which he always 
 had about him hanging on a black ribbon, carried the letter to 
 the candle and, glancing at the signature, began carefully examin- 
 ing it. 1 can't express liow mortified I was at this supercilious 
 callousness. He must have known Ivraft very well : it was, in 
 any case, such an extraordinary piece of news ! Besides, I 
 naturall}- desired it to produce an effect. Knowing that the 
 letter was long, I turned, after waiting, and went out. My 
 trunk had been packed long ago, I had only to stuff a few things 
 into my bag. I thought of my mother and that I had not gone 
 up to speak to her. Ten minutes later, when I had finished 
 
 156
 
 my preparations and was meaning to go for a cab, my sister 
 walked into my attic. 
 
 " Here are your sixty roubles ; mother sends it and begs you 
 again to forgive her for having mentioned it to Andrey I'etro- 
 vitch. And here's twenty roubles besides. You gave her fifty 
 yesterday for j'our board ; mother says she can't take more than 
 thirty from you because you haven't cost fifty, and she sends you 
 twenty roubles back." 
 
 " Well, thanks, if she is telling the truth. Good -Ьз'е, sister, 
 I'm going." 
 
 " Where are you going now ? " 
 
 " For the time being to an hotel, to escape spending the 
 night in this house. Tell mother that I love her." 
 
 " She knows that. She knows that you love Andrey Petro- 
 vitch too. I wonder 30U are not ashamed of having brought 
 that \\Tretched girl hero ! " 
 
 " I swear I did not : I met her at the gate." 
 
 " No, it was your doing." 
 
 *' I assure you . . ." 
 
 " Think a little, ask yourself, and you will see that you were 
 the cause." 
 
 " I was only very pleased that Versilov should be put to 
 shame. Imagine, he had a baby by Lidya Ahmakov . . . but 
 what am I telling you ! " 
 
 " He ? A baby ? But it is not his child ! From whom 
 have you heard such a falsehood ? " 
 
 " Why, you can know nothing about it." 
 
 *' Me know nothing about it ? But I used to nurse the baby 
 in Luga. Listen, brother : I've seen for a long time past that 
 you knoAv nothing about anything, and meanwhile you wound 
 Andrey Petrovitch — and . . . mother too." 
 
 " If he is right, then I shall be to blame. That's all, and I 
 love you no less for it. What makes you flush like that, i-ister ? 
 And more still now ! Well, never mind, anyway, I shall challenge 
 that little prince for the slap he gave Versilov at Ems. If 
 Versilov Avas in the right as regards Mile. Ahmakov, so much 
 the better." 
 
 " Brother, what are you thinking of ? " 
 
 " Luckily, the lawsuit's over now. . . . Well, now she has 
 turned white ! " 
 
 " But the prince won't fight you," said Liza, looking at me 
 with a wan smile in spite of her alarm. 
 
 ^57
 
 " Then I will put him to shame in public. What's the matter 
 with you, Liza 1 " 
 
 She had turned so pale that she could not stand, and sank 
 on to my sofa. 
 
 " Liza," my mother's voice called from below. 
 
 She recovered herself and stood up ; she smiled at me affec- 
 tionately. 
 
 " Brother, drop this fooUshness, or put it off for a time till 
 you know about ever so many things : it's awful how little 
 you understand." 
 
 " I shall remember, Liza, that j^ou turned pale when you 
 heard I was going to fight a duel." 
 
 " Yes, yes, remember that too ! " she said, smiling once more 
 at parting, and she went downstairs. 
 
 I called a cab, and with the help of the man I hauled my things 
 out of the lodge. No one in the house stopped me or opposed 
 my going. I did not go in to say good-bye to my mother as 
 I did not want to meet Versilov again. When T was sitting in 
 the cab a thought flashed upon me : 
 
 " To Fontanka by Semyonovsky Bridge," I told the man, and 
 went back to Vassin's. 
 
 S 
 
 It suddenly struck me that Vassin would know already about 
 Kraft, and perhaps know a hundred times more than I did ; 
 and so it proved to be. Vassin immediately informed me of 
 all the facts with great precision but with no great warmth ; 
 I concluded that he was very tired, and so indeed he was. He 
 had been at Kraft's himself in the morning. Kraft had shot 
 himself with a revolver (that same revolver) after dark, as was 
 shown by his diary. The last entry in the diary was made just 
 before the fatal shot, and in it he mentioned that he was writing 
 almost in the dark and hardly able to distinguish the letters, 
 that he did not want to light a candle for fear that it should set 
 fire to something when he was dead. " And I don't want to 
 light it and then, before shooting, put it out like my life," he 
 added strangely, almost the last words. This diary he had 
 begtm three days before his death, immediately on his return 
 to Petersburg, before his visit to Dergatchev's. After I had 
 gone away he had written something in it every quarter of an 
 hour ; the last three or four entries were made at intervab 
 
 158
 
 of five minutes. I expressed aloud my surprise that though 
 Vassin had had this diary so long in his hands (it had been given 
 him to read), he had not made a copy of it, especially as it was 
 not more than a sheet or so and all the entries were short. " You 
 might at least have copied the last page ! " Vassin observed 
 with a smile that he remembered it as it was ; moreover, that 
 the entries were quite disconnected, about anything that came 
 into his mind. I was about to protest that this was just what 
 was precious in this case, but without going into that I began 
 instead to insist on his recalling some of it, and he did recall a 
 few sentences — for instance, an hour before he shot himself, 
 " That he was chilly," " That he thought of drinking a glass of 
 wine to warm himself, but had been deterred by the idea that 
 it might cause an hicrease in the flow of blood." " It was almost 
 all that sort of thing," Vassin remarked in conclusion. 
 
 " And 3"ou call that nonsense ! " I cried. 
 
 " And when did I call it nonsense ? I simply did not copy 
 it. But though it's not nonsense, the diary certainly is some- 
 what ordinary, or rather, natural — that is, it's just what it's 
 bound to be in such circumstances. ..." 
 
 " But the last thoughts, the last thoughts ! " 
 
 " The last thoughts sometimes are extremely insignificant. 
 One such suicide complained, in fact, in a similar diary that not 
 one lofty idea visited him at that important hour, nothing but 
 futile and petty thoughts." 
 
 " And that he was chilly, was that too a futile thought ? " 
 
 " Do you mean his being chilly, or the thought about the 
 blood 1 Besides, it's a well-known fact that very many people 
 who are capable of contemplating their approaching death, 
 whether it's by their own hand or not, frequently show a tendency 
 to worry themselves about leaving their body in a presentable 
 condition. It was from that point of view that Kraft was 
 anxious about the blood." 
 
 " I don't know whether that is a well-known fact ... or 
 whether that is so," I muttered ; " but I am surprised that you 
 consider all that natural, and yet it's not long since Kraft was 
 speaking, feeling, sitting among us. Surely you must feel sorry 
 for him ? " 
 
 " Oh, of course, I'm sorry, and that's quite a different thing ; 
 but, in any case, ELraft himself conceived of his death as a logical 
 deduction. It turns out that all that was said about him yester- 
 day at Dergatchev's was true. He left behind him a manuscript 
 
 159
 
 book full of abtruse theories, proving by phrenology, by cranio- 
 logy, and even by mathematics, that the Russians are a second- 
 rate race, and that therefore, since he was a Russian, life was 
 not worth living for him. What is more striking about it, if 
 you like, is that it shows one can make any logical deduction one 
 pleases ; but to shoot oneself in consequence of a deduction does 
 not always follow." 
 
 " At least one must do credit to his strength of will." 
 
 " Possibly not that only," Vassin observed evasively ; it was 
 clear that he assumed stupidity or weakness of intellect. All 
 this irritated me. 
 
 " You talked of feeling yourself yesterday, Vassin." 
 
 " I don't gainsay it now ; but what has happened betrays 
 something in him so crudely mistaken that, if one looks at it 
 critically, it checks one's compassion in spite of oneself," 
 
 " Do you know that I guessed yesterday from your eyes that 
 you would disapprove of Kraft, and I resolved not to ask your 
 opinion, that I might not hear evil of him ; but you have given 
 it of yourself, and I am forced to agree with you in spite of 
 myself ; and yet I am annoyed with you ! I am sorry for 
 Kraft." 
 
 " Do you know we are going rather far . . ." 
 
 " Yes, yes," I interrupted, " but it's a comfort, anyway, that 
 in such cases those who are left alive, the critics of the dead, 
 can say of themselves : ' Though a man has shot himself who 
 was worthy of all compassion and indulgence, we are left, at 
 any rate, and so there's no great need to grieve.' " 
 
 " Yes, of course, from that point of view. . . . Oh, but I 
 believe you are joking, and very cleverly ! I always drink tea 
 at this time, and am just going to ask for it : you will join me, 
 perhaps." 
 
 And he went out, with a glance at my trunk and bag. 
 
 I had wanted to say something rather spiteful, to retaliate 
 for his judgment of Kxaft, and I had succeeded in saying it, 
 but it was curious that he had taken my consoling reflection that 
 "such as we are left" as meant seriously. But, be that as it 
 may, he was, anyway, more right than I was in everything, even 
 in his feelings. I recognized this without the slightest dissatis- 
 faction, but I felt distinctly that I did not like him. 
 
 When they had brought in the tea I announced that I was 
 going to ask for his hospitality for one night only, and if this 
 were impossible I hoped he would say so, and I would go to an 
 
 160
 
 hotel. Then I briefly explained my reasons, simply and frankly 
 stating that I had finally quarrelled with Versilov, without, 
 however, going into details. Vassin listened attentively but 
 without the slightest excitement. As a rule he only spoke in 
 reply to questions, though he always answered with ready 
 courtesy and sufficient detail. I said nothing at all about the 
 letter concerning which I had come to ask his advice in the 
 morning, and I explained that I had looked in then simply to 
 call on him. Having given Versilov my word that no one else 
 should кполу of the letter, I considered I had no right to speak 
 of it to апз'опе. I felt it for some reason peculiarly repugnant 
 to speak of certain things to Vassin — of some things and not of 
 others ; I succeeded, for instance, in interesting him in my 
 description of the scenes that had taken place that morning in 
 the passage, in the next room, and finally at Versilov's. He 
 listened with extreme attention, especially to what I told him of 
 Stebelkov. When I told him how Stebclkov asked about 
 Dergatchfcv he made me repeat the question again, and seemed 
 to ponder gravely over it, though he did laugh in the end. It 
 suddenly occurred to me at that moment that nothing could 
 ever have disconcerted Vassin ; I remember, hoAvever, that 
 this idea presented itself at first in a form most complimentary 
 to him. 
 
 " In fact, I could not gather much from what ]\Г. Stebelkov 
 said," I added finally; "he talks in a sort of muddle . . . and 
 there is something, as it were, feather-headed about him. . . ." 
 
 Vassin at once assumed a serious air. 
 
 " He certainly has no gift for language, but he sometimes 
 manages to make very acute observations at first sight, and 
 in fact he belongs to the class of business men, men of practical 
 aSairs, rather than of theoretical ideas ; one must judge them 
 from that point of view. . . ," 
 
 It was exactly what I had imagined him saj'ing that morning. 
 
 " He made an awful row next door, though, and goodness 
 knows how it might have ended." 
 
 Of the inmates of the next room, Vasfin told me that they 
 had been living there about three weeks and had come from 
 somewhere in the provinces ; that their room was very small, 
 and that to all appearance they were very poor ; that they 
 stayed in and seemed to be expecting something. He did not 
 know the young woman had advertised for lessons, but he had 
 heard that Versilov had been to see them ; it had happened in 
 
 i6i
 
 hie absence, but the landlady had told him of it. The two leuliee 
 had held themiaelves aloof from every one, even from the land- 
 lady. During the last few days he had indeed become aware 
 that something was wrong with them, but there had been no 
 other scenes like the one that morning. I recall all that was 
 said about the people next door because of what followed. All 
 this time there was a dead silence in the next room. Vassin 
 listened with marked interest when I told him that Stebelkov 
 had said he must talk to the landlady about our neighbours 
 and that he had twice repeated, " Ah ! you will see ! you will 
 see!" 
 
 " And you will see," added Vassin, " that that notion of his 
 stands for something; he. has an extraordinarily keen eye for 
 such things." 
 
 " Why, do you think the landlady ought to be advised to 
 turn them out ? " 
 
 " No, I did поъ mean that they should be turned out . . . 
 simply that there might be a scandal . . . but all such cases 
 end one way or another. . . . Let's drop the subject." 
 
 As for Versilov's visit next door, he asolutely refused to give 
 any opinion. 
 
 " Aiiything is possible : a man feels that he has money in 
 his pocket . . . but he may very Ukely have given the money 
 from charity ; that would perhaps be in accordance with Ыв 
 traditions and his inclinations." 
 
 I told him that Stebelkov had chattered that morning about 
 " a baby." 
 
 " Stebelkov is absolutely mistaken about that," Vassin 
 brought out with peculiar emphasis and gravity (I remembered 
 this particularly). " Stebelkov sometimes puts too much faith 
 in his practical common sense, and so is in too great a hurry to 
 draw conclusions to fit in with his logic, which is often very 
 penetratiag ; and all the while the actual fact may be far more 
 fantastic and siu-prising when one considers the character of 
 the persons concerned in it. So it has been in this case ; having 
 a partial knowledge of the affair, he concluded the child belonged 
 to Versilov ; and yet the child is not Versilov's." 
 
 I pressed him, and, to my great amazement, learned from 
 him that the infant in question was the child of Prince Sergay 
 Sokolsky. Lidya Ahmakov, either owing to her illness or to 
 some fantastic streak in her character, used at times to behave 
 like a lunatic. She had been fascinated by the prince before 
 
 162
 
 she met Versilov, " and he had not scrupled to accept her love," 
 to use Vassin's expression. The liaison had lasted but for a 
 moment ; they had quarrelled, as we know already, and Lidj'a 
 had dismissed the prince, " at which the latter seems to have 
 been relieved." " She was a very strange girl," added Vassin ; 
 "it is q\iite possible that she was not always in her right mind. 
 But when he went away to Paris, Prince Sokobky had no idea 
 of the condition in which he had left his victim, he did not 
 know imtil the end, until his return. Versilov, who had become 
 a friend of the young lady's, offered her his hand, in view of her 
 situation (of which it appears her parents had no suspicion up 
 to the end). The lovesick damsel was overjoyed, and saw in 
 Versilov's offer "something more than self-sacrifice," though 
 that too she appreciated. " Of course, though, he knew how 
 to carry it through," Vassin added. " The baby (a girl) was 
 born a month or six weeks before the proper time ; it was placed 
 out somewhere in Germany but afterwards taken back by Versilov 
 and is now somewhere in Russia — perhaps in Petersburg." 
 
 " And the phosphorus matches ? " 
 
 " I know nothing about that," Vassin said in conclusion. 
 " Lidya Ahmakov died a fortnight after her confinement : what 
 had happened I don't know. Prince Sokolsky, who had only 
 just returned from Paris, learned there was a child, and seems 
 not to have believed at first that it was his child. . . . The 
 whole affair has, in fact, been kept secret by all parties up till 
 now." 
 
 " But what a wretch this prince must be," I cried indignantly. 
 " What a way to treat an invalid girl ! " 
 
 " She was not so much of an invalid then. . . . Besides, she 
 sent him away herself. ... It Ь true, perhaps, that he was in 
 too great a hurry to take advantage of his dismissal." 
 
 " You justify a villain like that ! " 
 
 " No, only I don't call him a villain. There is a great deal in 
 it besides simple villainy. In fact, it's quite an ordinary thing." 
 
 " Tell me, Vassin, did you know him intimately ? I should 
 particularly value your opinion, owing to a circumstance that 
 touches me very nearly." 
 
 But to this Vassin replied with excessive reserve. He knew 
 the prince, but he was, with obvious intention, reticent in regard 
 to the circumstances under which he had made his acquaintance. 
 He added further that one had to make allowances for Prince 
 Sokolsky's character. " He is impressionable and full of honour- 
 
 163
 
 able impulses, but has neither good sense nor strength of will 
 enough to control his desires. He is not a well-educated man ; 
 many ideas and situations are beyond his power to deal with, 
 and yet he rushes upon them. He will, for example, persist in 
 declaring, ' I am a prince and descended from Rurik ; but 
 there's no reason why I shouldn't be a shoemaker if I have to 
 earn my living ; I am not fit for any other calling. Above the 
 shop there shall be, " Prince So-and-so, Bootmaker " — it would 
 really be a credit.' He would say that and act upon it, too, 
 that's what matters,"' added Vassin ; " and yet it's not the 
 result of strong conviction, but only the most shallow impression- 
 ability. Afterwards repentance invariably follows, and then 
 he is always ready to rush to an opposite extreme ; his whole 
 life is passed like that. Many people come to grief in that way 
 nowadays," Vassin ended, " just because they are born in this 
 ago." 
 
 I could not help pondering on his Avords. 
 
 " Is it true that he was turned out of his regiment ? " I asked. 
 
 " I don't know whether he was turned out, but he certainl}- 
 did leave the regiment through some unpleasant scandal. I 
 suppose you know that he spent two or three months last autumn 
 at Luga." 
 
 " I ... I know that you were staying at Luga at that time." 
 
 " Yes, I was there too for a time. Prince Sokolsky knew 
 Lizaveta. Makarovna too." 
 
 " Oh ! I didn't know. I must confess I've had so little talk 
 with my sister. . . . But surely he was not received in my 
 mother's house ? " I cried. 
 
 " Oh, no ; he was only slightly acquainted with them through 
 other friends." 
 
 " Ah, to be sure, what did my sister tell me about that child ? 
 Was the baby at Luga ? " 
 
 " For a while." 
 
 " And where is it now." 
 
 " No doubt in Petersburg.'* 
 
 " I never will believe," I cried in great emotion, " that my 
 mother took any part whatever in this scandal with this Lidya ! " 
 
 " Apart from these intrigues, of which I can't undertake to 
 give the details, there was nothing particularly repreherisible in 
 Versilov's part of the affair," observed Vassin, with a condescend- 
 ing smile. I fancy he began to feel it difficult to talk to me, 
 but he tried not to betray it. 
 
 164
 
 " I will never, never believe," I cried again, " that a woman 
 Could give up her husband to another woman ; that I won't 
 believe ! . . . I swear my mother had no hand in it ! " 
 
 " It seems, though, she did not oppose it." 
 
 " In her place, from pride I should not have opposed it." 
 
 " For my part, I absolutely refuse to judge in such a matter," 
 was Vassin's final comment. 
 
 Perhaps, for all his intelligence, Vassin really knew nothing 
 about women, so that a whole сз'с1е of ideas and phenomena 
 remained unknown to him. I sank into silence. Vassin had 
 a temporary berth in some company's office, and I knew that 
 he used to bring work home with him. When I pressed him, 
 he admitted that he had work to do now, accounts to make up, 
 and I begged him warmly not to stand on ceremony with me. 
 I believe this pleased him ; but before bringing out his papers 
 he made up a bed for me on the sofa. At first he offered me his 
 bed, but when I refused it I think that too gratified him. He 
 got pillows and a quilt from the landlady. Vassin was extremely 
 polite and amiable, but it made me feel uncomfortable, seeing 
 him take so much trouble on my account. I had Liked it better 
 when, three weeks before, I had spent a night at Efims. I 
 remember how he concocted a bed for me, also on a sofa, and 
 without the knowledge of his aunt, who would, he thought, for 
 some reason, have been vexed if she had known he had a school- 
 fellow staying the night with him. We laughed a great deal. 
 A shirt did duty for a sheet and an overcoat for a pillow. I 
 remember how Efim, when he had completed the work, patted 
 the sofa tenderly and said to me : 
 
 " Vous dorrn-ircz comme un pelit roi." 
 
 And his foolish mirth and the French phrase, as incongruous 
 in his mouth as a saddle on a cow, made me enjoy sleeping 
 at that jocose youth's. As for Vassin, I felt greatly relieved 
 when he sat down to work with his back to me. I stretched 
 myself on the sofa and, looking at his back, pondered deeply 
 on many things. 
 
 And indeed I had plenty to think about. Everj^hing seemed 
 split up and in confusion in my soul, but certain sensations stood 
 out very definitely, though from their very abundance I was not 
 dominated by any one of them. They all came, as it were, in 
 
 165
 
 disconnected flashes, one after another, and I had no inclination, 
 I remember, to dwell on any one of my impressions or to establish 
 any sequence among them. Even the idea of Kjaft had imper- 
 ceptibly passed into the background. What troubled me most 
 of all was my own position, that here I had " broken off," and 
 that my tnmk was with me, and I was not at home, and was 
 beginning everything new. It was as though all my previous 
 intentions and preparations had been in play, " and only now — 
 and above all so suddenly — everything was beginning in reality." 
 This idea gave me courage and cheered me up, in spite of the 
 confusion within me over many things. 
 
 But . . . but I had other sensations ; one of them was trying 
 to dominate the others and to take possession of my soul, and, 
 strange to say, this sensation too gave me courage and seemed 
 to hold out prospects of something very gay. Yet this feeling 
 had begun with fear : I had been afraid for a long time, from 
 the very hour that in my heat I had, unawares, said too much 
 to Mme. Ahmakov about the " document." " Yes, I said too 
 much," I thought, "and maybe they will guess something . . . 
 it's a pity ! No doubt they will give me no peace if they begin 
 to suspect, but ... let them ! Very likely they won't find 
 me, I'll hide ! And what if they really do run after me . . . ? " 
 And then I began recalling minutely in every point, and with 
 growing satisfaction, how I had stood up before Katerina Niko- 
 laevna and how her insolent but extremely astonished eyes had 
 gazed at me obstinately. Going away, I had left her in the 
 same amazement, I remembered ; " her eyes are not quite 
 black, though . . . it's only her eyelashes that are so black, 
 and that's what makes her eyes look so dark. . . ." 
 
 And suddenly, I remember, I felt horribly disgusted at the 
 recollection . . . and sick and angry both at them and at 
 myself. I reproached myself and tried to think of something 
 else. " Why did I not feel the slightest indignation with Versilov 
 for the incident with the girl in the next room ? " it suddenly 
 occurred to me to wonder. For my part, I was firmly convinced 
 that he had had amorous designs and had come to amuse himself, 
 but I was not particularly indignant at this. It seemed to me, 
 indeed, that one could not have conceived of his behaving 
 j^erently, and although I reaUy was glad he had been put to 
 shame, yet I did not blame him. It was not that which seemed 
 maportant to me ; what was important was the exasperation 
 with which he had looked at me when I came in with the 
 
 i66
 
 girl, the way he bad looked at me as he had never done 
 before. 
 
 " At last he has looked at me seriously," I thought, mth a 
 flutter at my heart. Ah, if I had not loved him I should not 
 have been so overjoyed at his hatred ! 
 
 At last I began to doze and fell asleep. I can just remember 
 being aware of Vassin's finishing his work, tidying away his 
 things, looking carefully towards my sofa, undressing and 
 putting out the light. 
 
 It was one o'clock at night. 
 
 Almost exactly two hours later I woke up with a start and, 
 jumping up as though I were frantic, sat on my sofa. From the 
 next room there arose fearful lamentations, screams, and sounds 
 of weeping. Our door was wide open, and people were shouting 
 and running to and fro in the lighted passage. I was on the 
 point of calling to Vassin, but I realized that he was no longer 
 in his bed. I did not know where to find the matches ; I fumbled 
 for my clothes and began hurriedly dressing in the dark. Evi- 
 dently the landlady, and perhaps the lodgers, had run into 
 the next room. Only one voice was wailing, however, that 
 of the older woman : the youthful voice I had heard the day 
 before, and so well remembered, was quite silent ; I remember 
 that this was the first thought that came into my mind. Before 
 I had finished dressing Vassin came in hurriedly. He laid his 
 hand on the matches instantly and lighted up the room. He 
 was in his dressing-gown and slippers, and he immediately 
 proceeded to dress. 
 
 " What's happened ? " I cried. 
 
 " A most unpleasant and bothersome business," he answered 
 almost angrily ; " that young girl you were telling me about 
 has hanged herself in the next room." 
 
 I could not help crying out. I cannot describe the pang at 
 my heart ! We ran out into the passage. I must own I did 
 not dare go into the room, and only saw the unhappy girl after- 
 wards, when she had been taken down, and even then, indeed, 
 at some distance and covered with a sheet, beyond which the 
 two narrow soles of her shoes stood out. So I did not for some 
 reason look into her face. The mother wa§ in a fearful condition ; 
 our landlady was with her — not, however, greatly alarmed. 
 
 167
 
 All the lodgers in the flat had gathered round. There were only 
 three of them : an elderly naval man, always very peevish and 
 exacting, though on this occasion he was quite quiet, and an 
 elderly couple, respectable people of the small functionary class 
 who came from the province of Tver. I won't attempt to 
 describe the rest of that night, the general commotion and after- 
 wards the visit of the poUce. Literally till daylight I kept shudder- 
 ing and felt it my duty to sit up, though I did absolutely nothing. 
 And indeed every one had an extraordinarily cheery air, as 
 though they had been particularly cheered by something. 
 Vassiii went off somewhere. The landlady turned out to be 
 rather a decent woman, much better than I had imagined her. 
 I persuaded her (and I put it down to my credit) that the mother 
 must not be left alone with the davighter's corpse, and that she 
 must, at least until to-morrow, take her into her room. The 
 landlady at once agreed, and though the mother struggled and 
 shed tears, refusing to leave her daughter, she did at last move 
 into the landlady's room, and the latter immediately ordered 
 the samovar to be brought. After that the lodgers went back 
 to -their rooms and shut the doors, but nothing would have 
 induced me to go to bed, and I remained a long time with the 
 landlady, who was positively relieved at the presence of a third 
 person, and especially one who was able to give some information 
 bearing on the case. 
 
 The samovar was most welcome, and in fact the samovar is 
 the mast essential thing in Russia, especially at times of particu- 
 larly awful, sudden, and eccentric catastrophes and misfortunes ; 
 even the mother was induced to drink two cups — though, of 
 course, only with much urging and almost compulsion. And 
 yet I can honestly say that I have never seen a bitterer and 
 more genuine sorrow that that poor mother's. 
 
 After the first paroxysms of sobbing and hysterics she was 
 actually eager to talk, and I listened greedily to her story. 
 There are unhapp}' people, especially women, who must be 
 allowed to talk as freely as possible when they are in trouble. 
 Moreover, there are characters too, blurred so to speak by 
 sorrow, who all their life long have sufiFered, have suffered terribly 
 much both of great sorrow and of continual worry about trifles, 
 and who can never be surprised by anything, by any sort of 
 sudden calamity, and who, above all, never, even beside the 
 coffin of their dearest, can forget the rules of behaviour for 
 propitiating people, v.hich they have learnt by bitter experience. 
 
 i68
 
 And I don't criticize it : there is neither the vulgarity of egoism 
 nor the insolence of culture in this ; there is perhaps more 
 genuine goodness to be found in these simple hearts than in 
 heroines of the loftiest demeanour, but the long habit of humilia- 
 tion, the instinct of self-preservation, the years of timid anxiety 
 and oppression, leave their mark at last. The poor girl who 
 had died by her own hand was not like her mother in this. 
 They were alike in face, however, though the dead girl was 
 decidedly good-looking. The mother was not a very old woman, 
 fifty at the most ; she, too, was fair, but her eyes were sunken, 
 her cheeks were hollow, and she had large yellow, uneven teeth. 
 And indeed everything had a tinge of yellowness : the skin on 
 her hands and face was like parchment ; her dark dress had 
 groMSTi yellow with age, and the nail on the forefinger of her 
 right hand * had been, I don't know why, carefully and tidily 
 plastered up with yellow wax. 
 
 The poor woman's story was in parts quite disconnected. 
 I will tell it as I understood it and as I remember it. 
 
 They had come from Moscow. She had long been a widow — 
 
 " the widow of an official, however." Her husbar.d had been 
 
 in the government service, but had left them practically nothing 
 
 " except a pension of two hundred roubles." But what are 
 
 two hundred roubles ? 01з'а grew up, however, and went to 
 
 the high school — " and how well she did, how good she was 
 
 at her lessons ; she won the silver medal when she left " (at 
 
 this point, of course, prolonged weeping). The deceased husband 
 
 had lost a fortune of nearly four thousand roubles, invested with 
 
 a merchant here in Petersburg. This merchant had suddenly 
 
 grown rich again. " I liad papers, I asked advice ; I was told, 
 
 ' Try, and you will certainly get it. . . .' I wrote, the merchant 
 
 agreed : ' Go yourself,' I was told. Olya and I set off, and 
 
 arrived a month ago. Our means were small : we took this 
 
 room because it was the smallest of all and, as we could see 
 
 ourselves, in a respectable house, and that's what mattered 
 
 most to us. We were inexperienced women ; every one takes 
 
 advantage of us. Well, we paid you for one month. With 
 
 * This mu9t be an error on Dostoevsky's part. Russian women some- 
 times plaster with мах the forefinger of the left hand to protect it from 
 being pricked in sewing. — Translator's Note. 
 
 169
 
 one thing and another, Petersburg is ruinous. Our merchant 
 gives us a flat refusal — ' I don't know you or anything about 
 you ' ; and the paper I had was not regular, I knew that. Then 
 I was advised to go to a celebrated lawyer ; he was a professor, 
 not simply a lawyer but an expert, so he'd be sure to tell me what 
 to do. I took bim my last fifteen roubles. The lawyer came 
 out to me, and he did not listen to me for three minutes : * I 
 see,' says he, ' I know,' says he. * If the merchant wants to,' 
 says he, * he'll pay the money ; if he doesn't want to, he won't, 
 and if you take proceedings you may have to pay yourself, 
 perhaps ; you had far better come to terms.' He made a joke, 
 then, out of the Gospel : * Make peace,' said he, * while your 
 enemy is in the way with you, lest you pay to the uttermost 
 farthing. He laughed as he saw me out. My fifteen roubles 
 were wasted ! I came back to Olya ; we sat facing one another. 
 I began crying. Olya did not cry ; she sat there, proud and 
 indignant. She has always been like that with me ; all her life, 
 even when she was tiny, she was never one to moan, she was 
 never one to cry, but she would sit and look fierce ; it used to 
 make me creep to look at heri And — would you believe it ? — 
 I was afraid of her, I was really quite afraid of her ; I've been so 
 for a long time past. I often wanted to grieve, but I did not 
 dare before her. I went to the merchant for the last time. 
 I cried before him freely : he said it was all right, and would not 
 even listen. Meanwhile I must confess that, not having reckoned 
 on being here for so long, we had been for some time without a 
 penny. I began taking our clothes one by one to the pawn- 
 broker's ; we have been living on what we have pawned. I 
 stripped myself of everything ; she gave me the last of her 
 linen, and I cried bitterly at taking it. She stamped, then 
 she jumped up and ran off to the merchant herself. He was a 
 widower ; he talked to her. ' Come at five o'clock the day 
 after to-morrow,' says he, ' perhaps I shall have something to 
 say to you.' She came home quite gay : * He says he may have 
 something to say to me.' Well, I was pleased too, but yet 1 
 somehow felt a sort of chill at my heart. ' Something will 
 come of it,' I thought, but I did not dare to question her. Two 
 days later she came back from the merchant's, pale and trembling 
 all over, and threw herself on her bed. I saw what it meant, 
 and did not dare to question her. And — would you believe it ? — 
 the villain had offered her fifteen roubles. ' If I find you pure 
 and virtuous I'll hand you over another forty.' He said that 
 
 170
 
 to her face — he wasn't ashamed to. At that she flew at him, 
 so she told me ; he thrust her out, and even locked himself in 
 the next room. And meanwhile I must confess, to tell the 
 truth, we had nothing to eat. We brought out a jacket Uned 
 with hare-fur ; we sold it. She went to a newspaper and put in 
 an advertisement at once : she offered lessons in all subjects 
 and in arithmetic. * If they'll only pay thirty kopecks,' she 
 said. And in the end I began to be really alarmed at her : 
 she would sit for hours at the window without saying a word, 
 staring at the roof of the house opposite, and then she woxild 
 suddenly cry out, ' If I could only wash or dig ! ' She would 
 say one sentence Uke that and stamp her foot. And there was 
 no one we knew here, no one we could go to : I wondered what 
 would become of us. And all the while I was afraid to talk 
 to her. One day she fell asleep in the daytime. She waked 
 up, opened her eyes, and looked at me ; I was sitting on the box, 
 and I was looking at her too. She got up, came to me without 
 saying a word, and threw her arms round me. And we could 
 not help crying, both of us ; we sat crying and clinging to each 
 other. It was the first time in her life I had seen her like that. 
 And just as we were sitting like that, your Nastasya came in 
 and said, ' There's a lady inquiring for you.' This was only 
 four days ago. The lady came in ; we saw she was very well 
 dressed, though she spoke Russian, it seemed to me, with a 
 German accent. ' You advertised that you give lessons,' she 
 said. We were so delighted then, we made her sit down. She 
 laughed in such a friendly way : * It's not for me,' she said, 
 
 * but my niece has small children ; and if it suits you, come to 
 us, and we will make arrangements.' She gave an address, a 
 flat in Voznessensky Street. She went away. Dear Olya set 
 off the same day ; she flew there. She came back two hours 
 later ; she was in hysterics, in convulsions. She told me after- 
 wards : * I asked the porter where flat No. so-and-so was.' 
 The porter looked at her and said, ' And what do you want to 
 go to that flat for ? ' He said that so strangely that it might 
 have made one suspicious, but she was so self-willed, poor 
 darling, so impatient, she could not bear impertinent questions. 
 
 * Go along, then,' he said, and he pointed up the stairs to her 
 and went back himself to his little room. And what do you 
 think ! She went in, asked for the lady, and on all sides women 
 ran up to her at once — horrid creatures, rouged ; they rushed 
 at her, laughing. ' Please come in, please come in,' they cried ; 
 
 171
 
 they dragged her in. Some one was playing the piano. ' I 
 tried to get away from them,'' she said, ' but they would not let 
 me go.' She was frightened, her legs gave way under her. 
 They simply would not let her go ; they talked to her coaxingly, - 
 they persuaded her, they uncorked a bottle of porter, they 
 pressed it on her. She jumped up trembling, screamed at the 
 top of her voice ' Let me go, let me go ! ' She rushed to the 
 door ; they held the door, she shrieked. Then the one who 
 had been to see us the day before ran up and slapped my Olya 
 twice in the face and pushed her out of the door : ' You don't 
 deserve to be in a respectable house, you skinny slut ! ' And 
 another shouted after her on the stairs : * You came of yourself 
 to beg of us because you have nothing to eat, but we won't look 
 at such an ugly fright ! ' All that night she lay in a fever and 
 delirious and in the morning her eyes glittered ; she got up and 
 walked about. * Justice,' she cried, ' she must be brought to 
 justice ! ' I said nothing, but I thought, ' If you brought her 
 up how could we prove it ? ' She walked about with set lips, 
 wringing her hands and tears streaming down her face. And 
 her whole face seemed darkened from that time up to the very 
 end. On the third day she seemed better ; she was quiet and 
 seemsd calmer. And then at four o'clock in the afternoon 
 M. Versilov came to us. And I must say I can't understand, 
 even now, how Olya, who was always so mistrustful, was ready 
 to listen to him almost at the first word. What attracted us 
 both more than anything л^ as that he had such a grave, almost 
 stern air ; he spoke gently, impressively, and so politely — more 
 than politely, respectfully even — and yet at the same time 
 he showed no sign of trying to make up to us : it was plain 
 to see he had come with a pure heart. ' I read your advertise- 
 ment in the paper,' said he. * You did not word it suitably, 
 madam, and you may damage your prospects by that.' And 
 he began explaining — I must own I did not understand — some- 
 thing about arithmetic, but I saw that Olya flushed and seemed 
 to brighten up altogether. She listened and talked readily 
 (and, to be sure, he must be a clever man 1) ; I heard her even 
 thank him. He questioned her so minutely about everything, 
 and it seemed that he had lived a long time in Moscow, and it 
 turned out that he кпелу the head mistress of the high school. 
 ' I will be sure to find you lessons,' said he, ' for I know a great 
 many people here, and I can, in fact, apply to many influential 
 people, so that if you would prefer a permanent situation луе 
 
 172
 
 might look out for that. . . . Meanwhile/ said he, ' forgive me 
 one direct question : can I be of some use to you at once ? It 
 will be 3'our doing me a favour, not m}' doing you one,' said he, 
 * if you will allow me to be of use to yoti in any Avay. Let it 
 be a loan,' said he, ' and as soon as you have a situation, in a 
 very short time, you will be able to rajmy ma. Believe me, on 
 my honour,' said he, ' if ever I were to come to poverty and you 
 had plenty of everything I would come straight to you for some 
 httle help. I would send my wife and daughter ' ... at least, 
 I don't remember all his words, only I was moved to tears, for 
 I saw that Olya's lips were trembling with gratitude too. ' If I 
 take it,' she answered him, ' it is because I trust an honourable 
 and humane man, who might have been my father. . . .' 
 That was very well said by her, briefly and with dignity. * A 
 humane man,' said she. He stood up at once : * I v/ill get 
 you lessons and a situation without fail. I will set to work this 
 very day, for you have quite a satisfactory diploma too. . . .' 
 I forgot to say that he looked through all her school certificates 
 when he first came in ; she showed them to him, and he examined 
 her in several subjects. . . . ' You see, he examined me, mamma,' 
 Olya said to me afterwards, ' and what a clever man he is,' she 
 said ; ' it is not often one speaks to such a well-educated, cultured 
 man. . . .' And she was quite radiant. The money — sixty 
 roubles, lay on the table : ' Take it, mamma,' said she ; ' when 
 I get a situation we will pay it back as soon as possible. We 
 will show that we are honest and that we have delicacy : h». 
 has seen that already, though.' Then she paused. I saw he: 
 draw a deep breath. ' Do you know, mamma,' she said to me 
 suddenly, * if we had been coarse we should perhaps have refused 
 to take it through pride, but by taking it now we onl}' show 
 our delicacy of feeling and that we trust him completely, out 
 of respect for his grey hair, don't we ? ' At first I did not quite 
 understand : 'But why, Olya, not accept the benevolence 
 of a wealthy and honourable man if he has a good heart too ? ' 
 She scowled at me. ' No, mamma,' she said, * that's not it ; 
 I don't want benevolence, but his humanity is precious. And 
 it would have been better really not to have taken the money 
 at all, since he has promised to get me a situation ; that's enough 
 . . . though we are in need.' ' Well, Olya,' said I, ' our need 
 is so great that we could not have refused it.' I actually laughed. 
 Well, I was pleased, but an hour later she turned to me : ' Don't 
 spend that money yet, mamma,' said she resolutely. ' What ? ' 
 
 173
 
 said I. * I mean it,' she said, and she broke off and said no 
 more. She was silent all the evening, only at two o'clock in 
 the night I waked up and heard Olya tossing in her bed : ' Are 
 you awake, mamma ? ' ' Yes, I am awake.' ' Do you know, 
 he meant to insult me.' ' What nonsense, what nonsense,' I 
 said. ' There is no doubt of it,' she said ; ' he is a vile man ; 
 don't dare to spend a farthing of his money.' I tried to talk 
 to her. I burst out crying, in bed as I^v^as. She turned away to 
 the wall. ' Be quiet,' she said, * let me go to sleep ! ' In the 
 morning I looked at her ; she was not Uke herself. And you 
 may believe it or not, before God I swear she was not in her 
 right mind then ! From the time that she was insulted in that 
 infamous place there was darkness and perplexity in her heart 
 . . . and in her brain. Looking at her that morning, I had 
 misgivings about her ; 1 was alarmed. I made up my mind I 
 would not say a word to contradict her. "VHe did not even 
 leave his address, mamma,' she said. ' For shame, Olya,' I 
 said ; ' you listened to him last night ; you praised him and 
 were ready to shed tears of gratitude.' That was all I said, 
 but she screamed and stamped. ' You are a woman of low 
 feelings,' she said, ' brought up in the old slavish ideas. . . .' 
 And then, without a word, she snatched up her hat, ran out. 
 I called after her. I wondered what was the matter with her, 
 where she had run. She had run to the address bureau to find 
 out where Versilov Uved. 'I'll take him back the money to- 
 day and fling it in his face ; he meant to insult me,' she said, ' like 
 Safronov (that is the merchant), but Safronov insulted me like 
 a coarse peasant, but he Ике a cunning Jesuit.' And just then, 
 unhappily, that gentleman knocked at the door : ' I hear the 
 name of Versilov,' he said ; ' I can tell you about him.' When 
 she heard Versilov's name she pounced on him. She was in a 
 perfect frenzy ; she kept talking away. I gazed at her in 
 amazement. She was always a silent girl and had never talked 
 to anyone like that, and with a perfect stranger too. Her cheeks 
 were burning, her eyes glittered. . . . And he said at once : 
 'You are perfectly right, madam. Versilov,' said he, 'is just 
 Uke the generals here, described in the newspapers ; they dress 
 themselves up with all their decorations and go after all the 
 governesses who advertise in the papers. Sometimes they 
 find what they want, or, if they don't, they sit and talk a 
 little, make bushels of promises and go away, having got diver- 
 sion out of it, anyway.' Olya actually laughed, but so bitterly, 
 
 174
 
 and I saw the gentleman take her hand and press it to his heart. 
 ' I am a man of independent means, madam,' said he, ' and 
 might well make a proposal to a fair maiden, but I'd better,' 
 said he, ' kiss your little hand to begin with. . . .' And he 
 was trying to Mas her hand. How she started ! But I came 
 to the rescue, and together we turned bim out of the room. 
 Then, towards evening, Olya snatched the money from me and 
 ran out. When she came back she said, ' I have revenged myself 
 on that dishonourable man, mamma.' ' Qh, Olya, Olya,' I 
 said, ' perhaps we have thrown away our happiness. You have 
 insulted a generous, benevolent man ! ' I cried — I was so vexed 
 with her I could not help it. She shouted at me. * I won't have 
 it, I won't have it I ' she cried ; ' if he were ever so honest, I 
 don't want his charity ! I don't want anyone to pity me ! ' 
 I went to bed with no thought of anything. How many times 
 I had looked on that nail in your wall where once there had 
 been a looking-glass — it never entered my head, never ; I never 
 thought of it yesterday and I'd never thought of it before ; I 
 had no inkling of it, and I did not expect it of Olya at all. I 
 usually sleep heavily and snore ; it's the blood going to my 
 head, and sometimes it goes to my heart. I call out in my 
 sleep so that Olya wakes me up at night. ' What is the matter 
 with you, mamma 1 ' she wotdd say ; ' you sleep so heavily 
 there's no waking you.' ' Oh, Olya,' I said, ' I do, I do.' That's 
 how I must have slept this night, so that, after waiting a bit, 
 she got up without fear of waking me. The strap, a long one 
 from our trunk, had been lying about all that mouth where 
 we could see it ; only yesterday morning I had been thinking 
 of tidying it away. And the chair she must have kicked 
 away afterwards, and she had put her petticoat down beside it 
 to prevent its banging on the floor. And it must have been a 
 long time afterwards, a whole hour or more afterwards, that I 
 waked up and called ' Olya, Olya ' ; all at once I felt something 
 amiss, and called her name. Either because I did not hear 
 her breathing in her bed, or perhaps I made out in the dark that 
 the bed was empty — anyway, I got up suddenly and felt with 
 my hand ; there was no one in the bed and the pillow was cold. 
 My heart sank ; I stood still as though I were stunned ; my 
 mind was a blank. ' She's gone out,' I thought. I took a step, 
 and by the bed I seemed to see her standing in the comer by 
 the door. I stood still and gazed at her without speaking, and 
 through the darkness she seemed to look at me without stirring. 
 
 175
 
 . . . ' But why has she got on a chair,' I wondered. ' Olya,' 
 I whispered. I was frightened. ' Olya, do you hear ? ' But 
 suddenly, as it were, it all dawned upon me. I went forward, 
 held out both arms and put them round her, and she swayed 
 in my arms ; I swaj-ed and she swayed with me. I under- 
 stood and would not understand. ... I wanted to cry out, 
 but no cry came. . . . Ach ! Ifellon the floor and shrieked. .. ." 
 
 " Vassin," I said at six o'clock in the morning, " if it had 
 not been for your Stebelkov this might not have happened." 
 
 " Who knows 1 — most likely it would have happened. One 
 can't draw such a conclusion ; everything was leading up to it, 
 apart from that. ... It is true that Stebelkov sometimes . . ." 
 
 He broke off and frowned disagreeably. At seven o'clock he 
 went out again ; he still had a great deal to do. I was left at 
 last entirely alone. It was by now daylight. I felt rather 
 giddy. I was haunted by the figure of Versilov : this lady's 
 story had brought him out in quite a diiferent light. To think 
 this over better, I lay down on Vassin's bed just as I was, in 
 my clothes and my boots, just for a minute, with no intention 
 of going to sleep — and suddenly I fell asleep ; I don't remember 
 how it happened, indeed. I slept almost four hours ; nobody 
 waked me. 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 I WOKE about half-past ten, and for a long time I could not 
 believe my eyes : on the sofa on which I had slept the previous 
 night was sitting my mother, and beside her — the unhappy 
 mother of the dead girl. They were holding each other's haijds, 
 they were talking in whispers, I suppose, that they might not 
 wake me, and both were crying. I got up from the bed, and 
 flew straight to kiss my mother. She positivel}' beamed all 
 over, kissed me and make the sign of the cross over me tluree 
 times with the right hand. Before we had time to say a word 
 the door opened, and Versilov and Vassin came in. My mother 
 at once got up and led the bereaved woman away. Vassin 
 gave me his hand, while Versilov sank into an armchair without 
 saying a word to me. Mother and he had evidently 'ueen here 
 for some time. His face looked overcast and careworn. 
 
 170
 
 " What I regret most of all," he began saying slowly to V'assin, 
 evidently in continuation of what they had been discussing 
 outside, " is that I had no time to set it all right yesterday 
 evening ; then probably this terrible thing луоиИ not have 
 happened ! And indeed there was time, it was hardly eight 
 o'clock. As soon as she ran away from us last night, I inwardly 
 resolved to follow her and to reassure her, but this unforeseen 
 and urgent business, though of course I might quite well have 
 put it ой till to-day ... or even for a week — this vexatious 
 turn of affairs has hindered and ruined everything. That's just 
 how things do happen ! " 
 
 " Perhaps you would not have succeeded in reassuring her ; 
 things had gone too far already, apart from you," Vassin put in. 
 " No, I should have succeeded, I certainly should have suc- 
 ceeded. And the idea did occur to me to send Sofia Andreyevna 
 in my place. It flashed across my mind, but nothing more. 
 Sofia Andreyevna alone would have convinced her, and the 
 unhappy girl would have been alive. No, never again will I 
 meddle ... in ' good works ' . . . and it is the only time 
 in my life I have done it ! And I imagined that I had kept up 
 with the times and understood the younger generation. But 
 we elders grow old almost before we grow ripe. And, by the way, 
 there are a terrible number of modem people who go on con- 
 sidering themselves the younger generation from habit, because 
 only yesterday they were such, and meantime they don't notice 
 that they are no longer under the ban of the orthodox." 
 
 " There has been a misunderstanding, and the misimdcr- 
 standing is quite evident," Vassin observed reasonabl3\ " Бег 
 mother maintains that after the cruel way she was insulted in 
 that infamous house, she seemed to lose her reason. Add to that 
 her circumstances, the insult in the first place from the merchant 
 ... all this might have hapj^ened in the past, and, to my mind, 
 is in no wav particularly characteristic of the j'ounger generation 
 of to-day." 
 
 " It's impatient, the present generation, and has little under- 
 standing of reality; and, although that's true of all young people 
 in all ages, it's particularly so in this ... tell me, what part 
 had Mr. Stebelkov in the trouble ? " 
 
 '' Mr. Stebelkov," I put in suddenly, " was the cause of it alU 
 If it hadn't been for him nothing would have happened, he 
 poured oil on the flames." 
 Versilov listened, but he did not glance at me. Vassin frowned. 
 
 jyy M
 
 " I blame myself for one ridiculous circumstance," Versilov 
 went on deliberately, dwelling on each syllable as before, " I 
 believe that in my usual stupid way I allowed myself to be lively 
 after a fashion — this frivolous little laugh — in fact, I was not 
 sufficiently abrupt, dry and gloomy, three charsicteristics which 
 seem to be greatly prized by the yoimg generation. In fact, I 
 gave her grounds for suspecting me of being a gay deceiver." 
 
 " Quite the opposite," I put in abruptly again, "the mother 
 lays particular stress on your having made the best possible 
 impression through your gravity, severity even, and sincerity — 
 those were her very words. The dead girl herself praised you 
 on the same grounds directly after you'd gone." 
 
 " Y-yes ? " Versilov mumbled with a cursory glance in my 
 direction at last. " Take this scrap of paper, it's essential to 
 the business " — he held out a tiny sheet to Vassin. Vassin took 
 it, and seeing I was looking at him with curiosity, gave it to me 
 to read. It was a note of two straggling lines serawled in pencil, 
 and perhaps in the dark : 
 
 " Mother darling, forgive me for cutting short my debut into 
 life. Your Olya who is causing you such grief." 
 
 " That was only found this morning," Vassin explained. 
 
 " What a strange letter ! " I cried in astonishment. 
 
 " Why strange ? " asked Vassin. 
 
 " How can anyone Use humorous expressions at such a 
 minute ? " 
 
 Vassin looked at me inquiringly. 
 
 " And the humour is strange too," I went on. " It's the 
 conventional school jargon that schoolfellows use with one 
 another. Who could write ' cut short my debut into life ' at 
 such a moment, in such a letter to her unhappy mother — and 
 she seems to have loved her mother too." 
 
 " Why not write it ? " said Vassin, still not understanding. 
 
 " There's absolutely no humour about it," observed Versilov 
 at last, " the expression, of course, is inappropriate, and quite 
 incongruous, and may, as you say, have been picked up from 
 some high-school slang or from some journalistic stufiE ; but 
 the dead girl used it in that awful letter quite simply and 
 earnestly.' 
 
 " That's impossible ; she had completed her studies and won 
 the silver medal." 
 
 " A silver medal has nothing to do with it. Lots of them 
 complete their studies as brilliantly nowadays." 
 
 178
 
 " The j'oungcr generation again," said Vassin, smiling. 
 
 " Not at all," said Versilov, getting up and taking his hat. 
 ** If the present generation is deficient on the literary side there's 
 no doubt that it possesses other qualifications," he added with 
 unusual gravity. " At the same time ' many ' does not mean 
 ' all ' : you, for instance, I don't accuse of being badly educated 
 on the literary side, and you're a young man too." 
 
 " Vassin saw nothing wrong in the use of ' debut ' either," I 
 could not resist saying, 
 
 Versilov held out his hand to Vassin without speaking. The 
 latter took up his cap to go with him, caUing out to me : " Good- 
 bye for now." Versilov went out without noticing me. I too 
 had no time to lose. Come what might, I had to run and find 
 a lodging — now more necessary' than ever. ]\Ty mother was 
 not with the landlady. She had gono out, taking the bereaved 
 woman with her. I went out into the street, feeling particularly 
 cheerful and confident. A new and mighty feeling had sprung 
 up in my soul. As luck would have it, everything helped to 
 maintain this mood. I was exceptionally fortunate and quickly 
 found a lodging in every way suitable. Of this lodging later, 
 but for the moment I will continue with what is more 
 important. 
 
 It Avas past one when I went back to Vassin's to fetch my trunk, 
 and again found him at home. When he caw me he cried with 
 a sincere and good-humoxired air : 
 
 " How glad I am you've caught me ! I was just going oub. I 
 can tell you a piece of news that I think will interest you 
 particularly." 
 
 " I'm siu-e of that," I cried. 
 
 " I say, you do look cheerful ! Tell me, did you know sxny- 
 thing about a letter that was preserved by Ivraft, and came into 
 Vcrsilov's hands yesterday, something concerning the lawsuit 
 he has just won 1 In this letter, the testator declares intentions 
 contrary to the decision in the lawcourts yesterday. The letter 
 was WTitten long ago. I know nothing definite about it in fact, 
 but don't you know something ? " 
 
 " To be sure I do. The day before yesterday Kraft took me 
 home with him from those people on purpose to give me the 
 letter, and I gave it to Versilov yesterday." 
 
 " Yes 1 Thafs just what I thought. Only fancy, that's just 
 the business Versilov was speaking of just now, that prevented 
 him from coming yesterday evening to see that girl — it was 
 
 179
 
 owing to that letter. Versilov went straight yesterday evening 
 to Prince Sokolsky's lawyer, handed in the letter, and refused to 
 take the fortune he had won. By now this refusal has been 
 put into legal form. Versilov is not making Prince Sokolsky a 
 present of the money, but declares that he acknowledges his 
 claim to it." 
 
 I was dumbfoundered, but ecstatic. I had in reality been 
 coiiviuccd that Versilov would destroy the letter, and, what is 
 more, tiiough I had told Kraft that this would be dishonourable, 
 and although I had repeated this to myself in the restaurant, 
 and had told myself that " it was to find a true man, not a man 
 like this that I had come " — yet deeper down, that is, in my 
 inmost soul, I felt that there was nothing to be done but to 
 destroy the letter, that is to say, I looked upon this as quite a 
 natural thing to do. If I blamed Versilov for it afterwards I 
 simply blamed him on purpose, to keep up appearances, and to 
 maintain my moral superiority. But hearing now of Versilov's 
 noble action I was moved to genuine and whole-hearted en- 
 thusiasm, blaming myself with shame and remorse for my 
 cynicism and indifference to principle, and instantly exalting 
 Versilov to heights far above me. I almost embraced 
 Vassin. 
 
 " What a man ! What a man ! " I exclaimed, rapturously. 
 " Who else would have done it ? " 
 
 " I quite agree with you that very many people would not 
 have done it . , . and that it was undoubtedly an extremely 
 disinterested action. . . ." 
 
 " But . . . ? Finish, Vassin. You have a ' but ' ? " 
 " Yes, of course there is a ' but ' ; Versilov's action, to my 
 mind, is a little too hastj^ and not quite ingenuous," said Vassin 
 with a smile. 
 
 " Not ingenuous ? " 
 
 " Yes. There's too much of the ' hero on the pedestal ' about 
 it. For in any case he might have done the same thing without 
 injuring himself. Some part of the inheritance, if not half of it, 
 might well have remained with him, even from the most scrupu- 
 lous standpoint, especially as the letter has no legal significance, 
 and he has already won the case. The lawyer on the other side 
 shares my opinion. I've just been talking to him. His conduct 
 would have been no less handsome ; but simply through a whim 
 due to pride, things have turned out differently. What's more, 
 Mr. Versilov let himself be carried away by his feelings, and acted 
 
 i8o
 
 too precipitately. He said himself yesterday that he might 
 have put it off for a whole week. . . ." 
 
 " Do you know, Vassin, I can't help agreeing with you, but 
 ... I like it better so, it pleases me more ! " 
 
 " HoAvever, it's a matter of taste ! You asked for my opinion 
 or I should have held m}' tongue." 
 
 " Even if there is something of the ' pedestal ' about it, so 
 much the better," I said. " A pedestal may be a pedestal but 
 in itself it's a very precious thing. This ' pedestal ' is, anyway, 
 an ' ideal ' of a sort, and it's by no means an improvement that 
 some modern souls are without it : it's better to Iiave it even 
 in a slightly distorted form ! And I'm sure л'ои think so yourself, 
 Vassin darUng, Vassin, my dear Vassin ! I am raxnng but of 
 course you xmderstand me. That's what you're for, Vassin. 
 In any case I embrace and kiss you, Vassin ! " 
 
 " So pleased ? " 
 
 " Yes, aA\'fully pleased. For the man ' Avas dead and liveth, 
 he was lost and is found ' ! Vassin, I'm a miserable wTetch of a 
 boj% I'm not as good as you. I recognize it just because at some 
 moments I'm different, deeper and loftier, I say this because 
 the day before yesterdaj- I flattered л'ои to your face (and I did 
 that because I had been humiliated and crushed) — I hated you 
 for it for two whole days. I swore the same night that I would 
 never come and see yoii, and I came to you yesterday morning 
 simply from spite, do you imderstand, Jrom spite. I sat here 
 alone criticizing your room and you, and every one of your 
 boolcs and your landlad}'. I tried to humble vou and laugh at 
 you." 
 
 " You shouldn't say that . . . ." 
 
 " Yesterday evening, when I concluded from some plirase of 
 yours that you did not understand women, I felt glad that I was 
 able to detect you in it. This morning, Avhen I scored off you 
 over the ' debut,' I was awfully pleased again, and all because 
 I had praised you up so before." 
 
 "I should think so indeed!" Vassin cried at last (he still 
 went on smiling, not in the least surprised at me). " Why, that 
 happens with almost every one, only no one admits it, and one 
 ought not to confess it at all, because in any case it passes, and 
 leads to nothing." 
 
 " Is it really the same with every one ? Is every one the 
 same ? And you say that quite calmly ? Why, one can't go 
 on living with such views ! " 
 
 i8i
 
 "You think then that : 
 
 To me more dear the lie ennobling 
 TJuin Truth's dark infamy revealed ! " 
 
 " But that's true, you know," I cried. " There's a sacred 
 axiodl in those two lines ! " 
 
 " I don't know. I can't undertake to decide whether those 
 lines are true or not. Perhaps, as always, the truth lies in the 
 тзап : that is, that in one case truth is sacred and in another 
 falsehood. The only thing I know for certain is that that idea 
 Avill long remain one of the questions most disputed among men. 
 In any case I observe that at the moment you're longing to dance. 
 Well, dance away then, exercise is wholesome ; but I have a 
 mass of work to get through this morning . . . and I've lingered 
 on with you till I'm late ! " 
 
 " I'm going ! I'm going ! I'm just off ! One word only," 
 I cried, after seizing my trunk, " my 'throwing mj'self on your 
 nock ' again ; it's simply because when I came in you told me 
 this news with such genuine pleasure and were ' so glad ' I had 
 found you, and after the ' debut ' incident this morning ; that 
 real gladness of yours turned my ' youthful ardent soul ' to you 
 again. Well, good-bye, good-bye, I'll do my best not to come 
 in the future, and I know that that луШ please you very much, 
 as I see from vour eyes, and it will be an advantage to both 
 of us." 
 
 Chattering like this, and almost spluttering in my joyful 
 babble, I hauled up my trunk and set oil with it to my lodging. 
 What delighted me most of all was that Versilov had been so 
 unmistakably angry with me, and had been unwilling to speak 
 to me or look at me. As soon as I had deposited my trunk, 
 I at once flew off to my old prince. I must confess that I had 
 rather felt not seeing him those two da^'s. Besides, he v/ould 
 no doubt have heard already about Versilov. 
 
 2 
 
 I knev/ he would be deli'^hted to see me, and I protest that I 
 should have gone, apart from Versilov altogether. What had 
 alarmiid me yesterday and that morning was the thought that 
 I might meet Katerina Nikolaevna ; but now I v»as afraid of 
 nothing. 
 
 He embraced me jo3'fiil]y. 
 
 182
 
 " About Versilov ! Have you heard ? " I began forthwith 
 on the great news. 
 
 " Cher enfant, my dear boy, it's so magnanimous, so noble — 
 in fact it made an overwhehning impression even on Kilyan " 
 (this was the clerk downstairs). " It's injudicious on his part, 
 but it's magnificent, it's heroic ! One must cherish the 
 ideal ! " 
 
 " Yes, one must, mustn't one ? We were always agreed about 
 that." 
 
 " My dear boy, we always have agreed. Where have you 
 been ? I wanted very much to come "and see you but I didn't 
 know where to find you . . . for I couldn't go to Versilov's 
 anyway. . . . Though now, after all this . . . you know, my 
 boy, I believe it's by this he has always conquered the women's 
 hearts, by these qualities, no doubt of it. . . ." 
 
 " By the way, for fear I forget it, I've been saving this up 
 for you. A very low fellow, a ridiculous fool, abusing Versilov 
 to my face yesterday, used the expression that he was a * petticoat 
 prophet ' ; what an expression — was it his own expression ? 1 
 have been treasuring it up for you. . . ." 
 
 " A ' petticoat prophet ' ? Mais . . . c'est charmant ! Ha- 
 ha ! But that fits him so well, or rather it doesn't — foo ! . . . 
 But it's so apt ... at least it's not apt at all but ..." 
 
 " Never mind, never mind, don't worry yourself, look upon 
 it simply as a Ъоп mot ! " 
 
 " It's a capital bon mot, and do you know, it has a deep signi- 
 ficance. . . . There's a perfectly true idea in it. That is, would 
 you believe it ... In fact, I'll tell you a tiny little secret. Have 
 you noticed that girl Olympiada ? Would you believe it, she's 
 got a little heartache for Audrey Petrovitch ; in fact it goes so 
 far as cherishing a . . ." 
 
 " Cherishing ! What doesn't she deserve ? " I cried with a 
 gesture of contempt. 
 
 " Mon cher, don't shout, it's all nonsense, it may be you're 
 right from your point of view. By the way, what was the 
 matter with you last time you were here and Katerina Niko- 
 laevna arrived ? . . . You staggered ; I thought you were 
 going to fall down, and was on the point of rushing to support 
 you." 
 
 " Never mind that now. The fact is I was simply confused 
 for a special reason. . . ." 
 
 *' You're blushing now." 
 
 183
 
 " And you must rub it in of course. You know that she's on 
 bad terms with Versilov . . . and then all this ; so it upset me. 
 Ech, leave that ; later ! " 
 
 " Yes, let's leave it ! I'm delighted to. . . . In fact, I've 
 been very much to blame in regard to her and I remember I 
 grumbled about her to you. . . . Forget it, my dear ; she will 
 change her opinion of you, too. I quite foresee that. . . . Ah, 
 here's Prince Sergay ! " 
 
 A handsome young officer walked in. I looked at him eagerly, 
 I had never seen him before. I call him handsome for every one 
 called him so, but there was something not altogether attractive 
 in that handsome young face. I note this as the impression 
 made the first instant, my first view of him, which remained 
 with me always. 
 
 He was thin and finely built, with brown hair, a fresh but 
 somewhat sallow skin and an expression of determination. There 
 was a rather hard look in his beautiful dark eyes even when he was 
 perfectly calm. But his resolute expression repelled one just 
 because one felt that its resoluteness cost him little. But I 
 cannot put it into words. ... It is true that his face was able 
 to change suddenly from hardness to a wonderfully friendly, 
 gentle and tender expression, and, what is more, with unmis- 
 takable frankness. It was just that frankness луЫсЬ was at- 
 tractive. I Avill note another characteristic : in spite of its 
 friendliness and frankness his face never looked gay ; even when 
 he laughed with whole-hearted mirth there was always a feeling 
 that there was no trace in his heart of genuine, serene, light- 
 hearted gaiety. . . . But it is extremely difficult to describe a 
 face like this. I'm utterly incapable of it. In his usual stupid 
 way the old prince hastened to introduce us. 
 
 " This is my young friend Arkady Andreyevitch Dolgoruky " 
 (again " Andreyevitch ! "). 
 
 The young man turned to me with redoubled courtesy, but it 
 was evident that my name was qu^te unknown to him. 
 
 " He's ... a relation of Audrey Petrovitch's," murmured my 
 vexatious old prince. (How tiresome tlu'se old men sometimes 
 are with their lidlp ways!) The youn;^ man at once realized 
 who I was. 
 
 " Ach ! I hcaril of you long ago. . . ."he said quickly. " I 
 had the very great pleasure of making the acquaintance of your 
 sister Lizaveta .Makarovna last year at Luga. . . . She talked 
 to me about yon too." 
 
 184
 
 I was surprised ; there was a glow of real pleasure iii his 
 face. 
 
 " Excuse me, prince," I answered, drawing back both my hands, 
 " I ought to tell you frankly, and I'm glad to be speaking in 
 the presence of our dear prince, that I was actually desirous of 
 meeting you, and quite recently, only yesterday, desired it with 
 very different motives. I tell you this directly although it may 
 surprise you. In short, I wanted to challenge you for the insult 
 you offered to Versilov a year and a half ago in Ems. And 
 though perhaps you would not have accepted my challenge, as 
 I'm only a school-boy, and not of age, yet I should have sent 
 you the challenge, however you might have taken it or whatever 
 you might have done, and I confess I have the same intention 
 stUl." 
 
 The old prince told me afterwards that I succeeded in pro- 
 nouncing these words with great dignity. 
 
 There was a look of genuine distress on the young man's 
 face. 
 
 " You didn't let me finish," he answered earnestly. " The 
 real cordiality with which I greeted you is due to my present 
 feeling for Audrey Petrovitch. I'm sorry I cannot at once tell 
 you all the circumstances. But I assure you on my honour 
 that I have long regarded my unfortunate conduct at Ems with 
 the greatest regi'et. I resolved on my return to Petersburg to 
 make every reparation within my power, that is, literally to 
 make him an apology in any form he might select. The highest 
 and weightiest considerations have caused this change in my 
 vie\vs. The fact that we were at law with one another would 
 not have affected my determination in the least. His action 
 in regard to me yesterday has, so to speak, moved me to the 
 depths of my soul, and even noлv, would you believe it, I can't 
 get over it. And now, I must tell you, I've come to the prince 
 to inform him of an astounding circumstance. Three hours ago, 
 that is, just at the time when he was drawing up the deed with 
 the lawyer, a friend of Audrey Petrovitch's came to me bringing 
 a challenge from him to a duel ... a formal challenge for the 
 affair at Ems. . . ." 
 
 " He challenged you ? " I cried, and I felt that my eyes glowed 
 and the blood rushed into my face. 
 
 " Yes, challenged me. I at once accepted the challenge, but 
 resolved before our meeting to send him a letter in which I 
 explain my view of my conduct, and my deep regret for my 
 
 185
 
 horrible "blunder ... for it was only a blunder, an unlucky, fatal 
 blunder ! I may observe that my position in the regiment forced 
 me to run the risk of this duel, and that by sending such a letter 
 before our meeting I have exposed myself to public censure . . . 
 do you imderstand ? But in spite of that, I made up my mind 
 to send it, and I've only not done so because an hour after the 
 challenge I received another letter from him in which he apologizes 
 for having troubled me, asks me to forget the challenge, and 
 adds that he regrets his ' momentary outburst of cowardice 
 and egoism ' — ^his own words. So that he reUeves me from all 
 obligation to send the letter. I had not yet dispatched it, but I 
 have come to say something about this to the prince. . , . And 
 I assure you I have suffered far more from the reproaches 
 of my conscience than anyone. ... Is this sufficient explan- 
 ation for you, Arkady Makarovitch, for the time at any 
 rate ? Will you do me the honour to believe in my complete 
 sincerity ? " 
 
 I was completely conquered. I found a perfect frankness, 
 which was the last thing I had expected. Indeed, I had expected 
 nothing of this Idnd. I muttered something in reply and forthwith 
 held out both hands. He shook both of them in his delightedly. 
 Then he drew the old prince away and talked to him for five 
 minutes in the latter's bedroom. 
 
 " If you want to do me particular pleasure," he said frankly 
 in a loud voice, addressing me as he came out of the prince's 
 room, " come back straight with me and I will show you the 
 letter I am just sending to Audrey Petrovitch and with it his 
 letter to me." 
 
 I consented with the utmost readiness. My old prince made 
 a great bustle at seeing us ofiE and called me, too, apart into his 
 room for a minute. 
 
 " M(M ami, how glad I am, how glad I am. . . . We'll talk 
 of it all later. By the way, I've two letters here in my portfolio. 
 One has to be delivered with a personal explanation and the 
 other must go to the bank — and there too ..." 
 
 And he at once gave me two commissions which he pretended 
 were urgent and required exceptional effort and attention. I 
 should have to go, deliver them myself, give a receipt and so on. 
 
 " Ha, you are cunning ! " I cried as I took the letters, " I 
 swear all this is nonsense and you've no work for me to do at all. 
 You've invented these two jobs on purpose to make me believe 
 that I am of use and not taking money for nothing." 
 
 i86
 
 " Моп enfant, I protest that you axe mistaken. They are 
 both urgent matters. Cher enfant ! ^^ he cried, suddenly over- 
 come by a rush of emotion, " my dear young friend " (he put both 
 hands on my head), ' ' I bless you and your destiny. Let us always 
 be as true-hearted as to-day ... as kind-hearted and good as 
 possible, let us love all that is fair and good ... in all its varied 
 forms. . . . Well, enfin . . . enfin rendons grace . . . et je te 
 benis ! " 
 
 He could not go on, but whimpered over my head. I must 
 confess I was almost in tears too ; anyway I embraced my 
 queer old friend with sincere and delighted feeling. We kissed 
 each other warmly. 
 
 Prince Sergay as I shall call him (that is Prince Sergay Petro- 
 vitch Sokolsky) drove me in a smart victoria to liis flat, and my 
 first impression was one of surprise at its magnificence . Not that 
 it was really magnificent, but it was a flat such as " well-to- 
 do people " Uve in, light, large, lofty rooms (I saw two of them) 
 and the furniture well padded, comfortable, abundant and of the 
 best — though I've no idea whether it was in the Versailles or 
 Renaissance style. There were rugs, carvings, and statuettes, 
 though everybody said that the Sokolskys were beggars, and had 
 absolutely nothing. I had heard, however, that Prince Sergay 
 had cut a dash wherever he could, here, in Moscow, in his old 
 regiment and in Paris, that he was a gambler and that he had 
 debts. My coat was crumpled and covered with fluff, too, 
 because I had slept in it without undressing, and this was the 
 fourth day I had worn my shirt. My coat was not really shabby 
 but when I went into Prince Sergay's, I recalled Versilov's 
 suggestion that I should have a new suit. 
 
 "Only fancy, owing to a case of suicide, I slept all night without 
 undressing," I observed with a casual air, and as he immediately 
 looked attentive I briefly told the story. But what interested 
 him most was evidently his letter. What seemed strangest to 
 me was that he had not smiled nor betrayed the slightest sjonptom 
 of amusement when I had told bim I meant to challenge him to a 
 duel. Though I should have been able to prevent his laughing, 
 his gravity was strange in a man of his class. We sat opposite 
 one another in the middle of the room, at his immense writing 
 table, and he handed me for my inspection the fair copy of his 
 
 187
 
 letter to Versilov. The letter was very much like all that he had 
 just told me at the old prince's ; it was written with warmth, 
 indeed. I really did not know at first what to make of his 
 evident frankness and his apparent leaning towards what was 
 good and right, but I was already beginning to be conquered 
 by it, for after all what reason had I for disbelieving it ? What- 
 ever he was like, and whatever stories were told of him, he yet 
 might have good impulses. I looked, too, at Versilov's second note, 
 which consisted of seven lines — his withdrawal of his challenge. 
 Though he did, it is true, speak of his own cowardice and 
 egoism, yet on the whole the note was suggestive of a sort of 
 disdain ... or rather there was apparent in the whole episode 
 a superlative nonchalance. I did not, however, utter this 
 thought aloud. 
 
 " What do you think of this withdrawal, though ? " I 
 asked, " you don't suppose he acted from cowardice, do 
 you ? " 
 
 " Of course not," said Prince Sergay with a smile, though a 
 very grave one, and in fact he was becoming more and more 
 preoccupied. " I know quite well how manly he is. It's a special 
 point of view ... his peculiar turn of ideas." 
 
 " No doubt," I broke in warmly. " A fellow called Vassin 
 says that there's too much of the ' pedestal ' about the line he 
 has taken with this letter and his refusing to take the fortune. 
 . . . But to my mind things Uke that aren't done for effect but 
 correspond ■n^th something fundamental within." 
 
 " I know Mr. Vassin very well," observed Prince Sergay. 
 
 " Oh, yes, you must have seen him in Luga." 
 
 We suddenly glanced at one another, and, I remember, I 
 flushed a little. Anyway he changed the subject. I had a 
 great longing to talk, however. The thought of one person I 
 had met the day before tempted me to ask him certain questions, 
 but I did not know how to approach the subject. And alto- 
 gether I felt ill at ease. I was impressed, too, by his perfect 
 breeding, his courtesy, his manner, his absence of constraint, 
 in fact by the polish which these aristocrats acquire almost 
 from the cradle. I saw two glaring mistakes in grammar in 
 his letter. And as a rule, when I meet such people I'm not at 
 all overawed and only become more abrupt, which is sometimes, 
 perhaps, a mistake. But on this occasion the thought that I 
 was covered with fluff contributed to my discomfiture so that, 
 in fact, I floundered a little and dropped into being over- 
 
 i88
 
 familar. I caught Prince Sergay eyeing me very intently at 
 times. 
 
 " Tell me, prince," I blurted out suddenly, " don't you 
 secretly think it absurd that a j'oungster like me should think 
 of challenging you, especially for an affront to some one else ? " 
 
 " An affront to a father may well be resented. No, I don't 
 think it's absurd." 
 
 " It seems to me that it's dreadfully absurd . . . from one 
 point of view, not of course from my own. Especially as my 
 name is Dolgoruky and not Versilov. And if you're telling me 
 a falsehood, or are trying to snuoothe things over simply from 
 worldly politeness, it stands to reason that you are deceiving me 
 in everything else." 
 
 " No, I don't think it's absurd," he repeated with great 
 seriousness. " How could you help feeling like a son to your 
 father ? It's true, you're young . . . because ... I don't 
 know ... I believe that a youth not of age can't fight a duel . . , 
 and a challenge can't be accepted from him ... by the rules. . . . 
 But there is, if you like, one serious objection to be made : if you 
 send a challenge without the knowledge of the offended party 
 on whose behalf you are acting, you seem to be guilty of a certain 
 lack of respect to him, don't з^и ? . . ." 
 
 Our conversation was interrupted by a footman who came in 
 to make some announcement. Prince Sergay, who seemed to 
 have been expecting him, went at once to meet him without 
 finishing what he was saying. So the announcement was made 
 in an undertone and I did not hear it. 
 
 " Excuse me," said Prince Sergay, turning to me, " I'll be 
 back in a moment." 
 
 And he went out. I was left alone ; I walked up and down 
 the room, thinking. Strange to say, he attracted me and at 
 the same time repelled me intensely. There was something 
 in him for which I could not find a name, though it was very 
 repellent. "If he isn't laughing at me he certainly must be 
 very guileless, but if he has been laughing at me then . . . pet- 
 haps I should think him cleverer. ..." I thought rather 
 oddly. I went up to the table, and read the letter to Versilov 
 once more. In my abstraction I didn't notice the time, but when 
 I roused myself I found that the prince's minute had lasted 
 at least a quarter of an hour. This disturbed me a little ; I 
 walked up and down once more, at last I took my hat and 
 decided. I remember, to go out to try and find some one to send 
 
 189
 
 to Prince Sergay, and when he came, to say good-bye to him at 
 once, declaring that I had work to do and could stay no longer. 
 I fancied that that would be the most suitable thing to do, for I 
 was rather tormented by the idea that he was treating me very 
 casually in leaving me so long. 
 
 There were two doors in the room, both shut, and on the same 
 side, one at each end of it. Forgetting which door I had come 
 in by, or rather lost in thought, I opened one of them, and suddenly, 
 in a long narrow room, I saw, sitting on the sofa, my sister Liza. 
 There was no one else in the room and she was certainly waiting 
 for some one. But before I had time even to feel surprised, I 
 heard the voice of Prince Sergay speaking loudly to some one, 
 and returning to the study. I hurriedly closed the door and 
 Prince Sergay, coming in at the other, noticed nothing. I 
 remember he began to apologize and said something about 
 " Anna Fyodorovna." But I was so amazed and confused that 
 I hardly took in what he said, and could only mutter that I 
 simply must go home, and stubbornly persisting in this, I beat a 
 hasty retreat. The well-bred prince must have looked with 
 curiosity at my manners. He came with me right into the 
 hall, still talking, and I neither answered nor looked at him. 
 
 I turned to the left when I got into the street and walked 
 away at random. There was nothing coherent in my mind. 
 I walked along slowly and I believe I had walked a good 
 way, some five hundred paces, when I felt a light tap on 
 my shoulder. I turned and saw Liza ; she had overtaken me 
 and tapped me on the shoulder with her umbrella. There 
 was a wonderful gaiety and a touch of roguishness in her 
 beaming eyes. 
 
 " How glad I am you came this way, or I shouldn't have met 
 you to-day ! " She was a little out of breath from walking 
 fast. 
 
 " How breathless you are." 
 
 " I've been running so as to catch you up.*' 
 
 " Liza, was it you I saw just now ? " 
 
 " Where ? " 
 
 " At the prince's. ... At Prince Sokolsky's.'* 
 
 " No, 't wasn't me. You didn't see me. . . .'* 
 
 190
 
 I made no answer and we walked on for ten paces. Liza burst 
 into a fit of laughter. 
 
 " It was me, of course it was I Why, you saw me yourself, 
 you looked into my eyes, and I looked into yours, so hov/ can 
 you ask whether you saw me ? What a character ! And do 
 you know I dreadfully wanted to laugh when you looked at me 
 then. You looked so awfully funny." 
 
 She laughed violently. I felt all the anguish in my heart 
 fade away at once. 
 
 " But tell me how did you come to be there ? " 
 
 " To see Anna Fyodorovna." 
 
 " What Anna Fyodorovna ? " 
 
 " Mme. Stolbyeev. When we were staying in Luga I used to 
 spend whole days with her. She used to receive mother, too, and 
 used even to come and see us, though she visited scarcely anyone 
 else there. She is a distant relation of Andrey Petrovitch's, 
 and a relation of Prince Sokolsky's too : she's a sort of old 
 aunt of his." 
 
 " Then she lives at Prince Sokobky's ? " 
 
 " No, he lives with her." 
 
 " Then whose flat is it ? " 
 
 " It's her flat. The whole flat has been hers for the last 
 year. Prince Sokolsky has only just arrived and is staying 
 with her. Yes, and she's only been in Petersburg four days 
 herself." 
 
 " I say, Liza, bother her flat and her too ! " 
 
 " No, she's splendid." 
 
 " Well, let her be, that's her affair. We're splendid too ! 
 See what a day it is, see how jolly ! How pretty you are to-day, 
 Liza. But you're an awful baby though." 
 
 " Arkady, tell me, that girl, the one who came yesterday. . . ." 
 
 " Oh, the pity of it, Liza ! The pity of it ! " 
 
 " Ach, what a pity ! What a fate ! Do you know it's a 
 sin for us to be walking here so happily while her soul is hovering 
 somewhere in darkness, in some unfathomable darimess, after 
 her sin and the wrong done her. . , . Arkady, who was respon- 
 sible for her suicide ? Oh, how terrible it is ! Do you ever 
 think of that outer darkness ? Ach, how I fear death, and how 
 sinful it is. I don't like the dark, what a glorious thing the sun 
 is ! Mother says it's a sin to be afraid. . . . Arkady, do you 
 know mother well ? " 
 
 " Very little, Liza. Very little so far." 
 
 191
 
 " Ah, what a wonderful person she is ; and you ought to get 
 to know her ! She needs understanding. ..." 
 
 " Yes, but you see, I didn't know you either ; but I know 
 you now, thoroughly. I've found you out altogether in one 
 minute. Though you are afraid of death, Liza, you must be 
 proud, bold, plucky. Better than I am, ever so much better I 
 I like you awfully, Liza. Ach, Liza ! let death come when 
 it must, but meantime let us live — let us live ! Oh, let us pity 
 that poor girl, but let us bless life all the same ! Don't you 
 think so ? I have an ' idea,' Liza. Liza, зюи know, of course, 
 that Versilov has refused to take the fortune ? You don't 
 know my soul, Liza, you don't know what that man has meant 
 to me. . . ." 
 
 " Not know indeed ! I know all that." 
 
 " You know all about it ? But, of course, you would ! 
 You're clever, cleverer than Vassin. Mother and you have eyes 
 that are penetrating and humane, I mean a point of view that 
 is. I'm talking nonsense. . . . Liza, I'm not good for much, in 
 lots of ways." 
 
 " You want taking in hand, that's all." 
 
 " Take me in hand, Liza. How nice it is to look at you 
 to-day. Do you know that you are very pretty ? I have 
 never seen your eyes before. . . . I've only seen them for the 
 first time to-day . . . where did you get them to-day, Liza ? 
 Where have you bought them ? What price have you paid 
 for them ? Liza, I've never had a friend, and I've thought 
 the idea of friendship nonsense ; but it's not nonsense with 
 you. . , . Shall we be friends ! You understand what I 
 mean ? " 
 
 " I quite understand." 
 
 " And you know — we'll simply be friends, no conditions, 
 no contract." 
 
 " Yes, simply, simply, with only one condition : that if we 
 ever blame one another, if we're displeased about anything, 
 if we become nasty and horrid, even if we forget all this, — we 
 will never forget this day, and this hour ! Let's vow that to 
 ourselves. Let us vow that we will always remember this day 
 and how we walked arm in arm together, and how we laughed 
 and were gay. . . . Yes ? Shall we ? " 
 
 " Yes, Liza, yes, I swear. But, Liza, I feel as though I'm 
 hearing you talk for the first time. . . . Liza, have j'ou read 
 much 1 " 
 
 192
 
 " He has never asked till now ! Only yesterday for the first 
 time, when I said something, you deigned to notice me, honoured 
 sir, Mr. Wiseacre." 
 
 " But why didn't j'ou begin to talk to me if I've been such a 
 fool ? " 
 
 '■ I k(^pt expecting you'd grow wiser. I've been watching 
 you from the very first, Arkady Makarovitch, and as I watched 
 you I said to myself ' he'll come to me, it's bound to end in his 
 coming ' — and I made up my mind I'd better leave you the 
 honour of taking the first step. ' No,' I said to myself, ' you can 
 run after me.' " 
 
 " Ah, you coquette ! Come, Liza, tell me honestly, have you 
 been laughing at me for the last month ? " 
 
 " Oh, you are funny, you're awfully funny, Arkady ! And 
 do you know, what I've been loving you for most all this month 
 U your being so queer. But iA some ways you're a horrid toy 
 too — I say that for fear you should grow conceited. And do 
 you know who else has been laughing at you ? Mother's 
 been laughing at you, mother and I together. * Oh my,' we 
 whispered, ' what a queer boy ! My goodness, what a queer 
 boy ! ' And you sat all the while imagining that we 
 trembling before you." 
 
 " Liza, what do you think about Versilov ? " 
 
 " I think a great deal about him ; but we won't tall 
 him just now, you know. There's no need to talk of him 
 is there ? " 
 
 " Quite so ! Yes, you're awfully clever, Liza ! You are 
 certainly cleverer than I am. You wait a bit, Liza, I'll make 
 an end of all this, and then I shall have something to tell you. . . .'* 
 
 " What are you frowning at ? " 
 
 " I'm not frowning, Liza, it's nothing. . . . You see, Liza, 
 it's best to be open : it's a peculiarity of mine that I don't like 
 some tender spots on my soul being touched upon ... or 
 rather, it's shameful to be often displaying certain feelings 
 for the admiration of all, isn't it ? So that I sometimee 
 prefer to frown and hold my tongue. You're clever, you must 
 understand." 
 
 " Yes, and what's more, I'm the same myself ; I understand 
 you in everything. Do you know that mother's the same 
 too ? 
 
 " Ah, Liza ! Oh, to live a long while on this earth ! Ah 
 \^Ъat did you say ? " 
 
 193
 
 " I said nothing." 
 
 " You're looking ? " 
 
 " Yes, and so are you. I look at you and love you." 
 
 I went with her almost all the way home and gave her my 
 address. As we parted, for the first time in my life I kissed 
 her. . . • 
 
 And all this would have been very nice but there was one thing 
 that was not nice : one painful thought had been throbbing 
 in my mind all night and I could not shake it off. This was, 
 that when I had met that unhappy girl at the gate I told her 
 I was leaving the house myself, leaving home, that one left 
 bad people and made a home for oneself, and that Versilov had 
 a lot of illegitimate children. Such words from a son about his 
 father must, of course, have confirmed all her suspicions of 
 Versilov's character and of his having insulted her. I had 
 blamed Stebelkov, but perhaps I had been the chief one to pour 
 oil on the flames. That thought was awful, it is awful even now. 
 
 ■BB,^. But then, that morning, though I'd begun to be uneasy, 
 to-od myself it was all nonsense. " Oh, ' things had gone too far 
 
 yievejy' apart from me," I repeated from time to time, "it's 
 n9*mng ; it will pass ! I shall get over it. I ehall make up 
 for this somehow, I've fifty years before me I " 
 But yet the idea haunted me. 
 
 194
 
 begin I 
 s ancU^ 
 
 пНгае 
 
 PART II 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 1 
 
 I PASS over an interval of almost two months. The reader need 
 not be uneasy, everything л\111 be clear from the latter part of 
 my story. I start again from the 15th of November, a day I 
 remember only too well for many reasons. To begin with, no 
 one who had known me two months before would have recognized 
 me, external!}' anyway, that is to say, anyone луоиЫ have known 
 me but would not have been able to make me out. To begin \ 
 with I was dressed like a dandy. The conscientious •^"'^ ^ 
 tasteful Frenchman, whom Versilov had once tried to re 
 mend me, had not only made me a v»hole suit, but had al 
 been rejected as not good enough. I already had suits 
 by other, superior, tailors, of a better class, and I even ran up 
 bills with them. I had an account, too, at a celebrated 
 restaurant, but I was still a little nervous there and paid on the 
 spot whenever I had money, though I knew it was mauvais ton, 
 and that I was compromising myself by doing so. A French 
 barber on the Xevsky Prospect лvas on familiar terms with me, 
 and told me anecdotes as he dressed my hair. And I must 
 confess I practised my French on him. Though I know French, 
 and fairly well indeed, yet Fm afraid of beginning to speak it 
 in grand society ; and I dare say ray accent is far from Parisian. 
 I have a smart coachman, Matvey, with a smart turn-out, and 
 he is always at mj' service when I send for him ; he has a pale 
 sorrel horse, a fast trotter (I don't like greys). Everything is not 
 perfect, however : it's the 15th of November and has been 
 wintry weather for the last three days, and my fur coat is an old 
 one, lined with raccoon, that once was Versilov's. It wouldn't 
 fetch more than twentj'-five roubles. I must get a пелу one, 
 and my pocket is empty, and I must, besides, have money in 
 
 195 
 
 1
 
 reserve for this evening Avhatever happens — without that I 
 shall be ruined and miserable : that was how I put it to myself 
 аъ the time. Oh, degradation ! Where had these thousands 
 come from, these fast trotters, these expensive restaurants ? 
 How could I all at once change like this and forget everything ? 
 Shame ! Reader, I am beginning now the story of my shame 
 and disgrace, and nothing in life can be more shameful to me 
 than these recollections. 
 
 I speak as a judge and I know that I was guilty. Even in the 
 whirl in which I was caught up, and though I was alone without 
 a guide or counsellor, I was, I swear, conscious of my downfall, 
 and so there's no excuse for me. And yet, for those two months 
 I was almost happy — why almost ? I was quite happy ! And 
 so happy — would it be believed — that the consciousness of my 
 degradation, of which I had glimpses at moments (frequent 
 mommts !) and which made me shudder in my inmost soul, 
 only intoxicated me the more. " What do I care if I'm fallen ! 
 And I won't fall, I'll get out of it ! I have a lucky star ! " I was 
 crossing a precipice on a thin plank without a rail, and I was 
 pleased at my position, and even peeped into the abyss. It was 
 risky and it was deUghtful. And " my idea ? " My " idea " 
 later, the idea would wait. Everything that happened was 
 SHaply " a temporary deviation." " Why not enjoy oneself ? " 
 Tnat's what was amiss with my idea, I rt ])eat, it admitted of all 
 sorts of deviations ; if it had not been so firm and fundamental I 
 might have been afraid of deviating. 
 
 And meanwhile I kept on the same humble lodging ; I kept 
 it on but I didn't live in it ; there I kept my trunk, my bag, 
 and my various properties. But I really Hved A^ith Prince Sergay. 
 I spent my days there and I slept there at night, ^^nd this went 
 on for weeks. . . . How this came to pass I'll tell in a minute, 
 but meanwhile I will describe my little lodging. It was already 
 dear to me. Versilov had come to see me there of himself, first 
 of all after our quarrel, and often subsequently. I repeat, this 
 was a period of shame but of great happiness. . . . Yes, and 
 everything at that time was so successful and so smiling. " And 
 what was all that depression in the past about ? " I wondered in 
 some ecstatic moments, " why those old painful self- lacerations, 
 my solitary and gloomy childhood, my foolish dreams under my 
 quilt, my vows, my calculations, even my ' idea ' ? I imagined 
 and invented all that, and it turns out that the world's not like 
 that at all ; see how happy and gay I am : I have a father — 
 
 196
 
 Versilov ; I have a friend — Prmce Sergay ; I have besides . . . 
 but that 'be-bidos' we'll leave." 
 
 Alas, it was all done in the name of love, magnanimity, 
 honour, and afterwards it turned out hideous, shameless and 
 ignominious. 
 
 Enough, 
 
 2 
 
 He came to see mo for the first time three daj's after our 
 rupture. I was not at home, and he waited for me. Though 
 I had been expecting him everyday, when I went into my tiny 
 cupboard of a room there was a mist before my eyes, and my 
 heart beat so violently that I stopped short in the doorway. 
 Fortunatelj'' my landlord was Avith him, having thought it 
 necessary to introduce himself at once, that the visitor might 
 not be bored with ^vaiting. He was eagerh'' describing Fome- 
 thing to Versilov. He was a titular counsellor, a man about 
 forty, much disfigured by small-pox, very poor, and burdened 
 with a consumptive wife and an invalid child. He was of a 
 very communicative and unassuming character, but not without 
 tact. I was relieved at his presence, which was a positive 
 deliverance for me, for what could I have said to Versilov ? 
 I had known, kno^^n in earnest that Versilov would come of his 
 own prompting — exactly as I wanted him to, for nothing in the 
 world would have induced me to go to him first, and not from 
 obstinacy, but jiist from love of him : a sort of jealous love — 
 I can't express it. Indeed, the reader won't find me eloquent 
 at any time. But though I had been expecting him for those 
 three daj^s, and had been continually picturing how he Avould 
 come in, j^et though I tried my utmost, I could not imagine 
 what we should say to one another at first, after all that had 
 happened. 
 
 " Ah, here you are ! " he said to me affectionately, holding 
 out his hand and not getting up. " Sit down with us ; Pyotr 
 Ippolitovitch is tellmg me something very interesting about 
 that stone near the Pavlovsky barracks ... or somewhere in 
 that direction." 
 
 " Yes, I know the stone," I made haste to answer, dropping 
 into a chair beside him. They were sitting at the table. 
 The whole room was just fourteen feet square. I drew a deep 
 breath. 
 
 There was a gleam of pleasure in Versilov's eyes. I believe 
 
 197
 
 he was uncertain, and afraid I should be demonstrative. He 
 was reassured. 
 
 " You must begin again, Pyotr Ippohtovitch." They were 
 already calling each other by their names. 
 
 " It happened in the reign of the late Tsar," Pyotr Ippohto- 
 vitch said, addressing me nervously and v/ith some uneasiness, 
 anxious as to the effect of his story. " You know that stone — a 
 stupid stone in the street, and what use is it, it's only in the way, 
 you'd say, wouldn't you ? The Tsar rode by several times, 
 and every time there was the stone. At last the Tsar was 
 displeased, and with good reason ; a rock, a regular rock standing 
 in the street, spoiling it. ' Remove the stone ! ' Well, he said 
 remove it — ^you understand what that means — ' remove the 
 stone ! ' The late Tsar — do you remember him ? What was 
 to be done with the stone ? They all lost their heads, there was 
 the town council, and a most important person, I can't remember 
 his name, one of the greatest personages of the time, who was 
 put in charge of the matter. Well, this great personage listened ; 
 they told him it would cost fifteen thousand roubles, no less, 
 and in silver too (for it was not till the time of the late Tsar that 
 paper money could be changed into silver). ' Fifteen thousand, 
 what a sum ! ' At first the English wanted to bring rails, and 
 remove it by steam ; but think what that would have cost ! 
 There were no railways then, there was only one ruiming to 
 Tsarskoe-Selo." 
 
 *' Why, they might have smashed it up ! " I cried, frowning. 
 I felt horribly vexed and ashamed in Ver.^lov's presence. But 
 he was listening with evident pleasure. I understood that he was 
 glad to have the landlord there, as he too was abashed with me. 
 I saw that. I remember I felt it somehow touching in him. 
 
 " Smash it up ! Yes, that was the very idea they arrived 
 at. And Montferant, too, — he was building St. Isaak's Cathedral 
 at the time. — Smash it up, he said, and then take it away. 
 But what would that cost ? " 
 
 " It would cost nothing. Simply break it up and carry it 
 away." 
 
 " No, excuse me, a machine would be wanted to do it, a steam- 
 engine, and besides, where could it be taken ? And such a 
 mountain, too ! ' Ten thousand,' they said, ' not less than ten 
 or twelve thou.^and.' " 
 
 " I say, Pyotr Ippohtovitch, that's nonsense, you know. It 
 couldn't have been so. . . ." 
 
 198
 
 But at that instant Versilov winked at me unseen, and in 
 that wink I saw such delicate compassion for the landlord, even 
 distress on his account, that I was delighted with it, and I 
 laughed. 
 
 " Well, well then," cried the landlord, delighted ; he had 
 noticed nothing, and was awfully afraid, as such story-tellers 
 always are, that he would be pestered with questions ; " but 
 then a Russian workman walks up, a young fellow, you know 
 the typical Russian, with a beard like a wedge, in a long-skirted 
 coat, and perhaps a little drunk too . . . but no, he wasn't 
 drunk. He just stands by while those Englishmen and Mont- 
 ferant are talking away, and that great personage drives up just 
 then in his carriage, and listens, and gets angry at the way they 
 keep discussing it and can't decide on anything. And suddenly 
 he notices the workman at a distance standing there and smiling 
 deceitfully, that is, not deceitfully though, I'm wrong there, what 
 is it . . . ? " 
 
 " Derisively," Versilov prompted him discreetly. 
 
 " Derisively, yes, a little derisively, that kind, good Russian 
 smile, you know ; the great personage was in a bad humour, 
 you understand : * What are you waiting here for, big beard ? ' 
 said he. ' Who are you ? * 
 
 " ' Why, I'm looking at this stone here, your Highness,' says 
 he. Yes, I believe he said Highness, and I fancy it was Prince 
 Suvorov, the Italian one, the ancestor of the general, . . . But 
 no, it was not Suvorov, and I'm so sorry I've forgotten who it 
 was exactly, but though he was a Highness he was a genuine 
 thorough-bred Russian, a Russian type, a patriot, a cultured 
 Russian heart ; well, he saw what was up. 
 
 " ' What is it,' says he. ' Do you want to take away the 
 stone ? What are you sniggering about ? ' 
 
 " ' At the Englishmen, chiefly, your Highness. They ask a 
 prodigious price because the Russian purse is fat, and they've 
 nothing to eat at home. Let mo have a hundred roubles, your 
 Highness,* says he ; 'by to-morrow evening we'll move the 
 stone.' 
 
 " Can you imagine such a proposition ? The English, of 
 course, are ready to devour him ; Montferant laughs. But tha* 
 Highness with the pure Russian heart says : ' Give him a 
 hundred roubles ! But surely you won't remove it ? ' eays he. 
 
 " * To-morrow evening, your Highness, we'll ha\e it on the 
 move.' says he. 
 
 199
 
 " ' But how wm you do it ? ' 
 
 " * If you'll excuse me, your Highness, that's our secret,' he 
 says, and in that Russian way, you know. It pleased him : 
 Hey, give him anything he wants.' And so they left it. What 
 would you suppose he did ? " 
 
 The landlord paused, and looked from one to the other with 
 a iace full of sentiment. 
 
 " I don't know," said Versilov, smiling ; I scowled. 
 
 " Well, I'll tell you what he did," said the landlord, with as 
 much triumph as though it were hLs own achievement, " he 
 hired some peasants with spades, simple Russians, and began 
 digging a deep hole just at the edge of it. They were digging 
 all night ; the}' dug an immense hole as big as the stone and 
 just about an inch and a half deeper, and when they dug it 
 out he told them to dig out the earth from under the stcne, 
 cautiously, little by little. Well, naturally, as they'd dug the 
 earth away the stone had nothing to stand upon, it began to 
 overbalance ; and as soon as it began to shake they pushed 
 with their hands upon the stone, shouting hurrah, in true Russian 
 style, and the stone fell with a crash into the hole ! Then they 
 shovelled earth on it, rammed it down \vith a mallet, paved it 
 over with little stones — the road was smooth, the stone had 
 disappeared ! " 
 
 " Only fancy ! " cried Versilov. 
 
 " The people rushed up to be sure, in multitudes innumerable ; 
 the Englishmen had seen how it would be long before ; they 
 were furious. Montferant came up : ' That's the peasant style,* 
 says he, ' it's too simple,' says he. ' That's just it, that it's so 
 simple, but you never thought of it, you fools ! ' And so I tell 
 you that commander, that great personage, simply embraced 
 him and kissed him. ' And where do you come from ? ' says 
 he. ' From the province of Yaroslav, your Excellency, we're 
 tailors by trade, a'ld we come to Petersburg in the summer to 
 sell fruit.' Well, it came to the ears of the authorities ; the 
 authorities ordered a medal to be given him, so he went about 
 with a medal on his neck ; but he drank himself to death after- 
 wards, they say ; you know the typical Russian, he has no 
 self-restraint ! That's why the foreigners have got the better 
 of us so far, yes, there it is ! " 
 
 " Yes, of course, the Russian mind. ..." Versilov was 
 beginning. 
 
 But at this point, luckily, the landlord was called away by 
 
 200
 
 his invalid wife, and hastened off, or I should have been un- 
 able to restrain myself. Versilov laughed. 
 
 " He's been entertaming me for a whole hour, my dear. That 
 stone ... is the very model of patriotic unseemliness among 
 such stories, but how could I interrupt him ? As you saw, 
 he was melting with delight. And what's more, I beUeve the 
 stone's there still, if I'm not mistaken, and hasn't been buried 
 in the hole at all." 
 
 " Good heavens, yes ! " I cried, " that's true ! How could 
 he dare ! . . ." 
 
 " What's the matter ? Why,.! believe you're really indignant ; 
 he certainly has muddled things up. I heard a story of the sort 
 about a stone when I was a child, only of course it was a little 
 different, and not about the same stone. That ' it came to the 
 ears of the authorities ! ' Why, there was a psean of glory in his 
 heart when he uttered that phrase ' it came to the ears of the 
 authorities.' In the pitiful nairrowness of their lives they can't 
 get on without such stories. They have numbers of them, 
 chiefly owing to their incontinence. They've learnt nothing, 
 they know nothing exactly, and they have a longing to talk 
 about something besides cards and their wares, something of 
 universal interest, something poetic. . . . What sort of man is 
 this Pyotr Ippolitovitch ? " 
 
 " A very poor creature, and unfortunate too." 
 
 " Well, there, you see, perhaps he doesn't even play cards, 
 I repeat, in telling that foolish story he was satisfying his love 
 for his neighbour : you see, he wanted to make us happy. His 
 sentiment of patriotism was gratified too ; they've got another 
 story, for instance, that the English gave Zavj^alov a million on 
 condition that he shouldn't put his stamp on his handiwork," 
 
 " Oh, goodness, I've heard that story too," 
 
 " Who hasn't heard it, and the teller of it knows, too, that 
 you have heard it. but still he tells it, intentionally suipjiosing that 
 you haven't. The vision of the Swedish king, I believe, is a 
 little out of date with them now, but in my youth it used to be 
 repeated unctuously, in a mysterious whisper. And so was the 
 story of some one's having knelt in the Senate before the Senators 
 at the beginning of last century. There were lots of anecdotes 
 about Commander Bashutsky, too, how he carried away a 
 monument. They simply love anecdotes of the court ; for 
 instance, tales of Tchernyshev, a minister in the last reign, how 
 when he was an old man of seventy he got himself up to look 
 
 201
 
 like a man of thirty, so much so that the late Tsar was amazed 
 at the levees. . . ." 
 
 " I've heard that too." 
 
 " Who hasn't heard it ? All these anecdotes are the height 
 of indecency ; but, let me tell you, this kind of indecency is far 
 more deeply rooted and widely spread than we imagine. The 
 desire to lie with the object of giving pleasure to your neighbour 
 one meets even in Russian society of the highest breeding, for 
 we all suffer from this incontinence of our hearts. Only* anec- 
 dotes of a different type are current among us : the number of 
 stories they tell about America is simply amazing, and they're 
 told by men even of ministerial rank ! I must confess I belong 
 to that indecent class myself, and I've suffered from it all my 
 life." 
 
 "I've told anecdotes about Tchernyshev several times 
 myself." 
 
 " You've told them yourself ? " 
 
 " There's another lodger here besides me, marked with small- 
 pox too, ДП old clerk, but he's awfully prosaic, and as soon as 
 Pyotr Ippolitovitch begins to speak he tries to refute him and 
 contradict. He's reduced Pyotr Ippolitovitch to such a point 
 that he waits on the old fellow like a slave, and does everything 
 to please him, simply to make him listen." 
 
 " That's another type of the indecent, one even perhaps 
 more revolting than the first. The first sort is all ecstasy ! 
 ' You only let me he,' he seems to say, ' you'll see how nice it 
 will be.' The second sort is all spleen and prose. ' I won't let 
 you lie,' he says, ' where, when, in what year 1 ' — in fact a man 
 with no heart. My dear boy, we must always let a man lie a 
 little. It's quite innocent. Indeed we may let him lie a great 
 deal. In the first place it will show our delicacy, and secondly, 
 people will let us lie in return — two immense advantages at 
 once. Que diable ! one must love one's neighbour. But it's 
 time for me to be off. You've arranged the place charmingly," 
 he added, getting up from his chair. " I'll tell Sofia Andreyevna 
 and your sister that I've been here and found you quite well. 
 Grood-bye, my dear." 
 
 Could this be all ? This was not at all what I wanted. I was 
 expecting something different, something important, though I 
 quite understood that this was how it must be. I got up with 
 a candle to light him down the stairs. The landlord would have 
 come forward, but without Verailov's seeing it I seized him by 
 
 202
 
 the arm and thrust him back savagely. He stared with astonish- 
 ment, but immediately vanished. 
 
 " These staircases . . ." Versilov mumbled, dwelling on the 
 syllables evidently in order to say something, and evidently 
 afraid I might say something, " I'm no longer used to such 
 stairs, and you're on the third storey, but now I can find the 
 way. . . . Don't trouble, my dear, you'll catch cold, too." 
 
 But I did not leave him. We were going down the second 
 flight. . . . 
 
 "I've been expecting you for the last three days," broke from 
 me suddenly, as it were of itself ; I was breathless. 
 
 " Thank you, my dear." 
 
 " I knew you'd be sure to come." 
 
 " And I knew that you knew I should be sure to come. Thank 
 you, my dear." 
 
 He was silent. We had reached the outer door, and I still 
 followed him. He opened the door ; the wind rushing in blew 
 out my candle. Then I clutched his hand. It was pitch dark. 
 He started but said nothing. I stooped over his hand and 
 kissed it greedily several times, many times. 
 
 " My darling boy, why do you love me so much 1 " he said, 
 but in quite a different voice. His voice quivered, there was a 
 ring of something quite new in it as though it were not he who 
 spoke. 
 
 I tried to answer something, but couldn't, and ran upstairs. 
 He stood waiting where he was, and it was only when I was 
 back in the flat that I heard the front door open and shut with 
 a slam. I slipped by the landlord, who tm'ned щ:> again, and 
 went into my room, fastened the latch, and without Ughting 
 the candle threw myself on my bed, buried my face in the piUow 
 and cried and cried. It was the first time I had cried since I 
 was at Touchard's. My sobs were so violent, ar.d I was so happy 
 . . . but why describe it ? 
 
 I write this now without being ashamed of it, for perhaps it 
 was all good, in spite of its absurdity. 
 
 But didn't I make him suffer for it ! I became frightfully 
 overbearing. There was no reference to this scene between us 
 afterwards. On the contrary, we mot three days later as though 
 nothing had happened — what's more, I was almost rude that 
 
 203
 
 evening, and he too seemed rather dry. This happened in my 
 room again ; for some reason I had not been to see him in spite 
 of my longing to see my mother. 
 
 We talked all this time, that is throughout these two months, 
 only of the most abstract subjects. And I can't help wondering 
 at it ; we did nothing but talk of abstract subjects — of the 
 greatest interest and of vast significance for humanity, of covirse, 
 but with no bearing whatever on the practical position. Yet 
 many, many aspects of the practical position needed, and 
 urgently needed, defining and clearing up, but of that we did 
 not speak. I did not even say anything about my mother or 
 Liza or ... or indeed about myself and my whole history. 
 A^'hethcr this was due to shame or to youthful stupidity I don't 
 know. I expect it was stupidity, for shame I could have over- 
 come. But I domineered over him frightfully, and absolutely 
 went so far as insolence more than once, even against my o^vn 
 feelings. This all seemed to happen of itself, inevitably ; I 
 couldn't restrain myself. His tone was as before, one of light 
 mockery, though always extremelj^ affectionate in spite of 
 everything. I was struck, too, by the fact that he preferred 
 coming to me, so that at last I very rarely went to see my 
 mother, not more than once a week, especially towards the latter 
 part of the time, as I became more and more absorbed in frivolity. 
 He used alwa3"s to come in the evenings, to sit and chat with 
 me, he was very fond of talking to the landlord too, which 
 enrc^ged me in a man like him. 
 
 The idea struck me that he might have nowhere to go except 
 to see me. But I knew for a fact that he had acquaintances, 
 and that he had, indeed, of late renewed many of his old ties in 
 society, which he had dropped the year before. But he did not 
 seem to be particularly fascinated by them, and seemed to have 
 renewed many of them simply in a formal way ; he preferred 
 coming to see me. 
 
 I was sometimes awfully touched by the timid way in which 
 he almost ahvaj's opened my door, and for the first minute 
 looked with strange anxiety into my eyes. " Am I in the way ? " 
 he seemed to ask, " tell me, and I'll go." He even said as much 
 sometimes. Once, for instance, towards the end he came in 
 when I had just put on a suit, brand new from the tailor's, and 
 was just setting off to Prince Sergay's, to go off somewhere with 
 htm (where, I will explain later). He sat down without noticing 
 that I was on the point of going out ; he showed at moments a 
 
 204
 
 remarkable absence of mind. As luck would have it, he began 
 to talk of the landlord. I fired up. 
 
 " Oh, damn the landlord ! " 
 
 " Ah, my dear," he said, getting up, " I believe you're going 
 out and I'm hindering you. . . . Forgive me, please." 
 
 And he meekly hastened to depart. Such meekness towards 
 me from a man hke him, a man so aristocratic and independent, 
 who had so much individuaUty, at once stirred in my heart all 
 my tenderness for him, and trust in him. But if he loved me so 
 much, why did he not check me at the time of my degradation ? 
 If he had said one word I should perhape have pulled up. Though 
 perhaps I should not. But he did see my foppery, my flaunting 
 swagger, my smart Matvey (I wanted once to drive him back 
 in my sledge but he would not consent, and indeed it happened 
 several times that he refused to be driven in it), he could see I 
 was squandering money — and he said not a word, not a word, 
 he showed no curiosity even ! I'm surprised at that to this day ; 
 even now. And yet I didn't stand on ceremony with him, and 
 spoke openly about everjdhing, though I never gave him a word 
 of explanation. He didn't ask and I didn't speak. 
 
 Yet on two or tliree occasions we did speak on the money 
 question. I asked him on one occasion, soon after he renounced 
 the fortune he had won, how he was going to live now. 
 
 " Somehow, my dear," he answered with extraordinary 
 composure. 
 
 I know now that more than half of Tatyana Pavlovna's Uttle 
 capital of five thousand roubles has been spent on Versilov 
 during the last two years. 
 
 Another time it somehow happened that we talked of my 
 mother. 
 
 " My dear boy," he said mournfully, " I used often to say to 
 Sofia Andreyevna at the beginning of our life together, though 
 indeed I've said it in the middle and at the end too : ' My dear, 
 I worry you and torment you, and I don't regret it as long as 
 you're before me, but if you were to die I кполу I should kill 
 myself to atone for it.' " 
 
 I remember, however, that he was particularly open that evenmg. 
 
 " If only I were a weak-willed nonentity and suffered from 
 the consciousness of it ! But you see that's not so, I know I'm 
 exceedingly strong, and in what way do you suppose ? Why 
 just in that spontaneous power of accommodating myself to 
 anj^hing whatever, so characteristic of all intelligent Russians 
 
 205
 
 of our generation. There's no crushing me, no destroying me, 
 no surprising me. I've as many lives as a cat. I can with 
 perfect convenience experience two opposite feelings at one and 
 the same time, and not, of course, through my own will. I know, 
 nevertheless, that it's dishonourable just because it's so sensible. 
 I've lived almost to fifty, and to this day I don't know whether 
 it's a good thing I've gone on living or not. I like life, but that 
 follows as a matter of coiirse. But for a man like me to love 
 life is contemptible. Of late there has been a new movement, 
 and the Krafts won't accommodate themselves to things, and 
 shoot themselves. But it's evident that the Krafts are stupid, 
 we, to be sure, are clever — so that one can draw no parallel, and 
 the question remains open anyway. And can it be that the 
 #arth is only for such as we ? In all probabiUty it is ; but the 
 idea is a comfortless one. However . . . however, the question 
 remains open, anyway." 
 
 He spoke mournfully and yet I didn't know whether he was 
 sincere or not. He always had я manner which nothing would 
 have made him drop. 
 
 Then I besieged him with questions, I fell upon him like a 
 starving man on bread. He always answered me readily and 
 straightforwardly, but in the end always went off into the 
 widest generalizations, so that* in reality one could draw no 
 conclusions from it. And yet these questions had worried me 
 all ray life, and I franldy confess that even in Moscow I had put 
 off settling them till I should meet him in Petersburg. I told 
 him this plainly, and he did not laugh at me — on the contrary, 
 I remember he pressed my hand. 
 
 On general politics and social questions I соггМ get nothing 
 out of him, and yet in connection with my " idea " those subjects 
 troubled me more than anything. Of men like Dergatchev I 
 once drew from him the remark that " they were below all 
 criticism," but at the same time he added strangely that " he 
 reserved the right of attaching no significance to his opinions." 
 For a very long time he would say nothing on the question how 
 the modem state would end, and how the social commimity 
 would be built up anew, but in the end I literally wrenched a 
 few words out of him. 
 
 " I imagine that all that will come about in a very common- 
 
 206
 
 place way," he said once. " Simply un beau matin, in spite of 
 all the balance-sheets on budget days, and the absence of 
 deficits, all the states without exception will be unable to pay, 
 so that they'll all be landed in general bankruptcy. At the 
 same time all the conservative elements of the Avhole world will 
 rise up in opposition to everything, because they will be the 
 bondholders and creditors, and they won't want to aUow the 
 bankruptcy. Then, of course, there will follow a general 
 liquidation, so to speak ; the Jews will come to the fore and the 
 reign of the Jews will begin : and then all those who have never 
 had shares in an5^hing, and in fact have never had anjrthing at 
 all, that is all the beggars, will natiirally be unwilling to take 
 part in the liquidation. ... Л struggle will begin, and after 
 seventy-seven battles the beggars will destroy the shareholders 
 and carry off their shares and take their places as shareholders, 
 of course. Perhaps they'll say something new too, and perhaps 
 they won't. Most likely they'll go bankrupt too. Further than 
 that, my dear boy, I can't undertake to predict the destinies by 
 which the face of this world will be changed. Look in the 
 Apocalypse though ..." 
 
 " But can it all be so materialistic ? Can the modem world 
 come to an end simply through finance ? " 
 
 " Oh, of course, I've only chosen one aspect of the picture, 
 but that aspect is bound up with the whole by indissoluble 
 bonds, so to speak." 
 
 " What's to be done 1 " 
 
 " Oh dear, don't be in a hurry ; it's not all coming so soon. 
 In any case, to do nothing is always best, one's conscience 
 is at rest anyway, knowing that one's had no share in any- 
 thing." 
 
 " Aie, do stop that, talk sense. I want to know what I'm 
 to do and how I'm to live." 
 
 " What you are to do, my dear ? Be honest, never lie, don't 
 covet your neighbour's house ; in fact, read the Ten Command- 
 ments — it's written there once for all." 
 
 " Don't talk like that, all that's so old, and besides . . . it's 
 all words ; I want something real." 
 
 " Well, if you're fearfully devoured by ennui, try to love 
 some one or something, or at any rate to attach yourself to 
 something." 
 
 " You're only laughing ! Besides, what can I do alone with 
 your Ten Commandments ? " 
 
 207
 
 " Well, keep them in spite of all your doubts and questions, 
 and you'll be a great man." 
 
 " Whom no one will know of," 
 
 " ' There is nothing hidden that shall not be made manifest,' ** 
 
 " You're certainly laughing," 
 
 " Well, if you take it so to heart you'd better try as soon as 
 possible to specialize, take up architecture or the law, and then 
 when you're busy with serious work you'll be more settled in 
 your mind and forget trifles." 
 
 I was silent. What could I gather from this ? And yet, 
 after every such conversation I was more troubled than before. 
 Moreover I saw clearly that there always remained in him, as it 
 were, something secret, and that drew me to him more and 
 more. 
 
 " Listen," I said, interrupting him one day, " I always suspect 
 that you say all this only out of bitterness and suffering, but 
 that secretly you are a fanatic over some idea, and are only 
 concealing it, or ashamed to admit it." 
 
 " Thank 3^u, my dear." 
 
 " Listen, nothing's better than being useful. Tell me how, at 
 the present moment, I can be most of use. I know it's not for 
 you to decide that, but I'm only asking for your opinion. You 
 tell me, and what you say I swear I'll do ! Well, what is the 
 great thought ? " 
 
 " Well, to turn stones into bread. That's a great thought." 
 
 " The greatest ? Yes, really, you have suggested quite a new 
 path. Tell me, is it the greatest ? " 
 
 " It's very great, my dear boy, very great, but it's not the 
 greatest. It's great but secondary, and only great at the present 
 time, Man will be satisfied and forget ; he will say : ' I've 
 eaten it and what am I to do now ? ' The question will remain 
 open for all time." 
 
 " You spoke once of the ' Geneva ideas.' I didn't understand 
 what was meant by the ' Geneva ideas.' " 
 
 " The ' Geneva idea ' is the idea of virtue without Christ, my 
 boy, the modem idea, or, more correctly, the ideas of all modem 
 civilization. In fact, it's one of those long stories which it's 
 very dull to begin, and it will be a great deal better if we talk of 
 other things, and better still if we're silent about other things." 
 
 " You always want to be silent ! " 
 
 " My dear, remember that to be silent is good, safe, and 
 picturesque." 
 
 208
 
 ■' Picturesque ? " 
 
 *' Of course. Silence is always picturesque, and the man who 
 is silent always looks nicer than the man who is speaking." 
 
 " Why, talking as we do is no better than being silent. Damn 
 such picturesqueness, and still more danan such profitableness." 
 " My dear," he said suddenly, rather changing his tone, 
 speaking with real feeling and even with a certain insistence, 
 " I don't want to seduce you from your ideals to any sort of 
 bourgeois virtue, I'm not assuring you that ' happiness is better 
 than heroism ' ; on the contrary ' heroism is finer than any 
 happiness,' and the very capacity for it alone constitutes happi- 
 ness. That's a settled thing between us. I respect you just for 
 being able in these mawkish days to set up some sort of an 
 ' idea ' in уош- soul (don't be imeasy, I remember perfectly 
 well). But yet one must think of proportion, for now you 
 want to live a resounding life, to set fire to something, to smash 
 something, to rise above everything in Russia, to call up storm- 
 clouds, to throw every one into terror and ecstasy, while you 
 vanish yourself in North America. I've no doubt you've some- 
 thing of that sort in your heart, and so I feel it necessary to 
 warn you, for I really love you, my dear." 
 
 What could I gather from that either ? There was nothing 
 in it but anxiety for me, for my material prosperity ; it betrayed 
 the father with the father's kindly but prosaic feelings. Was 
 this what I wanted by way of an idea for the sake of which any 
 honest father would send his son to face death, as the ancient 
 Roman Horatius sent his sons for the idea of Rome ? 
 
 I often pressed him on the subject of religion, but there the 
 fog was thicker than ever. When I asked him what to do 
 about that, he answered in the stupidest way, as though lo a 
 child : 
 
 " You must have faith in God, my dear." 
 " But what if I don't believe in all that ? " I cried irritably 
 once. 
 
 " A very good thing, my dear." 
 " How a good thing ? " 
 
 " It's a most excellent symptom, dear boy ; a most hopeful 
 one, for our atheists in Russia, if only they are really atheists 
 and have some little trace of intelligence, are the best fellows in 
 the whole world, and аЫаз'^з disposed to be kind to God, for 
 they're invariabl}^ good-humoured, and they're good-humoured 
 because they're immensely pleased at being atheists. Our 
 
 209
 
 atheists are respectable people and extremely conscientious, 
 pillars of the fatherland, in fact. . . ." 
 
 This was something, of course, but it was not what I wanted. 
 On one occasion, however, he spoke out, but so strangely that 
 he surprised me more than ever, especially after the stories of 
 Catholicism and penitential chains that I had heard about him. 
 
 " Dear boy," he said one day, not in my room, but in the 
 street, when I was seeing him home after a long conversation, 
 " to love people as they are is impossible. And yet we must. 
 And therefore do them good, overcoming your feelings, holding 
 your nose and shutting your eyes (the latter's essential). Endure 
 evil from them as far as may be without anger, * mindful that 
 you too are a man.' Of course you'll be disposed to be severe 
 with them if it has been vouchsafed to you to be ever so little 
 more intelligent than the average. Men are naturally base and 
 like to love from fear. Don't give in to such love, and never 
 cease to despise it. Somewhere in the Koran Allah bids the 
 prophet look upon the * froward ' as upon mice, do them good, 
 and pass them by — a little haughty, but right. Know how to 
 despise them even when they are good, for most often it is in 
 that they are base. Oh, my dear, it's judging by myself I say 
 that. Anyone who's not quite stupid can't live without despising 
 himself, whether he's honest or dishonest — it makes no difference. 
 To love one's neighbour and not despise him — is impossible. 
 I believe that man has been created physically incapable of 
 loving his neighbour. There has been some mistake in language 
 here from the very first, and ' love for humanity ' must be 
 understood as love for that humanity which you have yourself 
 created in your soul (in other words, you have created yourself 
 and your love is for yourself) — and which, therefore, never will 
 be in reality." 
 
 " Never wiU be ? " 
 
 " My dear boy, I agree that if this wore true, it would be 
 stupid, but that's not my fault, and I was not consulted at the 
 creation. I reserve the right to have my own opinion about it." 
 
 " How is it they call you a Christian, then ? " I cried. " A 
 monk in chains, a preacher ? I don't understand it ! " 
 
 " Why, who calls me that ? " 
 
 I told him ; he listened very attentively, but cut short the 
 conversation. 
 
 I can't remember what led to this memorable conversation ; 
 but he was positively irritated, which scarcely ever happened to 
 
 210
 
 him. He spoke passionately and without irony, as though he 
 were not speaking to me. But again I didn't believe him. He 
 could not speak on such subjects seriously to anyone Uke me. 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 On that morning, the 15th of November, I found him at Prince 
 Sergay's. I had brought the prince and him together, but they 
 had ties apart from me (I mean the afFair abroad, and all that). 
 Moreover, the prince had promised to divide the disputed 
 fortune with him, giving him a third, which would mean twenty 
 thousand at least. I remember at the time I thought it awfully 
 strange that he was giving him only a third and not the full 
 half ; but I said nothing. Prince Sergay gave this promise of 
 his own accord ; Versilov had not said a syllable to suggest it, 
 had not dropped a hint. Prince Sergay came forward himself 
 and Versilov only let it pass in silence, never once alluded to it, 
 and showed no sign that he had the least recollection of a promise. 
 I may mention, by the way, that Prince Sergay was absolutely 
 enchanted with him at first and still more with the things he said. 
 He fell into positive raptures about him, and several times ex- 
 pressed his feelings to me. Sometimes when he was alone with 
 me he exclaimed about himself, almost with despair, that he was 
 " so ill-educated, that he was on the wrong track ! . . ." Oh, 
 we were still so friendly then ! . . . I kept trying to impress 
 Versilov with Prince Sergay's good points only, and excused his 
 defects though I saw them myself ; but Versilov listened in 
 silence, or smiled. 
 
 " If he has faults he has at least as many virtues as defects 1 " 
 I once exclaimed to Versilov when I was alone with him. 
 
 *' Goodness, how you flatter him ! " he said laughing. 
 
 " How do I flatter him ? " I said, not understanding. 
 
 " As many virtues ! Why he must be a saint if he has as 
 many virtues as defects ! " 
 
 But, of course, that was not his opinion. In general he 
 avoided speaking of Prince Sergay at that time, as he did indeed 
 of everything real, but of the prince particularly. I suspected, 
 even then, that he went to see Prince Sergay without me, and 
 that they were on rather peculiar terms, but I did not go into 
 
 211
 
 that. I was not jealous either at his talking to him more 
 seriously than to me, more positively, so to speak, with less 
 mockery ; I was so happy at the time that I was actually 
 pleased at it. I explained it too by Prince Sergay's being of 
 rather limited intelligence, and so being fond of verbal exactitude ; 
 some jests he absolutely failed to see. 
 
 But of late he had, as it were, begun to emancipate himself. 
 His feelings for Versilov seemed beginning to change. Versilov 
 with his delicate perception noticed it. I may mention at this 
 point that Prince Sergay's attitude to me, too, became different 
 at the same time, rather too obviously, in fact. Only the lifeless 
 forms of our warm earlier relations were maintained. Yet I 
 went on going to see him ; I could not indeed help it, having 
 once been drawn into it. Oh, how clumsy and inexperienced I 
 was then ; it is almost beyond belief that mere foolishness of 
 heart can have brought anyone to such humiliation and lack of 
 perception. I took money from him and thought that it didn't 
 matter, that it was quite right. Yet that is not true : even then 
 I knew that it was not right, but it was simply that I thought 
 very little about it. I did not go to the prince to get money, 
 though I needed the money so much. I knew I did not go for 
 the sake of the money, but I realized that I went every day to 
 borrow money. But I was in a whirl then, and besides all that 
 I had something very different in my soul — it was singing with 
 joy ! 
 
 When I went in at eleven o'clock in the morning I found 
 Versilov just finishing a long tirade. Prince Sergay was walking 
 about the room listening, and Versilov was sitting down. Prince 
 Sergay seemed in some excitement. Versilov was almost always 
 able to work him into a state of excitement. He was exceed- 
 ingly impressionable, to a degree of simplicity, indeed, which 
 had often made me look down on him. But, I repeat, of late 
 I had detected in him something like a resentful sneer. He 
 stopped short, seeing me, and a quiver seemed to pass over his 
 face. I knew in my heart to what to attribute the shadow over 
 him that morning, but I had not expected that his face would 
 be so distorted by it. I knew that he had an accumulation of 
 anxieties, but it was revolting that I didn't know more than a 
 tenth part of them — the rest had been kept so far a dead secret 
 from me. What made it stupid and revolting was that I often 
 obtruded my sympathy on him, gave advice and often laughed 
 condescendingly at his weakness at being so upset " about such 
 
 212
 
 trifles." He used to be silent ; but he must have detested me 
 at those moments ; I was in an utterly false position and had 
 no suspicion of it. Oh, I call God to witness that of the chief 
 trouble 1 had no suspicion ! 
 
 He courteously held out his hand to me, however ; Versilov 
 nodded, without interrupting himself. I stretched m5"?e]f on 
 the sofa — my tone and manners were horrible at that time I 
 My swagger went even further : I used to treat his acquaint- 
 ances as though they were my outi. Oh, if it could only be 
 done all over again, I should know how to behave very 
 difiFerently ! 
 
 Two words, that I may not forget. Prince Scrgay was still 
 Uving in the same flat, but now occupied almost the whole of it. 
 Mme. Stolbyeev, whose flat it was, after staying only a month, 
 had gone away again. 
 
 They were talking of the aristocracy. I may mention that 
 Prince Sergay grew sometimes much excited over this subject 
 in spite of his progressive notions. I suspect indeed that many 
 of his misdoings had their source and origin in this idea. Attach- 
 ing great significance to his princely rank, he threw money away 
 in all directions although he Avas a beggar, and became involved 
 in debt. Versilov had more than once hinted that this extrava- 
 gance was not the essence of princelincss, and tried to instil into 
 him a higher conception of it ; but Prince Sergay had begun to 
 show signs of reseniment at being instructed. Evidently there 
 had been something of the same sort that morning, but 1 hadn't 
 arrived in time for the beginning of it. VersiJov's words struck 
 me at first as reactionary, but he made up for that later on. 
 
 " The word honour means duty," he said (I only give the 
 sense as far as I remember it) ; " when the upper class rules in a 
 state the country is strong. The upper class always has its sense 
 of honour, and its code of honour, which may be imperfect but 
 almost always serves as a bond and strengthens the countrv ; 
 an advantage morall}' and still more politieally. But the 
 slaves, that is all those not belonging to the ruling class, suffer. 
 They are given equal rights to prevent their suffering. That's 
 what has been done with us, and it's an excellent thing. But in 
 all experience so far (in Europe that is to say) a weakening of 
 the sense of honour and duty has followed the establishment of 
 
 21^
 
 equal rights. Egoism has replaced the old consolidating principle 
 and the whole system has been shattered on the rock of personal 
 freedom. The emancipated masses, left with no sustaining 
 principle, have ended by losing all sense of cohesion, tUl they 
 have given up defending the liberties they have gained. But 
 the Russian type of aristocrat has never been like the European 
 nobility. Our nobility, even now that it has lost its privileges, 
 might remain the leading class as the upholders of honour, 
 enlightenment, science, and higher culture, and, what is of the 
 greatest importance, without cutting themselves ofif into a 
 separate caste, which would be the death of the idea. On the 
 contrary, the entrance to this class has been thrown open long 
 ago among us, and now the time has come to open it completely. 
 Let every honourable and valiant action, every great achieve- 
 ment in science enable a man to gain the ranks of the highest 
 class. In that way the class is automatically transformed into 
 an assembly of the best people in a true and literal sense, not 
 in the sense in which it was said of the privileged caste in the 
 past. In this new, or rather renewed form, the class might be 
 retained." 
 
 The prince smiled sarcastically. 
 
 " What sort of an aristocracy would that be ? It's some sort 
 of masonic lodge you're sketching ; not an aristocracy." 
 
 Prince Sergay had been, I repeat, extremely ill-educated. I 
 turned over with vexation on the sofa, though I was far from 
 agreeing with Versilov. Versilov quite understood that the 
 prince was sneering. 
 
 " I don't know in what sense you talk of a masonic lodge," he 
 answered. " Well, if even a Russian prince recoils from such 
 an idea, no doubt the time for it has not arrived. The idea of 
 honour and enlightenment as the sacred keys that unlock for 
 any man the portals of a class thus continually renewed is, of 
 comrse, a Utopia. But why is it an impossible one ? If the 
 thought is living though only in a few brains it is not yet lost, 
 but shines like a tiny flame in the depths of darkness." 
 
 " You are fond of using such words as ' higher culture,' 'great 
 idea,' ' sustaining principle ' and such ; I should like to know 
 what you mean exactly by a ' great idea ' ? " 
 
 " I really don't know how to answer that question, dear 
 prince," Versilov responded with a subtle smile. " If I confess 
 to you that I myself am not able to answer, it would be more 
 accurate. A great idea Is most often a feeling which sometimes 
 
 214
 
 remains too long undefined. I only know that it's that which 
 has been the source of living life, gay joyous life, I mean, not 
 theoretical and artificial ; so that the great idea, from which it 
 flows, is absolutely indispensable, to the general vexation, of 
 course." 
 
 " Why vexation ? *' 
 
 " Because, to live with ideas is dreary, and it's always gay 
 without them." 
 
 The prince swallowed the rebuke. 
 
 " And what do you mean by this living life as you call it ? " 
 (He was evidently cross.) 
 
 " I don't know that either, prince ; I only know that it must 
 be something very simple, the most everyday thing, staring us in 
 the face, a thing of every day, every minute, and so simple that 
 we can never believe it to be so simple, and we've naturally been 
 passing it by for thousands of years without noticing it or 
 recognizmg it." 
 
 " I only meant to say that your idea of the aristocracy is 
 equivalent to denying the aristocracy," observed Prince Seigay. 
 
 " Well, if you will have it so, perhaps there never has been an 
 aristocracy in Russia." 
 
 " All this is very obscure and vague. If one says something, 
 one ought, to my mind, to explain it. . . ." 
 
 Prince Sergay contracted his brows and stole a glance at the 
 clock on the wall. Versilov got up and took his hat. 
 
 " Explain ? " he said, " no, it's better not to, besides, I've a 
 passion for talking without explanations. That's really it. 
 And there's another strange thing : if it happens that I try to 
 explain an idea I believe in, it almost always happens that I 
 cease to believe what I have explained. I'm afraid of that fate 
 now. Good-bye, dear prince ; I always chatter unpardonably 
 with you." 
 
 He went out ; the prince escorted him poUtely, but I felt 
 offended. 
 
 " What are you ruffling up your feathers about ? " he fired off 
 suddenly, walking past me to his bureau without looking at me. 
 
 " I'm ruffling up my feathers," I began with a tremor in my 
 voice, " because, finding in you such a queer change of tone to 
 me and even to Versilov I . . . Versilov may, of course, have 
 begun in rather a reactionary way, but afterwards he made up 
 for it and . . . there was perhaps a profound meaning in what 
 he said, but you simply didn't understand, and ..." 
 
 215
 
 " I simply don't care to have people putting themselves 
 forward to teach me and treating me as though I were a school- 
 boy," he snapped out, almost wrathfully. 
 
 " Prince, such expressions . . ." 
 
 " Please spare me theatrical flourishes — if you will be so kind. 
 I know that what I am doing is — contemptible, that I'm — a 
 spendthrift, a gambler, perhaps a thief. . . . Yes, a thief, for I 
 gamble away the money belonging to my family, but I don't 
 want anybody's judgment. I don't want it and I won't have it. 
 I'm — ^the judge of my own actions. And why this ambiguity ? 
 If he wants to say anything to me let him say it straight out, 
 and not go in for this mysterious prophetic twaddle. To tell 
 me all this he ought to have the right to, he ought to be an 
 honourable man himself. . . ." 
 
 " In the first place I didn't come in at the beginning and I 
 don't know what you were talking about, and, secondly, what 
 has Versilov done dishonourable, allow me to ask ? " 
 
 " Please, that's enough, that's enough. You asked me for 
 three hundred roubles yesterday. Here it is. . . ." 
 
 He laid the money on the table before me, sat down in the 
 armchair, leaned nervously against the back of it, and crossed 
 one leg over the other. I was thrown into confusion. 
 
 "I don't know ..." I muttered, "though I did ask you 
 for it . . . and though I do need the money now, since you take 
 such a tone . . ." 
 
 " Don't talk about tone. If I spoke sharply you must excuse 
 me. I assure you that I've no thoughts to spare for it. Listen 
 to this : I've had a letter from Moscow. My brother Sasha, 
 who was only a child, as you know, died four days ago. My 
 father, as you know too, has been paralysed for the last two 
 years, and now, they write to me, he's worse, he can't utter a 
 word and knows nobody. They were relieved to get the inheri- 
 tance, and want to take him abroad, but the doctor writes 
 that he's not likely to live a fortnight. So I'm left with my 
 mother and sister . . . that is, almost alone. ... In fact, I'm 
 — alone. This fortune . . . this fortune — oh, it луоиМ have 
 been better perhaps if it had not come to me at all ! But this is 
 what I wanted to tell you : I promised Andrcy Petrovitch a 
 minimum of twenty thousand. . . . And, meanwhile, only 
 imagine, owing to legal formalities I've been able to do nothing. 
 I haven't even . . we, that is . . . my father that is, has not 
 yet been informed of the inheritance. And meanwhile I've lost 
 
 210
 
 so much money during the last three weeks, and that scoundrel 
 Stebelkov charges such a rate of interest. , . . I've given you 
 almost the last. ..." 
 
 " Oh, prince, if that's how it is . . ." 
 
 " I didn't mean that. I didn't mean that. Stebelkov will 
 bring some to-day, no doubt, and there'll be enough to go on 
 with, but what the devil's one to think of Stebelkov ? I entreated 
 him to get me ten thousand, so that I might at lea^t give Andre3'^ 
 Petrovitch that much. It worries me, it plagues me to think 
 of my promise to give him a third. I gave my word and I 
 must keep it. And I swear I'll do my utmost to free mj'self 
 from obligations in that direction anyhow. They weigh upon 
 me, they weigh upon me, they're insufferable ! This biu"den- 
 some tie. ... I can't bear to see Audrey Petrovitch, for I 
 can't look him in the face. . . . Why does he take advantage 
 of it 1 " 
 
 " What does he take advantage of, prince ? " I stood before 
 him in amazement. " Has he ever so much as hinted at it ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, and I appreciate it, it's I who reproach myself. 
 And in fact I'm getting more and more involved. . . . This 
 Stebelkov. . . ." 
 
 " Listen, prince, do calm yourself, please. I see you get more 
 excited the more you talk, and yet it may be all imagination. 
 Oh, I've got myself into difficulties too, unpardonably, con- 
 temptibly. But I know it's only temporary . . . and as soon 
 as I win back a certain sum, then ... I say, with this three 
 hundred, I owe you two thousand five hundred, don't I ? " 
 
 " I'm not asking it from you, I believe," the prince said 
 suddenly with a sneer. 
 
 " You say ten thousand for Versilov. If I borrow from you 
 now the money will be taken off Versilov's twenty thousand ; 
 otherwise I won't consent. Jiut . . . but I shall certainly pay 
 it back myself. . . . But can you possibly imagine that Versilov 
 comes to you to get the money ? " 
 
 " It would be easier for me if he did come for the money," 
 Prince Sergay observed enigmatically. 
 
 " You talk of some ' burdensome tie.' ... If you mean with 
 Versilov and me, upon my soul it's an insult. And you say 
 why isn't he what he preaches — that's yoiu: logic ! And, in the 
 first place it's not logic, allow me to tell you, for even if he's 
 not, he can't help saying what's true. . . . And besides, why 
 do you talk about ' preaching ' ? You call him a ' prophet.' 
 
 217
 
 Tell me, was it you who called him a ' petticoat prophet ' in 
 Germany ? " 
 
 " No, it was not I." 
 
 " Stebelkov told me it was you." 
 
 " He told a lie. I'm — ^no hand at giving derisive nicknames. 
 But if a man preaches honour he ought to be honourable himself 
 — that's my logic, and if it's incorrect I don't care. I prefer 
 it to be so. And I won't have anyone dare to come and 
 judge me in my own house and treat me like a baby 1 That's 
 enough ! " he shouted, waving his hand to stop me. ..." Ah, 
 at last ! " 
 
 Q'he door opened and Stebelkov walked in. 
 
 He was exactly the same, just as jauntily dressed ; and 
 squared his chest and stared into one's face as stupidly as ever, 
 imagining that he was being very sly, and exceedingly well 
 satisfied with himself. On this occasion he looked about him 
 in a strange way on entering ; there was a look of pecuhar 
 caution and penetration in his face, as though he wanted to 
 guess something from our countenances. He instantly subsided, 
 however, and his face beamed with a self-satisfied smile, that 
 " pardonably -insolent " smile, which was yet unspeakably 
 repulsive to me. 
 
 I had known for a long time that he was a great torment to 
 Prince Sergay. He had come once or twice when I was present. 
 I ... I too had had a transaction with him during that month, 
 but on this occasion I was rather surprised at the way he came 
 in. 
 
 " In a minute," Prince Sergay said, without greeting him, and, 
 turning his back on us both, he began looking in his desk for the 
 necessary papers and accoimts. As for me, I was mortally 
 offended by his last words. The suggestion that Versilov was 
 dishonourable was so clear (and so astonishing !) that it could 
 not be allowed to pass without a full explanation. But that 
 was impossible before Stebelkov. I reclined on the sofa again 
 and turned over a book that was lying before me. 
 
 " ByeUnsky, part two ! That's something new ! Are you 
 trjdng to cultivate your mind ? " I exclaimed, I fancy, very 
 uimatuially. 
 
 2i8
 
 He was busily engaged and in great haste, but at my words 
 he turned. 
 
 " I beg you to leave that book alone," he brought out sharply. 
 
 This was beyond all endiu-ance, especially before Stebelkov ! 
 
 To make it worse Stebelkov gave a sly and loathsome smirk, 
 
 and made a stealthy sign to me in Prince Sergay's direction. Д 
 
 turned away from the fool. 
 
 " Don't be angry, prince ; I'll leave you to your most impor- 
 tant visitor, and meanwhile I'll disappear. ..." 
 I made up my mind to be casual in my manner. 
 " Is that me — the most important visitor ? " Stebelkov put in, 
 jocosely pointing at himself with his finger. 
 
 " Yes, you ; you're the most important person and you 
 know it too ! " 
 
 " No, excuse me. Everywhere in the world there's a second 
 person. I am a second person. There is a first person and a 
 second person. The first acts and the second takes. So the 
 first person turns into the second person, and the second person 
 turns into the first person. Is that so or not ? " 
 
 " It may be so. But as usual I don't understand you." 
 " Excuse me. In France there was a re volution and every one 
 was executed. Napoleon came along and took everything. 
 The revolution is the first person, and Napoleon the second 
 person. But it turned out that the revolution became the 
 second i)erson and Napoleon became the first person. Is that 
 right ? " 
 
 I may observe, by the way, that in his speaking to me of the 
 French Revolution I saw an instance of his own cunning which 
 amused me very much. He still persisted in regarding me as 
 some sort of revolutionist, and whenever he met me thought it 
 necessary to begin on some topic of the sort. 
 
 " Come along," said Prince Sergay, and they went together 
 into the other room. As soon as I was alone I made up my 
 mind to give him back the three hundred as soon as Stebelkov 
 had gone. I needed the money terribly, still I resolved to do so. 
 They remained in the other room, and for ten minutes I heard 
 nothing, then suddenly they began talking loudly. They were 
 both talking, but Prince Sergay suddenly shouted as though in 
 violent irritation, approaching frenzy. He was sometimes very 
 hasty, so that I was not stirprised. But at that moment a 
 footman came in to annoimce a visitor ; I motioned him to the 
 other room and instantly there was silence there. Prince Sergay 
 
 219
 
 came out with an anxious face, though he smiled ; the footman 
 hastened away, and half a minute later a visitor came in. 
 
 It was a visitor of great consequence, with shoulder-knots and 
 a family crest. He was a gentleman not over thirty-, of high 
 rank, and of a severe appearance. I may remark that Prince 
 Sergay did not yet really belong to the highest circles in Peters- 
 burg, in spite of his passionate desire to do so (I was aware of 
 this desire), and so he must have been glad to see a visitor like 
 this. The acquaintance had, as I knew, only been formed 
 through great efforts on the part of Prince Sergay. The guest 
 was returning Prince Sergay's visit, and unhappily came upon 
 him at the wrong moment. I saw Prince Sergay look at Stebelkov 
 with an agonized and hopeless expression ; but Stebelkov 
 encountered his eyes as though nothing whatever were the 
 matter, and without the faintest idea of effacing himself, sat 
 doAv-n on the sofa with a free-and-easy air and began passing his 
 hand through his hair, probably to display his independence. 
 He even assumed an important comitenance, in fact he was 
 utterly impossible. As for me, I knew, of course, how to behave 
 decently even then, and should never have disgraced anyone ; 
 but what was my amazement when I caught on Prince Sergay's 
 face the same hopeless, miserable and vindictive look directed 
 at me : he was ashamed of us both then, and put me on a level 
 with Stebelkov. That idea drove me to fury. I lolled even 
 more at my ease, and began turning over the leaves of the book, 
 as though the position were no concern of mine. Stebelkov, on 
 the contrary, bent forward open-eyed to listen to their conversa- 
 tion, probably supposing that this was a polite and affable thing 
 to do. The visitor glanced once or twice at Stebelkov, and at 
 me too, indeed. 
 
 They talked of family news ; this gentleman had at some 
 time known Prince Sergay's mother, who was one of a distin- 
 guished family. From what I could gather, in spite of his 
 politeness and the apparent good-nature of his tone, the visitor 
 was very formal and evidently valued his own dignity so highly 
 as to consider a visit from him an honour to anyone whatever. 
 Had Prince Sergay been alone, that is had we not been present, 
 he would certainly have been more dignified and more resourceful. 
 As it was, something tremulous in his smile, possibly an excess 
 of politeness, and a strange absent-mindedness, betrayed him. 
 
 They had hardly been sitting there five minutes when another 
 visitor was announced, also of the compromising kind. I knew 
 
 220
 
 this one very well and had heard a great deal about him, though 
 he did not know me at all. He was still quite a young man, though 
 twenty-three, who was handsome and elegantly dressed and had 
 a fine house, but moved in distinctly doubtful circles. A year 
 before he had been serving in one of the smartest cavalry regi- 
 ments, but had been forced to give up his commission, and 
 everyone knew for what reason. His relations had even adver- 
 tised in the papers that they would not be responsible for his 
 debts, but he still continued his profligate manner of life, borrow- 
 ing money at ten per cent, a month, playing desperately in 
 gambling circles, and squandering his money on a notorious 
 Frenchwoman. A week before, he had succeeded one evening 
 in winning twelve thousand roubles and was triumphant. He 
 was on friendly terms with Prince Sergay : they often played 
 together tete-a-tete ; but Prince Sergay positively shuddered 
 seeing him now. I noticed this from where I lay. This youth 
 made himself at home everywhere, talked with noisy gaiety, 
 saying anything that came into his head without restraint. 
 And of course it could never have occurred to him that our 
 host was in such a panic over the impression his associatee 
 would make upon his important visitor. 
 
 He interrupted their conversation by his entrance, and began 
 at once describing his play on the previous day, before he had 
 even sat down. 
 
 " I believe you were there too," he said, breaking off at the 
 third sentence to address the important gentleman, mistaking 
 him for one of his own set ; but looking at him more closely he 
 cried at once : 
 
 '* Oh, I beg your pardon, I mistook you for one of the party 
 yesterday ! " 
 
 " Alexcy Vladimirovitch Darzan — Ippolit Alexandrovitch 
 Nastchokin," Prince Sergay made haste to introduce them. This 
 youth could still be introduced. He belonged to a good family 
 and it was a distinguished name ; but us he did not introduce, 
 and we went on sitting in our corners. I absolutely refused to 
 turn my head in their direction, but Stebelkov began smirking 
 gleefully at the sight of the young man, and was unmistakably 
 threatening to begin talking. This began to amuse me. 
 
 " I met you several times last year at Countess Verigin's," 
 said Darzan. 
 
 " I remember you, but I believe you were in miUtary uniform 
 then," Nastchokin observed genially. 
 
 221
 
 " Yes, I was, but thanks to. . . . But Stebelkov here ? How 
 does he come here ? It's just thanks to these pretty gentlemen 
 here that I'm not in the army now ! " he pointed to Stebelkov, 
 and bxu'st out laughing. Stebelkov laughed gleefully too, 
 probably taking it as a compliment. Prince Sergay blushed and 
 made haste to address a question to Nastchokin, and Darzan, 
 going up to Stebelkov, began talking of something very warmly, 
 though in a whisper. 
 
 " I beUeve you saw a great deal of Katerina Nikolaevna 
 Ahmakov abroad 1 " the visitor asked Prince Sergay. 
 
 " Oh yes, I knew her. . . ." 
 
 " I beUeve we shall soon be hearing a piece of news about her. 
 They say she's engaged to Baron Buring." 
 
 " That's true ! " cried Darzan. 
 
 " Do you know it for a fact ? " Prince Sergay asked Nastchokin 
 with evident agitation, bringing out his question with peculiar 
 emphasis. 
 
 " I've been told so, and people are talking about it ; but I 
 don't know it for a fact." 
 
 " Oh, it is a fact 1 " said Darzan, going up to Jiim. " Dubasov 
 told me so yesterday, he's always the first to know news like 
 that. Yes, and the prince ought to know, . . ." 
 
 Nastchokin waited till Darzan had finished, and turned to 
 Prince Sergay again. 
 
 " She's not very often seen now." 
 
 " Her father has been ill for the last month," Prince Sergay 
 observed drily. 
 
 " She's a lady of many adventures ! " Darzan blurted out 
 suddenly. 
 
 I raised my head and sat up. 
 
 " I have the pleasiu-e of knowing Katerina Nikolaevna per- 
 sonally, and I take upon myself the duty of declaring that all 
 scandalous stories about her are mere lies and infamy . . . and 
 invented by those who have sougbt her favour without success." 
 
 After this stupid outburst I relapsed into silence, still sitting 
 upright and gazing at them aU with a flushed face. Every one 
 timied to me, but Stebelkov suddenly guffawed ; Darzan, too, 
 simpered and seemed siu^prised. 
 
 " Arkady Makarovitch Dolgoruky," said Prince Sergay, 
 indicating me to Darzan. 
 
 " Oh, believe me, prince," said Darzan, frankly and good- 
 naturedly addressing me, " I am only repeating what 
 
 222
 
 I've heard ; if there are rumours they have not been of mj 
 spreading." 
 
 " I did not mean it for you ! " I answered quickly, but 
 Stebelkov had burst into an outrageous roar of laughter, caused 
 as he explained afterwards by Darzan's having addressed me as 
 prince. My diabolical surname had got me into a mess again. 
 Even now I blush at the thought that I had not the courage — 
 through shame, of course — to set right this blunder and to protest 
 aloud that I was " simply Dolgoruky." It was the first time in 
 my life I had let it pass. Darzan looked in perplexity at me 
 and at Stebelkov's laughter. 
 
 " Ah yes ! Who was the pretty girl I met on the stairs just 
 now, a slim, fair little thing ? " he suddenly asked Prince Sergay. 
 
 " I really don't know," the latter answered quickly, reddening. 
 
 " How should you ? " laughed Darzan. 
 
 " Though ... it ... it might have been. . . ." Prince 
 Sergay faltered oddly. 
 
 " It was . . . this gentleman's sister, Lizaveta Makarovna ! " 
 said Stebelkov suddenly pointing to me, " for I met her just 
 now too. . . ." 
 
 " Ah indeed ! " Prince Sergay put in quickly, speaking this 
 time, however, with an extremely grave and dignified expression, 
 " it must have been Lizaveta Makarovna, who is a great friend 
 of Anna Fyodorovna Stolbyeev, in whose flat I am staying ; 
 she must have come to-day to see Darya Onisimovna, another 
 of Anna Fyodorovna's great friends, whom she left in charge of 
 the house when she went away. ..." 
 
 This was all true. Darya Onisimovna was the mother of 
 poor Olya, whose story I have told already. Tatyana PavlovTia 
 had found a refuge for the poor -woman at last with Mme. 
 Stolbyeev. I know very well that Liza had been sometimes at 
 Mme. Stolbycev's, and had lately visited there Darj'a Onisi- 
 movna, of whom every one at home Avas very fond ; but after 
 this statement by Prince Sergay — sensible as it was, however — 
 and still more Stebelkov's stupid outburst, and perhaps because 
 I had been called prince, I suddenly flushed all over. Luckily 
 at that very instant Nastchokin stood up to take leave ; he 
 offered his hand to Darzan also. At the moment Stebelkov and 
 I were left alone ; he nodded his head to me in the direction of 
 Darzan, who was standing in the doorway with his back to us ; 
 1 shook my fist at Stebelkov. 
 
 A minute later Darzan, too, got up to go, after arranging with 
 
 223
 
 Prince Sergay to meet him next day at some place, a gambling 
 house, I beUeve. As he went out he shouted something to 
 Stebelkov, and made me a slight bow. Hardly had he gone out 
 when Stebelkov jumped up and stood in the middle of the room, 
 pointing to the ceiling with his finger : 
 
 " I'll tell you the trick that fine young gentleman played last 
 week. He gave an 10 (J to Averyanov and signed a false name 
 to it. That lOU is still in existence, but it's not been honoured ! 
 It's criminal ! Eight thovisand ! " 
 
 " And no doubt that lOU is in your hands ? " I cried, glaring 
 at him savagely. 
 
 '■ 1 have a bank, I have a mont-de-piete, I am not a brokpr 
 Have you heard that there is a mont-de-piete in Paris ? Bread 
 and benevolence for the poor ; I have a mont-de-piete. . . ." 
 Prince Sergay rudely and angrily cut him short. 
 " What are you doing here ? What are you staying for ? " 
 " But," Stebelkov blinked rapidly, " what about that ? 
 Won't it do ? " 
 
 " No, no, no," Prince Sergay shouted, stamping ; " I've said 
 so." 
 
 " Well, if so . . . that's so. . . But that's a mistake. . ." 
 He turned abruptly and with bowed head and bent spine went 
 quickly out of the room. Prince Sergay called after him when 
 he was in the doorway : 
 
 " You may as well know, sir, that I am not in the least afraid 
 of you." 
 
 He was very much irritated, he was about to sit down, but 
 glancing at me, remained standing. His eyes seemed to say to 
 me also, " \\'hy are you hanging about here too ? " 
 " Prince, I ..." I was beginning. 
 
 " I've really no time to listen, Arkady Makarovitch, I'm just 
 going out." 
 
 " One minute, prince, it's very important ; and, to begin 
 with, take back your three hundred." 
 " \\'hat's this now ? " 
 
 He was walking up and down, but he stopped short. 
 " This now is til at after all that has passed . . . and what 
 you've said about Versilov . . . that he was dishonourable, and 
 in fact your tone all the time. ... In short, I can't possibly 
 take it." 
 
 " You've been taking it for the last month, though." 
 He suddenly sat down on the chair. I was standing at the 
 
 224
 
 table, and with one hand I patted the volume of Byelinsky, while 
 I held my hat in the other. 
 
 " I had different feelings, prince . . . and, in fact, I would 
 never have brought it to such a sum ... it was the gambling . . . 
 in short, I can't ! " 
 
 " You have not distinguished yourself to-day, and so you are 
 in a rage ; I'll ask you to leave that book alone." 
 
 " What does that mean : ' not distinguished myself ' ? And, 
 in fact, before your visitors you almost put me on a level with 
 Stebelkov." 
 
 " So that's the key to the riddle ! " he said with a biting 
 smile. " You ллеге abashed by Darzan's calling you prince, too." 
 
 He laughed spitefully. I flared up. 
 
 " I simply don't imderstand ; I wouldn't take your title as a 
 gift." 
 
 " I know your character. How absurdly j'ou cried out in 
 defence of Mme. Ahmakov ... let that book alone ! " 
 
 " What's the meaning of it ? " I cried. 
 
 " L-l-let the book alone ! " he yelled suddenly, drawing 
 himself up in the low chair, with a ferocious movement, as 
 though about to spring at me. 
 
 " This is beyond all limits," I said, and I walked quickly out 
 of the room, but before I had reached the end of the drawing- 
 room, he shouted to me from the study : 
 
 " Arkady Makarovitch, come back ! Co-ome ba-ack ! Co-ome 
 ba-ack ! " 
 
 I went on without heeding. He hastily overtook me, seized 
 me by the arm, and dragged me back into the study. I did not 
 resist. 
 
 " Take it," he said, pale with excitement, handing me the 
 three hundred roubles I had thrown on the table. " You must 
 take it ... or else we . . , you must ! " 
 
 " Prince, how can I take it ? " 
 
 " Oh, I'll beg your pardon ... if you Uke ... all right, 
 forgive me ! . . ." 
 
 " I have always liked you, prince, and if you feel the same . . ." 
 
 " I do ; take it. . . ." 
 
 I took the money. His lips were trembling. 
 
 " I can imderstand, prince, that you are exasperated by that 
 scoundrel . . . but I won't take it, prince, unless we kiss each 
 other, as we have done when we've quarrelled before." 
 
 I was trembling, too, as I said this. 
 
 225
 
 " Now for sentimentality," muttered Prince Sergay, with an 
 embarrassed smile, but he bent down and kissed me. I shud- 
 dered ; at the instant he kissed me I caught on his face an 
 unmistakable look of aversion. 
 
 " Did he bring you the money, anyway ?..,'* 
 
 " Aie, never mind." 
 
 " I was asking on your account. . . .** 
 
 " Yes he did, he did." 
 
 " Prince, we have been friends . . . and in fact, Versilov. . . .*• 
 
 " Yes, yes. That's all right ! " 
 
 " And in fact ... I really don't know . . . about this three 
 hundred. . . ." 
 
 I was holding the money in my hand. 
 
 " Take it, ta-ake it ! " he smiled again, but there was something 
 very vicious in his smile. 
 
 I took the money. 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 I TOOK the money because I loved him. If anyone disbelieves 
 this I must inform him that at the moment when I took the 
 money I was firmly convinced that I could have obtained it from 
 another source. And so I really took it, not because I was in 
 desperate straits, but from delicacy, not to hurt his feelings. 
 Alas, that was how I reasoned at the time ! But yet my heart was 
 very heavy as I went out from him. I had seen that morning 
 an extraordinary change in his attitude to me ; he had never 
 taken such a tone before, and, as regards Versilov, it was a case 
 of positive mutiny. Stebelkov had no doubt annoyed him very 
 much that morning, but he had begun to be the same before 
 seeing Stebelkov. I repeat once more : the change from his 
 original manner might indeed have been noticed for some days 
 past, but not in the same way, not in the same degree, that was 
 the point. 
 
 The stupid gossip about that major. Baron Biiring, might 
 have some effect on him. ... I too had been disturbed by 
 it, but . . . the fact is, I had something else in my heart at 
 that time that shone so resplendent that I heedlessly let many 
 things pass unnoticed, made haste to let them pass, to get rid 
 of them, and to go back to that resplendence. . . . 
 
 226
 
 It was not yet one o'clock. From Prince Sergay's I drove with 
 my Matvey straight off to — it will hardly be believed to whom — 
 to Stebeikov ! The fact is that he had surprised me that morn- 
 ing, not so much by turning up at Prince Sergay's (for he had 
 promised to be there) as by the way he had winked at me ; he 
 had a stupid habit of doing so, but that morning it had been 
 apropos of a different subject from what I had expected. The 
 evening before, a note had come from him by post, which had 
 rather puzzled me. In it he begged me to go to him between 
 two and three to-day, and that " he might inform me of facts 
 that would be a surprise to me." 
 
 And in reference to that letter he had that raoming, at Prince 
 Sergay's, made no sign whatever. What sort of secrets could 
 there be between Stebeikov and' me ? Such an idea was posi- 
 tively ridiculous ; but, after all that had happened, I felt a slight 
 excitement as I drove off to him. I had, of coiurse, a fortnight 
 before applied to him for money, and he was ready to lend it, but 
 for some reason we did not come to terms, and I did not take 
 the money : on that occasion, too, he had muttered something 
 vague, as his habit was, and I had fancied he wanted to make 
 me some offer, to suggest some special conditions ; and as I had 
 treated him disdainfully every time I had met him at Prince 
 Sergay's, I proudly cut short any idea of special terms, though 
 he pursued me to the door. I borrowed the money afterwards 
 from Prince Sergay. 
 
 Stebeikov lived in a very comfortable style. He had his own 
 establishment, a flat of four rooms, with handsome furniture, 
 men and women servants, and a housekeeper, who was, however, 
 by no means young. I went in angrily. 
 
 " Listen, my good man," I began from the door ; "to begin 
 with, what's the meaning of that letter ? I don't care for letters 
 to be passing between us. And why did you not make any 
 statement you wanted to make at Prince Sergay's this morning ? 
 I was at your service." 
 
 " And why did you hold your tongue, too, this morning, instead 
 of questioning me ? " he said with a broad grin of intense self- 
 satisfaction. 
 
 " Because it's not I want something of you, but you want 
 something of me," I cried, suddenly growing hot. 
 
 " Why have you come to see me, if that's so ? " he cried, 
 almost jumping out of his chair with glee. I turned instantly, 
 and would have gone out, but he seized me by the shoulder. 
 
 227
 
 " No, no, I was joking, it's a matter of importance, as you'll 
 see for yourself." 
 
 I sat down, I must admit I was inquisitive. We were seated' 
 facing one another at the end of a big writing table. He smiled 
 slyly, and was just holding up his finger. 
 
 " None of your slyness, please, and no fingers either, and 
 above all, none of your allegories ! Come straight to the point, 
 or I'll go away at once," I cried angrily again. 
 
 " You . . . are proud ! " he pronounced in a tone of stupid 
 reproach, rocking in his easy-chair and turning his wrinkled 
 forehead towards the ceiling. 
 
 " One has to be with you ! " 
 
 " You . . . took money from Prince Sergay to-day, three 
 hundred roubles ; I have money too, my money is better than 
 his." 
 
 " How do you know I took it ? " I asked, greatly astonished. 
 " Can he have told you that himself ? " 
 
 " He told me ; don't worry yourself, in the course of conversa- 
 tion it happened to come up, it just happened to come up, it was 
 not on purpose. He told me. And you need not have taken it. 
 Is that so, or not ? " 
 
 " But I hear that you squeeze out an exorbitant interest." 
 
 " I have a mont-de-piete, but I don't squeeze. I only lend 
 to friends, and not to other people, the mont-de-pietd is for 
 them. . . ." 
 
 This mont-de-piete was an ordinary pawnbroker's shop, which 
 flourished under another name, in a different quarter of the town. 
 
 " But I lend large sums to friends." 
 
 " Why, is Prince Sergay such a friend of yours ? " 
 
 " A fri-iend ; but ... he plays the fool, and he'd better not 
 dare to play the fool." 
 
 " Why is he so much in your power 1 Does he owe you a great 
 deal ? " 
 
 " He . . . does owe a great deal." 
 
 " He'll pay you ; he has come into a fortune . . ." 
 
 " That is not his fortune ; he owes money, and owes something 
 else, too. The fortune's not enough. I'll lend to you without 
 interest." 
 
 " As though I were a ' friend ' too ? How have I earned 
 that ? " I laughed. 
 
 " You will earn it." Again he rocked his whole person 
 forward on a level with me, and was again holding up his fingers. 
 
 228
 
 " Stebelkov ! Speak without flourishing your fingers or I 
 
 go." 
 
 " I say, he may marry Anna Andreyevna ! " and he screwed 
 up his left eye fiendishly. 
 
 " Listen, Stebelkov, your conversation is taking such a 
 scandalous turn. . . . How dare you utter the name of Anna 
 Andreyevna ! " 
 
 " Don't lose your temper." 
 
 " I am listening, though it's against the grain, for I see clearly 
 you have something up your sleeve, and I want to find out what 
 it is . . . but you may try my patience too far, Stebelkov ! " 
 
 " Don't be angry, don't be proud. Humble your pride a little 
 and listen; and then you'll be proud again. You know, of course, 
 about Anna Andreyevna. The prince may make a match . . , 
 you know, of course . . ." 
 
 " I have heard of the idea, of course, I know all about it, but I 
 have never spoken to Prince Sergay about it, I only know that 
 the idea originated with old Prince Sokolsky, who is ill now; 
 but I have never talked to him about it and I have had nothing to 
 do with it. I tell you this, simply to make things clear. I will ask 
 you in the first place : what is your object in mentioning it to me ? 
 And secondly, can Prince Sergay possibly discuss such subjects 
 with you ? " 
 
 " He does not discuss them with me ; he does not want to 
 discuss them with me, but I mention them to him, and he does 
 not want to listen. He shouted at me this morning." 
 
 " I should think so ! I commend him." 
 
 " Old Prince Sokolsky will give Anna Andreyevna a good 
 dowry; !>i:e's a favourite. Then when the prince marries her, 
 he'll repay me all the money he owes. And he will pay other 
 debts as well. He'll certainly pay them ! But now he has 
 nothing to pay with." 
 
 " What do you want of me ? " 
 
 " To answer the great question : you are known everywhere, 
 you go everyлvhere, you can find out anything." 
 
 "Oh, damnation . . . find out what ? " 
 
 " Whether Prince Sergay wishes it, whether Anna Andreyevna 
 wishes it, whether the old prince wishes it." 
 
 " And you dare to propose that I should be your spy, and — 
 for money ! " I burst out indignantly. 
 
 " Don't be too proud, don't be too proud, humble зоиг pride 
 only a little, only for five minutes." He made me sit down again. 
 
 229
 
 He was evidently not intimidated by my words or gestures ; hut 
 I made up my mind to hear him out. 
 
 " I must find out quickly, find out quickly, because . . . 
 because it will soon be too late. You saw how he swallowed the 
 pill this morning, when the officer mentioned the baron for Mme. 
 Ahmakov." 
 
 I certainly demeaned myself by listening further, but my 
 curiosity was irresistibly aroused. 
 
 " Listen, you worthless fellow I " I said resolutely. " Though 
 I'm sitting here listening, and allow you to speak of such persons 
 . . . and even answer you, it's not in the least that I admit your 
 right to do so. I simply see in it some piece of rascality. . . . 
 And in the first place, what hopes can Prince Sergay have in 
 reference to Katerina Nikolaevna ? " 
 
 " None whatever, yet he is furious." 
 
 " That's untrue ! " 
 
 " Yes, he is. Mme. Ahmakov is no go, then, now. He has lost 
 that stake. Now he has only Anna Andreyevna to fall back on. 
 I will give you two thousand . . . without interest and vsdthout 
 an lOU." 
 
 Having delivered himself of this, he sat back in his chair, with 
 a determined and important expression, and stared goggle-eyed 
 at me. I too stared. 
 
 " You've a suit from Bolshaya Milliona ; you need money, 
 you want money ; my money's better than his. I will give you 
 more than two thousand ..." 
 
 " But what for ? what for ? damn it ail ! " I stamped my 
 foot. He bent towards me and brought out impressively : 
 
 '* For you not to hinder." 
 
 " But I'm not interfering as it is," I shouted. 
 
 ** I know that you are holding your tongue, that's excellent." 
 
 " I don't want your approbation. For my part I am very 
 anxious for it myself, but I consider it's not my business, and in 
 fact that it would be unseemly for me to meddle." 
 
 " There, you see, you see, unseemly ! " he held up his finger. 
 
 " What do you see ? " 
 
 " Unseemly . . . Ha ! " and he suddenly laughed. " I under- 
 stand, I understand, that it would be unseemly of you, but . . . 
 you won't interfere ? " he winked ; but in that wink there was 
 something so insolent, so iow and even jeering : evidently he was 
 assuming some meanness on my part and was reckoning upon it ; 
 that was clear, but I hadn't a notion what was meant. 
 
 230
 
 " Anna Anclreyevna is your sister, too," he pronounced 
 insinuatingly. 
 
 " Don't you dare to speak of that. And in fact don't dare 
 to speak of Anna Andreyevna at all." 
 
 " Don't be too proud, only one more minute ! Listen ! he 
 will get the money and provide for every one," Stebelkov said 
 impressively, " every one, every one, you follow ? " 
 
 " So you think I'll take money from him ? " 
 
 " You are taking it now." 
 
 " I am taking my own." 
 
 " How is it your own ? " 
 
 *' It's Versilov's money, he owes Versilov twenty thousand." 
 
 " Versilov then, not you." 
 
 " Versilov is my father." 
 
 " No, you are a Dolgoruky, not a Versilov." 
 
 " It's all the same." Yes, indeed, I was able to argue like that 
 then ! I knew it was not the same, I was not so stupid ae all 
 that, but again it was from " delicacy " that I reasoned so. 
 
 " Enough ! " I cried. " I can't make out what you are talking 
 about, and how dare you ask me to come for such nonsense." 
 
 " Can you really not understand ? Is it on purpose or not ? " 
 Stebelkov brought out slowly, looking at me with a penetrating 
 and incredulous smile. 
 
 " I swear I don't understand." 
 
 " I tell you he'll be able to provide for every one, every one ; 
 you've only not to interfere, and don't try to persuade him," 
 
 " You must have gone out of your mind. Why do you keep 
 trotting out that * every one.' Do you mean he'll provide for 
 Versilov ? " 
 
 " You're not the only one, nor Versilov either . . . there is 
 some one else, too, and Anna Andreyevna is just as much your 
 sister cw Lizaveta Makarovna ! " 
 
 I gazed at him open-eyed. There was a sudden glimpse of 
 something like compassion for me in his loathsome eyes : 
 
 " You don't understand, so much the better ! That's good, 
 very good, that you don't understand. It's very laudable . . . 
 if you really don't understand." 
 
 I was absolutely furious. 
 
 " Go to hell with your silly nonsense, you madman ! " I shouted, 
 taking up my hat. 
 
 " It's not silly nonsense ! So you are going, but you'll come 
 again, you know." 
 
 231
 
 " No," I rapped out in the doorway. 
 
 " You'll come, and then we shall have another talk. That 
 will be the real talk. Two thousand, remember 1 " 
 
 He made such a filthy and confused impression on me, that 
 when I got out I tried not to think of it at all, but dismissed it 
 with a curse. The idea that Prince Sergay was capable of talking 
 to him of me and of that money stabbed me like a pin. " I'll 
 win and pay him back to-day," I thought resolutely. Stupid 
 and inarticulate as Stebelkov was, I had seen the full-blown 
 scoundrel in all his glory. And what mattered most to me, it was 
 impossible to avoid intrigue in this business. Only I had not the 
 time just then to go into any sort of intrigues, and that may have 
 been the chief reason why I was as blind as a hen ! I looked 
 anxiously at my watch, but it was not yet two o'clock ; so it was 
 still possible to pay a call ; otherwise I should have been worn 
 out with excitement before three o'clock. I went to Anna 
 Andreyevna Versilov, my sister. I had got to know her some 
 time before at my old prince's, during his illness. He thought 
 that I had not seen him for three or four days fretted my con- 
 science, but I was reckoning on Anna Andreyevna : the old 
 prince had become extremely attached to her of late, and even 
 spoke of her to me as his guardian angel. And by the way, the 
 idea of marrying her to Prince Sergay really had occurred to the 
 old prince, and he had even expressed it more than once to me, 
 in secret of course. I had mentioned this suggestion to Versilov, 
 for I had noticed that though he was so indifferent to all the 
 practical affairs of life, he seemed particularly interested when- 
 ever I told him of my meeting Anna Andreyevna. \Vhen I 
 mentioned the old prince's idea, Versilov muttered that Anna 
 Andreyevna had plenty of sense, and was quite capable of getting 
 out of a delicate position without the advice of outsiders. Stebel- 
 kov was right, of coiirse, in saying that the old man meant to give 
 her a dowry, but how could he dare to reckon on getting anjrthing 
 out of it ! Prince Sergay had shouted after him that morning 
 that he was not in the least afraid of him : surely Stebelkov had 
 not actually spoken to him of Anna Andreyevna in the study ? 
 I could fancy how furious I should have been in Prince Sergay's 
 place. 
 
 232
 
 I had been to see Anna Andreyevna pretty often of late. 
 But there was one queer thing about my visits : it always 
 happened that she arranged for me to come, and certainly ex- 
 pected me, but when I went in she always made a pretence of my 
 having come unexpectedly and by chance ; I noticed this 
 peculiarity in her, but I became much attached to her neverthe- 
 less. She lived with Mme. Fanariotov, her grandmother, as an 
 adopted child, of course ( Versilov had never contributed anything 
 for her keep), but she was very far from being in the position 
 in which the protegees of illustric us ladies are usually described as 
 being ; for instance, the one in the house of the old countess, in 
 Pushkin's " Queen of Spades." 
 
 Anna Andreyevna was more in the position of the coimtess 
 herself. She lived quite independently in the house, that is to 
 say, though on the same storey and in the same flat as the 
 Fanariotovs she had two rooms completely apart, so that I, 
 for instance, never once met any of the family as I went in or 
 came out. She was free to receive any visitors she liked, and to 
 employ her time as she chose. It is true that she was in her 
 twenty-third year. She had almost given up going out into 
 society of late, though Mme. Fanariotov spared no expense for 
 her granddaughter, of whom I was told she was very fond. 
 Yet what I particularly liked about Anna Andreyevna was that I 
 always foimd her so quietly dressed and always occupied with 
 something, a book or needlework. There was something of the 
 convent, even of the n\m about her, and I liked it very much. 
 She was not very talkative, but she always spoke with judgment 
 and knew how to listen, which I never did. When I told her that 
 she reminded me of Versilov, though the^ had not a feature in 
 common, she always flushed a little. She often blushed and 
 always quickly, invariably with a faint flush, and I particularly 
 liked this peculiarity in her face. In her presence I never spoke 
 of Versilov by his surname, but alwaj^s called him Andrey 
 Petrovitch, and this had somehow come to pass of itself. I 
 gathered indeed that the Fanariotovs must have been ashamed 
 of Versilov, though indeed I only drew this conclusion from 
 Anna Andreyevna, and again I'm not sure that the word 
 " ashamed " is appropriate in this connection ; but there was 
 some feeling of that sort. I talked to her too about Prince 
 Sergay, and she listened eagerly, and was, I fancy, interested in 
 what I told her of him ; but it somehow happened that I always 
 spoke of him of my own accord, and she never questioned me 
 
 233
 
 about him. Of the possibility of a marriage between them I had 
 never dared to speak, though I often felt inclined to, for the idea 
 was not without attraction for me. But there were very many 
 things of which, in her room, I could not have ventured to speak, 
 yet on the other hand I felt very much at home there. Another 
 thing I liked was that she was so well educated, and had read so 
 much — real books too ; she had read far more than I had. 
 
 She had in\'ited me the first time of her own accord. 1 realized 
 even at the time that she might be reckoning on getting some 
 information out of me at one time or another. Oh, lots of people 
 were able to get information of all sorts out of me in those days ! 
 " But what of it," I thought, " it's not only for that that she's 
 asking me." In fact I was positively glad to think I might be 
 of use to her . . . and when I sat with her I always felt that 
 I had a sister sitting beside me, though we never once spoke 
 of our relationship by so much as a word or a hint, but behaved 
 as though it did not exist at all. When I was with her it was 
 absolutely unthinkable to speak of it, and indeed looking at her 
 I Avas struck with the absurd notion that she might perhaps 
 know nothing of our relationship — so Completely did she ignore 
 it in her manner to me. 
 
 When I went in I found Liza with her. This almost astonished 
 me. I knew very well that they had seen each other before ; 
 they had met over the '' baby." I will perhaps later on, if I have 
 space, tell Ьолу Anna Andreyevna, always so proud andso delicate, 
 was possessed by the fantastic desire to see that baby, and how 
 she had there met Liza. But yet I had not expected that Anna 
 Andreyevna would ever have invited Liza to come to see her. 
 It was a pleasant surprise to me. Giving no sign of this, of coiu-se, 
 I greeted Anna Andreyevna, and warmly pressing Liza's hand 
 sat down beside her. Both were busily occupied : spread out 
 on the table and on their knees was an evening dress of Anna 
 Andreyevna's, expensive but " old," that is, worn three times ; 
 and Anna Andreyevna wanted to alter it. Liza was " a master- 
 hand " at such work, and had real taste, and so a " solemn council 
 of wise women " was being held. I recalled Versilov's words and 
 laughed ; and indeed I was in a radiantly happy state of mind. 
 *' You are in very good spirits to-day and that's very pleasant," 
 observed Anna Andreyevna, uttering her words gravely and 
 
 234
 
 distinctly. Her voice was a rich mellow contralto, and she always 
 spoke quietly and gently, with a droop of her long eyelashes, and 
 a faint smile on her pale face, 
 
 " Liza knows how disagreeable I am when I am not in good 
 spirits," I answered gaily. 
 
 " Perhaps Anna Andreyevna knows that too," mischievous 
 Liza gibed at me. My darUng 1 If I had known what was on 
 her mind at that time ! 
 
 " What are you doing now 1 " asked Anna Andreyevna. (I 
 may remark that she had asked me to come and see her that day.) 
 
 " I am sitting here wondering why I always prefer to find 
 you reading rather than with needlework. Yes, really needle- 
 work doesn't suit you, somehow. I agree with Andrey Petrovitch 
 about that." 
 
 " You have still not made up your miad to enter the university, 
 then ? " 
 
 " I am very grateful to you for not having forgotten our 
 conversation : it shows you think of me sometimes, but . . 
 about the university my ideas axe not quite definite . . . besides, 
 I have plans of my own." 
 
 " That means he has a secret," observed Liza. 
 
 " Leave off joking, Liza. Some clever person said the other 
 day that by our progressive movement of the last twenty years, 
 we had proved above everything that we are filthily uneducated. 
 That was meant for ош: university men, too." 
 
 " No doubt father said that," remarked Liza, " you very often 
 repeat his ideas." 
 
 " Liza, you seem to think I've no mind of my own." 
 
 " In these days it's a good thing to listen to inteihgent men, 
 and repeat their words," said Anna Andreyevna, taking my part 
 a little. 
 
 " Just so, Anna Andreyevna," I assented warmly. " The man 
 who doesn't think of the position of Russia to-day is no patriot ! 
 I look at Russia perhaps from a strange point of view : we lived 
 through the Tatar invasion, and afterwards two centuries of 
 slavery, no doubt because they both suited oiu: tastes. Now 
 freedom has been given us, and we have to put up with freedom : 
 shall we know how to ? Will freedom, too, turn out to suit our 
 taste ? That's the question." 
 
 Liza glanced quickly at Anna Andreyevna, and the latter 
 immediately cast down her eyes and began looking about for 
 something ; I saw that Liza was doing her utmost to «control 
 
 235
 
 herself but all at once our eyes chanced to meet, and she burst 
 into a fit of laughter ; I flared up. 
 
 " Liza, you are insupportable ! " 
 
 " Forgive me ! " she said suddenly, leaving off laughing and 
 speaking almost sadly. " Goodness knows what I can be think- 
 ing about . . ." 
 
 And there was a tremor almost as of tears in her voice. I felt 
 horribly ashamed ; I took her hand and kissed it warmly. 
 
 " You are very good," Anna Andreyevna said softly, seeing 
 me kiss Liza's hand. 
 
 " I am awfully glad that I have foimd you laughing this time, 
 Liza," I said. " Would you believe it, Anna Andreyevna, every 
 time I have met her lately she has greeted me with a strange 
 look, and that look seemed to ask, ' has he found out something 1 
 is everything all right ? ' Really, there has been something like 
 that about her." 
 
 Anna Andreyevna looked keenly and deliberately at her. 
 Liza dropped her eyes. I could see very clearly, however, that 
 they were on much closer and more intimate terms than I could 
 have possibly imagined ; the thought was pleasant. 
 
 " You told me just now that I am good ; you would not 
 believe, Anna Andreyevna, how much I change for the better 
 when I'm with you, and how much I like being with you," I said 
 with warmth. 
 
 " I am awfiilly glad that you say that just now," she answered 
 with peculiar significance. I must mention that she never spoke 
 to me of the reckless way I was Uving, and the depths to which 
 I was sinking, although (I knew it) she was not only aware of all 
 this, but even made inquiries about it indirectly. 
 
 So that this now was something like the first hint on the 
 subject, and my heart turned to her more warmly than ever. 
 
 " How is our patient 1 " I asked. 
 
 " Oh, he is much better ; he is up, and he went for a drive 
 yesterday and again to-day. You don't mean to say you 
 have not been to see him to-day ? He is eagerly expecting 
 you." 
 
 " I have behaved very badly to him, but now you're looking 
 after him, and have quite taken my place ; he is a gay deceiver, 
 and has thrown me over for you." 
 
 A serious look came into her face, very possibly becau.se my 
 tone was rather too flippant. 
 
 " I have just been at Prince Scrgaj^'s," I muttered, " and I 
 
 236
 
 ... by the way, Liza, you went to see Darya Onisimovna this 
 morning, didn't you ? " 
 
 " Yes," she answered briefly, without raising her head. " But 
 you do go to see the invalid every day, I beUeve, don't you ? " 
 she asked suddenly, probably in order to say something. 
 
 " Yes, I go to see him, but I don't get there," I said laughing. 
 " I go in and turn to the left." 
 
 " Even the prince has noticed that you go to see Katerina 
 Nikolaevna very often. He was speaking of it yesterday and 
 laughing," said Anna Andreyevna. 
 
 " What, what did he laugh at ? " 
 
 " He was joking, you know his way. He said that, on the 
 contrary, the only impression that a young and beautiful 
 woman makes on a yoxmg man of your age is one of anger and 
 indignation," Anne Andreyevna broke into sudden laughter. 
 
 " Listen . . . that was a very shrewd saying of his," I cried. 
 " Most likely it was not he said it, but you said it to him." 
 
 " Why so ? No, it was he said it." 
 
 " Well, but suppose the beautiful lady takes notice of him, 
 in spite of his being so insignificant, of his standing in the corner 
 and fuming at the thought that he is ' only a boy ' ; suppose she 
 suddenly prefers him to the whole crowd of admirers smrounding 
 her, what then ? " I asked with a bold and defiant air. My head 
 was throbbing. 
 
 " Then you are completely done for," laughed Liza. 
 
 " Done for," I cried. " No, I'm not done for. I believe that's 
 false. If a woman stands across my path she must follow me. I 
 am not going to be turned aside from my path with impunity. . . ." 
 
 I remember Liza once happened to mention long afterwards 
 that I pronounced this phrase very strangely, earnestly, and аз 
 though reflecting deeply : and at the same time it was " so absurd, 
 it was impossible to keep from laughing " ; Anna Andreyevna did, 
 in fact, laugh again. 
 
 " Laugh at me, laugh алуау," I cried in exultation, for I was 
 dehghted with the whole conversation and the tone of it ; " from 
 you it's a pleasure to me. I love your laugh, Anne Andre3^evna 1 
 It's a peculiarity of yours to keep perfectly quiet, and then 
 suddenly laugh, all in one minute, so that an instant before one 
 could not guess what was coming from your face. I used to know 
 a lady in Moscow, I used to sit in a corner and watch her from a 
 distance. She was almost as handsome as you are, but she did 
 not know how to laugh like you ; her face was as attractive аз 
 
 237
 
 yours, but it lost all its attractiveness when she laughed ; what's 
 so particularly attractive in you ... is just that faculty. . . . 
 I have been meaning to tell you so for a long time." 
 
 When I said of this Moscow lady that " she was as handsome 
 as you " I was not quite ingenuous. I pretended that the 
 phrase had dropped from me unawares, without my noticing it : 
 I knew very well that such " unconscious " praise is more highly 
 valued by a woman than the most polished compliment. And 
 though Anna Andreyevna might flush, I knew that it pleased her. 
 And indeed I invented the lady : I had known no such lady in 
 Moscow ; I had said so simply to compliment Anna Andreyevna, 
 and give her pleasure. 
 
 " One really might imagine," she said with a charming laugh, 
 ** that you had come under the influence of some fair lady during 
 the last few days." 
 
 I felt I was being carried away ... I longed indeed to tell 
 them something . . . but I refrained. 
 
 " By the way, only lately you spoke of Katerina Nikolaevna 
 with very hostile feelings." 
 
 " If I did speak ill of her in any way," I cried with flashing eyes, 
 " what's to blame for it is the monstrous slander — that she is an 
 enemy of Andrey Petrovitch's ; there's a Ubcllous story about him, 
 too, that he was in love with her, made her an offer and other 
 absurdities of the sort. The notion is as grotesque as the 
 other scandalous story, that during her husband's lifetime she 
 promised Prince Sergay to marry him as soon as she should be a 
 widow, and afterwards would not keep her word. But I have it 
 first hand that it was not so at all, and that it was all only a joke. 
 I know it first hand. She did, in fact, when she was abroad, say 
 to him in a playful moment : ' Perhaps in the future ' ; but what 
 did that amount to beyond an idle word ? I know very well 
 that the prince on his side can attach no sort of consequence 
 to such a promise ; and indeed he has no intention of doing so," 
 I added on second thoughts. " I fancy he has very different ideas 
 in his head," I put in slily. " Nastchokin said this morning at 
 Prince Sergay's that Katerina Nikolaevna was to be married to 
 Baron Biiring. I assure you he received the news with the 
 greatest equanimity, you can take my word for it." 
 
 " Has Nastchokin been at Prince Sergay's ? " Anna Andreyevna 
 asked with grave emphasis, apparently surprised. 
 
 " Oh yes ; he seems to be one of those highly respectable 
 people . . ." 
 
 238
 
 " And did Nastchokin speak to him of this match with Buring ? " 
 asked Anna Andreyevna, showing sudden interest. 
 
 " Not of the match, but of the possibility of one — he spoke of 
 it as a rumour ; he said there was such a rumour going the round 
 of the drawing-rooms : for my part I am certain it's nonsense." 
 
 Anna Andreyevna pondered a moment and bent over her 
 sewing. 
 
 " I love Prince Sergay," I added suddenly with warmth. 
 " He has his failings, no doubt ; I have told you so already, 
 especially a certain tendency to be obsessed by one idea . . . 
 and, indeed, his faults are a proof of the generosity of his heart, 
 aren't they ? But we almost had a quarrel with him to-day 
 about an idea ; it's his conviction that one must be honourable 
 if one talks of what's honourable, if not, all that you say is a lie. 
 Now, is that logical ? Yet it shows the high standard of honesty, 
 duty, and truth in his soul, doesn't it ? . . . Oh, good heavens, 
 what time is it," I cried, suddenly happening to glance at the 
 clock on the wall. 
 
 " Ten minutes to three," she responded tranquilly, looking at 
 the clock. All the time I had talked of Prince Sergay she listened 
 to me with her eyes cast down, with a rather sly but charming 
 smile : she knew why I was praising him. Liza listened with her 
 head bent over her work. For some time past she had taken no 
 part in the conversation. 
 
 I jumped up as though I were scalded. 
 
 " Are you late for some appointment ? " 
 
 " Yes . . . No ... I am late though, but I am just off. 
 One word only, Anna Andreyevna," I began with feeling ; "I 
 can't help telling you to-day ! I want to confess that I have often 
 blessed your kindness, and the delicacy with which you have 
 invited me to see you. . . . My acquaintance with you has made 
 the strongest impression on me. ... In your room I am, as it 
 were, spiritually purified, and I leave you better than when I 
 came. That's true. When I sit beside you I am not only unable 
 to speak of anything evil, I am incapable even of evil thoughts ; 
 they vanish away in your presence and, if I recall anything evil 
 after seeing you, I feel ashamed of it at once, I am cast down and 
 blush inwardly. And do you know, it pleased me particularly to 
 find my sister with you to-day. . . . It's a proof of your 
 generosity ... of such a fine attitude. ... In one word, you 
 have shown something so sisterly, if I may be allowed to break 
 the ice, to . . ." 
 
 239
 
 As I spoke she got up from her seat, and turned more and more 
 crimson ; but suddenly she seemed in alarm at something, at the 
 overstepping of some line which should not have been crossed, 
 and she quickly interrupted me. 
 
 '* I assure you I appreciate your feelings with all my heart. 
 ... I have understood them without words for a long time 
 past. . . ." 
 
 She paused in confusion, pressing my hand. Liza, unseen 
 by her, suddenly pulled at my sleeve. I said good-bye and went 
 out, but Liza overtook me in the next room. 
 
 " Liza, why did you tug at my sleeve ? " I asked her. 
 
 " She is horrid, she is cunning, she is not worth it. . . . She 
 keeps hold of you to get something out of you," she murmmred 
 in a rapid, angry whisper. I had never before seen such a look 
 on her face. 
 
 " For goodness' sake, Liza ! she is such a delightful girl ! " 
 
 " Well, then, I'm horrid." 
 
 " \Vhat's the matter with you ? " 
 
 " I am very nasty. She may be the most delightful girl, and 
 I am nasty. That's enough, let me alone. Listen : mother 
 implores you about something ' of which she does not dare to 
 speak,' so she said, Arkady darling ! Give up gambling, dear 
 one, I entreat you . . . and so does mother. . . ." 
 
 " Liza, I know, but ... I know that it's pitiful cowardice, 
 but . . . but it's all of no consequence, really ! You see I've 
 got into debt like a fool, and I want to win simply to pay it off. 
 I can win, for til] now I've been playing at random, for the fun 
 of the thing, like a fool, but now I shall tremble over every rouble. 
 ... It won't be me if I don't win ! I have not got a passion 
 for it ; it's not important, it's simply a passing thing ; I assure you 
 I am too strong to be unable to stop when 1 like. I'll pay back 
 the money and then I shall be altogether yours, and tell mother 
 that I shall stay with you always. . . .** 
 
 " That three hundred roubles cost you something this 
 morning ! " 
 
 " How do you know ? " I asked, startled. 
 
 " Darya Onisimovna heard it all this morning . . .*" 
 
 But at that moment Liza pushed me behind the спгслш, and 
 
 240
 
 we found ourselves in the so-called " lantern," that is a little 
 circular room with windows all round it. Before I knew 
 where we were I caught the sound of a voice I knew, and the 
 clang of spurs, and recognized a famihar footstep. 
 
 " Prince Sergay," I whispered. 
 
 " Yes," she whispered. 
 
 " Why are you so frightened ? " 
 
 " It's nothing ; I don't want him to meet me." 
 
 *' Tiens, you don't mean to say he's trying to flirt with you ? " 
 I said smiling. " I'd give it to him if he did. Where are you 
 going ? " 
 
 " Let us go, I will come with you." 
 
 " Have you said good-bye ? " 
 
 " Yes, my coat's in the hall." 
 
 We went out ; on the stairs I was struck by an idea. 
 
 " Do you know, Liza, he may have come to make her an 
 offer ! " 
 
 " N-n-no ... he won't make her an offer . . ." she said 
 firmly and deliberately, in a low voice. 
 
 " You don't know, Liza, though I quarrelled with him this 
 morning — since you've been told of it already — yet on my honour 
 I really love him and wish him success. We made it up this 
 morning. When we are happy we are so good-natured. . . . 
 One sees in him many fine tendencies . . . and he has humane 
 feelings too. . . . The rudiments anyway . . . and in the hands 
 of such a strong and clever girl as Anna Andreyevna, he 
 would rise to her level and be happy. I am sorry I've no time 
 to spare . . . but let us go a little way together, I should like to 
 tell you something. . ,. ." 
 
 " No, you go on, I'm not going that way. Are you coming to 
 dinner ? " 
 
 " I am coming, I am coming as I promised. Listen, Liza, 
 a low brute, a loathsome creatur^ in fact, called Stebelkov, has a 
 strange influence over his doings ... an lOU. ... In short 
 he has him in his power, and he has pressed him so hard, and 
 Prince Sergay has humiliated himself so far that neither of them 
 see any way out of it except an offer to Anna Andreyevna. And 
 really she ought to be warned, though that's nonsense ; she will 
 set it all to rights later. But what do you think, will she refuse 
 him ? " 
 
 " Gocd-bye, I am late," Liza muttered, and in the" momentarj- 
 look on her face I saw such hatred that I cried out in horror : 
 
 241
 
 " Liza, darling, what is it ? " 
 
 " I am not angry with you ; only don't gamble. . . ." 
 
 " Oh, you are talking of that ; I'm not going to." 
 
 " You said just now : * when we are happy.' Are you very 
 happy then ? " 
 
 " Awfully, Liia, awfully ! Good heavens, why it's past three 
 o'clock ! . . . Good-bye, Liza. Lizotchka darling, tell me : 
 can one keep a woman waiting ? Isn't it inexcusable ? " 
 
 " Waiting to meet you, do you mean ? " said Liza faintly 
 smiling, with a sort of lifeless, trembling smile. 
 
 " Give me your hand for luck." 
 
 " For luck ? my hand ? I won't, not for anything.'* 
 
 She walked away quickly. And she had exclaimed it so 
 earnestly ! I jumped into my sledge. 
 
 Yes, yes, this was " happiness," and it was the chief reason why 
 I was as blind as a mole, and had no eyes or understanding, except 
 for myself. 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 Now I am really afraid to tell my story. It all happened long 
 ago ; and it is all like a mirage to me now. How could such a 
 woman possibly have arranged a rendezvous with such a con- 
 temptible urchin as I was then ? Yet so it seemed at first sight ! 
 When, leaving Liza, I raced along with my heart throbbing, I 
 really thought that I had gone out of my mind : the idea that 
 she had granted me this interview suddenly appeared to me such 
 an obvious absurdity, that it was impossible for me to believe 
 in it. And yet I had not the faintest doubt of it ; the more 
 obviously absurd it seemed, the more impUcitly I beUeved in it. 
 The fact that it had already struck three troubled me : " If 
 an interview has been granted me, how can I possibly be late 
 for it," I thought. Foolish questions crossed my mind, too, 
 such as : " Which was my better course now, boldness or 
 timidity ? " But all this only flashed through my mind because 
 I had something of real value in my heart, which I could not have 
 defined. What had been said the evening before was this : 
 *' To-morrow at three o'clock I shall be at Tatyana Pavlovna's," 
 that was all. But in the first place, she always received me alone 
 
 242
 
 in her own room, and she could have said anything she liked to 
 me there, without going to Tatyana Pavlovna's for the purpose ; 
 so why have appointed another place of meeting ? And another 
 question was : would Tatyana Pavlovna be at home or not ? 
 If it were a tryst then Tatyana Pavlovna would not be at home. 
 And how could this have been arranged without telling Tatyana 
 Pavlovna beforehand ? Then was Tatyana Pavlovna in the 
 secret ? This idea seemed to me wild, and in a way indelicate, 
 almost coarse. 
 
 And, in fact, she might simply have been going to see Tatyana 
 Pavlovna, and have mentioned the fact to me the previous 
 evening with no object in view, but I had misunderstood her. 
 And, indeed, it had been said so casually, so quickly, and after a 
 very tedious visit. I was for some reason overcome with stupidity 
 the whole evening : I sat and mumbled, and did not know Avhat 
 to say, raged inwardly, and was horribly shy, and she was 
 going out somewhere, as I learnt later, and was evidently 
 relieved when I got up to go. All these reflections surged into 
 my mind. I made up my mind at last that when I arrived I 
 would ring the bell. " The cook will open the door," I thought, 
 "and I shall ask whether Tatyana Pavlovna is at home. 
 If she is not then it's a tryst." But I had no doubt of it, no 
 doubt of it ! 
 
 I ran up the stairs and when I was at the door all my fears 
 vanished. " Come what may," I thought, " if only it's quickly ! " 
 The cook.opened the door and with revolting apathy snuffled out 
 that Tatyana Pavlovna was not at home. " But isn't there 
 some one else ? Isn't there some one waiting for her ? " I wanted 
 to ask, but I did not ask, " I'd better see for myself," and 
 muttering to the cook that I would wait, I took off my fur coat 
 and opened the door. . . . 
 
 Katerina Nikolaevna was sitting at the window " waiting for 
 Tatyana Pavlovna." 
 
 " Isn't she at home 1 " she suddenly asked me, in a tone of 
 anxiety and annoyance as soon as she saw me. And her face 
 and her voice were so utterly incongruous with what I had 
 expected that I came to a full stop in the doorway. 
 
 " Who's not at home ? " I muttered. 
 
 " Tatyana Pavlovna ! Why, I asked you yesterday to teil 
 her that I would be with her at three o'clock." 
 
 " I ... I have not seen her at all." 
 
 *' Did you forget ? " 
 
 243
 
 I sat completely overwhelmed. So this was all it meant ! 
 iVnd the worst of it was it was all as clear as twice two makes 
 four, and I — I had all this while persisted in believing it. 
 
 " I don't remember your asking me to tell her. And in fact 
 you didn't ask me : you simply said you would be here at three 
 o'clock," I burst out impatiently, I did not look at her. 
 
 " Oh ! " she cried suddenly ; " but if you forgot to tell her, 
 though you knew I should be here, what has brought you here 1 " 
 
 I raised my head ; there was no trace of mockery or anger in 
 her face, there was only her bright, gay smile, and a look more 
 mischievous than usual. Though, indeed, her face always had 
 an expression of almost childish mischief. 
 
 " There, you see I've caught you ; well, what are you going to 
 say now ? " her whole face seemed to be saying. 
 
 I did not want to answer and looked down again. The silence 
 lasted half a minute. 
 
 " Have you just come from papa 1 " she asked. 
 
 " I have come from Anna Andre ye vna's, I haven't been to 
 see Prince Nikolay Ivanitch at all . . . and you know that," 
 I added suddenly. 
 
 " Did anything happen to you at Anna Andreyevna's ? " 
 
 " You mean that I look as though I were crazy ? But I looked 
 crazy before I went to Anna Andreyevna." 
 
 " And you didn't recover your wits there ? " 
 
 " No, I didn't. And what's more I heard that you were going 
 to marry Baron Buring." 
 
 " Did she tell you that ? " she asked with sudden interest. 
 
 " No, it was I told her ; I heard Nastchokin tell Prince Sergay 
 3o this morning." 
 
 I still kept my eyes cast down and did not look at her ; to 
 look at her meant to be flooded with radiance, joy, and happiness, 
 and I did not want to be happy. Indignation had stung me to 
 the heart, and in one instant I had taken a tremendous resolution. 
 Then I began to speak, I hardly knew what about. I was breath- 
 less, and spoke indistinctly, but I looked at her boldly. My heart 
 was throbbing. I began talking of something quite irrelevant, 
 though perhaps not incoherently. At first she listened with a 
 serene, patient smile, which never left her face, but httle by little 
 ftigns of surprise and then of alarm passed over her countenance. 
 The smile still persisted, but from time to time it seemed tremu- 
 lous. " What's the matter 1 " I asked her, noticing that she 
 shuddered all over. 
 
 244
 
 " I am afraid of you," she answered, almost in trepidation. 
 
 "Why don't you go away ?"Isaid. "AsTatyanaPavlovnaisnot 
 at home, and you know she won't be, you ought to get up and go." 
 
 " I meant to wait for her, but now . . . really. . . ." 
 
 She made a movement to get up. 
 
 " No, no, sit doA\-n," I said, stopping her ; " there, you shuddered 
 again, but you smile even when you're frightened, . . . You 
 always have a smile. There, now you are smiling all over. . . ." 
 
 " You are raving." 
 
 " Yes, I am." 
 
 " I am frightened . . ." she whispered again. 
 
 " Frightened of what ? " 
 
 " That you'll begin Icnocking down the walls . . ." she smiled 
 again, though she really was scared. 
 
 " I can't endm-e your smile . . . ! " 
 
 And I talked away again. I plunged headlong. It was as 
 though something had given me a shove. I had never, never 
 talked to her like that, I had always been shy. I was fearfully 
 shy now, but I talked ; I remember I talked about her face. 
 
 *' I can't endure your smile any longer ! " I cried suddenly. 
 "Why did I even in Moscow picture you as menacing, magnificent, 
 using venomous drawing-room phrases ? Yes, even before I 
 left Moscow, I used to talk with Marie Ivanovna about you, 
 and imagined what you must be like. . . . Do you remember 
 Marie Ivanovna ? You've been in her house. When I was coming 
 here I dreamed of you all night in the train. For a whole month 
 before you came I gazed at yoiu- portrait, in your father's study, 
 and could make nothing of it. The expression of your face is 
 childish mischief and bomidless good-nature — there ! I have been 
 marvelling at it all the time I've been coming to see you. Oh, 
 and you know how to look haughty and to crush one with a 
 glance. I remember ho\v you looked at me at your father's 
 that day when you had arrived from Moscow . . . I saw you then, 
 but if you were to ask me how I went out of the room or what 
 you were like, I could not tell you — I could not even have told 
 whether you were tall or short. As soon as I saw you I was 
 blinded. Your portrait is not in the least like you : your eyes 
 are not dark, but light, it's only the long eyelashes that make 
 them look dark. You are plump, you are neither tall nor short, 
 you have a buxom fulbicss, the light full figure of a healthy 
 peasant girl. And your face is quite countrified, too, it's the 
 face of a village beauty — don't be offended. \\'hy, it's fine, it's 
 
 245
 
 better so — a round, rosy, clear, bold, laughing, and . . . bashful 
 face ! Really, bashful. Bashful ! of Katerina Nikolaevna 
 Ahmakov ! Bashful and chaste, I swear ! More than chaste — 
 childlike ! — that's your face ! I have been astounded by it all 
 this time, and have been asljing myself, is the woman so, too 1 
 I know now that you are very clever, but do you know, at first 
 I thought you were a simpleton ? You have a bright and lively 
 mind, but without embellishments of any sort. . . . Another 
 thing I like is that your smile never deserts you ; that's my 
 paradise ! I love your calmness, too, your quietness, and your 
 uttering your words so smoothly, so calmly and almost lazily, 
 it's just that laziness I like, I believe if a bridge were to break 
 down imder you, you would say something in a smooth and 
 even voice. ... I imagined you as the acme of pride and 
 passion, and for the last two months you've been talking to me 
 as one student talks to another. I never imagined that you had 
 such a brow ; it's rather low, like the foreheads of statues, but 
 soft and as white as marble, imder your glorious hair. Your 
 bosom is high, your movements are light. You are extraordinarily 
 beautiful, but there's no pride about you. It's only now I've 
 come to believe it, I've disbelieved in it all this time ! " 
 
 She listened to this wild tirade with large wide-open eyes, she 
 saw that I was trembling. Several times she lifted her gloved 
 hand with a charming apprehensive gesture to stop me, but every 
 time she drew it back in dismay and perplexity. Sometimes she 
 even stepped back a little. Two or three times the smile lighted 
 up her face again ; at one time she flushed very red, but in the 
 end was really frightened and turned pale. As soon as I stopped 
 she held out her hand, and in a voice that was still even, though 
 it had a note of entreaty, said : 
 
 " You must not say that . . . you can't talk like that. . . ." 
 And suddenly she got up from her place, deliberately gathering 
 up her scarf and sable muff. 
 " Are you going 1 " I cried. 
 
 " I'm really afraid of you . . . you are abusing . . ." she 
 
 articulated slowly and as it were with compassion and reproach. 
 
 " Listen, on my honour I won't knock down the walls." 
 
 " But you've begun already," she could not refrain from 
 
 smiling. " I don't even know if you will allow me to pass." 
 
 And she seemed to be actually afraid I would not let her go. 
 
 " I will open the door myself, but let me tell you I've taken a 
 tremendous resolution ; and if you care to give light to my soul, 
 
 246
 
 come back, sit down, and listen to just two words. But if you 
 won't, then go away, and I will open the door to you myself ! " 
 
 She looked at me and sat down again. 
 
 " Some women would have gone out with a show of indigna- 
 tion, but you sit down ! " I cried in exaltation. 
 
 *' You have never allowed yourself to talk like this before." 
 
 *' I was always afraid before, I came in now not knoAving what 
 I should say. You imagine I'm not afraid now : I am. But I've 
 just taken a tremendous resolution, and I feel I shall carry it 
 out. And as soon as I took that resolution I went out of my 
 mind and began saying all this. . . . Listen, this is what I have 
 to say, am I your spy or not ? Answer me that question ! " 
 
 The colour rushed into her face. 
 
 " Don't answer yet, Katerina Nikolaevna, but listen to every 
 thing and then tell the whole truth." 
 
 I had broken down all barriers at once and plunged headlong 
 into space. 
 
 " Two months ago I was standing here behind the CTU*tain, . . . 
 you know . . . and you talked to Tatyana Pavlovna about the 
 letter. I rushed out, and beside myself, I bliirted out the truth. 
 You saw at once that I knew something . . . you could not 
 help seeing it . . . you were trying to find an important docu- 
 ment, and were uneasy about it. . . Wait a bit, Katerina 
 Nikolaevna, don't speak yet. I must tell you that your sus- 
 picion was well founded : that document does exist . . . that is 
 to say it did. ... I have seen it — ^your letter to Andronikov, 
 that's it, isn't it ? " 
 
 " You've seen that letter ? " she asked quickly, in embarrass- 
 ment and agitation. " When did you see it ? " 
 
 " I saw it ... I saw it at Kraft's . . . you know, the man 
 that shot himself. . . ." 
 
 " Really 1 You saw it yourself 1 What became of it ? " 
 
 " Kraft tore it up." 
 
 " In your presence, did you see him ? " 
 
 " Yes, he tore it up, probably because he was going to die, . . . 
 I did not know then, of course, that he was going to shoot him- 
 self. . . ." 
 
 " So it has been destroyed, thank God 1 " she commented 
 slowly with a deep sigh, and she crossed herself. 
 
 247
 
 I was not lying to her, that is to say I was ]ying because the 
 letter in question was in my hands and had never been in Kraft's, 
 but that was a mere detail ; in what really mattered I did not 
 lie, because at the instant I told the He I nerved myself to bum 
 the letter that very evening. I swear that if it had been in 
 my pocket that moment I would have taken it out and given it 
 her ; but I hadn't it with me, it was at my lodging. Perhaps 
 though I should not have given it her because I should have felt 
 horribly ashamed to confess to her then that I had it, and had 
 been keeping it and waiting so long before I gave it back. It 
 made no difference, I should have burnt it at home in any case, and 
 I was not lying ! I swear that at that moment my heart was pure. 
 
 " And since that's how it is," I went on, almo^:t beside myself, 
 " tell me, have you been attracting me, have you been welcoming 
 me in уош: drawing-room because you suspected that I knew of 
 the letter 1 Stay, Katerina Nikolaevna, one minute more, 
 don't speak, but let me finish : all the time I've been coming to 
 see you, all this time I've been suspecting that it was only 
 because of that that you made much of me, to get 1 hat letter out 
 of me, to lead me on to telling you about it. . . . Wait one more 
 minute : I suspected it, but I suffered. Your dupUcity was more 
 tiian I could bear, for I found you a noble creature ! I tell you 
 plainly ; I was your enemy, but I found you a noble creature ! 
 I was utterly vanquished. But yoiu* duplicity, that is the sus- 
 picion of your duplicity, was anguish. . . . Now everything must 
 be settled, everything must be explained, the time has come for 
 it ; but v/ait yet a little longer, don't speak, let me tell you how 
 I look at it myself, just now at this moment ; I tell you plainly, 
 if it has been so I don't resent it . . . that is, I mean, I'm not 
 offended, for it's so natural ; I understand, you see. What is 
 there unnatural or wrong about it ? You were worried about a 
 letter, you suspected that So-and-so knew all about it; well, 
 you might very naturally desire So-and-so to speak out. . . . 
 There's no harm in that, none at all. I am speaking sincerely. 
 Yet now you must tell me something . . . you must confess 
 (forgive the word), I must have the truth. I want it for a reason ! 
 And so tell me, why did you make much of me ? Was it to get 
 that letter out of me . , . Katerina Nikolaevna? " 
 
 I spoke as though I were falling from a height, and my forehead 
 was burning. She was listening to me now without apprehen- 
 sion; on the contrary, her face was full of feeling ; but she looked 
 somehow abashed, as though she were ashamed. 
 
 248
 
 " Ifc was for that," she said slowly and in a low voice. " For- 
 give me, I did wrong," she added suddenly, with a faint move- 
 ment of her hands towards me. I had never expected this, 
 had expected anything rather that those two words — even from 
 her whom I knew already. 
 
 " And you tell me you did wrong ! so simply : • I did wrong,' " 
 I cried. 
 
 " Oh, for a long time I've been feeling that I was not treating 
 you fairly . . . and, indeed, I'm glad to be able to speak of 
 it. . . ." 
 
 " For a long time you've been feeling that ? Why did you 
 not speak of it before ? " 
 
 " Oh, I did not know how to say it," she smiled ; "that is, 
 I should have known how," she smiled again, " but I always 
 felt ashamed . . . because at first it really was only on that 
 account that I * attracted ' you, as you expressed it ; but very 
 soon afterwards I felt disgusted and sick of all this deception, 
 I assure you ! " she added with bitter feehng ; " and of all this 
 troublesome business ! " 
 
 " And why — why couldn't you have asked me then straight- 
 forwardly ? You should have said : ' you know about the letter, 
 why do you pretend ? ' And I should have told you at once, 
 I should have confessed at once ! " 
 
 " Oh, I луаз ... a little afraid of you. I must admit I did 
 not trust you either. And after all, if I dissembled, you did the 
 same," she added with a laugh. 
 
 " Yes, yes, I have been contemptible ! " I cried, overwhelmed. 
 " Oh, you don't know yet the abyss into which I have fallen." 
 
 " An abyss already ! I recognize your style," she smiled 
 softly. "That letter," she added mournfully, " was the saddest 
 and most indiscreet thing I ever did. The consciousness of it 
 was a continual reproach. Moved by circumstances and appre- 
 hension, I had doubts of my dear generous- hearted father. 
 Knowing that that letter might fall . . . into the hands of 
 mahcious people . . . and I had good гемопз for fearing this " 
 (she added hotly), " I trembled that they might use it, might 
 show my father , . . and it might make a tremendous impres- 
 sion on him ... in his condition ... on his health . . . and 
 he might be estranged from me. . . . Yes," she added, looking 
 me candidly in the face, and probably catching some shade 
 in my expression ; " yes, and I was afraid for my future too ; 
 I was afraid that he . . , under the influence of his illness . , . 
 
 249
 
 might deprive me of his favour. . . . That feeling came in too ; 
 no doubt I did him an injustice ; ho is so kind and generous, 
 that no doubt he would have forgiven me. That's all. But I 
 ought not to have treated you as I did," she concluded, again 
 seeming suddenly abashed. " You have made me feel ashamed." 
 
 " No, you have nothing to be ashamed of," I cried. 
 
 " I certainly did reckon ... on your impulsiveness . . . and 
 I recognize it," she brought out, looking down. 
 
 " Katerina Nikolaevna 1 Who forces you to make such 
 confessions to me, tell me that ? " I cried, as though I were drunk. 
 " Wouldn't it have been easy for you to get up, and in the most 
 exquisite phrases to prove to me subtly and as clearly as twice 
 two make four that though it was so, yet it was nothing of the 
 sort — you understand, as people of your world know how to deal 
 with the truth ? I am crude and foolish, you know, I should 
 have believed you at once, I should have believed anything from 
 you, whatever you said ! It would have cost you nothing to 
 behave like that, of course ! You are not really afraid of me, 
 you know ! How could you be so willing to humiliate yourself 
 like this before an impudent puppy, a wretched raw youth ? " 
 
 " In this anyway I've not humiliated myself before you," 
 she enunciated with immense dignity, apparently not under- 
 standing my exclamation. 
 
 " No, indeed, quite the contrary, that's just what I am 
 saying. . . ." 
 
 " Oh, it was so wrong, so thoughtless of me I " she exclaimed, 
 putting her hand to her face, as though to hide it. "I felt ashamed 
 yesterday, that's why I was not myself when I was with you. . . . 
 The fact is," she added," " that circumstances have made it 
 absolutely essential for me at last to find out the truth about that 
 unlucky letter, or else I should have begun to forget about it . . . 
 for I have not let you come to see me simply on account of that," 
 she added suddenly. 
 
 There was a tremor at my heart. 
 
 " Of course not," she went on with a subtle smile, " of course 
 not ! I . . . You very aptly remarked, Arkady Makarovitch, 
 that we have often talked together as one student to another. 
 I assure you I am sometimes very much bored in companj' ; 
 I have felt so particularly since my time abroad and all these 
 family troubles ... I very rarely go anywhere, in fact, and not 
 simply from laziness. I often long to go into the country. 
 There I could read over again my favourite books, which I have 
 
 250
 
 laid aside for so long, and have never been able to bring myself 
 to read again. I have spoken to you of that already. Do you 
 remember, you laughed at my reading the Russian newspapers 
 at the rate of two a day." 
 " I didn't laugh. ..." 
 
 " Of course not, for you, too, were excited over them, and I 
 confessed, too, long ago, that I am Russian, and love Russia. 
 You remember we always read ' facts * as you called them " 
 (she smiled). " Though you are at times somewhat . . . strange, 
 yet sometimes you grew so eager and would say such good things, 
 and you were interested Justin what I was interested in. When 
 you are a ' student * you are charming and original. Nothing else 
 suits you so well," she added, with a Sly and charming smile. 
 *' Do you remember we sometimes talked for hours about nothing 
 but figures, reckoned and compared, and took trouble to find 
 out how many schools there are in Russia, and in what direction 
 progress is being made ? We reckoned up the murders and 
 serious crimes and set them off against the cheering items. . . . 
 We wanted to find out in what direction we were moving, and 
 what would happen to us in the end. In you I found sincerity. 
 In our world men never talk like that to us, to women. Last 
 week I was talking to Prince X. about Bismarck, for I was very 
 much interested, and could not make up my mind about him, 
 and only fancy, he sat dowTi beside me and began telling me 
 about him very fully, indeed, but always with a sort of irony, 
 and that patronizing condescension which I always find so 
 insufferable, and which is so common in ' great men ' when they 
 talk to us women if we meddle with ' subjects beyond our 
 sphere.* . . . Do you remember that we almost had a quarrel, 
 you and I, over Bismarck ? You showed me that you had ideas 
 of your own * far more definite ' than Bismarck's," she laughed 
 suddenly. " I have only met two people in my whole life who 
 talked to me quite seriously ; my husband, a very, very intelli- 
 gent and hon-our-able man," she pronounced the words 
 impressively, " and you know whom. . . ." 
 
 " Versilov ! " I cried ; I hung breathless on every word she 
 uttered. 
 
 " Yes, I was very fond of listening to him, I became at last 
 absolutely open . . . perhaps too open with him, but even then 
 Le did not believe in me ! " 
 
 " Did not believe in you ? " 
 
 " No, no one has ever believed in me." 
 
 251
 
 " But Verailov, Versilov ! " 
 
 " He did not simply disbelieve in me," she pronounced, drop- 
 ping her eyes, and smiling strangely, " but considered that I 
 had all the vices. " 
 
 " Of which you have not one 1 ** 
 
 " No, even I have some." 
 
 " Versilov did not love you, so he did not understand you," 
 I cried with flashing eyee. 
 
 Her face twitched. 
 
 " Say no more of that and never speak to me of ... of that 
 man," she added hotly, with vehement emphasis. " But that's 
 enough : I must be going" — she got up to go. " Well, do you 
 forgive me or not ? " she added, looking at me brightly. 
 
 " Me . . . forgive you. . . . Listen, Katerina Nikolaevna, 
 and don't be angry ; is it true that you are going to be married ? " 
 
 " That's not settled," she said in confusion, seeming frightened 
 of something. 
 
 " Is he a good man ? Forgive me, forgive me that question 1 " 
 
 " Yes, very." 
 
 " Don't answer further, don't vouchsafe me an answer ! I 
 know that such questions from me are impossible ! I only wanted 
 to know whether he is worthy of you or not, but I will find out 
 for myself." 
 
 " Ah, listen 1 " she said in dismay. 
 
 " No, I won't, I won't. I'll step aside. . . . Only this one thing 
 I want to say : God grant you every happiness according to 
 your choice . . . for having given me so much happiness in 
 this one hour ! Your image is imprinted on my heart for ever 
 now. I have gained a treasure : the thought of your perfection. 
 I expected duplicity and coarse coquetry and was wretched . . . 
 because I could not connect that idea with you. I've been think- 
 ing day and night lately, and suddenly everything has become 
 clear as daylight ! As I was coming here I thought I should 
 bear away an image of Jesuitical cunning, of deception, of an 
 inquisitorial serpent, and I found honour, magnificence, a student. 
 You laugh. Laugh away ! You are holy, you know, you cannot 
 laugh at what is sacred. ..." 
 
 " Oh no, I'm only laughing because you use such wonderful 
 expressions. . . . But what is an ' inquisitorial serpent ' ? " she 
 laughed. 
 
 " You let slip to-day a priceless sentence," I went on ecstati- 
 cally. " How could you to my fa<;e utter the words : ' I reckoned 
 
 252
 
 on your impulsiveness ' ? Well, granted you are a saint, and 
 confess even that, because you imagined yourself guilty in some 
 way and want to punish yourself . . . though there was no fault 
 of any sort, for, if there had been, from you everything is holy ! 
 But yet you need not have uttered just that word, that ex- 
 pression ! . . . Such unnatural candour only shows your lofty 
 purity, your respect for me, 3'our faith in me ! " I cried incoherently. 
 " Oh, do not blush, do not blush ! . . . And how, how could 
 anyone slander you, and say that you are a woman of violent 
 passions ? Oh, forgive me : I see a look of anguish on 3'our 
 face ; forgive a frenzied boy. his clumsy words I Besides, do 
 words matter now ? Are you not above all words ? . , . 
 Versilov said once that Othello did not kill Desdemona and 
 afterwards himself because he was jealous, but because he had 
 been robbed of his ideal. ... I understand that, because to-day 
 my ideal has been restored to me ! " 
 
 " You praise me too much : I don't deserve this," she pro- 
 nounced with feeling. " Do j'ou remember what I told you 
 about your eyes ? " she added playfully. 
 
 " That I have microscopes for eyes, and that I exaggerate 
 every fly into a camel ! No, this time it's not a camel. . . . 
 What, you are going ? " 
 
 She was standing in the middle of the room with her muff and 
 her shawl in her hands. 
 
 " No, I shall wait till you're gone, and then I shall go after- 
 wards. I must write a couple of words to Tatyana Pavlovna." 
 
 " I'm going directly, directly, but once more : may j^u be 
 happy alone, or with the man of your choice, and God bless you ! 
 All that I need is my ideal ! " 
 
 " Dear, good Arkady Makarovitch, believe me I . . . My 
 father always says of 3 ou ' the dear, good boy ! ' Believe me 
 I shall always remember what you have told me of your lonely 
 childhood, abandoned amongst strangers, and з'оиг solitary 
 dreams. ... I imderstand only too well how your mind has 
 been formed . . . but now though we are students," she added, 
 with a deprecating and shamefaced smile, pressing my hand, 
 " wo can't go on seeing each other as before and, and ... no 
 doubt you will understand that ? " 
 We cannot ? " 
 
 " No, we carmot, for a long time, we cannot . . . it's тпу fault. 
 ... I see now that it's quite out of the question. > . . We 
 shall meet sometimes at my father's." 
 
 253
 
 " You are afraid of my ' impulsiveness,' my feelings, you 
 don't believe in me ! " I would have exclaimed, but she was so 
 overcome with shame tbat my words refused to be uttered. 
 
 " Tell me," she said, stopping me all at once in the doorway, 
 " did you see yourself that . . . that letter was torn up ? You 
 are sure you remember it ? How did you know at the time that 
 it was the letter to Andronikov ? " 
 
 " Kraft told me what was in it, and even showed it to me. . . . 
 Good-bye! When I am with you in your study I am shy of 
 you, but when you go away I am ready to fall down and kiss 
 the spot Avhere your foot has touched the floor. ..." I brought 
 out all at once, unconsciously, not knowing how or why I 
 said it. And without looking at her I went quickly out of the 
 room. 
 
 I set off for home ; there wa« rapture in my soul. My brain 
 was in a whirl, my heart was full. As I drew near my mother's 
 house I recalled Liza's ingratitude to Anna Andrcyevna, her cruel 
 and monstrous saying that morning, and my heart suddenly 
 ached for them all ! 
 
 " How hard their hearts are ! And Liza too, what's the matter 
 with her ? " I thought as I stood on the steps. 
 
 I dismissed Matvey and told him to come to my lodging for me 
 at nine o'clock. 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 I WAS late for dinner, but they had not yet sat down to table, 
 they had waited for me. Perhaps because I did not often dine 
 with them, some special additions to the menu had been made 
 on my account : with the savouries there were sardines and 
 so on. But to my surprise and regret, I found them all rather 
 worried and out of humour. Liza scarcely smiled when she 
 saw me, and mother was obviously uneasy ; Versilov gave me 
 a smile, but it was a forced one. " Have they been quarrelling ? " 
 I wondered. Everything went well at first, however ; Versilov 
 only frowned over the soup with dumplings in it, and made 
 wry faces when he was handed the beef olives. 
 
 254
 
 " I have only to mention that a particular dish does not suit 
 me, for it to reappear next day," he pronounced in vexation. 
 
 " But how's one to invent things, Audrey Petrovitch ? There's 
 no inventing a new dish of any sort," my mother answered 
 timidly. 
 
 " Your mother is the exact opposite of some of our news- 
 papers, to whom whatever is new is good," Versilov tried to 
 make a joke in a more playful and amiable voice ; but it 
 somehow fell flat, and only added to the discomfiture of my 
 mother, who of course could make nothing of the comparison 
 of herself with the newspapers, and looked about her in per- 
 plexity. At that moment Tatyana Pavlovna came in, and 
 announcing that she had already dined, sat down near mother, 
 on the sofa. 
 
 I had not yet succeeded In gaining the good graces of that 
 lady, quite the contrary in fact ; she used to fall foul of me 
 more than ever, for everything, and about everything. Her 
 displeasure had of late become more accentuated than ever ; 
 she could not endure the sight of my foppish clothes, and Liza 
 told me that she almost had a fit when she heard that I kept a 
 coachman and a smart turn-out. I ended by avoiding meeting 
 her as far as possible. Two months before, when the disputed 
 inheritance was given up to Prince Sergay, I had run to Tatyana 
 Pavlovna, meaning to talk over Versilov's conduct with her, 
 but I met with no trace of sympathy ; on the contrary she was 
 dreadfully angry : she was particularly vexed that the whole 
 had been given back, instead of half the fortune ; she observed 
 sharply : 
 
 " I'll bet you are persuaded that he has given up the money 
 and challenged the prince to a duel, solely to regain the good 
 opinion of Arkady Makarovitch." 
 
 And indeed she was almost right. I was in reality feeling 
 something of the sort at the time. 
 
 As soon as she came in I saw at once that she would in- 
 fallibly attack me. I was even inclined to believe that she 
 had come in expressly with that object, and so I immediately 
 became exceptionally free-and-easy in my manner ; this was no 
 effort to me, for what had just happened had left me still radiant 
 and joyful. I may mention once and for all that a free-and- 
 easy manner never has been right for me, that is to say, it never 
 suits me, but always covers me with disgrace. So it happened 
 now. I instantly said the vrrong thing, with no evil intent, but 
 
 255
 
 simply from thoughtlessness ; noticing that Liza was horribly 
 depressed, I suddenly blurted out, without thinking of what I 
 was sa3'ing : 
 
 " I haven't dined here for such ages, and now I have come, 
 see how bored you are, Liza ! " 
 
 " My head aches," answ^ered Liza. 
 
 " Good gracious ! " said Tatyana Pavlovna, instantly catch- 
 ing at it. " What if you are ill ? Arkady Makarovitch has 
 deigned to come to dinner, you must dance and be merry." 
 
 " You really are the worry of my life, Tatyana Pavlovna. 
 I will never come again when you are here ! " and I brought 
 my hand down on the table with genuine vexation ; mother 
 started, and Versilov looked at me strangely. I laughed at 
 once and begged their pardon. 
 
 " Tatyana Pavlovna, I take back the word ' worry,' " I said, 
 turning to her, with the same free-and-easy tone. 
 
 " No, no," she snapped out, " it's much more flattering to 
 be a worry to you than to be the opposite, you may be sure of 
 that." 
 
 " My dear boy, one must learn to put up with the small worries 
 of life," Versilov murmured with a smile, " life is not worth 
 Uving without them." 
 
 " Do you know, you are sometimes a fearful reactionary," I 
 cried, laughing nervously. 
 
 " My dear boy, it doesn't matter." 
 
 " Yes, it does ! Why not tell the blunt truth to an ass, if he 
 is an ass ? " 
 
 " Surely you are not speaking of yourself ? To begin with, 
 I can't judge anj'^one, and I don't want to." 
 
 " Why don't you want to, why can't you ? " 
 
 " Laziness and distaste. A clever woman told me once that I 
 had no right to judge others because ' I don't know how to sufier,' 
 that before judging others, one must gain the right to judge, 
 from suffering. Rather exalted, but, as applied to me, perhaps 
 it's true, so that I very readily accepted the criticism." 
 
 " Wasn't it Tatyana Pavlovna who told you that ? " I cried. 
 
 " Why, how do you know ? " said Versilov, glancing at me with 
 some surprise. 
 
 " I knew it from Tatyana Pavlovna's face : she gave a sudden 
 start." 
 
 I guessed by chance. The phrase, as it appeared later, actually 
 had been uttered by Tatyana Pavlovna, the evening before, in 
 
 256
 
 a heated discussion. And indeed, I repeat, I had, brimming over 
 with joy and expansiveness, swooped down upon them at an 
 unfortunate moment ; all of them had their separate troubles, 
 and they were heavy ones. 
 
 " I don't understand it," I went on, " because it's all so 
 abstract ; it's dreadful how fond you are of abstract discussion, 
 Andrey Petrovitch ; it's a sign of egoism ; only egoists are fond 
 of generalization." 
 
 " That's not a bad saying, but don't persecute me." 
 
 ■' But let me ask," I insisted expansively, " what's the mean- 
 ing of * gaining the right to judge ? ' Anyone who is honest 
 may be a judge, that's my idea." 
 
 " You won't find many judges in that case.** 
 
 *' I know one anyway." 
 
 " Who's that ? " 
 
 " He is sitting and talking to me now." 
 
 Versilov laughed strangely, he stooped down to my ear, and 
 taking me by the shoulder whispered, " He is always lying to 
 you." 
 
 I don't know to this day what was in his mind, but evidently 
 he was in some agitation at the time (in consequence of something 
 he had learned, as I found out later). But those words, " he is 
 always lying to you," were so unexpected and uttered so 
 earnestly, and with such a strange and far from playful ex- 
 pression, that it gave me a nervous shudder. I was almost 
 alarmed and looked at him wildly ; but Versilov made haste to 
 laugh. 
 
 " Well, thank God ! " murmured my mother, who was uneasy 
 at seeing him whisper to me, " I was almost thinking. . . . 
 Don't be angry with us, Arkasha ; you'll have clever friends 
 apart from us, but who is going to love you, if we don't love one 
 another ? " 
 
 " The love of one's relations is immoral, mother, just because 
 it's undeserved ; love ought to be earned." 
 
 " You'll earn it later on, but here you are loved without." 
 
 Every one suddenly laughed. 
 
 " Well, mother, you may not have meant to shoot, but you 
 hit your bird ! " I cried, laughing, too. 
 
 " And you actually imagined that there's something to love 
 you for," cried Tatyana Pavlovna, falling upon me again : 
 " You are not simply loved for nothing, you are loved in spite of 
 loathing." 
 
 257 ■
 
 " Oh not a bit of it," I cried gaily ; "do you know, perhaps, 
 some one told me to-day I was loved." 
 
 " Said it laughing at you ! " Tatyana Pavlovna said suddenly 
 with a sort of unnatural malignity, as though she had just been 
 waiting for me to say that, " yes, a person of deUcacy, especially 
 a woman, would be moved to disgust by the uncleanness of 
 your soul. Your hair is done with a smart parting, you have 
 fine linen, and a suit made by a French tailor, but it's all un- 
 cleanness really ! Who's paid your tailor's bill, who keeps you, 
 and gives you money to play roixlette with ? Think who it is 
 you've been so shameless as to sponge on ! " 
 
 My mother flushed painfully, and I had never seen a look of 
 such shame on her face before. Everything seemed to be giving 
 way within me. 
 
 " If I am spending money it's my own, and I am not bound 
 to give an account of it to anyone," I blurted out, turning 
 crimson. 
 
 " Whose own ? What money's your own ? " 
 " If it's not mine, it's Audrey Petrovitch's. He won't refvise 
 it me. ... I borrowed from what Prince Sergay owes Andrey 
 Petrovitch. . . ." 
 
 ** My dear boy," Versilov said firmly, all of a sudden, " not a 
 farthing of that money is mine." 
 
 The phrase was horribly significant. I was dumbfoundered. 
 Oh, of course, considering my paradoxical and careless attitude 
 at that time, I might quite well have turned it off with some 
 outburst of " generous " feeling, or high-sounding phrase, or 
 something, but I suddenly caught on Liza's face a resentful 
 accusing expression, an expression I had not deserved, almost 
 a sneer, and a devH seemed to prompt me. 
 
 *' You seem," I said, turning to her suddenly, " to visit Darya 
 Onisimovna very often at Prince Sergay's flat, miss, so will you 
 be pleased to give her this three hundred roubles, which you've 
 given me such a nagging about already to-day ? " 
 
 I took out the money and held it out to her. But will it be 
 believed that those mean words were uttered entirely without 
 motive, that is, without the faintest allusion to anything. And 
 indeed there could have been no such allusion, for at that moment 
 I knew absolutely nothing. Perhaps I had just a desire to vex 
 her by something comparatively most innocent, by way of a 
 gibe, " Since you are such an interfering young lady, wouldn't 
 you Ике to retium the money yourself to the prince, a charming 
 
 258
 
 young man and a Petersburg officer, as you are so anxious to 
 meddle in young men's business." But what was my amazement 
 when my mother got up, and, with a menacing gesture, cried : 
 
 " How dare you ! How dare you ! " 
 
 I could never have conceived of anything like it from her, 
 and I too jumped up from my seat, not exactly in alarm, but 
 with a sort of anguish, a poignant wound in my heart, suddenly 
 realizing that something dreadful had happened. But unable 
 to control herself, mother hid her face in her hands and ran out 
 of the room. Liza followed her out without so much as a glance 
 at me. Tatyana Pavlovna gazed at me for half a minute in 
 silence. 
 
 " Can you really have meant to jeer ? " she exclaimed enig- 
 matically, looking at me in profound astonishment, but without 
 waiting for me to answer, she, too, ran out to join them. With 
 an unsympathetic, almost angry expression, Versilov got up 
 from the table, and took his hat from the corner. 
 
 " I imagine that you are not so much a fool as an innocent," 
 he mumbled to me ironically, " If they come backj tell them 
 to have their pudding without waiting for me. I am going out 
 for a little." 
 
 I remained alone ; at first I felt bewildered, then I felt 
 resentful, but afterwards I saw clearly that I was to blame. 
 However, I did not know exactly how I was to blame, 1 simply 
 had a feeling of it. I sat in the window and waited. After 
 waiting ten minutes, I, too, took my hat, and went upstairs to 
 the attic, which had been mine. I knew that they, that is my 
 mother and Liza, were there, and that Tatyana Pavlovna had 
 gone away. And so I found them on my sofa, whispering 
 together about something. They left ofE whispering at once, 
 when I appeared ; to my amazement they were not angry with 
 me ; mother anyway smiled at me. 
 
 " I am sorry, mother," I began. 
 
 " Never mind ! " mother cut me short, " only love each other 
 and never quarrel and Grod will send you happiness." 
 
 " He is never nasty to me, mother, I assure you," Liza said 
 with conviction and feeling. 
 
 " If it hadn't been for that Tatyana Pavlovna nothing would 
 have happened," I cried ; " she's horrid ! " 
 
 " You see, mother ? You hear ? " said Liza with a motion 
 towards me. 
 
 " What I want to tell you both is this," I declared : " if 
 
 259
 
 there is anything nasty in the world, it's I that am nasty, and 
 all the rest is delightful ! " 
 
 " Arkasha, don't be angry, darling, but if you really would 
 give up . . ." 
 
 " Gambling, you mean, gambling ? I will give it up, mother. 
 I am going there for the last time to-day — especially since Andrey 
 Petrovitch himself has declared that not a farthing of that 
 money is his, you can't imagine how I blush. ... I must go 
 into it with him, though . . . Mother darling, last time I was 
 here I said something clumsy ... it was nonsense, darling; 
 I truly want to beUeve, it was only swagger, I love Christ. . . ." 
 
 On my last visit there had been a conversation about religion. 
 Mother had been much grieved and upset. When she heard 
 my words now, she smiled at me as though I were a little child. 
 
 " Christ forgives everything, Arkasha ; he forgives your wrong- 
 doing and worse than yours. Christ is our Father, Christ never 
 fails us, and will give light in the blackest night. ..." 
 
 I said good-bye to them, and went away, thinking over the 
 chances of seeing Versilov that day ; I had a great deal to talk 
 over with him, and it had been impossible that afternoon. I 
 had a strong suspicion that he would be waiting for me at my 
 lodging, I walked there on foot ; it had turned colder and 
 begun to freeze and walking was very pleasant. 
 
 I lived near the Voznesenky Bridge, in a huge block of flats 
 overlooking the courtyard. Almost as I went into the gate I 
 ran into Versilov coming out. 
 
 " As usual when I go for a walk, I only get as far as your 
 lodging, and I've been to Pyotr Ippolitovitch's, but I got tired of 
 waiting for you ; your people there are for ever quarrelling, and 
 to-day his wife is even a little tearful; I looked in and came 
 away." 
 
 For some reason I felt annoyed. 
 
 " I suppose you never go to see anyone except me and Pyotr 
 Ippolitovitch ; you have no one else in all Petersburg to go to." 
 
 " My dear fellow . . . but it doesn't matter." 
 
 * Where are you going now ? " 
 
 * I am not coming back to you. If you Ике we'll go for a 
 walk, it's a glorious evening." 
 
 260
 
 " If instead of abstract discussions, you had talked to me like 
 a human being, and had for instance given me the merest hini 
 about that confounded gambling, I should perhaps not have 
 let myself be drawn into it like a fool," I said suddenly. 
 
 " You regret it ? That's a good thing," he answered, bringing 
 out his words reluctantly ; "I always suspected that play was 
 not a matter of great consequence with you, but only a tern 
 porary aberration. . . . You are right, my dear boy, gambling 
 is beastly, and what's more one may lose." 
 
 " And lose other people's money, too." 
 
 " Have you lost other people's money ? " 
 
 " I have lost yours. I borrowed of Prince Sergey, from what 
 was owing you. Of ccirse it was fearfully stupid and absurd 
 of me ... to consider your money mine, but I always meant to 
 win it back." 
 
 " I must warn you once more, my dear boy, that I have no 
 money in Prince Sergay's hands. I know that young man is 
 in straits himself, and I am not reckoning on him for anything, 
 in spite of his promises." 
 
 " That makes my position twice as bad. ... I am in a 
 ludicrous position ! And what grounds has he for lending me 
 money, and me for borrowing in that case ? " 
 
 " That's your affair. . . . But there's not the slightest 
 reason for you to borrow money from him, is there ? " 
 
 " Except that we are comrades. ..." 
 
 " No other reason ? Is there anything which has made you 
 feel it possible to borrow from him ? Any consideration 
 whatever ? " 
 
 " What sort of consideration do you mean ? I don't under- 
 stand." 
 
 " So much the better if you don't, and I will own, my boy, 
 that I was sure of it. Brisons-la, топ cher, and do try to avoid 
 playing somehow." 
 
 " If only you had told me before ! You seem half-hearted 
 about it even now." 
 
 " If I had spoken to you about it before, we should only have 
 quarrelled, and you wouldn't have let me come and see you in 
 the evenings so readily. And let me tell you, my dear, that 
 all such saving counsels and warnings are simply an intrusion 
 into another person's conscience, at another person's expense. 
 I have done enough meddling with the consciences of others, 
 and in the long run I get nothing but taunts and rebuffs for it. 
 
 261
 
 Taunts and rebuffs, of course, don't matter ; the point is that one 
 never obtains one's object in that way : no one listens to you, 
 however much you meddle . . . and every one gets to dislike 
 you." 
 
 " I am glad that you have begun to talk to me of something 
 besides abstractions. I want to ask you one thing, I have 
 wanted to for a long time, but it's always been impossible when 
 I've been with you. It is a good thing we are in the street. 
 Do you remember that evening, the last evening I spent in your 
 house, two months ago, how we sat upstairs in my ' coffin,' and 
 I questioned you about mother and Makar Ivanovitch ; do you 
 remember how free and eeisy I was with you then ? How could 
 you allow a young puppy to speak in those terms of his mother ? 
 And yet you made not the faintest sign of protest ; on the 
 contrary, 'you let yourself go,' and so made me worse than 
 ever." 
 
 " My dear boy, I'm very glad to hear . . . such sentiments, 
 from you. . . . Yes, I remember very well ; I was actually 
 waiting to see the blush on your cheek, and if I fell in with your 
 tone, it was just to bring you to the limit. . . ." 
 
 " And you only deceived me then, and troubled more than 
 ever the springs of piu-ity in my soul ! Yes, I'm a wretched 
 raw youth, and I don't know from minute to minute what is 
 good and what is evil. Had you given me the tiniest hint of 
 the right road, I should have realized things and should have been 
 eager to take the right path. But you only drove me to fury." 
 
 " Cher enfant, I always foresaw that, one way or another, we 
 should understand one another ; that ' blush ' has made its 
 appearance of itself, without my aid, and that I swear is better 
 for you. ... I notice, my dear boy, that j^u have gained a 
 great deal of late . . . can it be the companionship of that 
 princeling ? " 
 
 " Don't praise me, I don't like it. Don't leave me with a 
 painful suspicion that you are flattering me without regard for 
 truth, so as to go on pleasing me. Well, lately . . , you see 
 . . . I've been visiting ladies. I am very well received, you 
 know, by Anna Andreyevna, for instance." 
 
 " I know that from her, my dear boy. Yes, she is very charm- 
 ing and intelligent. Mais brisons-la, топ cher. It's odd how 
 sick I feel of everything to-day, spleen I suppose. I put it down 
 to hsBmorrhoids. How are things at home ? All right 1 You 
 made it up, of course, and embraces followed ? Celd va sans 
 
 262
 
 dire. It's melancholy sometimes to go back to them, even after 
 the nastiest walk. In fact, I sometimes go a longer way roiind 
 in the rain, simply to delay the moment of returning to the 
 bosom of my family. . . . And how bored I am there, good God, 
 how bored ! " 
 
 "Mother . . ." 
 
 "Your mother is a most perfect and deUghtful creature, 
 mats. ... In short I am probably unworthy of them. B}^ the 
 way, what's the matter with them to-day ? For the last few 
 days they've all been out of sorts somehow. ... I always try 
 to ignore such things you know, but there is something fresh 
 brewing to-day. . . . Have you noticed nothing ? " 
 
 "I know nothing positive, and in fact I should not have 
 noticed it at all it if hadn't been for that confounded Tatyana 
 Pavlovna, who can never resist trying to get her knife in. You 
 are right ; there is something wrong. I found Liza at Anna 
 Andreyevna's this morning, and she was so . . . she surprised 
 me in fact. You know, of course, that she visits Anna 
 Andreyevna ? " 
 
 " I know, my dear. And you . . . when were you at Anna 
 Andrej'evna's, to-day ? At what time ? I want to know for a 
 reason." 
 
 " From two till three. And only fancy as I was going out 
 Prince Sergay arrived. ..." 
 
 Then I described my whole visit very circumstantially. He 
 Ustened without speaking ; he made no comment whatever on 
 the possibility of a match between Prince Sergay and Anna 
 Andreyevna ; in response to my enthusiastic praise of Anna 
 Andreyevna he murmured again that " she was very charming." 
 
 " I gave her a great surprise this morning, with the latest 
 bit of drawing-room gossip that Mme. Ahmakov is to be married 
 to Baron Biiring," I said all of a sudden, as though something 
 were torn out of me. 
 
 " Yes ? Would you believe it, she told me that ' news ' 
 earlier in the day, much earlier than you can have surprised her 
 with it." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " I was simply struck dumb. " From 
 whom could she have heard it ? Though after all, there's no 
 need to ask ; of course she might have heard it before I did ; 
 but only imagine, she listened to me when I told her as though 
 it were absolutely news to her ! But . . . but what of it ? 
 Hurrah for ' breadth 1 ' One must take a broad view^of people's 
 
 263
 
 characters, mustn't one ? 1, for instance, should have poured 
 it all out at once, and she shuts it up in a en u ft box . . . and 
 so be it, so be it, she is none the less a most delightful person, 
 and a very fine character ! '' 
 
 " Oh, no doubt of it, every one must go his own way. And 
 something more original — these fine characters can sometimes 
 baffle one completely — just imagine, Anna Andreyevna took 
 my breath away this morning by asking : ' Whether 1 were in 
 love with Katerina Nikolaevna Ahmakov or not ? * " 
 
 " What a wild and incredible question ! " I cried, dumbfoundered 
 again. There was actually a mist before my eyes I had never 
 yet broached this subject with him, and here he had begun on it 
 himself. . . . 
 
 " In what way did she put it ? " 
 
 " No way, my dear boy, absolutely no way ; the snuff-box 
 shut again at once, more closely than ever, and what's more, 
 observe, I've never admitted the conceivability of such questions 
 being addressed to me, nor has she . . . however, you say 
 yourself that you know her and therefore you can imagine how 
 far such a question is characteristic. . , . Do you know any- 
 thing about it by chance ? " 
 
 " I am just as puzzled as you are. Curiosity, perhaps, or a 
 joke." 
 
 " Oh, quite the contrary, it was a most serious question, 
 hardly a question in fact, more a cross-examination, and 
 evidently there were very important and positive reasons foi 
 it. Won't you be going to see her ? Couldn't you find out 
 something ? I would ask you as a favour, do you see . . ." 
 
 " But the strangest thing is that she could imagine you to be 
 in love with Katerina Nikolaevna ! Forgive me, I can't get over 
 my amazement, I should never, never have ventured to speak 
 to you on this subject, or anything like it." 
 
 " And that's very sensible of you, my dear boy." 
 " Your intrigues and your relatione in the past— well, of course, 
 the subject's out of the question between us, and indeed it would 
 be stupid of me, but of late, the last few days, I have several 
 times exclaimed to myself that if you had ever loved that 
 woman, if only for a moment — oh, you could never have made 
 such a terrible mistake in your opinion of her as you did ! I 
 know what happened, I know of your enmity, of уош- aversion, 
 so to say, for each other, I've heard of it, I've heard too much 
 of it ; even before I left Moscow I heard of it, but the fact that 
 
 264
 
 stands out so clearly is intense aversion, intense hostility, the 
 very opposite of love, and Anna Andreyevna suddenly asks 
 point-blank, ' Do you love her ? ' Can she have heard so little 
 about it ? It's wild ! She was laughing, I assure you she was 
 laughing ! " 
 
 " But I observe, my dear bey," said Versilov, and there was 
 something nervous and sincere in his voice, that went to one's 
 heart, as his words rarely did : " that you speak with too much 
 heat on this subject. You said just now that you have taken 
 to visiting ladies ... of course, for me to question you ... on 
 that subject, as you expressed it. . . . But is not ' that woman ' 
 perhaps on the list of your new acquaintances ? " 
 
 " That woman "... my voice suddenly quivered ; " listen, 
 Andrey Petrovitch, listen. That woman is what you were 
 talking of with Prince Sergay this morning, ' living life,' do you 
 remember ? You said that living life is something so direct 
 and simple, something that looks you so straight in the face, 
 that its very directness and clearness make us unable to believe 
 that it can be the very thing we're seeking so laboriously all our 
 lives. . . . With ideas like that, you met the ideal woman and 
 in perfection, in the ideal, you recognized ' all the vices ' ! That's 
 what you did ! " 
 
 The reader can guess what a state of frenzy I was in. 
 
 " All the vices ! Oho ! I know that phrase," cried Versilov : 
 " and if things have gone so far, that you are told of such a 
 phrase, oughtn't I to congratulate you ? It suggests such 
 a degree of intimacy, that perhaps you deserve credit for a 
 modesty and reserve of which few young men are capable." 
 
 There was a note of sweet, friendly and affectionate laughter 
 in his voice . . . there was something challenging and charming 
 in his words, and in his bright face, as far as I could see it in the 
 night. He was strangely excited. I beamed all over in spite 
 of myself. 
 
 " Modesty, reserve ! Oh, no, no ! " I exclaimed blushing 
 and at the same time squeezing his hand, which I had somehow 
 seized and was imconsciously holding. " No, there's no reason ! 
 ... In fact there's nothing to congratulate me on, and nothing 
 of the sort can ever, ever happen." 
 
 I was breathless and let myself go, I so longed to let myself 
 go, it was so very agreeable to me. 
 
 "You know . . . Well, after all I will . . . just this once . . . 
 You are my darling, splendid father ; you will allow me to call 
 
 265
 
 you father ; it's utterly out of the question for a son to speak 
 to his father — for anyone, in fact, to speak to a third person — 
 of his relations with a woman, even if they are of the purest ! 
 In fact, the purer they are the greater the obligation of silence. 
 It would be distasteful, it would be coarse ; in short, a confidant 
 is out of the question ! But if there's nothing, absolutely 
 nothing, then surely one may speak, majoi't one ? " 
 
 " As your heart tells you ! " 
 
 " An indiscreet, a very indiscreet question : I suppose in the 
 course of your life you've known women, you've had intimacies 1 
 ... I only ask generally, generally, I don't mean anything 
 particular ! " I blushed, and was almost choking with delight. 
 
 " We will assume there have been transgressions." 
 
 " Well then, I want to ask you this, and you tell me what you 
 think of it, as a man of more experience : a woman suddenly 
 says, as she is taking leave of you, casually, looking away, 'To- 
 morrow at three o'clock I shall be at a certain place ... at 
 Tatyana Pavlovna's, for example,' " I burst out, taking the 
 final plunge. My heart throbbed and stood still ; I even ceased 
 speaking, I could not go on. He listened eagerly. " And so 
 next day at three o'clock I went to Tatyana Pavlovna's, and 
 this is what I thought : ' when the cook opens the door ' — you 
 know her cook — ' I shall ask first thing whether Tatyana 
 Pavlovna is at home ? And if the cook says Tatyana Pavlovna 
 is not at home, but there's a visitor waiting for her,' what ought 
 I to conclude, tell me if it were you ... In short, if you . . ." 
 
 " Simply that an apointment had been made you. Then I 
 suppose that did happen, and it happened to-day. Yes ? " 
 
 " Oh no, no, no, nothing, nothing of the sort ! It did happen, 
 but it wasn't that ; it was an appointment, but not of that 
 sort, and I hasten to say so or I should be a blackguard ; it did 
 happen, but. . . ." 
 
 " My dear fellow, all this begins to be so interesting that I 
 suggest ..." 
 
 " I used to give away ten roubles and twenty-five roubles at 
 a time to those who begged of me. For a drink ! just a few 
 coppers, it's a lieutenant implores your aid, a former lieutenant 
 begging of you ! " 
 
 Our road was suddenly barred by the figure of a tall beggar 
 possibly, in fact, a retired lieutenant. What was most singular 
 was that he was very well dressed for his profession, and yet he 
 was begging. 
 
 266
 
 I purposely do not omit this paltry incident of the wretched 
 lieutenant, for my picture of Versilov is not complete .without 
 the petty details of his surroundings at that minute, which was 
 so momentous for him — momentous it was, and I did not know 
 it! 
 
 " If you don't leave ofE, sir, I shall call the police at once," 
 Versilov said, suddenly raising his voice unnaturally, and stand- 
 ing still before the lieutenant. I could never imagine such anger 
 from a man so philosophic, and for such a trivial cause. And, 
 note, our conversation was interrupted at the point of most 
 interest to him, as he had just said himself. 
 
 " What, you haven't a five-kopeck piece ? " the lieutenant 
 cried rudely, waving his hand in the air. " And indeed what 
 canaille have five kopecks nowadays ! the low rabble ! the 
 scoundrels ! He goes dressed in beaver, and makes all this to- 
 do about a copper ! " 
 
 "Constable," cried Versilov. 
 
 But there was no need to shout, a poUceman was standing 
 close by, at the comer, and he had heard the lieutenant's abuse 
 himself. 
 
 " I ask you to bear witness to this insult, I ask you to eome 
 to the police-station," said Versilov. 
 
 " 0-ho, I don't care, there's nothing at all you can prove I 
 You won't show yourself so wonderfully clever ! " 
 
 "Keep hold of him, constable, and take us to the poUce- 
 Btation," Versilov decided emphatically. 
 
 " Surely we are not going to the pohce-station ? Bother the 
 fellow ! " I whispered to him. 
 
 " Certainly we are, dear boy. The disorderly behaviour in 
 our streets begins to bore one beyond endurance, and if every- 
 one did his duty it would make it better for us all. C'est comique. 
 mats c'est ce que nousferons.'' 
 
 For a hundred paces the lieutenant kept up a bold and 
 iwaggering demeanour, and talked with heat ; he declared 
 ■' that it was not the thing to do," that it was "all a matter of 
 five kopecks," and so on, and so on. But at last he began 
 whispering something to the policeman. The policeman, a 
 sagacious man, with apparently a distaste for exhibitions of 
 
 267
 
 " nerves " in the street, seemed to be on his side, though only to 
 a certain degree. He muttered in an undertone, in reply, thai 
 " it was too late for that now," that " it had gone too far," and 
 that " if you were to apologize, for instance, and the gentleman 
 would consent to accept уош" apology, then perhaps . . . ." 
 
 '* Come li-isten, honoured sir, where are we going ? I ask 
 you what are we hurrying to and what's the joke of it ? " the 
 lieutenant cried aloud : " if a man who is down on his luck is 
 willing to make an apology ... in fact, if you want to put him 
 down , . . damn it all ! we are not in a drawing-room, we are 
 in the street ! For the street, that's apology enough. . . ." 
 
 Versilov stopped, and suddenly burst out laughing ; I actually 
 imagined that he had got the whole thing up for amusement, 
 but it was not so. 
 
 " I entirely accept your apology. Monsieur I'officier, and I 
 assmre you that you are a man of ability. Behave like that in 
 the drawing-room ; it will soon pass muster perfectly there, too, 
 and meanwhile here are twenty kopecks for you ; eat and drink 
 your fill with it ; pardon me, constable, for troubling you ; I 
 would have thanked you more substantially for уош" pains, but 
 you are so highly respectable nowadays. . . . My dear boy," 
 he added turning to me, " there's an eating house close here, 
 it's really a horrible sewer, but one could get tea there, and I 
 invite you to a cup . . . this way, quite close, come along." 
 
 I repeat, «I had never seen him so excited, though his face 
 was full of brightness and gaiety ; yet I noticed that when he 
 was taking the coin out of his purse to give it to the officer, 
 his hands trembled, and his fingers refused to obey him, so that 
 at last he asked me to take out the money, and give it to the 
 man for him ; I cannot forget it. 
 
 He took me to a Uttle restaiurant on the canal side, in the 
 basement. The customers were few. A loud barrel-organ 
 was playing out of tune, there was a smell of dirty dinner napkins ; 
 we sat down in a comer. 
 
 " Perhaps you don't know. I am sometimes so bored . , , 
 so horribly bored in my soul . . . that I like coming to all sorts 
 of stinking holes like this. These siuroundings, the halting 
 time from ' Lucia,' the waiters in their imseemly Russian get- 
 up, the fumes of cheap tobacco, the shouts from the billiard- 
 room, it's all so vulgar and prosaic that it almost borders on the 
 fantastic. . . . Well, my dear boy, that son of Mars interrupted 
 us, I believe, at the most interesting moment. . . . Here's the tea ; 
 
 268
 
 I like the tea here. . . . Imagine Pyotr Ippolitovitch suddenly 
 began to-day assuring the other lodger, the one marked with 
 small-pox, that during the last century a special committee of 
 lawyers was appointed in the English parUament to examine 
 the trial of Christ before the -High Priest and Pilate, with the 
 sole object of finding how the case would have gone nowadays 
 by modem law, and that the inquiry was conducted with all 
 solemnity, with counsel for the prosecution and all the rest of 
 it. . . . And that the jury were obliged to uphold the original 
 verdict. ... A wonderful story ! That fool of a lodger began 
 to argue about it, lost his temper, quarrelled and declared he 
 should leave next day. . . . The landlady dissolved in tears at 
 the thought of losing his rent . . . Mais passons. In these 
 restaurants they sometimes have nightingales. Do you know 
 the old Moscow anecdote a la Pyotr Ippolitovitch ? A nightingale 
 was singing in a Moscow restaurant, a merchant came in ; 'I 
 must have my fancy, whatever it costs, said he, ' what's the 
 price of the nightingale ? ' ' A hundred roubles.' ' Roast it 
 and serve it.' So they roasted it and s^ved it up. ' Cut me 
 off two-pennorth.' I once told it to Pyotr Ippolitovitch, but he 
 did not believe it, and was quite indignant." 
 
 He said a great deal more. I quote theee fragments as a 
 sample of his talk. He repeatedly interrupted me every time 
 I opened my mouth to begin my story. He began each time 
 talking of some pecuhar and utterly irrelevant nonsense ; he 
 talked gaijy, excitedly ; laughed, goodness knows what at, and 
 even chuckled in an undignified way, as I had never seen him do 
 before. He swallowed a glass of tea at one gulp, and poured 
 out another. Now I can understand it, he was like a man who 
 had received a precious, interesting, and long-expected letter, 
 and who lays it down before him and purposely refrains from 
 opening it, turning it over and over in his hands, examining the 
 envelope and the seal, going to see to things in another room, in 
 short deferring the interesting moment of perusal, knowing that 
 it cannot escape him. And all this he does to make his enjoy- 
 ment more complete. 
 
 I told him all there was to tell, of course, everjrthing from 
 the very beginning, and it took me perhaps an hour telling it. 
 And indeed how could I have helped telling him ? I had been 
 dying to talk of it that aftemooA. I began with our very first 
 meeting at the old prince's on the day she arrived from Moscow ; 
 then I described how it had all come about by degrees. I left 
 
 269
 
 nothing out, and indeed I could not have left anything out ; he 
 led me on, he guessed what was coming and prompted me. At 
 moments it seemed to me that something fantastic was happen- 
 ing, that he must have been sitting or standing behind the door, 
 for those two months ; he knew beforehand every gesture I 
 made, every feeling I had felt. I derived infinite enjoyment 
 from this confession to him, for I found in him such intimate 
 softness, such deep psychological subtlety, such a marvellous 
 faculty for guessing what I meant from half a word. He listened 
 as tenderly as a woman. And above all he knew how to save 
 me, from feeling ashamed ; at times he stopped me at some 
 detail ; often when he stopped me ho repeated nervously : 
 " Don't forget details ; the great thing is, not to forget any 
 details : the more minute a point is, the more important it may 
 sometimes be." And he interrupted me several times with 
 words to that effect. Oh, of coiu-se I began at first in a tone of 
 superiority, superiority to her, but I quickly dropped into 
 sincerity. I told him honestly that I was ready to kiss the 
 spot on the floor where her foot had rested. The most beautiful 
 and glorious thing was that he absolutely understood that she 
 might " be suffering from terror over the letter " and yet remain 
 the pure and irreproachable being she had revealed herself to be. 
 He absolutely realized what was meant by the word " student." 
 But when I was near the end of my story I noticed that 
 behind his good-natured smile there were signs in his face 
 from time to time of some impatience, some abruptness and 
 preoccupation ; when I came to the letter, I thought to 
 myself : 
 
 " Shall I tell him the exact truth or not ? " and I did not tell 
 it, in spite of my enthusiasm. I note this here that I may 
 remember it all my life. I explained to him, as I had done to 
 her, that it had been destroyed by Kraft. His eyes began to 
 glow ; a strange line, a line of deep gloom was visible on his 
 forehead. 
 
 " You are sure you remember, my dear boy, that that letter 
 was burned by ELraft in the candle ? You are not mistaken ? " 
 
 " I am not mistaken," I repeated. 
 
 " The point is that that scrap of paper is of such importance 
 to her, and if you had only had it in your hands to-day, you 
 might . . ." But what " I might " he did not say. " But 
 you haven't it in your hands now ? " 
 
 I shuddered all over inwardly, but not outwardly. Out- 
 
 270
 
 waxdly I did not betray myself, I did not turn a hair ; but I 
 was stiJl unwilling to believe in the question : 
 
 " Haven't it in my hands ! In my hands now ? How could I 
 since Kraft bumed it that day ? " 
 
 " Yes ? " A glowing intent look was fastened upon me, a 
 look I shall never forget ; he smiled, however, but all his good- 
 nature, all the feminine softness that had been in his expression 
 suddenly vanished. It was replaced by something vague and 
 troubled ; he become more and more preoccupied. If he had 
 controlled himself at that moment, as he had till then, he would 
 not have asked me that question about the letter ; he had 
 asked it, no doubt, because he was carried away himself. I say 
 this, however, only now ; at the time, I did not so quickly per- 
 ceive the change that had come over him ; I still went on 
 plunging, and there was still the same music in my heart. But 
 my story was over ; I looked at him. 
 
 " It's strange," he said suddenly, when I had told him every- 
 thing to the minutest detail : " it's a very strange thing, my 
 dear boy : you say that you were there from three o'clock till 
 foiu" and that Tatyana Pavlovna was not at home ? " 
 
 " From three o'clock till half -past four exactly." 
 
 " Well, only fancy, I went to see Tatyana Pavlovna exactly 
 at half-past four to the minute, and she met me in the kitchen : 
 I nearly always go to see her by the back entrance." 
 
 " What, she met you in the kitchen ? " I cried, staggering 
 back in amazement. 
 
 " And she told me she could not ask me in ; I only stayed 
 two minutes, I only looked in to ask her to come to dinner." 
 
 " Perhaps she had only just come home from somewhere 1 " 
 
 "I don't know, of course not, though she was wearing a 
 loose dressing-gown. That was at half-past four exactly." 
 
 " But . . . Tatyana Pavlovna didn't tell you I was 
 there ? " 
 
 " No, she did not tell me you were there . . . otherwise I 
 shoxild have known it, and should not have asked you about 
 it." 
 
 " Listen, that's awfully important. . . ." 
 
 " Yes . . . from a certain point of view ; and you've turned 
 quite white, my dear ; but, after all, what is there important 
 in it ? " 
 
 " They've been laughing at me as though I were a baby ! " 
 
 " It's simply ' that she was afraid of your impulsiveness,' as 
 
 271
 
 she expressed it herself — ^and so she felt safer with Tatyana 
 Pavlovna there." 
 
 " But, good God, what a trick ! Think, she let me say all 
 that before a third person, before Tatyana Pavlovna ; so she 
 heard everjrthing I said ! It . . . it's horrible to conceive 
 of!" 
 
 " C'est selon, топ cher, Besides, you spoke just now of 
 ' breadth ' of view in regard to women and exclaimed ' Hurrah 
 for breadth ' ! " 
 
 " If I were Othello and you lago, you could not have done 
 better. ... I am laughing though ! There can be no sort of 
 Othello, because there have been no relations of the kind. And 
 why laugh indeed ? It doesn't matter ! I believe she's in- 
 finitely above me all the same, and I have not lost my ideal ! 
 ... If it was a joke on her part I forgive her. A joke with a 
 wretched raw youth doesn't matter ! Besides, I did not pose 
 as anything, and the student — the student was there in her 
 soul, and remained there in spite of everything ; it was in her 
 heart, it exists there, and will always exist there ! Enough ! 
 Listen, what do you think : shall I go to her at once to find out 
 the whole truth or not 1 " 
 
 I said " I am laughing," but there were tears in my eyes. 
 
 " Well, my dear boy, go if you want to." 
 
 " I feel as though 1 were defiled in soul, from having told you 
 all this. Don't be angry, dear, but, I repeat, one can't tell things 
 about a woman to a third person ; no confidant will understand. 
 Even an angel wouldn't understand. If you respeet a woman, 
 don't confide in anyone ! If you respect yourself don't confide 
 in anyone. Now I don't respect myself. Good-bye for the 
 present ; I can't forgive myself." 
 
 " Nonsense, my dear boy, you exaggerate. You say your- 
 self that ' there was nothing in it.' " 
 
 We came out on the canal bank and said good-bye. 
 
 " Will you never give me a real warm kiss, as a child kisses 
 its father ? " he said, with a strange quiver in his voice. I 
 kissed him fervently. 
 
 '' Dear boy . . . may you be always as pure in heart as you 
 are now." 
 
 I had never kissed him before in my life, 1 never could have 
 conceived that he would like me to. 
 
 272
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 " I'll go, of course ! *' I made up my mind as I hurried home, 
 " I'll go at once. Very likely I shall find her at home alone ; 
 whether she is alone or with some one else makes no difference : 
 I can ask her to come out to me. She will receive me ; she'll be 
 surprised, but she wiU receive me. And if she won't see me I'll 
 insist on her seeing me, I'll send in word that it's most lygent. 
 She will think it's something about that letter and will see me. 
 And I'll find out all about Tatyana there . . . and what then ? 
 If I am not right I will be her servant, if I am right and she is 
 to blame it's the end of everything ! In any case it's the end 
 of everything ! What am I going to lose ? I can lose nothing. 
 I'll go! I'll go!" 
 
 I shall never forget and I recall with pride that I did not go ! 
 It will never be known to anyone, it will die with me, but it's 
 enough that I know of it and at such a moment I was capable 
 of an hono;irable impulse. 
 
 " This is a temptation, and I will put it behind me," I made 
 up my mind at last, on second thoughts. They had tried to 
 terrify me with a fact, but I refused to believe it, and had not 
 lost my faith in her purity ! And what had I to go for, what 
 was there to find out about ? Why was she bound to believe 
 in me as I did in her, to have faith in my " purity," not to be 
 afraid of my " impulsiveness " and not to provide against all 
 risks with Tatyana ? I had not yet, as far as she could see, 
 deserved her confidence. No matter, no matter that she does 
 not know that I am worthy of it, that I am not seduced by 
 " temptations," that I do not believe in malicious calumnies 
 against her ; I know it and I shall respect myself for it. I shall 
 respect my own feeling. Oh, yes, she had allowed me to utter 
 everything before Tatyana, she had allowed Tatyana to be there, 
 she knew that Tatyana was sitting there listening (for she was 
 incapable of not hstening) ; she knew that she was b'jghing at 
 me out there, — that was awful, awful ! But . . . but what if it 
 were impossible to avoid it ? What could she have done in 
 her position, and how could one blame her for it ? Why, I had 
 told her a lie about l\jaft, I had deceived her because that, too, 
 
 ^--, в
 
 could not be helped, and I had lied innocently against my will. 
 " My God ! " I cried suddenly, flushing painfully, " what 
 have I just done myself ! Haven't I exposed her, too, before 
 Tatyana, haven't I repeated it all to Versilov just now ? Though, 
 after all, there was a differenpe. It was only a question of the 
 letter ; I had in reality only told Versilov about the letter 
 because there was nothing else to tell, and could be nothing 
 else. Was not I the first to declare that " there could not be " ? 
 He was a man of insight. Hm ! But what hatred there was 
 in his heart for this woman even to this day ! And what sort 
 of drama must have taken place between them in the past, 
 and about what ? All due to vanity, of course ! " Versilov cannot 
 be capable of ajiy feeling but boundless vanity I " 
 
 That last thought rose spontaneously in my mind and I did 
 not even remark it. Such were the thoughts that floated through 
 mj' mind one after another, and I was straightforAvard with 
 myself : I did not cheat or deceive myself ; and if there was 
 anything I did not understand at that moment, it was not from 
 sophistry with myself but only from lack of brains. 
 
 I returned home in great excitement, and — I don't know why 
 — in a very cheerful, though confused state of mind. But I 
 was afraid of analysing my feelings and did my utmost to distract 
 my mind. I went in at once to see my landlady : it turned out 
 that a terrible quarrel really had taken place between her husband 
 and her. She was in advanced consumption, and though, 
 perhaps, she was a good-natured woman, like all consumptives 
 she was of uncertain temper. I began trying to reconcile them 
 at once ; I went to the lodger, who was a very vain little bank 
 clerk, called, Tchervyak, a coarse pock-marked fool. I disliked 
 him very much, but I got on with him quite well, for I often was 
 so mean as to join him in turning Pyotr Ippolitovitch into ridicule. 
 I at once persuaded him to keep on the lodgings, and indeed he 
 would not in any case have really gone so far as to move. It 
 ended in my reassuring the landlady completely, and even 
 succeeding in very deftly putting я pillow under her head : 
 " Pyotr Ippolitovitch would never have known how to do it," 
 she commented malignantly. Then I busied myself in the kitchen 
 preparing mustard plasters for her and succeeded in making two 
 capital ones with my own hand. Poor Pyotr Ippolitovitch looked 
 on envious, but I did not allow him to touch them, and was 
 rewarded by liberal tears of gratitude from the lady. I re- 
 member I suddenly felt sick of it all, and suddenly realized that 
 
 274
 
 I was not looking after the invalid from kindness at all, but from 
 something else, some very different motive. 
 
 I waited for Matvey with nervous impatience : I had resolved 
 that evening to try my luck at cards for the last time and . . . 
 and, apart from my need to win, I had an intense longing to 
 play ; but for that, my excitement would have been vm bearable. 
 К I had not gone anywhere I might have been unable to hold 
 out and should have gone to her. It was almost time for Matvey 
 to come, when the door was opened and an unexpected visitor. 
 Багз^а Onisimovna, walked m. I frowned and was surprised. 
 She knew my lodging, for she had been there once with some 
 message from my mother. I made her sit down and looked 
 at her inquiringly. She said nothing, and only looked straight 
 into my face with a deferential smile. 
 
 " You've not come from Liza ? " it occurred to me to ask. 
 
 " No, it's nothing special." 
 
 I informed her that I was just going out ; she replied again 
 that it was " nothing special," and that she was going herself 
 in a minute. I suddenly for some .reason felt sorry for her. 
 I may observe that she had met with a great deal of sympathy 
 from all of usj from my mother, and still more from Tatyana 
 Pavlovna, but after installing her at Mme. Stolbyeev's all of us 
 had rather begvm to forget her, except perhaps Liza, who often 
 visited her. I think she was herself the cause of this neglect, 
 for she had a special faculty for effacing herself and holding 
 herself aloof from people in spite of her obsequiousness and her 
 ingratiating smiles . I personally disliked those smiles of hers, and 
 her affected expression, and I even imagined on one occasion 
 that she had not grieved very long for her Olya. But this time 
 for some reason I felt very sorry for her. 
 
 And behold, without uttering a word, she suddenly bent for- 
 ward with her eyes cast down, and all at once, throwing her arms 
 roimd my waist, hid her face on my knees. She seized ray hand, 
 I thought she meant to kiss it, but she pressed it to her eyes, 
 and hot tears trickled upon it. She was shaking all over with 
 sobs, but she wept silently. It sent a pang to my heart, even 
 though I felt at the same time somehow annoyed. But she was 
 embracing me with perfect confidence and without the least fear 
 that I might be vexed, though only just before she had smiled 
 so timidly and cringingly. 
 
 I began begging her to calm herself. 
 
 " Kind, good friend, I don't know what to do with myself. 
 
 275
 
 As soon as it gets dark, I can't bear it ; as soon as it gets dark I 
 can't go on bearing it, and I feel drawn into the street, into the 
 darkness. And I am drawn there by my imaginings. My mind 
 is possessed by the fancy that as soon as ever I go out I shall 
 meet her in the street. I walk and seem to see her. That is 
 other girls are walking along the street and I walk behind them 
 on purpose, and I think : ' Isn't it she, there she is,' I think, ' it 
 really is my Olya ! ' I dream and dream. I turn giddy at last, 
 and feel sick, and stumble and jostle against people ; I stumble 
 as though I were drunk and some swear at me ; I hide by myself 
 and don't go to see anyone, and wherever one goes, it makes 
 one's heart more sick ; I passed by your lodging just now, and 
 thought : 'I'll go in to him ; he is kinder than any of them, 
 and he was there at the time.' Forgive a poor creature who's 
 no use to anyone ; I'll go away directly ; I'm going. . . ." 
 
 She suddenly got up and made haste to depart. Matvey 
 arrived just then ; I made her get into the sledge with me, and 
 left her at Mme. Stolbyeev's on my way. 
 
 I had of late begun to frequent Zerstchikov's gambling saloon. 
 I had so far visited three gambling houses, always in company 
 with Prince Sergay, who had introduced me to these places. At 
 one of these houses the game was faro especially, and the stakes 
 were high. But I did not care for going there : I saw that one 
 could not get on there without a long purse, and also that the 
 place was crowded Avith insolent fellows and swaggering young 
 snobs. This was what Prince Sergay liked ; he liked playing, 
 too, but he particularly liked getting to know these young 
 prodigals. I noticed that though he went in with me he 4tept 
 away from me during the evening and did not introduce me to 
 any of " his set." I stared about me like a wild man of the 
 woods, so much so that I sometimes attracted attention. At 
 the gambling table people spoke to one another freely; but once 
 I tried bowing next day to a young fop, with whom I had not 
 only talked but laughed the previous evening, sitting beside 
 him, and had even guessed two cards from him. Yet when I 
 greeted him in the same room next day, he actually did not 
 recognize me. Or what was worse, stared at me with simulated 
 amazement, and passed by with a smile. So I quickly gave up 
 
 276
 
 the place and preferred to visit a, " sewer " — I don't know what 
 else to call it — it was a wretched sordid little place for roulette, 
 managed by a kept woman, who, however, never showed herself 
 in the saloon. It was all horribly free and easy there, and though 
 officers and wealthy merchants sometimes frequented it, there 
 was a squaUd filthiness about the place, though that was an 
 attraction to many. Moreover, I was often lucky there. But I 
 gave that place up, too, after a disgusting scene, which occurred 
 when the game was at its hottest and ended in a fight between 
 two players. I began going instead to Zerstchikov's, to which 
 Prince Sergay took me also. The man was a retired captain, 
 and the tone at his rooms was very tolerable, military, curt, 
 and businesslike, and there was a fastidiously scrupulous keeping 
 up of the forms of punctilio. No boisterous practical jokers or 
 very fast men frequented it. Moreover, the stakes plaj^ed for 
 were often considerable. Both faro and roulette were played. 
 I had only been there twice before that evening, the 15th of 
 November, but I beUeve Zerstchikov already knew me by sight ; 
 I had made no acquaintances there, however. As luck would 
 have it Prince Sergay did not turn up till about midnight, 
 when he dropped in with Darzan after spending the evening 
 at the gambling saloon of the yoixng snobs which I had given 
 up ; and so that evening I found myself alone and unknown in a 
 crowd of strangers. 
 
 If I had a reader and he had read all I have written so far of 
 my adventures, there would be certainly no need to inform him 
 that I am not created for any sort of society. The trouble is 
 I don't know how to behave in company. If I go anywhere 
 among a great many people I always have a feeling as though I 
 were being electrified by so many eyes looking at me. It 
 positively makes me shrivel up, physically shrivel up, even in 
 such places as a theatre, to say nothing of private houses. I did 
 not know how to behave with dignity in these gambling saloons 
 and assemblies ; I either sat still, inwardly upbraiding myself 
 for my excessive mildness and politeness, or I suddenly got up 
 and did something rude. And meanwhile all sorts of worthless 
 fellows far inferior to me knew how to behave with wonderful 
 aplomb — and that's what exasperated me above everj-thing, 
 so that I lost my self-possession more and more. I may say 
 frankly, even at that time, if the truth is to be told, the society 
 there, and even winning money at cards, had become revolting 
 and a torture to me. Positively a torture. I did, of co\irse, 
 
 277
 
 derive acute enjoyment from it, but this enjoyment was at the 
 cost of torture : the whole thing, the people, the gambling, and, 
 most of all, myself in the midst of them, seemed horribly nasty. 
 " As soon as I win I'll chuck it all up ! " I said to myself every 
 time when I woke up in my lodgings in the morning after 
 gambling over night. Then, again, how accoimt for my desire to 
 win, since I certainly was not fond of money 1 Not that I am going 
 to repeat the hackneyed phrases usual in such explanations, that I 
 played for the sake of the game, for the pleasure of it, for the risk, 
 the excitement and so on, and not for gain. I was horribly in 
 need of money, and though this was not my chosen path, not 
 my idea, yet somehow or other I had made up my mind to try it 
 by way of experiment. I was continually possessed by one 
 overwhelming thought : " You maintained that one could 
 reckon with certainty on becoming a millionaire if only one had 
 sufficient strength of will ; you've tested your strength of will 
 already ; so show yourself as strong in this case : can more 
 strength of will be needed for roulette than for your idea 1 " 
 that is what I kept repeating to myself. And as I still retain 
 the conviction, that in games of chance, if one has perfect control 
 of one's will, so that the subtlety of one's intelligence and one's 
 power of calculation are preserved, one cannot fail to overcome 
 the brutality of blind chance and to win, I naturally could not 
 help growing more and more irritated when at every moment 
 I failed to preserve my strength of will and was carried away 
 by excitement, Hke a regular child. " Though I was able to 
 endure hunger, I am not able to control myself in an absurd 
 thing like this ! " that was what provoked me. Moreover, the 
 consciousness that however absurd and abject I might seem, I 
 had within me a rich store of strength which would one day make 
 them all change their opinion of me, that consciousness has been 
 from the days of my oppressed childhood the one spring of 
 life for me, my light, my dignity, my weapon and my consolation, 
 without which I might have committed suicide as a little child. 
 And so how could I help being irritated when I saw what a 
 pitiful creature I became at the gambling table ? That is why 
 I could not give up playing ! I see it all clearly now. This 
 was the chief reason, but apart from that my petty vanity was 
 wounded. Losing had lowered me in the eyes of Prince Sergay, 
 of Versilov, though he did not deign to speak of it, of every one, 
 even of Tatyana Pavlovna ; that is what I thought, I felt. Finally, 
 I will make another confession 1 By that time I had begun 
 
 278
 
 to be corrupted : it had become hard for me to give up a dinner 
 of seven dishes at the restaurant, to give up Matvey, and the 
 English shop, to lose the good opinion of my hairdresser, and all 
 that, in fact. I was conscious of it even at the time, but I refused 
 to admit the thought ; now I blush to write it. 
 
 Finding myself alone in a crowd of strangers, I established 
 myself at first at a corner of the table and began staking small 
 sums. I remained sitting there without stirring for two hours. 
 For those two hours the play was horribly flat — neither one 
 thing nor another. I let slip some wonderful chances and tried 
 not to lose my temper, but to preserve my coolness and confidence. 
 At the end of the two hours I had neither lost nor won. Out of 
 my three hundred roubles I had lost ten or fifteen roubles. 
 This trivial result exasperated me, and what's more an exceed- 
 ingly unpleasant, disgusting incident occurred. I know that such 
 gambling saloons are frequented by thieves, who are not simply 
 pickpockets out of the street but well-known gamblers. I am 
 certain that the well-known gambler Aferdov is a thief ; he is 
 still to be seen about the town ; I met him not long ago driving 
 a pair of his own ponies, but he is a thief and he stole from me. 
 But this incident I will describe later ; what happened this 
 evening was simply a prelude. 
 
 I spent there two hours sitting at a corner of the table, and 
 beside me, on the left, there was all the time an abominable little 
 dandy, a Jew I believe ; he is on some paper though, and even 
 writes something and gets it published. At the very last moment 
 I suddenly won twenty roubles. Two red notes lay before me, 
 and suddenly I saw this wTetched little Jew put out his hand 
 and remove one of my notes. I tried to stop him ; but with a 
 most impudent air he immediately informed me, without raising 
 his voice in the least, that it was what he had won, that he had 
 just put down a stake and won it ; he declined to continue the 
 conversation and turned away. As ill-luck would have it, I was in 
 a state of extreme stupidity at that moment : I was brooding over 
 a great idea, and with a curse I got up quickly and walked away ; 
 I did not want to dispute, so made him a present of the red note. 
 And indeed it would have been difficult to go into the matter 
 with an impudent thief, for I had let slip the right moment. 
 
 279
 
 and the game was going on again. And that was my great 
 mistake, the effect of which was apparent later on : three or four 
 players near us saw how the matter ended, and noticing how 
 easily I had given way, took me for another of the same sort. 
 
 It was just twelve o'clock ; I walked into the other room, and 
 after a little reflection formed a new plan. Going back I changed 
 my notes at the bank for half imperials. I received over forty 
 of them. I divided them into ten lots, and resolved to stake 
 four half imperials ten times running on the zero. " If I win 
 it's my luck. If I lose, so much the better, I'll never play again." 
 I may mention that zero had not turned up once during those 
 two hours, so that at last no one was staking on zero. 
 
 I put down my stakes standing, silent, frowning and 
 clenching my teeth. At the third round, Zerstchikov called 
 aloud zero, which had not turned up all day. A hundred and 
 forty half imperials were counted out to me in gold. I had 
 seven chances left and I went on, though everything seemed 
 whirling round, and dancing before my eyes. 
 
 " Come here ! " I shouted right across the table to a player 
 beside whom I had been sitting before, a grey-headed man with 
 a moustache, and a purple face, wearing evening dress, who had 
 been for some hours staking small sums with ineffable patience 
 and losing stake after stake : " come this end ! There's luck 
 here I " 
 
 " Are you speaking to me ? " the moustached gentleman 
 shouted from the other end of the table, with a note of menacing 
 surprise in his voice. 
 
 " Yes, you ! You'll go on losing for ever there ! " 
 
 " That's not your business, please not to interfere Г " 
 
 But I could not restrain myself. An elderly officer was sitting 
 facing mo at the other side of the table. Looking at my stake 
 he muttered to his neighbour : 
 
 " That's queer, zero. No, I won't venture on zero." 
 
 " Do, colonel 1 " I shouted laying down another stake. 
 
 " Kindly leave me alone, and don't force your advice upon 
 me," he rapped out sharply. " You are making too much 
 noise." 
 
 " I am giving you good advice ; would you like to bet on zero's 
 turning up directly : ten gold pieces, I'll bet that, will you take 
 it?" 
 
 And I laid down ten half imperials. 
 
 '■ A bet of ten gold pieces ! That I can do," he brought out 
 
 280
 
 drily and severely. " I'll bet against you that zero won't 
 turn up." 
 
 " Ten louis d'or, colonel." 
 
 " What do you mean by ten louis d'or ? '* 
 
 " Ten half imperials, colonel, and, in grand language, ten 
 louis d'or." 
 
 " Well, then, say they are half imperials, and please don't 
 joke with me." 
 
 I did not of course hope to win the bet ; there were thirty-six 
 chances against one that zero would not turn up again ; but I 
 proposed it out of swagger, and because I wanted to attract 
 every one's attention. I quite saw that for some reason nobody 
 here liked me, and that they all would have taken particular 
 pleasure in letting me know it. The roulette wheel was sent 
 spinning, — and what was the general amazement when it stopped 
 at zero again ! There was actually a general shout. The glory 
 of my success dazed me completely. Again a hundred and 
 forty half imperials were counted out to me. Zerstchikov 
 asked me if I would not like to take part of them in notes, but I 
 mumbled something inarticulate in reply, for I was hterally 
 incapable of expressing myself in a calm and definite way. My 
 head was going round and my legs felt weak. I suddenly felt that 
 I would take a fearful risk at once ; moreover, I had a longing 
 tO do somethLag more, to make another bet, to carry off some 
 thousands from some one. Mechanically I scooped up my 
 notes and gold in the hollow of my hand, and could not collect 
 myself to count them. At that moment I noticed Prince Sergay 
 and Darzan behind me : they had only just come from their faro 
 saloon, where as I heard afterwards they had lost their last 
 farthing. 
 
 "Ah 1 Darzan," I cried " There's luck here ! Stake on 
 zero!" 
 
 " I've been losing, I've no money," he answered drily ; Prince 
 Sergay actually appeared not to notice or recognize me. 
 
 " Here's money," I cried pointing to my heap of gold " As 
 much as you like." 
 
 *' Hang it all ! " cried Darzan, flushing crimson ; "I didn't 
 ask you for money, I believe." 
 
 " You are being called," said Zarstchikov pulling my arm. 
 
 The colonel who had lost ten half imperials to me had called 
 to me several times almost abusingly. 
 
 " Kindly take this ! " he shouted, purple with rage. " It's 
 
 281
 
 not for me to stand over you, but if I don't you'll be saying 
 afterwards you haven't had the money. Count it." 
 
 " I trust you, I trust you, colonel, without counting ; only 
 please don't shout at me like that and don't be angry," and I 
 drew his heap of gold towards me. 
 
 " Sir, I beg you to keep your transports for some one else and 
 not to force them on me," the colonel rasped out. " I've never 
 fed pigs with you ! " 
 
 " It's queer to admit such people " — " Wbo is he ? " — 
 " Only a lad," I heard exclamations in undertones. 
 
 But I did not listen, I was staking at random, not on zero this 
 time. I staked a whole heap of hundred rouble notes on the 
 first eighteen numbers. 
 
 " Let's go, Darzan," I heard Prince Sergay's voice behind me. 
 
 " Home ? " I asked, turning round to them. " Wait for me : 
 we'll go together, I've had enough." 
 
 My stake won, I had gained a big sum. " Enough ! " I cried, 
 and without counting the money I began with trembling hands, 
 gathering up the gold and dropping it into my pockets, and 
 clumsily crumpling the notes in my fingers, and trying to stuff 
 them all at once into my side pocket. Suddenly Aferdov, who 
 was sitting next to me on the right and had been playing for 
 high stakes, laid a fat hand with a ring on the first finger over 
 three of my hundred-rouble notes. 
 
 " Excuse me that's not yours," he brought out sternly and 
 incisively, though he spoke rather softly. 
 
 This was the prelude, which was destined a few days after- 
 wards to have such a serious sequel. Now I swear on my 
 honour those three notes were mine, but to my misfortune, at 
 the time, though I was convinced they were mine I still had the 
 fraction of a doubt, and for an honest man, that is enough ; 
 and I am an honest man. What made all the difference was that 
 I did not know at the time that Aferdov was a thief : I did not 
 even know his name then, so that at that moment I might very 
 well imagine I had made a mistake, and that those three notes 
 were really not in the heap that had just been paid me. I had 
 not counted my gains at all, I had simply gathered up the heaps 
 with my hands, and there had been money lying in front of 
 Aferdov too, and quite close to mine, but in neat heaps and 
 counted. Above all Aferdov was known here and looked upon 
 as a wealthy man ; he was treated with respect : all this 
 had an influence on me and again I did not protest. A terrible 
 
 282
 
 mistake ! The whole bcasuy incident was the result of my 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 " I am awfully sorry, I don't remember for certain.; but I 
 really think they are mine," I brought out with lips trembling 
 with indignation. These words at once aroused a murmur. 
 
 " To say things like that, you ought to remember for certain, 
 but you've graciously announced yourself that you don't re- 
 member for certain,*' Aferdov observed with insufferable 
 superciliousness . 
 
 " Who is he 1 "--" It can't be allowed ! " I heard several 
 exclamations. 
 
 " That's not the first time he has done it ; there was the same 
 little game over a ten-rouble note with Rechberg just now," 
 a mean little voice said somewhere near. 
 
 " That's enough ! that's enough ! " I exclaimed, " I am not 
 protesting, take it . . . where's Prince . . . where are Prince 
 Sokolsky and Darzan ? Have they gone ? Gentlemen, did you 
 see which way Prince Sokolsky and Darzan went ? " And 
 gathering up all my money at last, I could not succeed in getting 
 some of the half imperials into my pocket, and holding them in 
 my hands I rushed to overtake Prince Sergay and Darzan. The 
 reader will see, I think, that I don't spare myself, and am recording 
 at this moment what I was then, and all my nastiness, so as to 
 explain the possibility of what followed. 
 
 Prince Sergay and Darzan were going downstairs, without 
 taking the slightest notice of my shouts, and calls to them. I 
 had overtaken them, but I stopped for a moment before the 
 hall- porter, and, goodness knows why, thrust three half imperials 
 into his hand ; he gazed at me in amazement and did not even 
 thank me. But that was nothing to me, and if Matvey had been 
 there I should probably have pressed handfuls of gold upon him ; 
 and so indeed I believe I meant to do, but as I ran out on the 
 steps, I suddenly remembered that I had let him go home when 
 I arrived. At that moment Prince Sergay 's horse came up, 
 and he got into his sledge. 
 
 ' I am coming with you, prince, and to your flat ! " I cried, 
 clutching the fur cover and throwing it open, to get into the 
 empty seat ; but all at once Darzan skipped past me into the 
 sledge, and the coachman snatched the fur cover out of my hands, 
 and tucked it round them 
 
 " Damn it all ! " I cried dumbfoundered ; it looked as though 
 I had unbuttoned the cover for Darzan's benefit, like a flunkey, 
 
 283
 
 " Home ! " shouted Prince Sergay. 
 
 " Stop ! " I roared, clutching at the sledge, but the horse 
 started, and I was sent rolling in the snow. I even fancied they 
 were laughing. Jumping up I took the first sledge I came across, 
 and dashed after Prince Sergay, urging on the wretched nag at 
 every second. 
 
 As ill-luck would have it, the wretched beast crawled along 
 with unnatural slowness, though I promised the driver a whole 
 rouble. The driver did nothing but lash the beast to earn his 
 rouble. My heart was sinking : I began trying to talk to the 
 driver, but I could not even articulate my words, and I muttered 
 something incoherent. This was my condition when I ran up 
 to Prince Sergay's ! He had only just come back ; he had 
 left Darzan on the way, and was alone. Pale and ill-humoured, 
 he was pacing up and down his study. I repeat again he had 
 lost heavily that evening. He looked at me with a sort of 
 preoccupied wonder. 
 
 " You again ! " he brought out frowning. 
 
 " To settle up with you for good, sir ! " I said breathlessly. 
 " Row dared you treat me like that ! " 
 
 He looked at me inquiringly. 
 
 " If you meant to drive with Darzan you might have answered 
 that you were going with him, but you started your horse, 
 and I " 
 
 " Oh yes, you tumbled into the snow," he said and laughed 
 into my face. 
 
 " An insult like that can be only answered with a challenge, 
 so to begin with we'll settle accounts " 
 
 And with a trembUng hand I began pulling out my money 
 and laying it on the sofa, on the marble table, and even on an 
 open book, in heaps, in handfuls, and in roils of notes ; several 
 coins rolled on the carpet. 
 
 " Oh, yes, you've won, it seem;- .... One can tell that from 
 your tone." 
 
 He had never spoken to me so insolently before. I was very 
 pale. 
 
 " Here ... I don't know how much ... it must be counted. 
 I owe you three thousand . . , or how much ? . . . More or 
 less ? " 
 
 284
 
 ' I am not pressing you to pay, I believe." 
 
 " No, it's I want to pay, and you ought to know why. I 
 know that in that roll there's a thousand roubles, here ! " And 
 I began with trembling fingers to count the money, but gave it 
 up. " It doesn't matter, I know it's a thousand. Well, that 
 thousand I will keep for myself, but all the rest, all these heaps, 
 t-ake for what I owe you, for part of what I owe you : I think 
 there's as much as two thousand or may be more ! " 
 
 " But you are keeping a thousand for yourself then ? " said 
 Prince Sergay with a grin. 
 
 " Do you want it ? In that case ... I was meaning . . . 
 I was thinking you didn't wish it . . . but if you want it here 
 itis. . . ." 
 
 " No, you need not," he said turning away from me contemp- 
 tuously, and beginning to pace up and down again. 
 
 " And what the devil's put it into your head to want to pay 
 it back ? " he said, tm-ning to me suddenly, with a horrible 
 challenge in his face. 
 
 "I'm paying it back to be free to insist on your giving me 
 satisfaction ! " I vociferated. 
 
 " Go to the devil with your everlasting words and gesticula- 
 tions ! " he stamped at me suddenly, as though in a frenzy. " I 
 have been wanting to get rid of you both for ages ; you and your 
 Versilov." 
 
 *' You've gone out of your mind ! " I shouted and indeed it 
 did look like it. 
 
 " You've worried me to death with your high-sounding 
 phrases, and never anything but phrases, phrases, phrases 1 
 Of honour for instance ! Tfoo ! I've been wanting to have 
 done with you for a long time. ... I am glad, glad, that the 
 minute has come. I considered myself bound, and blushed that 
 I was forced to receive you . . . both ! But now I don't 
 consider myself bound in any way, in any way, let me tell you ! 
 Your Versilov mduced me to attack Madame Ahmakov and 
 to cast aspersions on her. . . . Don't dare to talk of honour 
 to me after that. For you are dishonourable people . . . both 
 of you, both of you ; I wonder you weren't ashamed to take 
 my money ! " 
 
 There was a darkness before my eyes. 
 
 "I borrowed from you as a comrade," I began, speaking with a 
 dreadful quietness. " You offered it me yourself, and I believed 
 in your affection. . . ." 
 
 285
 
 " I am not your comrade ! That's not why I have given you 
 money, you know why it is." 
 
 " I borrowed on account of what you owed Versilov ; of course 
 it was stupid, but I . . ." 
 
 " You could not borrow on Versilov's account without his 
 permission . . . and I could not have given you his money without 
 his permission. I gave you my own money, and you knew it ; 
 knew it and took it ; and I allowed this hateful farce to go on in 
 my house ! " 
 
 '* What did I know ? What farce ! Why did you give it 
 to me ? " 
 
 '' Pour vos beaux yeuz, топ cousin ! " he said, laughing 
 straight in my face. 
 
 " Go to hell ! " I cried. Ч Take it all, here's the other thousand 
 too ! Now we are quits, and to-morrow. ..." 
 
 And I flung at him the roll of hundred rouble notes I had 
 meant to keep to live upon. The notes hit him in the waistcoat 
 and flopped on the floor. 
 
 With three rapid strides he stepped close up to me : 
 
 " Do you dare to tell me," he said savagely articulating his 
 words as it were syllable by syllable : " that all this time you've 
 been taking my money you did not know your sister was with 
 child by me ? " 
 
 " What ! what ! " I screamed, and suddenly my legs gave 
 way under me and I sank helplessly on the sofa. He told me 
 himself afterwards that I literally turned as white as a hand- 
 kerchief. I was stunned. I remember we still stared into each 
 other's faces in silence. A look of dismay passed over his face ; 
 he suddenly bent down, took me by the shoulder and began 
 supporting me. I distinctly remember his set smile, in which 
 there was incredulity and wonder. Yes, he had never dreamed 
 of his words having such an effect, for he was absolutely con- 
 vinced of my knowledge. 
 
 It ended in my fainting, but only for a moment : I came to 
 myself ; I got on my feet, gazed at him and reflected — and 
 suddenly the whole truth dawned upon my mind which had 
 been so slow to awaken ! If some one had told me of it before 
 and asked me what I should have done at such a moment, I 
 should no doubt have answered that I should have torn him in 
 pieces. But what happened was quite different and quite 
 independent of my will : I suddenly covered my face with both 
 hands and began sobbing bitterly. It happened of itself. All 
 
 286
 
 at once the child came out again in the young man. It seemed 
 that fully half of my soul was still a child's. I fell on the sofa 
 and sobbed out, "Liza! Liza! Poor unhappy girl!" Prince 
 Sergay was completely convinced all at once. 
 
 " Good God, how unjust I've been to you ! " he cried in deep 
 distress. " How abominably I've misjudged you in my sus- 
 piciousness. . . . Forgive me, Arkady Makarovitch ! " 
 
 I suddenly jumped up, tried to say something to him, stood 
 facing him, but said nothing, and ran out of the room and out 
 of the flat. I dragged myself home on foot, and don't know 
 how I got there. I threw myself on the bed in the dark, buried 
 my face in the pillow and thought and thought. At such 
 moments orderly and consecutive thought is never possible ; 
 my brain and imagination seemed torn to shreds, and I re- 
 member I began dreaming about something utterly irrelevant, 
 I don't know what. My grief and trouble came back to my mind 
 suddenly with an ache of anguish, and I wrung my hands again 
 and exclaimed : " Liza, Liza ! " and began crying again. I 
 don't remember how I fell asleep, but I slept sweetly and soundly. 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 1 
 
 I WAKED up at eight o'clock in the morning, instantly locked my 
 door, sat down by the window and began thinking. So I sat till 
 ten o'clock. The servant knocked at my door twice, but I sent 
 her away. At last at eleven o'clock there was a knock again. 
 I was just going to shout to the servant again, but it was Liza. 
 The servant came in with her, brought me in some coffee, and 
 prepared to light the stove. It was impossible to get rid of the 
 servant, and all the time Fekla was arranging the wood, and 
 blowing up the fire, I strode up and down my little room, not 
 beginning to talk to Liza, and even trying not to look at her. 
 The servant, as though on purpose, was inexpressibly slow in her 
 movements as servants always are when they notice they are 
 preventing people from talking. Liza sat on the chair by the 
 window and watched me. 
 
 " Your coffee will be cold," she said suddenly. 
 
 I looked at her : not a trace of embarrassment, perfect tran- 
 quillity, and even a smile on her lips. 
 
 287
 
 " Such are women," I thought, and could not help shrugging 
 my shoulders. At last the servant had finished lighting the stove 
 and was about to tidy the room, but I turned her out angrily, 
 and at last locked the door. 
 
 " Tell me, please, why have you locked the door again ? " 
 Liza asked. 
 
 I stood before her. 
 
 " Liza, I never could have imagined you would deceive me 
 like this ! " I exclaimed suddenly, though I had never thought 
 of beginning like that, and instead of being moved to tears, an 
 angry feeling which was quite unexpected stabbed me to the 
 heart. Liza flushed ; she did not turn away, however, but still 
 k)oked straight in my face. 
 
 " Wait, Liza, wait, oh how stupid I've been ! But was I 
 stupid ? I had no hint of it till everything came together yester- 
 day, and from what could I have guessed it before ? From your 
 going toMme. Stolbyeev's andtothat . . . Darya Onisimovna 1 
 But I looked upon you as the sun, Liza, and how could I dream 
 of such a thing ? Do you remember how I met you that day 
 two months ago, at his flat, and how we walked together in the 
 sunshine and rejoiced. . . . Had it happened then ? Had it ? " 
 
 She answered by nodding her head. 
 
 " So you were deceiving me even then ! It was not my 
 stupidity, Liza, it was my egoism, more than stupidity, the egoism 
 of my heart and . . . maybe my conviction of your holiness. 
 Oh ! I have always been convinced that you were all infinitely 
 above me and — now this ! I had not time yesterday in one 
 day to realize in spite of all the hints. . . . And besides I was 
 taken up with something very different yesterday ! " 
 
 At that point I suddenly thought of Katerina Nikolaevna, 
 and something stabbed me to the heart like a pin, and I flushed 
 crimson. It was natural that I could not be kind at that 
 moment. 
 
 " But what are you justifying yourself for ? You seem to 
 be in a hurry to defend yourself, Arkady, what for ? " Liza asked 
 softly and gently, though her voice was firm and confident. 
 
 " What for ? What am I to do now ? if it were nothing but 
 that question ! And you ask what for ? I don't know how to 
 act ! I don't know how brothers do act in such cases. ... I 
 know they go with pistols in their hands and force them to 
 marry. ... I will behave as a man of honour ought ! Only 
 I don't know how a man of honour ought to behave. . , . Why ? 
 
 288
 
 Because we are not gentlefolk, and he's a prince and has to 
 think of his career ; he won't listen to honest people like us. 
 We are not even brother and sister, but nondescript illegitimate 
 children of a house-serf without a surname ; and princes don't 
 marry house-serfs. Oh, it's nauseating ! And what's more, you 
 sit now and wonder at me." 
 
 " I believe that you are very much distressed," said Liza 
 flushing again, " but you are in too great a hurry, and are 
 distressing yourself." 
 
 " Too great a hurry ? Why, do you think I've not been slow 
 enough ! Is it for you, Liza, to say that to me 1 " I cried, com- 
 pletely carried away by indignation at last. " And what shame 
 I've endured, and how that prince must despise me 1 It's all 
 clear to me now, and I can see it all like a picture : he quite 
 imagined that I had guessed long ago what his relation was 
 to you, but that I held my tongue or even turned up my nose 
 while I bragged of ' my honour ' — that's what he may well 
 have thought of me ! And that I have been taking his money 
 for my sister, for my sister's shame ! It was that he loathed so, 
 and I think he was quite right, too ; to have every day to 
 welcome a scoimdrel because he was her brother, and then to 
 talk of honour ... it would turn any heart to stone, even his ! 
 And you allowed it all, you did not warn me ! He despised me 
 so utterly that he talked of me to Stebelkov, and told me yester- 
 day that he longed to get rid of us both, Versilov and me. And 
 Stebelkov too ! ' Anna Andreyevna is as much your sister as 
 Lizaveta Makarovna,' and then he shouted after me, ' My 
 money's better than his.' And I, I insolently lolled on his sofa, 
 and forced myself on his acquaintances as though I were an equal, 
 damn them ! And you allowed all that ! Most likely Darzan 
 knows by now, judging, at least, by his tone yesterday evening. 
 , . . Everyone, everyone knew it except me ! " 
 
 " No one knows anji-hing, he has not told any one of his 
 acquaintances, and he could not,^^ Liza added. " And about 
 Stebelkov, all I know is that Stebelkov is worrying him, and 
 that it could only have been a guess on Stebelkov's part any- 
 way. ... I have talked to him about you several times, and he 
 fully believed me that you know nothing, and I can't understand 
 how this happened yesterday." 
 
 " Oh, I paid him all I owed him yesterday, anyway, and that's 
 a load off my heart ! Liza, does mother know i Of course she 
 does ; why, yesterday she stood up for you against me. , . , 
 
 289 »
 
 Oh, Liza ! Is it possible that in your heart of hearts you think 
 yourself absolutely right, that you really don't blame yourself 
 in the least ? I don't know how these things are considered 
 nowadays, and what are your ideas, I mean as regards me, 
 your mother, your brother, your father. . . . Does Versilov 
 know ? " 
 
 " Mother has told him nothing ; he does not ask questions, 
 most likely he does not want to ask." 
 
 " He knows, but does not want to know, that's it, it's like him ! 
 Well, you may laugh at a brother, a stupid brother, when he 
 talks of pistols, but your mother ! Surely you must have thought, 
 Liza, that it's a reproach to mother ? I have been tortured 
 by that idea all night ; mother's first thought now лу111 be : 
 ' it's because I did wrong, and the daughter takes after the 
 mother ! ' " 
 
 " Oh, what a cruel and spiteful thing to say ! " cried Liza, 
 while the tears gushed from her eyes ; she got up and walked 
 rapidly towards the door. 
 
 " Stay, stay ! " I caught her in my arms, made her sit down 
 again, and sat down beside her, still keeping my arm round 
 her. 
 
 " I thought it would be like this when I came here, and that 
 you would insist on my blaming myself. Very well, I do blame 
 myself. It was only through pride I was silent just now, and 
 did not say so, I am much sorrier for you and mother than I am 
 for myself. . . ," 
 
 She could not go on, and suddenly began crying bitterly. 
 
 " Don't, Liza, you mustn't, I don't want anything. I can't 
 judge you. Liza, what does mother say ? Tell me, has she 
 known long ? " 
 
 " I believe she has ; but I only told her a little while ago, 
 when this happened," she said softly, dropping her eyes. 
 
 " What did she say ? " 
 
 " She said, ' bear it,' " Liza said still more softly. 
 
 "Ah, Liza, yes, 'bear it!' Don't do anjrthing to yourself, 
 God keep you ! " 
 
 " I am not going to," she answered firmly, and she raised her 
 eyes and looked at me. "Don't be afraid," she added, "it's not 
 at all like that." 
 
 " Liza, darling, all I can see is that I know nothing about it, 
 but I'v«^ only found out now how much I love you. There's 
 only one thing Г can't understand, Liza ; it's all clear to me, 
 
 290
 
 but there's one thing I can't understand at all : what made you 
 love him ? How could you love a man like that ? That's the 
 question." 
 
 " And I suppose you've been worrying yourself all night about 
 that too ? " said Liza, with a gentle smile. 
 
 " Stay, Liza, that's a stupid question, and you are laughing ; 
 laugh away, but one can't help being surprised, you know ; you 
 and he, you are such opposite extremes ! I have studied him : 
 he's gloomy, suspicious ; perhaps he is very good-hearted, he may 
 be, but on the other hand, he is above all extremely inclined to 
 see evil in everything (though in that he is exactly like me). 
 He has a passionate appreciation of what's noble, that I admit, 
 but I fancy it's only in his ideal. Oh, he is apt to feel remorse, 
 he has been all his life continually cursing himself, and repenting, 
 but he will never reform ; that'slikeme, too, perhaps. Thousands 
 of prejudices and false ideas and no real ideas at all. He is 
 always striving after something heroic and spoiling it all over 
 trifles. Forgive me, Liza, I'm a fool though ; I say this and 
 wound you and I know it ; I understand it. . . ." 
 
 " It would be a true portrait," smiled Liza, " but you are too 
 bitter against him on my account, and that's why nothing you 
 say is true. From the very beginning he was distrustful with 
 you, and you could not see him as he is, but with me, even at 
 Luga. . . . He has had no eyes for anyone but me, ever since 
 those days at Luga. Yes, he is suspicious and morbid, and but for 
 me he would have gone out of his mind ; and if he gives me up, 
 he will go out of his mind, or shoot himself. I believe he has 
 realized that and knows it," Liza added dreamily as though to 
 herself. " Yes, he is weak continually, but such weak people 
 are capable at times of acting very strongly. . . . How strangely 
 you talked about a pistol, Arkady ; nothing of that sort is wanted 
 and I know what will happen. It's not my going after him, it's 
 his coming after me. Mother cries and says that if I marry him 
 I shall be imhappy, that he will cease to love me. I don't 
 believe that ; unhappy, perhaps, I shall be, but he won't cease 
 to love me. That's not why I have refused my consent all 
 along, it's for another reason. For the last two months I've 
 refused, but to-day I told him ' yes, I will marry you.' Arkasha, 
 do you know yesterday " (her eyes shone and she threw her arms 
 round my neck), "he went to Anna Andreyevna's and told her 
 with absolute frankness that he could not love her . . . ? Yes, 
 he had a complete explanation with her, and that idea's at an 
 
 291
 
 end ! He had nothing to do with the project. It was all Prince 
 Nikolay Ivanovitch's notion, and it was pressed upon him by 
 those tormentors, Stebelkov and some one else. . . . And to- 
 day for that I've said ' yes.^ Dear Arkady, he is very anxious 
 to see you, and don't be offended because of what happened 
 yesterday : he's not quite well this morning, and will be at home 
 all day. He's really unwell, Arkady ; don't think it's an excuse. 
 He has sent me on purpose, and told me to say that he ' needs ' 
 you, that he has a great deal he must tell you, and that it would 
 be awkward to say it here, in your lodging. Well, good-bye ! 
 Oh, Arkady, I am ashamed to say it, as I was coming here I 
 was awfully afraid that you would not love me any more. I 
 kept crossing myself on the way, and you've been so good and 
 kind ! I shall never forget it ! I am going to mother. And 
 you try and like him a little, won't you ? " 
 
 I embraced her warmly, and told her : 
 
 " I believe, Liza, you're a strong character. And I believe 
 that it's not you who are going after him, but he who is going 
 after you, only . . ." 
 
 "Only, what made you love him? 'that's the question!'" 
 Liza put in with her old mischievous laugh, pronouncing the 
 words exactly as I had done " that's the question ! " And as she 
 said it she lifted her forefinger exactly as I do. We kissed at 
 parting, but when she had gone my heart began to ache again. 
 
 I note merely for myself there were moments after Liza had 
 gone when a perfect host of the most unexpected ideas rushed 
 into my mind, and I was actually quite pleased with them. 
 
 " Well, why should I bother," I thought ; " what is it to me ? 
 It's the same with every one or nearly so. What of it if it has 
 happened to Liza I Am I boimd to save the honour of the 
 family ? " 
 
 I mention all these details to show how far I was from a sound 
 understanding of the difference between good and evil. It was 
 only feeling saved me : I knew that Liza was unhappy, that mother 
 was unhappy, and I knew this by my feeling when I thought of 
 them, and so I felt that what had happened must be wrong. 
 
 Now I may mention beforehand that from that day, right up 
 to the catastrophe of my illness, events followed one another 
 
 292
 
 with such rapidity that recalling them now I feel surprised 
 myself that I was able to stand up against them, crushing as 
 they were. They clouded my mind, and even my feelings, and 
 if in the end I had been overwhelmed by them, and had com- 
 mitted a crime (I was within an ace of it), the jury might well 
 have acquitted me. But I will try to describe it all in the exact 
 order of events, though I forewarn the reader that there was 
 little order in my thoughts at that time. Events came rushing 
 on me like the wind, and my thoughts whirled before them like 
 the dead leaves in autumn. Since I was entirely made up of other 
 people's ideas, where could I find principles of my own when 
 they were needed to f oi m independent decisions ? I had no 
 guide at all. 
 
 I decided to go to see Prince Sergay that evening, that we might 
 be perfectly free to talk things over, and he would be at home till 
 evening. But when it was getting dark I received again a note 
 by post, a note from Stebelkov; it consisted of three lines, con- 
 taining an urgent and most persuasive request that I would call 
 on him next morning at eleven o'clock on " most important 
 business, and you will see for yourself that it is business." 
 Thinking it over I resolved to be guided by circumstances, as 
 there was plenty of time to decide before to-morrow. 
 
 It was already eight o'clock ; I should have gone out much 
 earUer, but I kept expecting Versilov ; I was longing to express 
 myself to him, and my heart was burning. But Versilov was not 
 coming and did not come. It was out of the question for me to 
 go to see my mother and Liza for a time, and besides I had a feel- 
 ing that Versilov certainly would not be there all day. I went 
 on foot, and it occurred to me on the way to look in at the 
 restaurant on the canal side where we had been the day before. 
 Sure enough, Versilov was sitting there in the same place. 
 
 " I thought you would come here," he said, smiling strangely 
 and looking strangely at me. His smile was an unpleasant one. 
 Such as I had not seen on his face for a long time. 
 
 I sat down at the httle table and told him in full detail about 
 the prince and Liza, and my scene with Prince Sergay the 
 evening before ; I did not forget to mention how I had won at 
 roulette. He listened very attentively, and questioned me as 
 to Prince Sergay's intention to marry Liza. 
 
 " Pauvre enfant, she won't gain much by that perhaps. But 
 very likely it won't come off , . , though he is capable of 
 it. . . ." 
 
 293
 
 " Tell me, as a friend : you knew it, I suppose, had an inkling 
 of it ? " 
 
 " My dear boy, what could I do in the matter ? It's all a 
 question of another person's conscience and of feeling, even though 
 only on the part of that poor girl. I tell you again ; I meddled 
 enough at one time with other people's consciences, a most 
 imsuitable practice ! I don't refuse to help in misfortune so far 
 as I'm able, and if I understand the position myself. And you, 
 my dear boy, did you really suspect nothing all this time ? " 
 
 " But how could you," I cried, flaring up, " how could you, if 
 you'd a spark of suspicion that I knew of Liza's position, and saw 
 that I was taking money at the same time from Prince Sergay, 
 how could you speak to me, sit with me, hold out your hand to 
 me, when you must have looked on me as a scovmdrel, for I 
 bet anything you suspected I knew all about it and borrowed 
 money from Prince Sergay knowingly ! " 
 
 " Again, it's a question of conscience," he said with a smile. 
 " And how do you know," he added distinctly, with imaccount- 
 able emotion, " how do you know I wasn't afraid, as you were 
 j'esterday, that I might lose my ' ideal ' and find a worthless 
 scamp instead of my impulsive, straightforward boy ? I dreaded 
 the minute and put it off. Why not instead of indolence or 
 duplicity imagine something more innocent in me, stupid, per- 
 haps, but more honourable, qtue diable ! I am only too often 
 stupid, without being honourable. What good would you have 
 been to me if you had had such propensities ? To persuade 
 and try to reform in that case would be degrading ; you would 
 have lost every sort of value in my eyes even if you were 
 reformed. . . ." 
 
 " And Liza ? Are you sorry for her ? " 
 
 " I am very sorry for her, my dear. What makes you think 
 I am so unfeeling. ... On the contrary, I will try my very 
 utmost. . . . And you. What of your affair ? " 
 
 " Never mind my affair ; I have no affairs of my own now. 
 Tell me, why do you doubt that he'll marry her 1 He was at 
 Anna Andreyevena's yesterday and positively refused . . . 
 that is disowned the fooUsh idea . . . that originated with 
 Prince Nikolay Ivanitch ... of making a match between them. 
 He disowned it absolutely." 
 
 " Yes ? When was that ? And from whom did you hear it 1 " 
 he inquired with interest. I told him all I knew. 
 
 " H'm . . . 1" he pronounced as it were dreamily and ponder- 
 
 294
 
 ing, " then it must have happened just about an hour . . • 
 before another explanation. H'm . . , ! oh, well, of course, 
 such an interview may have taken place between them . . . 
 although I know that nothing was said or done either on his 
 side or on hers . . . though, of course, a couple of words woxild 
 be enough for such an explanation. But I tell you what, it's 
 strange," he laughed suddenly ; " I shall certainly interest you 
 directly with an extraordinary piece of news ; if your prince did 
 make his offer yesterday to Anna Andreyevna (and, suspecting 
 about Liza, I should have done my utmost to oppose his suit, 
 entre nous soil dit), Anna Andreyevna would in any case have 
 refused him. I believe you are very fond of Anna Andreyevna, 
 you respect and esteem her. That's very nice on your part, and 
 so you will probably rejoice on her accoimt ; she is engaged to 
 be married, my dear boy, and judging from her character 1 
 believe she really will get married, while I — well, I give her my 
 blessing, of com-se," 
 
 " Going to be married 1 To whom 1 " I cried, greatly as- 
 tonished. 
 
 " Ah, guess ! I won't torment you ; to Prince Nikolay 
 Ivanovitch, to your dear old man." 
 
 I gazed at him with open eyes. 
 
 " She must have been cherishing the idea for a long time ; 
 and no doubt worked it out artistically in all its aspects," 
 he went on languidly, dropping out his words one by one. 
 *' I imagine this was arranged just an boiu* after Prince 
 Sergay's visit. You see how inappropriate was his dashing in ! 
 She simply went to Prince Nikolay Ivanovitch and made him 
 a proposal." 
 
 " What, 'made him a proposal' ? You mean he made her 
 a proposal ? " 
 
 " Oh, how could he ! She did, she herself, tJiough to be sure 
 he is perfectly ecstatic. They say he is simply sitting now 
 wondering how it wa^ the idea never occurred to him. I have 
 heard he has even taken to his bed . . . from sheer ecstasy, no 
 doubt." 
 
 " Listen, you are talking so ironically . . . I can hardly believe 
 it. And how could she propose to him ? What did she say ? " 
 
 " I assure you, my dear boy, that I am genuinely delighted," 
 he answered, suddenly assuming a wonderfully serious air ; " he 
 is old, of course, but by every law and custom he can get married ; 
 as for her — again it's a matter of another person's conscience, 
 
 295
 
 as I've told you already, my dear boy. However, she is quite 
 competent to have her own views and make her own decision. 
 But the precise details and the words in which she expressed 
 herself I am not in a position to give you, my dear boy. But no 
 doubt she was equal to doing it, in a way which neither you nor 
 I would have imagined. The best of it all is that there's nothing 
 scandalous in it, it's all tres comme ilfaut in the eyes of the world. 
 Of course, it's quite evident that she was eager for a good position 
 in the world, but you know she deserves it. All this, my dear boy, 
 is an entirely worldly matter. And no doubt she made her 
 proposal in a magnificent and artistic style. It's an austere 
 type, my dear boy, ' the girl-nun,' as you once described her ; 
 ' the cool young lady ' has been my name for her a long time 
 past. She has almost been brought up by him, you know, and 
 has seen more than one instance of his kindly feeling towards 
 her. She assured me some time ago that she had ' such a respect 
 for him and such a high opinion of him, such feeling for him 
 and such sympathy with him,' and all the rest of it, so that I was 
 to some extent prepared. I was informed of all this this morning 
 in her name and at her request by my son, her brother Audrey 
 Andreyevitch, whom I believe you don't know, and whom I 
 see regularly twice a year. He respectfully approves of the step 
 she has taken.'* 
 
 " Then it is pubUc already ? Good heavens, I am amazed ! " 
 
 " No, it's certainly not public yet, not for some time. ... I 
 don't know ... I am altogether out of it, in fact. But it's all 
 true." 
 
 " But now Katerina Nikolaevna. . . . What do you think ? 
 it won't suit Biiring's tastes, will it ? " 
 
 " I don't know . . . actually that he will dislike it ; but you 
 may be sure that on that side Anna Andreyevna is a highly 
 respectable person. But what a girl she is ! Yesterday morn- 
 ing, immediately before this, she inquired of me ' whether I 
 were in love with the widow Ahmakov ? ' Do you remember 
 I told you of it yesterday with surprise ; it would have been 
 impossible for her to marry the father if I had married the 
 daughter ! Do you understand now ? " 
 
 " Oh, to be sure," I cried, " but could Anna Andreyeyna really 
 have imagined . . . that you could possibly want to marry 
 Katerina Nikolaevna ? " 
 
 " Evidently she could, my dear boy, but, however . . . but, 
 however, I beheve it's time for you to go where you were going. 
 
 296
 
 My head aches all the time, you know. I'll tell them to play 
 Lucia. I love the solemnity of its dreariness, but I've told you 
 that already ... I repeat myself unpardonably. . . . Per- 
 haps I'll go away from here though. I love you, my dear boy, 
 but good-bye ; whenever I have a headache or toothache I 
 thirst for solitude." 
 
 A line of suffering came into his face ; I believe now he really 
 was suffering with his head, his head particularly. . . . 
 " Till to-morrow," I said. 
 
 " Why ' till to-morrow,' and what is to happen to-morrow ? " 
 he said with a wry smile. 
 
 " I shall go to see you, or you come to see me." 
 " No, I shan't come to you, but you'll come running to me. . . ." 
 There was something quite malevolent in his face, but I had 
 no thoughts to spare for him ; what an event 1 
 
 Prince Sergay was really unwell, and was sitting alone with his 
 head wrapped in a wet towel. He was very anxious to see me ; 
 but he had not only a headache, he seemed to be aching morally 
 all over. To anticipate events again ; all that latter time, right 
 up to the catastrophe, it was somehow my fate to meet with 
 people who were one after another so excited that they were all 
 almost mad, so that I couldn't help being infected with the same 
 malady myself. I came, I must confess, with evil feelings in my 
 heart, and I was horribly ashamed, too, of having cried before 
 him the previous night. And anyway Liza and he had so 
 clearly succeeded in deceiving me that I could not help seeing 
 myself as a fool. In short, my heart was vibrating on false 
 notes as I went in. But all this affectation and fake feeling 
 vanished quickly. I must do him the justice to say that his 
 suspiciousness had quickly disappeared, that he surrendered him- 
 self completely ; he betrayed almost childish affection, confidence 
 and love. He kissed me with tears and at once began talking 
 of the position. . . . Yes, he really did need me : his words and 
 the sequence of his ideas betrayed great mental disorder. 
 
 He announced with great firmness h\s intention to marry Liza 
 and as soon as possible. " The fact that she is not of noble birth 
 does not trouble me in the least, beUeve me," he said to me ; 
 " my grandfather married a serf -girl who sang in a neighbouring 
 
 297
 
 landowner's private theatre. My family, of course, have rested 
 certain expectations upon me, but now they'll have to give way, 
 and it will not lead to strife. I want to break with my present 
 life for good, for good ! To have everything different, every- 
 thing new ! I don't understand what made your sister love me ; 
 but if it had not been for her T should not have been alive to this 
 day. I swear from the depth of my soul that my meeting her 
 at Luga was the finger of Providence. I believe she loved me 
 because *I had fallen so low'. . . can you understand that 
 though, Arkady Makarovitch ? " 
 
 " Perfectly ! " I declared in a voice of full conviction. I sat 
 at the table, and he walked about the room. 
 
 " I must tell you the whole story of our meeting, without 
 reserve. It began with a secret I had guarded in my heart, 
 of which ^e alone heard, because only to her could I bring 
 myself to trust it. And to this day no one else knows it. I went 
 to Luga then with despair in my heart, and stayed at Мшс. 
 Stolbyeev's, I don't know why, seeking solitude perhaps. I had 
 only just resigned my commission in the regiment, which I had 
 entered on my return from abroad, after my meeting with Andre j' 
 Petrovitch out there. I had some money at the time, and in 
 the regiment I led a dissipated Ufe, and spent freely ; well, 
 the officers, my comrades, did not like me, though I tried not to 
 offend anyone. And I will confess it to you, no one has ever 
 liked me. There was a certain Cornet Stepanov, I must admit 
 an extremely empty-headed worthless fellow not distinguished 
 in any way. There was no doubt he was honest though. He 
 was in the habit of coming to see me, and I did not stand on 
 ceremony with him ; he used to sit in a corner, mute but dignified, 
 for days together, and he did not get in my way at all. One 
 day I told him a story that was going the round, with many 
 foolish additions of my own, such as that the colonel's daughter 
 was in love with me, and that the colonel had his eye upon me 
 for her and so would do anything to please me. ... In short, 
 I will pass over the details, but it led to a very complicated and 
 revolting scandal. It was not Stepanov who spread it but my 
 orderly, who had overheard and remembered it all, for I had told 
 an absurd storj' compromising the young lady. So, when there 
 was an inquiry into the scandal, and this orderly was questioned 
 by the officers, he threw the blame on Stepanov, that is, he said 
 that it was to Stepanov I'd told the story. Stepanov was put in 
 such a position that he could not deny having heard it ; it was 
 
 298
 
 a question of honour. And as two-thirds of the story had been 
 lying on my part, the officers were indignant, and the command- 
 ing officer who had called us together was forced to clear the 
 matter up. At this point the question was put to Stepanov in 
 the presence of all : had he heard the story or not ? And at 
 once he told the whole truth. Well, what did I do then, I, a 
 prince whose line goes back a thousand years ? I denied it, 
 and told Stepanov to his face that he was lying, in the most polite 
 way, suggesting that he had ' misunderstood my words ' and so 
 on, . . . I'll leave out the details again, but as Stepanov came 
 to me so often I was able with some appearance of likelihood to 
 put the matter in such a light that he might seem to be plotting 
 with my orderly for motives of his own ; and this told in my 
 favour. Stepanov merely looked at me in silence and shrugged 
 his shoulders. I remember the way he looked at me and shall 
 never forget it. Then he promptly resigned his commission ; 
 but how do you suppose it ended ? Every officer without ex- 
 ception called on him and begged him not to resign. A fortnight 
 later I, too, left the regiment ; no one turned me out, no one 
 suggested my resigning, I alleged family reasons for my leaving the 
 army. That was how the matter ended. At first I didn't mind, 
 and even felt angry with them ; I stayed at Luga, made the 
 acquaintance of Lizaveta Makarovna, but a month afterwards 
 I began to look at my revolver and to think about death. I 
 looked at everything gloomily, Arkady Makarovitch. I com- 
 posed a letter to the commanding officer and my former comrades, 
 with a full confession of my lie, and a vindication of Stepanov's 
 honour. When I had written the letter I asked myself the 
 question, should I send it and live, or should I send it and die ? 
 I should never have decided that question. Chance, blind chance 
 brought me near to Lizaveta Makarovna after a strange and 
 rapid conversation with her. She had been at Mme. Stoibyeev's 
 before that, we had met and parted with bows and had rarely 
 spoken. I suddenly told her everything. It was then she held 
 out a hand to me." 
 
 " How did she settle the question ? " 
 
 " I didn't send the letter. She decided that I should not send 
 it. She argued that if I did send the letter I should, of course, 
 have been doing an honourable action, sufficient to wash away 
 all the filth of the past, and far more, but she doubted my having 
 the strength to endure it. It was her idea that no one would 
 have the strength to bear it, for then the future would b^ utterly 
 
 299
 
 ruined, and no new life would be possible. It is true Stepanov 
 had suffered for it ; but he had been acquitted by public opinion, 
 as it was. It was a paradox, of course ; but she restrained me, 
 and I gave myself into her hands completely." 
 
 " Her reasoning was Jesuitical but feminine," I cried ; " she 
 had begun to love you already ! " 
 
 " It was my regeneration into a new life. I vowed to change, 
 to begin a new life, to be worthy of myself and of her and 
 — this is how it has ended ! It has ended in my going with 
 you to roulette, in my playing faro ; I could not resist the 
 fortune, I was delighted at being in the swim, delighted with 
 all these people, with racehorses. ... I tortured Liza, to my 
 shame ! " 
 
 He rubbed hb forehead with his hand and walked up and down 
 the room. 
 
 " We are both, you and I, stricken by the same Russian curse, 
 Arkady Makarovitch ; you don't know what to do, and I don't 
 know what to do. If a Russian deviates ever so little from 
 the rut of routine laid down for him by tradition, at once he is 
 at a loss what to do. While he's in the rut everything's clear — 
 income, rank, position in society, a carriage, visits, a wife — but 
 ever so little off it — and what am I ? A leaf fluttering before the 
 wind, I don't know what to do 1 For the last two months I 
 have striven to keep in the rut, I have liked the rut, I've been 
 drawn to the pit. You don't know the depth of my downfall 
 here ; I love Liza, but at the same time I've been thinking of 
 Mme. Ahmakov ! " 
 
 " Is it possible ? " I cried in distress. " By the way, what did 
 you say yesterday about Versilov's having instigated you to 
 behave in a mean way to Katerina Nikolaevna ? " 
 
 " I may have exaggerated it, and perhaps I have been unfair 
 to him in my suspiciou.sness as I have been to you. Let us drop 
 the subject. Why, do you suppose that I have not been brooding 
 over a lofty 'deal of life all this time, ever since Luga, perhaps ? 
 I swear that ideal has never left me, it has been with me continu- 
 ally, and has lost none of its beauty in my heart. I remembered 
 the vow I made to Lizaveta Makarovna to reform. When Audrey 
 Petrovitch talked about the aristocracy to me yesterday, he said 
 nothing new, I can assure you. My ideal is firmly established : 
 a few score acres (and only a few score, for I've scarcely anything 
 left of the fortune ), then absolutely complete abandonment of 
 the world and a career ; a rural home, a family, and myself a 
 
 300
 
 tiller of the soil or something of the sort. Oh, in our family it's 
 nothing new ; my uncle, my grandfather, too, tilled the soil with 
 their own hands. We have been princes for a thousand years, as 
 aristocratic and as ancient a name as the Rohans, but we are 
 beggars. And this is how I will train my children : ' Remember 
 always, all your life, that you are a nobleman, that the sacred 
 blood of Russian princes flows in your veins, but never be ashamed 
 that your father tilled the soil with his own hands— he did it like 
 a prince.' I should not leave them property, nothing but that 
 strip of land, but I would bring them up in the loftiest principles : 
 that I should consider a duty. Oh, I should be helped by Liza, 
 by work, by children ; oh, how we have dreamed of this together, 
 dreamed of it here in this room. And would you believe it ? at 
 the same time I was thinking of Mme. Ahmakov, and of the 
 possibility of a worldly and wealthy marriage, though I don't care 
 for the woman in the least ! And only after what Nastchokin 
 said about Biiring, I resolved to turn to Anna Andreyevna." 
 
 " But you went to decline the match ? That was an honour- 
 able action anyway, I suppose 1 " 
 
 " You think so ? " he stopped short before me. " No, you don't 
 know my nature, or else there is something I don't know myself, 
 because it seems I have more than one nature. I love you 
 sincerely, Arkady Makarovitch, and besides I am terribly to blame 
 for the way I've treated you for the last two months, and so I 
 want you as Liza's brother to know ail this. I went to Anna 
 Andreyevna to make her an offer of marriage, not to disown 
 the idea." 
 
 " Is it possible ? But Liza told me . . ." 
 
 " I deceived Liza." 
 
 " Tell me, please, you made a formal oflfer and Anna Andrey- 
 evna refused it ? Was that it ? Was that it ? The facts are 
 of great importance to me, prince." 
 
 " No, I did not make an offer at all, but that was only because 
 I hadn't time ; she forestalled me, not in direct words, of course, 
 though the meaning was clear and unmistakable — she ' deli- 
 cately ' gave me to understand that the idea was henceforth 
 out of the question." 
 
 " So it was the same as your not making her an offer, and your 
 pride hais not suffered ! " 
 
 " How can you reason like that ! My own conscience con- 
 demns me, and what of Liza, whom I have deceived . . . and 
 meant to abandon ? And the vow I made to myself and my 
 
 301
 
 forefathers to reform and to atone for all my ignoble past ! I 
 entreat you not to tell her that. Perhaps that is the one thing 
 she would not be able to forgive me ! I have been ill since what 
 happened yesterday. And now it seems that all is over, and the 
 last of the Sokolskys will be sent to prison. Poor Liza ! I have 
 been very anxious to see you all day, Arkady Makarovitch, to 
 tell you as Liza's brother what she knows nothing of as yet. 
 I am a criminal. I have taken part in forging railway shares 1 ** 
 
 " Something more ! What, you are going to prison ? " I cried 
 jumping up and looking at him in horror. His face wore a look 
 of the deepest gloom and utterly hopeless sorrow. 
 
 " Sit down," he said, and he sat down in the armchair oppo- 
 site. " To begin with, you had better know the facts ; it was 
 more than a year ago, that same summer that I was at Ems 
 with Lidya, and Katerina Nikolaevna, and afterwards at Paris, 
 just at the time when I was going to Paris for two months. In 
 Paris, of course, I was short of money, sncl it was just then 
 Stebelkov turned up, though I knew him before. He gave me 
 some money and promised to give me more, but asked me in 
 return to help him ; he wanted an artist, a draughtsman, en- 
 graver, lithographer, and so on, a chemist, an expert, and — 
 for certain purposes. What those purposes were he hinted 
 pretty plainly from the first. And would you believe it ? he 
 understood my character — it only made me laugh. The point 
 is that from my schooldays I had an acquaintance, at present a 
 Russian exile, though he was not really a Russian, but a native 
 of Hamburg. He had been mixed up in some cases of forging 
 papers in Russia already. It was on this man that Stebelkov 
 was reckoning, but he wanted an introduction to him and he 
 applied to me. I wrote a couple of lines for him, and immediately 
 forgot all about it. Afterwards he met me again and again, 
 and I received altogether as much as three thousand from him. 
 I had literally forgotten all about the business. Here I've been 
 borrowing from him all the time with 1 Us and securities, and he 
 has been cringing before me like a slave, and suddenly yesterday 
 I learned from him for the first time that I am a criminal." 
 
 " When, yesterday ? " 
 
 " Yesterday morning, when we were shouting in my study 
 just before Nastchokin arrived. For the first time he had the 
 efifrontery to speak to me quite openly of Anna Andreyevna. 
 I raised my hand to strike him, but he suddenly stood up and 
 informed me that his interests were mine, and that I must 
 
 302
 
 remember that I was his accomplice and as much a swindler 
 as he — though he did not use those words, that was the 
 sense." 
 
 " What nonsense, why surely it's all imagination ? " 
 
 " No, it's not imagination. He has been here to-day and 
 explained things more exactly. These forged documents have 
 been in circulation a long time, and are still being passed about, 
 but it seems they've already begun to be noticed. Of course, 
 I've nothing to do with it, but ' you see though, you were 
 pleased to give me that little letter,' that's what Stebelkov 
 told me." 
 
 " So you didn't know, of course, what for, or did you know ? " 
 
 " I did know," Prince Sergay answered in a low voice, dropping 
 his eyes ; " that's to say I knew and didn't know, you see. I was 
 laughing, I was amused. I did it without thinking, for I had no 
 need of forged documents at that time, and it wasn't I who meant 
 to make them. But that three thousand he gave me then he 
 did not put down in his account against me and I let it pass. 
 But how do you know, perhaps I really am a forger. I could not 
 help knowing, I am not a child ; I did know, but I felt in a merry 
 humour and I helped scoundrels, felons . . . helped them for 
 money ! So I, too, am a forger ! " 
 
 " Oh, you are exaggerating ; you've done wrong, but you're 
 exaggerating ! " 
 
 " There's some one else in it, a young man called Zhibyelsky, 
 some sort of attorney's clerk. He, too, had something to do 
 with these forgeries, he came afterwards from that gentleman 
 at Hamburg to see me about some nonsense ; of course, I 
 didn't know what it was about myself — it was not about those 
 forgeries I know that . . . but he has kept in his possession 
 two documents in my handwriting, only brief notes — and, of 
 course, they are evidence too ; I understood that to-day. Stebel- 
 kov makes out that this Zhibyelsky is spoiling everything ; 
 he has stolen something, public money I believe, but means to 
 steal something more and then to emigrate ; so he wants eight 
 thousand, not a penny less, to help him on his way. My share 
 of the fortune I had inherited would satisfy Stebelkov, but he 
 said Zhibyelsky must be satisfied too. ... In short I must 
 give up my share of the fortune and ten thousand besides, that's 
 their final offer. And then they will give me back my two letters. 
 They're in collusion, that's clear." 
 
 " It's obviously absurd ! If they inform against you they 
 
 303
 
 will betray themselves ! Nothing will induce them to give 
 information." 
 
 " I understand that. They don't threaten to give informa- 
 tion at all, they only say, ' We shall not inform, of course, but 
 if it should be discovered, then . . .' that's what they say. 
 and that's all, but I think it's enough ! But that's not the point ; 
 whatever happens, and even if I had those letters in my pocket 
 now, yet to be associated with those swindlers, to be their 
 accomplice for ever and ever ! To lie to Russia, to lie to my 
 children, to lie to Liza, to he to my conscience ! . . ." 
 " Does Liza know ? " 
 
 " No, she does not know everything. It would be too much 
 for her in her condition. I wear the uniform of п)у regiment, 
 and every time I meet a soldier of the regiment, at every second, 
 I am inwardly conscious that I must not dare to wear the 
 uniform." 
 
 " Listen," I cried suddenly ; " there's no need to \vaste time 
 talking about it ; there's only one- way of salvation for you ; 
 go to Prince Nikolay Ivanitch, borrow ten thousand from him, 
 ask him for it, without telling him what for, then send for those 
 two swindlers, settle up with them finally, buy back your letters 
 . . . and the thing is over ! The whole thing will be ended, 
 and you can go and till the land ! Away with vain imaginings 
 and have faith in life ! " 
 
 " I have thought of that," he said resolutely. " I have been 
 making up my mind all day and at last I have decided. I have 
 only been waiting for you ; I will go. Lo you know I have 
 never in my life borrowed a farthing from Prince Nikolay 
 Ivanitch. He is well disposed to our family and even . . . and 
 has come to their assistance, but I, I personally, have never 
 borrowed money from him. But now I am determined to. 
 Our family, you may note, is an older branch of the Sokolskys 
 than Prince Nikolay Ivanitch 's ; they are a younger branch, 
 collaterals, in fact, hardly recognized. . . . There was a feud 
 between our ancestors. At the beginning of the reforms of 
 Peter the Great, my great-grandfather, whose name was Peter 
 too, remained an Old Believer, and was a wanderer in the forest 
 of Kostroma. That Prince Peter married a second wife who was 
 not of noble birth. ... So it was then these other Sokolskys 
 dropped out, but I. . . . What was I talking about ? . . ." 
 
 He was very much exhausted, and seemed talkiiig almost 
 unconsciously, 
 
 304
 
 " Calm yourself," I said, standing up and taking my hat *, 
 " go to bed, that's the first thing. Prince Nikolay Ivanitch is 
 sure not to refuse, especially now in the overflow of his joy. 
 Have you heard the latest news from that quarter ? Haven't 
 you, really ? I have heard a wild story that he is going to get 
 married ; it's a secret, but not from you, of course." 
 
 And I toJd him all about it, standing, hat in hand. He knew 
 nothing about it. He quickly asked questions, inquiring princi- 
 pally when and where the match had been arranged and how 
 far the rumour was trustworthy. I did not, of course, conceal 
 from him that it had been settled immediately after his visit to 
 Anna Andreyevna. I cannot describe what a painful impres- 
 sion this news made upon him ; his face worked and was almost 
 contorted, and his lips twitched convulsively in a wry smile. 
 At the end he turned horribly pale and sank into a reverie, witli 
 his eyes on the floor. I suddenly saw quite clearly that hi» 
 vanity had been deeply wounded by Anna Andreyevna's refusal 
 of him the day before. Perhaps in his morbid state of mind 
 he reahzed only too vividly at that minute the absurd and 
 humiliating part he had played the day before in the eyee 
 of the young lady of whose acceptance, as it now appeared, 
 he had all the time been so calmly confident. And worst of all, 
 perhaps, was the thought that he had behaved so shabbily to 
 Liza, and to no purpose ! It would be interesting to know for 
 what these foppish young snobs think well of one another, and 
 on what grounds they can respect one another ; this prince 
 might well have supposed that Anna Andreyevna knew of his 
 connection with Liza: — in reaUty her sister — or if she did not 
 actually know, that she would be certain to hear of it sooner or 
 later ; and yet he haji " had no doubt of her acceptance ! " 
 
 " And could you possibly imagine," he said suddenly, with a 
 proud and supercilious glance at me, " that now, after learning 
 such a fact, I, I could be capable of going to Prince Nikolay 
 Ivanitch and asking him for money ? Ask him, the accepted fiance 
 of the lady who has just refused me — like a beggar, like a flunkey ! 
 No, now all is lost, and if that old man's help is my only hope, 
 then let my last hope perish ! " 
 
 In my heart I shared his feeling, but it was necessary to take a 
 broader view of the real position : was the poor old prince really 
 to be looked upon as a successful rival ? I had several ideas 
 fermenting in my brain. I had, apart from Prince Sergay's 
 affairs, made up my mind to visit the old man next day. 
 
 305 ""
 
 For the moment I tried to soften the impression made by the news 
 and to get the poor prince to bed ! " When you have slept, 
 things will look brighter, you'll see ! " He pressed my hand 
 warmly, but this time he did not kiss me. I promised to come 
 and see him the following evening, and " we'll talk, we'll talk ; 
 there's so much to talk of." He greeted these last words of mine 
 with a fateful snule. 
 
 CHAPTER Vin 
 
 All that night I dreamed of roulette, of play, of gold, and reckon- 
 ings. I seemed in my dreams to be calculating something at the 
 gambling table, some stake, some chance, and it oppressed me 
 all night like a nightmare. To tell the truth, the whole of the pre- 
 vious day, in spite of all the startling impressions I had received, 
 I had been continually thinking of the money I had won at 
 Zerstchikov's. I suppressed the thought, but I could not sup- 
 press the emotion it aroused, and I quivered all over at the mere 
 recollection of it. That success had put me in a fever ; could it 
 be that I was a gambler, or at least — to be more accurate — that 
 I had the quaUties of a gambler ? Even now, at the time of 
 writing this, I stiH at moments like thinking about play 1 It some- 
 times happens that I sit for hours together absorbed in silent 
 calculations about gambling and in dreams of putting down my 
 stake, of the number turning up, and of picking up my wumings. 
 Yes, I have all sorts of " qualities," and my nature is not a 
 tranquil one. 
 
 At ten o'clock I intended to go to Stebelkov's and I meant to 
 walk. I sent Matvey home as soon as he appeared. While I wae 
 drinking my cotfee I tried to think over the position. For some 
 reason I felt pleased ; a moment's self-analysis made me realize 
 that I was chiefly pleased because I was going that day to the 
 old prince's. But that day was a momentous and startling one 
 in my life, and it began at once with a surprise. 
 
 At ten o'clock my door was flung wide open, and Tatyana 
 Pavlovna flew in. There was nothing I expected less than a visit 
 from her, and I jumped up in alarm on seeing her. Her face was 
 ferocious, her manner was incoherent, and I daresay if she had 
 been asked she could not have said why she had hastened to me. 
 I may as well say at once, that she had just received a piece of 
 
 306
 
 news that had completely overwhelmed her, and she had not 
 recovered from the first shock of it. The news overwhelmed me, 
 too. She stayed, however, only half a minute, or perhaps a 
 minute, but not more. She simply pounced upon me. 
 
 " So this is what you've been up to ! " she said, standing facing 
 me and bending forward. " Ah, you young puppy ! What have 
 you done ! What, you don't even know ! Goes on drinking his 
 coffee ! Oh, you babbler, you chatterbox, oh, you imitation 
 lover . . . boys Ике you are whipped, whipped, whipped ! " 
 
 " Tatyana Pavlovna, what has happened ? What is the 
 matter ? Is mother ? . . ." 
 
 " You will know ! " she shouted menacingly, ran out of the 
 room — and was gone. I should certainly have run after her, 
 but I was restrained by one thought, and that was not a thought 
 but a vague misgiving : I had an inkling that of all her vitupera- 
 tion, " imitation lover " was the most significant phrase. Of 
 oourse I could not guess what it meant, but I hastened out, 
 that I might finish with Stebelkov and go as soon as possible to 
 Nikolay Ivanitch. 
 
 " The key to it all is there ! " I thought instinctively. 
 
 I can't imagine how he learned it, but Stebelkov already knew 
 all about Anna Andreyevna down to every detail ; I will not 
 describe his conversation and his gestures, but he was in a state 
 of enthusiasm, a perfect ecstasy of enthusiasm over this " master- 
 stroke." 
 
 " She is a person ! Yes, she is a person ! " he exclaimed. 
 " Yes, that's not our way ; here we sit still and do nothing, 
 but as soon as she wants something of the best she takes it. 
 She's an antique statue ! She is an antique statue of Minerva, 
 only she is walking about and wearing modern dress ! " 
 
 I asked him to come to business ; this business was, as I had 
 guessed, solely to ask me to persuade and induce Prince Sergay 
 to appeal to Prince Nikolay Ivanitch for a loan. " Or it will be a 
 very very bad look-out for him, though it's none of my doing ; 
 that's so, isn't it ? " 
 
 He kept peeping into my face, but I fancy did not detect that 
 I knew anything more than the day before. And indeed he could 
 not have imagined it : I need hardly say that I did not by word 
 or hint betray that I knew anything about the forged documents. 
 
 Our explanations did.not take long, he began at once promising 
 me money, " and a considerable sum, a considerable sum, if only 
 you will manage that the prince should go. The matter is urgent, 
 
 307
 
 very urgent, and that's the chief point that the matter's so 
 pressing ! " 
 
 I did not want to argue and wrangle with him, as I had done 
 the day before, and I got up to go, though to be on the safe side 
 I flung him in reply that " I would try " ; but he suddenly amazed 
 me beyond all expression : I was on my way to the door when 
 all at once he put his arm round my waist affectionately and 
 began talking to me in the most incomprehensible way. 
 
 I will omit the details of the conversation that I may not be 
 wearisome. The upshot of it was that he made me a proposition 
 that I should introduce him to M. Dergatchev, " since you go 
 there ! " 
 
 I instantly became quiet, doing my utmost not to betray my- 
 self by the sUghtest gesture. I answered at once, however, that 
 I was quite a stranger there, and though I had been in the house, 
 it was only on one occasion, by chance. 
 
 " But if you've been admitted once, you might go a second time ; 
 isn't that so ? " 
 
 I asked him point-blank, and with great coolness, why he 
 wanted it ? And to this day I can't understand such a degree 
 of simplicity in a man who was apparently no fool, and who was 
 a " business man," as Vassin had said of him ! He explained 
 to me quite openly that he suspected " that something prohibited 
 and sternly prohibited was going on at Dergatchev's, and so if 
 I watch him I may very likely make something by it." And 
 with a grin he winked at me with his left eye. 
 
 I made no definite answer, but pretended to be considering 
 it and promised to " think about it," and with that I went 
 hastily away. The position was growing more complicated : 
 1 fl(;w to Vassin, and at once found him at home. 
 
 '■ What, you . . . too ! " he said enigmatically on seeing me. 
 Without inquiring the significance of this phrase, I went 
 straight to the point and told him what had happened. He wae 
 evidently impressed, though he remained absolutely cool. He 
 cross-examined me minutely. 
 
 " It may very well be that you misunderstood him." 
 " No, I quite understood him, his meaning was quite clear." 
 " In any case I am extremely grateful to you," he added with 
 sincerity. " Yes, indeed, if that is so, he imagined that you could 
 not resist a certain sum of money." 
 
 " And, besides, he knows my position : I've been playing all 
 this time, and behaving badly, Vassin." 
 
 308
 
 " I have heard about that." 
 
 " What puzzles me most of all is that he knows you go there 
 constantly, too," I ventured to observe. 
 
 " He knows perfectly well," Vassin answered quite simply, 
 " that I don't go there with any object. And indeed all those 
 young people are simply chatterers, nothing more ; you have 
 reason to remember that as well as anyone." 
 I fancied that he did not quite trust rae. 
 " In any case I am very much obliged to you." 
 " I have heard that M. Stebelkov's affairs are in rather a bad 
 way," I tried to question him once more. " I've heard, anyway, 
 of certain shares . . ." 
 
 " What shares have you heard about ? " 
 
 I mentioned " the shares " on purpose, but of course not with 
 the idea of telling him the secret Prince Sergay had told rae the 
 day before. I only wanted to drop a hint and see from his face, 
 from his eyes, whether he knew anything about " shares." I 
 attained my object : from a momentary indefinable change in 
 his face, I guessed that he did perhaps know something in this 
 matter, too. I did not answer his question " what shares," I 
 was silent ; and it was worth noting that he did not pursue the 
 subject either. 
 
 " How's Lizaveta Makarovna ? " he inquired with sympa- 
 thetic interest. 
 
 " She's quite well. My sister has always thought very highly 
 of you. . . ." 
 
 There was a gleam of pleasure in his eyes ; I had guessed long 
 bafore that he was not indifferent to Liza. 
 
 " Prince Sergay Petrovitch was here the other day," he in- 
 formed me suddenly. 
 " When ? " I cried. 
 " Just four days ago." 
 " Not yesterday ? " 
 
 " No, not yesterday." He looked at me inquiringly. " Later 
 perhaps I may describe our meeting more fully, but for the 
 moment I feel I must warn you," Vassin said mysteriously, 
 " that he struck me as being in an abnormal condition of mind, 
 and ... of brain indeed. I had another visit, however," he 
 added suddenly with a smile, " just before you came, and I was 
 driven to the same conclusion about that visitor, too." 
 " Has Prince Sergay just been here ? " 
 " No, not Prince Sergay, I am not speaking of the prince just 
 
 309
 
 now. Andrey Petrovitch Versilov has just been here, and . . . 
 you've heard nothing ? Haisn't something happened to him ? " 
 
 " Perhaps something has ; but what passed between you 
 exactly ? " I asked hurriedly. 
 
 " Of course, I ought to keep it secret ... we are talking rather 
 queerly, with too much reserve," he smiled again. " Andrey 
 Petrovitch, however, did not tell me to keep it secret. But you 
 are his son, and as I know your feelings for him, I believe I may 
 be doing right to warn you. Only fancy, he came to me to ask 
 the question : ' In case it should be necessary for him very 
 shortly, in a day or two, to fight a duel, would I consent to be his 
 second ? ' I refused absolutely, of course." 
 
 I was immensely astonished ; this piece of news was the most 
 disturbing of all : something was wrong, something had tiuned 
 up, something had happened of which I knew nothing as yet ! 
 I suddenly recalled in a flash how Versilov had said to me the day 
 before : " I shan't come to you, but you'll come running to me." 
 
 I rushed off to Prince Nikolay Ivanitch, feeling more than ever 
 that the key to the mystery lay there. As he said good-bye, 
 Vassin thanked me again. 
 
 The old prince was sitting before an open fire with a rug 
 wrapped round his legs. He met me M'ith an almost questioning 
 air, as though he were surprised that I had come ; yet almost 
 every day he had sent messages inviting me. He greeted me 
 affectionately, however. But his answers to my first questions 
 sounded somewhat reluctant, and were fearfully vague. At 
 times he seemed to deliberate, and looked intently at me, 
 as though forgetting and trying to recall something which 
 certamly ought to be connected with me. I told him frankly 
 that I had heard everything and was very glad. A cordial and 
 good-natured smile came into his face at once and his spirits 
 rose ; his mistrust and caution vanished at once as though he 
 had forgotten them And indeed he had, of course. 
 
 " My dear young friend, I knew you would be the first to come, 
 and, and do you know, I thought about you yesterday : * Who 
 will be pleased ? he will ! ' Well, no one else will indeed ; but 
 that doesn't matter. People are spiteful gossips, but that's no 
 great matter. . . . Cher enfant, this is so exalted and so charm- 
 ing. . . . But, of course, you know her well. And Anna Andrey- 
 
 310
 
 evna has the highest opinion of you. It's a grave and charming 
 face out of an English keepsake. It's the most charming EngUsh 
 engraving possible. . . . Two years ago I had a regular collection 
 of such engravings. ... I always had the intention, always ; 
 I only wonder why it was I never thought of it." 
 
 " You always, if I remember rightly, distinguished Anna 
 Andreyevna and were fond of her." 
 
 " My dear boy, we don't want to hurt anyone. Life with one's 
 friends, with one's relations, with those dear to one's heart is 
 paradise. All the poets. ... In short, it has been well known 
 from prehistoric times. In the summer you know we are going to 
 Soden, and then to Bad-Gastein. But what a long time it is since 
 you've been to see me, my dear boy ; what's been the matter with 
 you ? I've been expecting you. And how much, how much 
 has happened meanwhile, hasn't it ? I am only sorry that I am 
 uneasy ; as soon as I am alone I feel uneasy. That is why I 
 must not be left alone, must I ? That's as plain as twice two 
 make four. I understood that at once from her first word. 
 Oh, my dear boy, she only spoke two words, but ... it was 
 something Ике a glorious poem. But, of course, you are her 
 brother, almost her brother, aren't you ? My dear boy, it's not 
 for nothing I'm so fond of you ! I swear I had a presentiment 
 of all this. I kissed her hand and wept." 
 
 He took out his handkerchief as though preparing to weep 
 again. He was violently agitated, suffering, I fancy, from one of 
 his " nervous attacks," and one of the worst I remember in the 
 whole course of our acquaintance. As a rule, almost аЫауз in 
 fact, he was ever so much better and more good-humoured. 
 
 " I would forgive everything, my dear boy," he babbled on. 
 " I long to forgive every one, and it's a long time since I was angry 
 with anyone. Art, la poisie dans la vie, philanthropy, and she, 
 a bibUcal beauty, quelle charmante person, eh ? Les chants 
 de Salomon . . . nan, c'est n'est pas Salomon, c'tst David qui 
 m^tait une jeune belle dans son lit pour se chauffer dans sa 
 vieillesse. Enfin David, Salomon, all that keeps going round in 
 my head — a regular jumble. Everything, cher enfant may be at 
 the same time grand and ridiculous. Cette jeune belle de la 
 vieiUesse de David — c'est tout un роете, and Paul de Kock would 
 have made of it a scene de bassinoire, and we should all have 
 laughed. Paul de Kock has neither taste nor sense of proportion, 
 though he is a writer of talent . . . Katerina Nikolaevna smiles 
 ... I said that we would not trouble anyone. We have begun 
 
 311
 
 our romance and only ask them to let us finish it. Maybe it ia 
 a dream, but don't let them rob me of this dream.' 
 
 " How do you mean it's a dream, prince ? " 
 
 '* A dream ? How a dream ? Well, let it be a dream, but let 
 me die with that dream." 
 
 " Oh, why talk of dying, prince ? You have to live now, only 
 to Uve ! " 
 
 " Why, what did I say ? That's just what I keep saying. 
 I simply can't understand why life is so short. To avoid being 
 tedious, no doubt, for life, too, is the Creator's work of art, in a 
 perfect and irreproachable form like a poem of Pushkin's. Brevity 
 is the first essential of true art. But if anyone is not bored, he 
 ought to be allowed to Uve longer." 
 
 " Tell me, prince, is it pubUc property yet ? " 
 
 " No, my dear boy, certainly not 1 We have all agreed upon 
 that. It's private, private, private. So far I've only disclosed 
 it fully to Katerina Nikolaevna, because I felt I was being unfair 
 to her. Oh, IQt,terina Nikolaevna is an angel, she is an angel 1 " 
 
 " Yes, yes ! " 
 
 " Yes, and you say ' yes ' ? Why, I thought that you were 
 her enemy, too. Ach, by the way, she asked me not to receive you 
 any more. And only fancy, when you came in I quite forgot it." 
 
 " What are you saying ? " I cried, jumping up. " Why ? 
 Where ? " 
 
 (My presentiment had not deceived me ; I had had a presenti- 
 ment of something of this sort ever since Tatyana's visit.) 
 
 "Yesterday, my dear boy, yesterday. I don't uinderstand, 
 in fact, how you got in, for orders were given. How did you 
 come in ? " 
 
 " I simply walked in." 
 
 " The surest way. If you had tried to creep in by stealth, 
 no doubt they would have caught you, but as you simply walked 
 in they let you pass. Simplicity, c?ier enfant, is in reaUty the 
 deepest cunning." 
 
 " I don't understand : did you, too, decide not to receive me, 
 then I " 
 
 " No, my dear boy, I said I had nothing to do with it 
 
 That is I gave my full consent. And believe me, my dear boy, 
 I am much too fond of you. But Katerina Nikolaevna insisted 
 so very strongly. . . . So, there it is ! " 
 
 At that instant Katerina Nikolaevna appeared in the doorway. 
 She was dressed to go out, and as usual came in to kiss her father. 
 
 312
 
 Seeing me she stopped short in confusion, turned quickly, and 
 went out. 
 
 " Voild ! " cried the old prince, impressed and much disturbed. 
 
 " It's a misunderstanding ! " I cried. " One moment ... I 
 , . . I'll come back to you directly, prince ! " 
 
 And I ran after Katerina Nikolaevna. 
 
 All that followed upon this happened so quickly that I had no 
 time to reflect, or even to consider in the least how to behave. 
 If I had had time to consider, I should certainly have behaved 
 differently I But I lost my head like a small boy. I was rushing 
 towards her room, but on the way a footman informed me that 
 Katerina Nikolaevna had already gone downstairs and was 
 getting into her carriage. I rushed headlong down the front 
 staircase. Katerina Nikolaevna \/as descending the stairs, in her 
 fur coat, and beside her — or rather arm-in-arm with her — walked 
 a tall and severe-looking officer, wearing a uniform and a sword, 
 and followed by a footman carrying his great-coat. This was the 
 baron, who was a colonel of five-and-thirty, a typical smart 
 officer, thin, with rather too long a face, ginger moustache and 
 even eyelashes of the same colour. Though his face was quite 
 ugly, it had a resolute and defiant expression. I describe him 
 briefly, as I saw him at that moment. I had never seen him be- 
 fore. I ran down the stairs after them without a hat or coat. 
 Katerina Nikolaevna was the first to notice me, and she hurriedly 
 whispered something to her companion. He slightly turned his 
 head and then made a sign to the footman and the hall-porter. 
 The footman took a step towards me at the front door, but I 
 pushed him away and rushed after them out on the steps. Biiring 
 was assisting Katerina Nikolaevna into the carriage. 
 
 " Katerina Nikolaevna ! Katerina Nikolaevna ! " I cried 
 senselessly like a fool ! like a fool ! Oh, I remember it all ; 
 I had no hat on ! 
 
 Biiring turned savagely to the footman again and shouted 
 something to him loudly, one or two words, I did not take them 
 in. I felt some one clutch me by the elbow. At that moment the 
 carriage began to move ; I shouted again and was rushing after 
 the carriage. I saw that Katerina Nikolaevna was peeping out of 
 the carriage window, and she seemed much perturbed. But in 
 my hasty movement I jostled against Biiring unconsciously, and 
 trod on his foot, hurting him a good deal, I fancy. He uttered a 
 faint cry, clenched his teeth, with a powerful hand grasped me by 
 the shoulder, and angrily pushed me away, so that I wae sent 
 
 313
 
 flying a couple of yards. At that instant his great-coat was 
 handed him, he put it on, got into his sledge, and once more 
 shouted angrily to the footman and the porter, pointing to me 
 as he did so. Thereupon they seized me and held me ; one 
 footman flung my great-coat on me, while a second handed me my 
 hat and — I don't remember what they said ; they said something, 
 and I stood and listened, understanding nothing of it. All at once 
 I left them and ran away. 
 
 Seeing nothing and jostling against people as I went, I ran till 
 I reached Tatyana Pavlovna's flat : it did not even occur to me 
 to take a cab. Buring had pushed me away before her eyes I 
 I had, to be sure, stepped on his foot, and he had thrust me away 
 instinctively as a man who had trodden on his com — and perhaps 
 I really had trodden on his com ! But she had seen it, and had 
 seen me seized by the footman ; it had all happened before Her, 
 before her ! When I had reached Tatyana Pavlovna's, for the 
 first minute I could say nothing and my lower jaw was trembling, 
 as though I were in a fever. And indeed I was in a fever and 
 what's more I was crying. . . . Oh, I had been so insulted ! 
 
 " What ! Have they kicked you out ? Serve you right ! 
 serve you right ! " said Tatyana Pavlovna. I sank on the sofa 
 without a word and looked at her. 
 
 " What's the matter with him ? " she said, looking at me 
 intently. "Come, drink some water, drink a glass of water, 
 drink it up ! Tell me what you've been up to there now ? " 
 
 I muttered that I had been turned out, and that Buring had 
 given me a push in the open street. 
 
 " Can you imderstand an3^hing, or are you still incapable ? 
 Come here, read and admire it." And taking a letter from the 
 table she gave it to me, and stood before me expectantly. I 
 at once recognized Versilov's writing, it consisted of a few lines : 
 it was a letter to Katerina Nikolaevna. I shuddered and in- 
 stantly comprehension came back to me in a rush. The contents 
 of this horrible, atrocious, grotesque and blackguardly letter were 
 as follows, word for word : 
 
 " Dear Madam 
 
 Katerina Nikolaevna. 
 Depraved as you are in your nature and your arts, I should have 
 yet expected you to restrain your passions and not to try your 
 
 34
 
 wiles on children. But you are not even ashamed to do that. 
 I beg to inform you that the letter you know of was certainly 
 not burnt in a candle and never was in Kraft's possession, so you 
 won't score anything there. So don't seduce a boy for nothing. 
 Spare him, he is hardly grown up, almost a child, undeveloped 
 mentally and physically — what use can you have for him ? I 
 am interested in his welfare, and so I have ventured to write to 
 you, though with little hope of attaining my object. I have 
 the honour to inform you that I have sent a copy of this letter 
 to Baron Buring. "A. Versilov." 
 
 I turned white as I read, then suddenly I flushed crimson and 
 my lips quivered with indignation. 
 
 " He writes that about me ! About what I told him the day 
 before yesterday ! " I cried in a fury. 
 
 " So you did tell him ! " cried Tatyana Pavlovna, snatching the 
 letter from me. 
 
 " But ... I didn't say that, I did not say that at all ! Good 
 God, what can she think of me now ! But it's madness, you know. 
 He's mad ... I saw him yesterday. When was the letter 
 sent ? " 
 
 " It was sent yesterday, early in the day ; it reached her in 
 the evening, and this morning she gave it me herself." 
 
 " But I saw him yesterday myself, he's mad ! Versilov was 
 incapable of writing that, it was written by a madman. Who 
 could write like that to a woman ? " 
 
 " That's just what such madmen do write in a fury when they 
 are blind and deaf from jealovisy and spite, and their blood ia 
 turned to venom. . . . You did not know what he is like ! 
 Now they will pound him to a jelly. He has thrust his head 
 imder the axe himself ! He'd better have gone at night to the 
 Nikolaevsky railway and have laid his head on the rail. They'd 
 have cut it off for him, if he's weary of the weight of it ! What 
 possessed you to tell him ! What induced you to tease him ! 
 Did you want to boast ? " 
 
 " But what hatred ! What hatred ! " I cried, clapping my 
 hand on my head. " And what for, what for ? Of a woman ! 
 What has she done to him ? What can there have been between 
 them that he can write a letter like that ? " 
 
 " Ha — atred ! " Tatyana Pavlovna mimicked me with furious 
 sarcasm. 
 
 The blood rushed to my face again ; all at once I 
 
 315
 
 seemed to grasp something new ; I gazed at her with searching 
 inquiry. 
 
 " Get along with you ! " she shrieked, turning away from me 
 quickly and waving me off. " I've had bother enough with you 
 all ! I've had enough of it now ! You may all sink into the 
 earth for all I care ! . . . Your mother is the only one I'm sorry 
 for . . ." 
 
 I ran, of coiirse, to Versilov. But what treachery I What 
 treachery ! 
 
 Versilov was not alone. To explain the position beforehand : 
 after sending that letter to Katerina Nikolaevna the day before 
 and actually dispatching a copy of it to Baron Buring (God only 
 knows why), naturally he was bound to expect certain " conse- 
 quences " of his action in the course of to-day, and so had taken 
 measiires of a sort. He had in the morning moved my mother 
 upstairs to my "coffin," together with Liza, who, as I learned 
 afterwards, had been taken ill when she got home, and had gone 
 to bed. The other rooms, especially the drawing-room, had been 
 scrubbed and tidied up with extra care. And at two o'clock in 
 the afternoon a certain Baron R. did in fact make his appearance. 
 He was a colonel, a tall thin gentleman about forty, a Uttle 
 bald, of German origin, with ginger-coloured hair like Buring's, 
 and a look of great physical strength. He was one of those 
 Baron R.s of whom there are so many in the Russian army, all 
 men of the highest baronial dignity, entirely without means, 
 living on their pay, and all zealous and conscientious officers. 
 
 I did not come in time for the beginning of their interview ; 
 both were very much excited, and they might well be. Versilov 
 was sitting on the sofa facing the table, and the baron was in an 
 armchair on one side, Versilov was pale, but he spoke with 
 restraint, dropping out his words one by one ; the baron raised 
 his voice and was evidently given to violent gesticulation. He 
 restrained himself with an effort, but he looked stem, super- 
 cihoua, and even contemptuous, though somewhat astonished. 
 Seeing me he frowned, but Versilov seemed almost reUeved at 
 my coming. 
 
 " Good-morning, dear boy. Baron, this is the very young 
 man mentioned in the letter, and I assure you he will not be in 
 your way, and may indeed be of use." (The baron looked at me 
 
 316
 
 contemptuously.) " My dear boy," Versilov went on, "I am 
 glad that you've come, indeed, so sit down in the comer please, 
 till the baron and I have finished. Don't be uneasy, baron, he 
 will simply sit in the comer." 
 
 I did not care, for I had made up my mind, and besides all this 
 impressed me : I sat down in the corner without speaking, as far 
 back as I could, and went on sitting there without stirring or 
 blinking an eyelid till the interview was over. . . . 
 
 " I tell you again, baron," said Versilov, rapping out his words 
 resolutely, " that I consider Katerina Nikolaevna Ahmakov, to 
 whom I wrote that unworthy and insane letter, not only the soul 
 of honour, but the acme of all perfection ! " 
 
 " Such a disavowal of your own words, as I have observed to 
 you already, is equivalent to a repetition of the offence," growled 
 the baron ; "your words are actually lacking in respect." 
 
 " And yet it would be nearest the truth if you take them in 
 their exact sense. I suffer, do you see, from nervous attacks, 
 and . . . nervous ailments, and am in fact being treated for 
 them and therefore it has happened in one such moment . . ." 
 
 " These explanations cannot be admitted. I tell you for the 
 third time that you are persistently mistaken, perhaps purposely 
 wish to be mistaken. I have warned you from the very beginning 
 that the whole question concerning that lady, that is concerning 
 уош: letter to IVIme. Ahmakov, must be entirely excluded from our 
 explanation ; you keep going back to it. Baron Biiring begged 
 and particularly charged me to make it plain that this matter 
 concerns him only ; that is, your insolence in sending him that 
 ' copy ' and the postcript to it in which you write that ' you are 
 ready to answer for it when and how he pleases.' " 
 
 " But that, I imagine, is quite clear without explanation." 
 " I understand, I hear. You do not even offer an apology, but 
 persist in asserting that ' you are ready to answer for it when and 
 how he pleases.' But that would be getting off too cheaply. 
 And therefore I now, in view of the turn which you obstinately 
 will give to your explanation, feel myself justified on my side in 
 telling you the truth without ceremony, that is, I have come to the 
 conclusion that it is ut-ter-ly impossible for Baron Biiring to 
 meet you ... on an equal footing." 
 
 " Such a decision is no doubt advantageous for your friend, 
 Baron Biiring, and I must confess you have not surprised me in 
 the least : I was expecting it." 
 
 I note in parenthesis : it was quite evident to me from the 
 
 317
 
 first word and the first glance that Versilov was trying to lead 
 up to this outburst, that he was intentionally teasing and pro- 
 voking this irascible baron, and was trying to put him out of 
 patience. The baron bristled all over. 
 
 " I have heard that you are able to be witty, but being witty 
 is very different from being clever." 
 
 " An extremely profoimd observation, colonel." 
 
 " I did not ask for your approbation," cried the baron, " I did 
 not come to bandy words with you. Be so good as to listen. 
 Baron Buring was in doubt how to act when he received your 
 letter, because it was suggestive of a madhouse. And, of course, 
 means might be taken to . . . suppress you. However, owing 
 to certain special considerations, your case was treated with 
 indulgence and inquiries were made about you : it turns out that 
 though you have belonged to good society, and did at one time 
 serve in the Guards, you have been excluded from society and 
 yoiu* reputation is dubious. Yet in spite of that I've come here to 
 ascertain the facts personally, and now, to make things worse, 
 you don't scruple to play with words, and inform me yourself 
 that you are Uable to nervous attacks. It's enough ! Baron 
 Btiring's position and reputation are such that he cannot stoop 
 to be mixed up in such an affair. ... in short, I am authorized, 
 sir, to inform you, that if a repetition or anything similar to your 
 recent action should follow hereafter, measures will promptly be 
 found to bring you to your senses, very quickly and very 
 thoroughly I can assure you. We are not living in the jungle, 
 but in a well ordered state ! " 
 
 " You are so certain of that, my good baron ? " 
 
 " Confound you," cried the baron, suddenly getting up ; 
 "you tempt me to show you at once that I am not ' your good 
 baron.' " 
 
 " Ach, I must warn you once again," said Versilov, and he too 
 stood up, " that my wife and daughter are not far off . . . 
 and so I must ask you not to speak so loud, for your shouts may 
 reach their ears." 
 
 " Your wife . . . the devil ... I am sitting here talking 
 to you solely in order to get to the bottom of this disgusting 
 business," the baron continued as wrathfully as before, not drop- 
 ping his voice in the least. " Enough ! " he roared furiously, 
 " you are not only excluded from the society of decent people, 
 but you're a maniac, a regular raving maniac, and such you've 
 been proved to be ! You do not deserve indulgence, and I can 
 
 318
 
 tell you that this very day measures will be taken in regard to 
 you . . . and you will be placed where they will know how to 
 restore you to sanity . . . and will remove you from the town." 
 
 He marched with rapid strides out of the room. Versilov did 
 not accompany him to the door. He stood gazing at me absent- 
 mindedly, as though he did not see me ; aU at once he smiled, 
 tossed back his hair, and taking his hat, he too made for the door. 
 I clutched at his hand. 
 
 " Ach, yes, you are here too. You . . . heard ? " he said, 
 stopping short before me. 
 
 " How could you do it ? How could you distort . . . disgrace 
 . . . with such treachery ! " 
 
 He looked at me intently, his smile broadened and broadened 
 till it passed into actual laughter. 
 
 " Why, I've been disgraced . . . before her ! before her ! 
 They laughed at me before her eyes, and he . . . and he pushed 
 me away ! " I cried, beside myself. 
 
 " ReaUy ? Ach, poor boy, I am sorry for you. ... So they 
 laughed at you, did they ? " 
 
 " You are laughing yourself, you are laughing at me ; it 
 amuses you ! " 
 
 He quickly pulled his hand away, put on his hat and laughing, 
 laughing aloud, went out of the flat. What was the use of run- 
 ning after him ? I imderstood and — I had lost everything in one 
 instant ! All at once I saw my mother ; she had come down- 
 stairs and was timidly looking about her. 
 
 " Has he gone away ? " 
 
 I put my arms around her without a word, and she held me 
 tight in hers. 
 
 " Mother, my own, surely you can't stay ? Let us go at once, 
 I will shelter you, I will work for you like a slave, for you and for 
 Liza. Leave them all, all, and let us go away. Let us be alone. 
 Mother, do you remember how you came to me at Touchard's 
 and I would not recognise you ? " 
 
 " I remember, my owi^ ; I have been bad to you all уош" life. 
 You were my own child, and I was a stranger to you." 
 
 " That was his fault, mother, it was all his fault ; he has never 
 loved us." 
 
 " Yes, yes, he did love us.* 
 
 " Let us go, mother." 
 
 " How could I go away from him, do you suppose he is happy?'* 
 
 " Where's Liza ? " 
 
 3^9
 
 " She's lying down ; she felt ill when she came in ; I'm 
 frightened. Why are they so angry with him ? What will they 
 do to him now 1 Where's he gone ? What was that officer 
 threatening ? " 
 
 " Nothing will happen to him, mother, nothing does happen 
 to him, or ever can happen to him. He's that sort of man ! 
 Here's Tatyana Pavlovna, ask her, if you don't beheve me, here 
 she is." (Tatyana Pavlovna came quickly into the room.) 
 " Good-bye, mother. I will come to you directly, and when I 
 come, I shall ask you the same thing again. . . ." 
 
 I ran away. I could not bear to see anyone, let alone Tatyana 
 Pavlovna. Even mother distressed me. I wanted to be alone, 
 alone. 
 
 5 
 
 But before I had crossed the street, I felt that I could hardly 
 walk, and I jostled aimlessly, heedlessly, against the passers-by, 
 feeling listless and adrift ; but what could I do with myself ? 
 What use am I to anyone, and — what use is anything to me 
 now ? Mechanically I trudged to Prince Sergay's, though I 
 was not thinking of him at all. He was not at home. I told 
 Pyotr (his man) that I would wait in his study (as I had done 
 many times before). His study was a large one, a very high 
 room, cumbered up with furniture. I crept into the darkest 
 comer, sat down on the sofa and, putting my elbows on the table, 
 rested my head in my hands. Yes, that wa^ the question : 
 " what was of any use to me now ? " If I wae able to formulate 
 that question then, I was totally unable to Answer it. 
 
 But I could not myself answer the question, or think about 
 it rationally. I have mentioned already that towards the end of 
 those days I was overwhelmed by the rush of events. I sat now, 
 and everj'thing was whirling roimd like chaos in my mind. " Yes, 
 I had failed to see all that was in him, and did not understand 
 him at all," was the thought that glimmered dimly in my mind 
 at moments. " He laughed in my face just now : that was not 
 at me, it was all Buring then, not me. The day before yesterday 
 he knew everything and he was gloomy. He pounced on ray 
 stupid confession in the restaiu'ant, and distorted it, regardless 
 of the truth ; but what did he care for the truth ? He did not 
 believe a syllable of what he wrote to her. All he wanted was to 
 insult her, to insult her senselessly, \vithout knowing what for; 
 
 320
 
 he was looking out for a pretext and I gave him the pretext. . . . 
 He behaved like a mad dog ! Does he want to kill During now ? 
 What for ? His heart knows what for ! And I know nothing of 
 what's in his heart, . . . No, no, I don't know even now. Can 
 it be that he loves her with such passion ? Or doee he hate her 
 to such a pitch of passion ? I don't know, but does he know 
 himself ? Why did I tell mother that ' nothing could happen 
 to him ' ; what did I mean to say by that ? Have I lost him 
 or haven't I ? 
 
 "... She saw how I was pushed away. . . . Did she laugh 
 too, or not ? I should have laughed ! They were beating a 
 spy, a spy. ... 
 
 " What does it mean, " suddenly flashed on my mind, " what 
 does it mean that in that luatlisome letter he puts in that the 
 document has not been biurnt, but is in existence ? . . . 
 
 " He is not killing Biiring but is sitting at this moment, no 
 doubt, in the restaurant listening to ' Lucia ' ! And perhaps after 
 Lucia he will go and kill Biiring. Biiring pushed me away, 
 almost struck me ; did he strike me ? • And Biiring disdains to 
 fight even Versilov, so would he be likely to fight with me ? 
 Perhaps I ought to kill him to-morrow with a revolver, waiting 
 for him in the street. ..." I let that thought flit through my 
 naind quite mechanically without being brought to a pause by it. 
 
 At moments I seemed to dream that the door would open all 
 at once, that Katerina Nikolaevna would come in, would give me 
 her hand, and we should both burst out laughing. . . . Oh, my 
 student, my dear one ! I had a vision of this, or rather an intense 
 longing for it, as soon as it got dark. It was not long ago I had 
 been standing before her saying good-bye to her, and she had 
 given me her hand, and laughed. How could it have happened 
 that in such a short time we were so completely separated ! 
 Simply to go to her and to explain everything this minute, 
 simply, simply ! Good heavens ! how was it that an utterly new 
 world had begun for me so suddenly ! Yes, a new world, utterly, 
 utterly new. . . . AndLiza, and Prince Sergay, that was all old. . . . 
 Here I was now at Prince Sergay's. And mother — how could she 
 go on living with him if it was like this ! I could, I can do any- 
 thing, but she ? What will be now ? And the figures of Liza, 
 Anna Andreyevna, Stebelkov, Prince Sergay, Aferdov, kept 
 disconnectedly whirling round in my sick brain. But my 
 thoughts became more and more formless and elusive ; I was glad 
 when I succeeded in thinking of something and clutching at it. 
 
 321
 
 " I have ' my idea ' ! " I thought suddenly ; " but have I ? 
 Don't I repeat that from habit ? My idea was the fruit of dark- 
 ness and solitude, and is it possible to creep back into the old 
 darkness 1 Oh, my God, I never burnt that ' letter ' ! I 
 actually forgot to bum it the day before yesterday. I will go 
 back and bum it in a candle, in a candle of course ; only I 
 don't know if I'm thinking properly. . . ." 
 
 It had long been dark and Pyotr brought candles. He stood 
 over me and asked whether I had had supper. I simply 
 motioned him away. An hour later, however, he brought me 
 some tea, and I greedily drank a large cupful. Then I asked 
 what time it was ? It was half -past eight, and I felt no surprise 
 to find I had been sitting there five hours. 
 
 " I have been in to you three times already," said Pyotr, " but 
 I think you were asleep." 
 
 I did not remember his coming in. I don't know why, but I 
 felt all at once horribly scared to think I had been asleep. I got 
 up and walked about the room, that I might not go to sleep again. 
 At last my head began to ache violently. At ten o'clock Prince 
 Sergay came in and I was surprised that I had been waiting for 
 h im : I had completely forgotten him, completely. 
 
 " You are here, and I've been round to you to fetch 
 you," he said to me. His face looked gloomy and severe, and 
 there was not a trace of a smile. There was a fixed idea in 
 his eyes. 
 
 " I have been doing my very utmost all day and 8<>raining every 
 nerve," he said with concentrated intensity ; " everything has 
 failed, and nothing in the future, but horror. . . ." (N.B. — he had 
 not been to Prince Nikolay Ivanitch's.) " I have seen Zhibyelsky, 
 he is an impossible person. You see, to begin with we must get 
 the money, then we shall see. And if we don't succeed with the 
 money, then we shall see. ... I have made up my mind not to 
 think about that. If only we get hold of the money to-day, 
 to-morrow we shall see everjrthing. The three thousand you 
 won is still untouched, every farthing of it. It's three thousand 
 all except three roubles. After paying back what I lent you, 
 there is three himdred and forty roubles change for you. Take 
 it. Another seven hundred as well, to make up a thousand, and 
 I will take the other two thousand. Then let us both go to 
 Zerstchikov and try at opposite ends of the table to win ten 
 thousand — perhaps we shall do something, if we don't win it — 
 then. . . . This is the only way left, anyhow." 
 
 322
 
 He looked at me with a fateful smile. 
 
 " Yes, yes ! " I cried suddenly, as though coming to life again ; 
 " let us go. I was only waiting for you. ..." 
 
 I may remark that I had never once thought of roulette during 
 those hours. 
 
 " But the baseness ? The degradation of the action ? *' Prince 
 Sergay asked suddenly. 
 
 " Our going to roulette ! Why that's everything," I cried, 
 " monej^'s everything. Why, you and I are the only saints, 
 while Buring has sold himself, Anna Andreyevna's sold herself, 
 and Versilov — have you heard that Versilov's a maniac ? A 
 maniac ! A maniac ! " 
 
 " Are you quite well, Arkady Makarovitch ? Your eyes are 
 somehow strange." 
 
 " You say that because you want to go without me ! But I 
 shall stick to you now. It's not for nothing I've been dreaming 
 of play all night. Let us go, let us go ! " I kept exclaiming, as 
 though I had found the solution to everything. 
 
 " W^ll, let us go, though you're in a fever, and there . . ." 
 
 He did not finish. His face looked heavy and terrible. We 
 were just going out when he stopped in the doorway. 
 
 " Do you know," he said suddenly, " that there is another way 
 out of my trouble, besides play ? " 
 
 " What way." 
 
 " A princely way.'* 
 
 " What's that ? What's that ? " 
 
 " You'll know what afterwards. Only let me tell you I'm 
 not worthy of it, because I have delayed too long. Let us go, 
 but you remember my words. We'll try the lackey's way. . . . 
 And do you suppose I don.'t know that I am consciously, of my 
 own free will, behaving like a lackey 1 " 
 
 e 
 
 T flew to the roulette table as though in it were concentrated 
 all hopes of my salvation, all means of escape, and yet as I have 
 mentioned already, I had not once thought of it before Prince 
 Sergay 's airival. Moreover, I was going to gamble, not for myself 
 but for Prince Sergay, and with his money ; I can't explain what 
 was the attraction, but it was an irresistible attraction. Oh, 
 never had those people, those faces, those croupiers with their 
 
 323
 
 monotonous shouts, all the details of the squalid gambling saloon 
 seemed so revolting to me, so depressing, so coarse, and so 
 melancholy as that evening ! I remember well the sadness and 
 misery that gripped my heart at times during those hours at the 
 gambling table. But why didn't I go away ? Why did I 
 endure and, as it were, accept this fate, this sacrifice, this 
 devotion ? I will only say one thing : I can hardly say of myself 
 that I was then in my right senses. Yet at the same time, I 
 had never played so prudently as that evening. I was silent 
 and concentrated, attentive and extremely calculating ; I was 
 patient and niggardly, and at the same time resolute at critical 
 moments. I estabhshed myself again at the zero end of the table, 
 that is between Zerstchikov and Aferdov, who always sat on the 
 former's right hand ; the place was distasteful to me, but I had 
 an overwhelming desire to stake on zero, and all the other places 
 at that end were taken. We had been playing over an hoiu: ; 
 at last, from my place, I saw Prince Sergay get up from his seat 
 and with a pale face move across to us and remaia facing me the 
 other side of the table : he had lost all he had and watched my 
 play in silence, though he probably did not follow it and had 
 ceased to think of play. At that moment I just began winning, 
 and Zerstchikov was counting me out what I had won. Suddenly, 
 without a word, Aferdov with the utmost effrontery took one of 
 my hundred-rouble notes before my very eyes and added it to the 
 pile of money lying before him. I cried out, and caught hold of 
 his hand. Then something quite unexpected hapj>ene^ to me : 
 it was as though I had broken some chain that restrained me, 
 as though all the affronts and insults of that day were concen- 
 trated in that moment in the loss of that hundred-rouble note. 
 It was as though everything that had been accumulating and 
 suppressed within me had only been waiting for that moment to 
 break out. 
 
 " He's a thief, he has just stolen my hundred roubles," I 
 exclaimed, looking round, beside myself. 
 
 I won't describe the hubbub that followed ; such a scandal was 
 a novelty there. At Zerstchikov's, people behaved with propriety, 
 and his saloon was famous for it. But I did not know what I was 
 doing. Zerstchikov's voice was suddenly heard in the midst of 
 the clamour and din : 
 
 " But the money's not here, and it was lying here ! Four 
 hundred roubles ! " 
 
 Aj other scene followed at once ; the money in the bank had 
 
 324
 
 disappeared under Zerstchikov's very nose, a roll of four hundred 
 roubles. Zerstchikov pointed to the spot where the notes had 
 only that minute been lying, and that spot t\imed out to be close 
 to me, next to the spot where my money was lying, much closer 
 to me than to Aferdov. 
 
 " The thief is here ! he has stolen it again, search him ! " I cried 
 pointing to Aferdov. 
 
 " This is what comes of letting in all sorts of people," thundered 
 an impressive voice in the midst of the general uproar. '' Persons 
 have been admitted without introduction ! Who brought him 
 in ? Who Ls he ? " 
 
 " A fellow called Dolgoruky." 
 " Prince Dolgoruky ? " 
 
 " Prince Sokolsky brought him," cried some one. 
 " Listen, prince," I yelled to him across the table in a frenzy ; 
 " they think I'm a thief when I've just been robbed myself ! 
 Tell them about me, tell them about me ! " 
 
 And then there followed something worse than all that had 
 happened that day . . . worse than anything that had happened 
 in my life : Prince Sergay disowned me. I saw him shrug his 
 shoulders and heard him in answer to a stream of questions 
 pronounce sharply and distinctly : 
 
 " I am not responsible for anyone. Please leave me alone." 
 
 Meanwhile Aferdov stood in the middle of the crowd loudly 
 demanding that " he shovild be searched." He kept turning out 
 his own pockets. But his demands were met by shouts of '* No, 
 no, we know the thief ! " 
 
 Two footmen were summoned and they seized me by my arms 
 from behind. 
 
 " I won't let myself be searched, I won't allow it ! " I shouted, 
 pulling myself away. 
 
 But they dragged me into the next room ; there, in the midst of 
 the crowd, they searched me to the last fold of my garments. 
 I screamed and struggled. 
 
 " He must have thrown it away, you must look on the floor," 
 some one decided. 
 
 " Where can we look on the floor now ? " 
 
 " Under the table, he must have somehow managed to throw 
 it away." 
 
 " Of course there's no trace . . ." 
 
 I was led out, but I succeeded in stopping in the doorway, and 
 with senseless ferocity I shouted, to be heard by the whole saloon : 
 
 325
 
 " Roulette is prohibited by the police. I shall inform against 
 you all to-day ! " 
 
 I was led downstairs. My hat and coat were put on me, and 
 . . . the door into the street was flung open before me. 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 The day had ended with a catastrophe, there remained the 
 night, and this is what I remember of that night. 
 
 I believe it was one o'clock when I found myself in the street. 
 It was a clear, still and frosty night, I was almost running and 
 in horrible haste, but — not towards home. 
 
 " Why home ? Can there be a home now ? Home is where 
 one lives, I shall wake up to-morrow to live — but is that possible 
 now ? Life is over, it is utterly impossible to live now," I 
 thought. 
 
 And as I wandered about the streets, not noticing where I 
 was going, and indeed I don't know whether I meant to run 
 anywhere in particular, I was very hot and I was continually 
 flinging open my heavy raccoon-lined coat. " No sort of action 
 can have any object for me now " was what I felt at that moment. 
 And strange to say, it seemed to me that everything about me, 
 even the air I breathed, was from another planet, as though I 
 had suddenly found myself in the moon. Everything — the 
 town, the passers-by, the pavement I was running on — all of 
 these were not mine. " This is the Palace Square, and here is 
 St. Isaak's," floated across my mind. " But now I have nothing 
 to do with them." Everything had become suddenly remote, 
 it had all suddenly become not mine. " I have mother and Liza 
 — but what are mother and Liza to me now ? Everything is 
 over, everything is over at one blow, except one thing : that I 
 am a thief for ever." 
 
 " How can I prove that I'm not a thief ? Is it possible now ? 
 Shall I go to America ? What should I prove by that ? Versilov 
 will be the first to believe I stole it ! My ' idea ' ? What 
 idea ? What is my ' idea ' now ? If I go on for fifty years, 
 for a hundred years, some one will always turn up, to point at 
 me and say : ' He's a thief, he began, " his idea " by stealing 
 money at roulette.' " 
 
 326
 
 Was there resentment in my heart ? I don't know, perhape 
 there was. Strange to say, I always had, perhaps from my 
 earliest childhood, one characteristic : if I were ill-treated, 
 absolutely wronged and insulted to the last degree, I always 
 showed at once an irresistible desire to submit passively to the 
 insult, and even to accept more than my assailant wanted to 
 inflict upon me, as though I would say : " All right, you have 
 humiliated me, so I will humiliate myself even more ; look, and 
 enjoy it ! " Touchard beat me and tried to show I was a lackey, 
 and not the son of a senator, and so I promptly took up the role 
 of a lackey. I not only handed him his clothes, but of my 
 own accord I snatched up the brush and began brushing off 
 every speck of dust, without any request or order from him, 
 and ran after him brush in hand, in a glow of menial devotion, 
 to remove some particle of dirt from his dress-coat, so much so 
 that he would sometimes check me himself and say, " That's 
 enough, Arkady, that's enough." He would come and take off 
 his overcoat, and I would brush it, fold it carefully, and cover 
 it with a check silk handkerchief. I knew that my school- 
 fellows used to laugh at me and despise me for it, I knew it 
 perfectly well, but that was just what gratified me : " Since 
 they want me to be a lackey, well, I am a lackey then ; if I'm 
 to be a cad, well, I will be a cad." I could keep up a passive 
 hatred and underground resentment in that way for years. 
 
 Well, at Zerstchikov's I had shouted to the whole room in an 
 absolute frenzy : 
 
 " I will inform against you all — roulette is forbidden by the 
 police ! " And I swear that in that case, too, there was some- 
 thing of the same sort : I was humiliated, searched, publicly 
 proclaimed a thief, crushed. " Well then I can tell you, you 
 have guessed right, I am worse than a thief, I am an informer." 
 Recalling it now, that is how I explain it ; at the time I was 
 incapable of analysis ; I shouted that at the time unintentionally, 
 I did not know indeed a second before that I should say it : it 
 shouted itself — the characteristic was there already in my heart. 
 
 There is no doubt that I had begun to be delirious while I was 
 running in the streets, but I remember quite well that I knew 
 what I was doing ; and yet I can confidently assert that a whole 
 cycle of ideas and conclusions were impossible for me at that 
 time ; I felt in myself even at those moments that " some 
 thoughts I was able to think, but others I was incapable of," 
 In the same way some of my decisions, though they were formed 
 
 327
 
 with perfect consciousness, were utterly devoid of logic. What 
 is more, 1 remember very well that at some moments 1 could 
 recognize fully the absurdity of some conclusion and at the same 
 time with complete consciousness proceed to act upon it. Yes, 
 crime was hovering about me that night, and only by chance 
 was not committed. 
 
 1 suddenly recalled Tatyana Pavlovna's saying about Versilov : 
 " He'd better have gone at night to the Nikolaevsky Railway 
 and have laid his head on the rails — they'd have cut it off for 
 him." 
 
 For a moment that idea took possession of all my feelings, 
 but I instantly drove it away with a pang at my heart : " If I 
 lay my head on the rails and die, they'll say to-morrow he did 
 it because he stole the money, he did it from shame — no, for 
 nothing in the world ! " And at that instant I remember I 
 experienced a sudden flash of fearful anger. " To clear my 
 character is impossible," floated through my mind, " to begin a 
 new life is impossible too, and so I must submit, become a lackey, 
 a dog, an insect, an informer, a real informer, while I secretly 
 prepare myself, and one day suddenly blow it all up into the 
 air, annihilate everything and every one, guilty and innocent 
 alike, so that they Avill all know that this was the man they had 
 all called a thief . . . and then kill mj'self." 
 
 I don't remember how I ran into a lane somewhere near 
 Konnogvardeysky Boulevard. For about a hundred paces on 
 both sides of this lane there were high stone walls enclosing 
 backyards. Behind the wall on the left I saw a huge stack of 
 wood, a long stack such as one sees in timber-yards, and more 
 than seven feet higher than the wall. I stopped and began 
 pondering. 
 
 In my pocket I had wax matches in a little silver matchbox. 
 I repeat, I realized quite distinctly at that time what I was 
 thinking about and what I meant to do, and so I remember it 
 even now, but why I meant to do it I don't know, I don't know 
 at all, I only know that I suddenly felt a great longing to do 
 it. " To climb over the wall is quite possible," I reflected ; at 
 that moment I caught sight of a gate in the wall not two paces 
 away, probably barred up for months together. " Standing on 
 the projection below, and taking hold of the top of the gate I 
 could easily climb on to the wall," I reflected, " and no one will 
 notice me, there's no one about, everything's still ! And there 
 I сал sit on the wall and easily set fiie to the woodstack. I can 
 
 328
 
 do it without getting down, for the wood almost touches the 
 wall. The frost will make it burn all the better, 1 have only to 
 take hold of a birch-log with my hand. . . . And indeed there's 
 no need to reach a log at all : I can simply strip the bark off 
 with my hand, while I sit on the wall, set light to it with a match 
 and thrust it into the stack — and there will be a blaze. And I 
 will jump down and walk away ; there will be no need to run, 
 for it won't be noticed for a long while. . . ." That was how I 
 reasoned at the time, and all at once I made up my mind. 
 
 I felt an extraordinary satisfaction and enjoyment, and I 
 climbed up. I was very good at climbing : gymnastics had 
 been my speciality at school, but I had my overboots on and it 
 turned out to be a difficult task. I succeeded somehow in 
 catching hold of one very slight projection above, and raised 
 myself ; I lifted my other hand to clutch the top of the wail, 
 but at that instant I slipped and went flying backwards. 
 
 I suppose I must have struck the ground with the back of 
 my head, and must have lain for two or three minutes uncon- 
 scious. When I came to myself I mechanically wrapped my 
 fur coat about me, feeling all at once xmbearably cold, and 
 scarcely conscious of what I was doing, I crept into the corner 
 of the gateway and sat crouching and huddled up in the recess 
 between the gate and the wall. My ideas were in confusion, 
 and most likely I soon fell into a doze. I remember now, as it 
 were in a dream, that there suddenly soimded in my ears the 
 deep heavy clang of a bell, and I began listening to it with 
 pleasure. 
 
 The bell rang steadily and distinctly, once every two or three 
 seconds ; it was not an alarm bell, however, but a pleasant and 
 melodious chime, and I suddcrJy recognized that it was a familiar 
 chime, that it was the bell cf St. Nikolay's, the red church opposite 
 Touchard's, the old-fashionccl Moscow church which I remeni 
 bered so well, built in the reign of Tsar Alexey Mihalovitch, full 
 of tracer}^, and with many domes and columns, and that Easter 
 was only just over, and the new-bom little green leaves were 
 trembling on the meagre birches in Touchard's front garden. 
 The brilliant evening sun was pouring its slanting rays into our 
 classroom, and in my little room on the left, where a з^еаг before 
 Touchard had put me apart that I might not mix with " counts' 
 
 329
 
 and senators' children," there was sitting a visitor. Yes, I, who 
 had no relations, had suddenly got a visitor for the first time 
 since I had been at Touchard's. I recognized this visitor as 
 soon as she came in : it was mother, though I had not seen her 
 once since she had taken me to the village church and the dove 
 had flown across the cupola. We were sitting alone together 
 and I watched her strangely. Many years afterwards I learned 
 that being left by Versilov, who had suddenly gone abroad, she 
 had come on her own account to Moscow, paying for the journey 
 out of her small means, and almost by stealth, without the 
 knowledge of the people who had been commissioned to look 
 after her, and she had done this solely to see me. It wets strange, 
 too, that when she came in and talked to Touchard, she did not 
 eay one word to me of being my mother. She sat beside me, 
 and I remember I wondered at her talking so little. She had a 
 parcel with her and she undid it : in it there turned out to be 
 six oranges, several gingerbread cakes, and two ordinary loaves 
 of French bread. I was offended at the sight of the bread, 
 and with a constrained air I announced that our ' food ' was 
 excellent, and that they gave us a whole French loaf for our tea 
 every day. 
 
 " Never mind, darling, in my foolishness I thought ' maybe 
 they don't feed them properly at school,' don't be vexed, my 
 own." 
 
 " And Antonina Vassilyevna (Touchard's wife) will be offended. 
 My schoolfellows will laugh at me too. . . ." 
 
 " Won't you have them ; perhaps you'll eat them up ? " 
 
 " Please, don't. . . ." 
 
 And I did not even touch her presents ; the oranges and 
 gingerbread cakes lay on the little table before me, while I sat 
 with my eyes cast down, but with a great air of dignity. Who 
 knows, perhaps I had a great desire to let her see that her visit 
 made me feel ashamed to meet my schoolfellows, to let her have 
 at least a glimpse that she might understand, as though to say, 
 " See, you are disgracing me, and you don't understand what 
 you are doing." Oh, by that time I was rimning after Touchard 
 with a brush to flick off every speck of dust ! I was pictiuring 
 to myself, too, what taunts I should have to endure as soon as 
 she was gone, from my schoolfellows and perhaps from Touchard 
 himself ; and there was not the least friendly feeling for her in 
 my heart. I only looked sideways at her dark-coloured old 
 dress, at her rather coarse, almost working-class hands, at her 
 
 330
 
 quite coarse shoes, and her terribly thin face ; there were already 
 furrows on her forehead, though Antonina VasBilyevna did say 
 that evening after she had gone : " Your mamma must have 
 been very pretty." 
 
 So we sat, and suddenly Agafya came in with a cup of coffee 
 on a tray. It was just after dirmer, and at that time Touchard 
 always drank a cup of coffee in his drawing-room. But mother 
 thanked her and did not take the cup : as I learned afterwards 
 she never drank coffee in those days, as it brought on palpitations 
 of the heart. The fact was that Touchard inwardly considered 
 her visit, and his permitting me to see her, an act of great con- 
 descension on his part, so that the cup of coffee sent her was, 
 comparatively speaking, a signal proof of humanity which did 
 the utmost credit to his civilization, feelings, and European 
 ideas. And as though on purpose, mother refused it. 
 
 I was summoned to Touchard, and he told me to take all my 
 lesson books and exercise books to show my mother : " That 
 she may see what you have succeeded in attaining in my establish- 
 ment." At that point Antonina Vassilyevna, pursing up her 
 lips, minced out to me in a jeering and insulting way : 
 " Your mamma does not seem to like our coffee." 
 I collected my exercise books and carried them to my waiting 
 mother, passing through the crowd of " counts' and senators' 
 children " in the classroom who were staring at mother and me. 
 And it actually pleased me to carry out Touchard's behests with 
 literal exactitude. " Here are my lessons in French grammar, 
 here are my dictation exercises, here are the conjugations of the 
 auxiliary verbs avoir and elre, here is the geography, descriptions 
 of the principal towns of Europe, and all parts of the world," 
 and so on. For half an hour or more I went on explaining in 
 a monotonous little voice, keeping my eyes sedately cast down. 
 I knew that my mother knew nothing of these learned subjects, 
 could not perhaps even write, but in this too I was pleased with 
 my part. But I did not succeed in wearying her : she listened 
 all the time without interrupting me, with extraordinary and 
 even reverent attention, so that at last I got tired of it myself 
 and left off ; her expression was sad, however, and there was 
 something pitiful in her face. 
 
 She got up to go at last ; Touchard suddenly walked in, and 
 with an air of foolish importance asked her : " Whether she was 
 satisfied with her son's progress ? " Mother began muttering 
 incoherent thanks ; Antonina Vassilyevna came up too. Mother 
 
 331
 
 began begging them both " not to abandon the orphan, who 
 was as good as an orphan now, but to treat him with kindness." 
 . . . And with tears in her eyes she bowed to them both, each 
 separately, and to each with a deep bow, exactly as " simple 
 people " bow down when they ask a favour of the gentry. The 
 Touchards had not expected this, and Antonina Vassilyevmi, 
 was evidently softened, and revised her opinion about the cup 
 of coffee. Touchard humanely responded with even greater 
 dignity " that he made no distinction between the children, 
 that here all were his children, and he was their father, that I 
 was almost on an equal footing with the sons of senators and 
 counts, and that she ought to appreciate that," and so on, and 
 so on. Mother only bowed do^^^l, but was much embarrassed. 
 At last she tiuTied to me, and with tears shining in her eyes said : 
 " Good-bye, darling." 
 
 She kissed me, that is I allowed myself to be kissed. She 
 evidently wanted to go on kissing, embracing and hugging me, 
 but either she herself felt ashamed before company, or felt 
 hurt by something else, or guessed that I was ashamed of her, 
 for she hurriedly went out, bowing once more to the Touchards. 
 I stood still. 
 
 " Mais suivez done voire mere" said Antonina Vassilyevna : 
 " il n'a pas de cceur, cei enfant ! " 
 
 Touchard responded by shrugging his shoulders, which meant, 
 of course, " it's not \vithout reason that I treat him as a lackey." 
 
 I obediently followed my mother ; we went out on to the 
 steps. I knew that they were all looking at me out of the 
 window. Mother turned towards the church and crossed 
 herself three times ; her lips were trembling, the deep bell chimed 
 musically and regularly from the belfry. She turned to me 
 and could not restrain herself, she laid both hands on my head 
 and began crying over it. 
 
 " Mother, stop . . . I'm ashamed . . . they can see from the 
 window. . . ." 
 
 She broke out hurriedly : 
 
 " Well God . . . God be with you. . . . The heavenly angels 
 keep you. Holy Mother, Saint Nikolay. ... My God, my 
 God ! " she repeated, speaking rapidly and making as many signs 
 of the cross over me as she possibly cotdd. "My darling, my 
 darling ! Stay, my darling. . . ." 
 
 She hurriedly put her hand in her pocket and drew out a 
 handkerchief, a blue checked handkerchief, with a tightly 
 
 332
 
 fastened knot at the corner, and began untying the Icnot . . . 
 but it would not come untied. . , . 
 
 " Well never mind, take it with the handkerchief : it's clean, 
 it may be of use perhaps. There are four fourpenny-bits in it, 
 perhaps you'll need the money ; forgive me, darling, I have not 
 got any more just now . . . forgive me, darling." 
 
 I took the handkerchief. I wanted to observe that we were 
 allowed very liberal diet by M. Touchard and Antonina Vassily- 
 evna, and were not in need of anything, but I restrained m3'self 
 and took the handkerchief. 
 
 Once more she made the sign of the cross over me, once more 
 she whispered a prayer, and suddenly — suddenly bowed to me 
 exactly as she had done to the Touchards upstairs — a prolonged 
 low bow — I shall never forget it ! Then I shuddered, I don't 
 know why. What had she meant by that bow ? " Was she 
 confessing the wrong she had done me ? " as I fancied once long 
 afterwards — I don't know. But at the time it made me more 
 ashamed than ever that they " were looking out of window and 
 that Lambert would, most likely, begin beating me." 
 
 At last she went away. The apples and oranges had been 
 devoured by the sons of coimts and senators, and the four 
 fourpenny-bits were promptly taken from me by Lambert and 
 spent at the confectioner's on tarts and chocolates, of which I 
 was not offered a taste. 
 
 Fully six months had passed and it was a wet and windy 
 October. I had quite forgotten about mother. Oh, by then 
 hate, a blind hatred of everything had crept into my heart, and 
 was its sustenance, though I still brushed Touchard as before ; 
 but I hated him with all my might, and every day hated him 
 more and more. It was then that in the melancholy dusk of 
 one evening I began rummaging fqr something in my little box, 
 and suddenly in the corner I saw her blue cotton handkerchief ; 
 it had been lying there ever since I had thrust it away. I took 
 it out and even looked at it with some interest. The corner of 
 the handkerchief still retained the creases made by the knot, 
 and even the roimd impress of the money was distinctly visible ; 
 I put the handkerchief in again, however, and pushed the box 
 back. It was the eve of a holiday, and the bells were ringing 
 for the all-night service. The pupils had all gone to their homes 
 after dinner, but this time Lambert had stayed for Sunday. I 
 don't know why he hadn't been fetched. Though he used still 
 to beat me, as before, he used to talk to me a great deal, and 
 
 333
 
 often needed me. We talked the whole evening about Lepage's 
 pistols, which neither of us had seen, and Circassian swords and 
 how they cut, how splendid it would be to establish a band of 
 brigands, and finally Lambert passed to the familiar obscene 
 subjects which were his favoiuite topics, and though I wondered 
 at myself, I remember I liked listening. Suddenly I felt it 
 unbearable, and I told him I had a headache. At ten o'clock 
 we went to bed ; I turned away with my head under the quilt 
 and took the blue handkerchief from under my pillow : I had 
 for some reason fetched it from the box an hour before, and as 
 soon as our beds were made I put it under the pillow. I put it 
 to my face and suddenly began kissing it : " Mother, mother," 
 I whispered, and my whole chest contracted as though in a 
 vice. I closed my eyes, and saw her face with the quivering 
 lips when she crossed herself facing the church, and afterwards 
 made the sign of the cross over me, and I said to her, " I'm 
 ashamed, they are looking at us." " Mother darling, mother, 
 were you really with me once 1 . . . Mother darling, where are 
 you now, my far-away visitor ? Do you remember your poor 
 boy, whom you came to see ? . . . Show yourself to me just this 
 once, come to me if only in a dream, just that I may tell you 
 how I love you, may hug you and kiss your blue eyes, and tell 
 you that I'm not ashamed of you now, and tell you that I loved 
 you even then, and that my heart was aching then, though I 
 simply sat like a lackey. You will never know, mother, how I 
 loved you then ! Mother, where are you now ? Do you hear 
 me ? Mother, mother, do you remember the dove in the 
 country ? . . " 
 
 " Confound him. . . . What's the matter with him ! " Lam- 
 bert grumbled from his bed. " Stop it, I'll give it you ! You 
 won't let me sleep. ..." He jumped out of bed at last, ran to 
 me, and began pulling off the bedclothes, but I kept tight hold 
 of the quilt, which I had wrapped round my head. 
 
 " You are blubbering ; what are you blubbering about, you 
 fool ? I'll give it you ! " and he thumped me, he thumped me 
 hard on my back, on my side, hurting me more and more and . . . 
 and I suddenly opened my eyes. . . . 
 
 It was bright daylight, and the snow on the wall was glistening 
 with hoarfrost. ... I was sitting huddled up, almost frozen, 
 and almost numb in my fur coat, and some one was standing 
 over me, waking me up, abusing me loudly, and kicking me in 
 the ribs with his right foot. I raised myself and looked : I saw 
 
 334
 
 a man wearing a splendid bear-lined coat, and a sable cap. He 
 had black eyes, foppish pitch-black whiskers, a hook nose, white 
 teeth grinning at me, a face white and red like a mask. . . . He 
 bent down over me very close, and a frosty vapour came from 
 his lips at each breath. 
 
 " Frozen, the drunken fool 1 You'll freeze like a dog ; get 
 up ! Get up ! " 
 
 " Lambert," I cried. 
 
 " Whoever are you ? '* 
 
 " Dolgoruky." 
 
 " Who the devil's Dolgorukv ? " 
 
 " Simply Dolgoruky ! . . . Touchard. . . . The one you stuck 
 a fork into, in the restaurant I . . ." 
 
 " Ha-a-a ! " he cried, with a slow smile of recollection (could 
 he possibly have forgotten me ?), " ha ! So it's you, it's you ! " 
 
 He lifted me up and put me on my legs ; I could hardly stand, 
 could hardly walk ; he led me, supporting me with his arm. He 
 looked into my eyes as though considering and recalling, and 
 listenbg to me intently, and I babbled on continuously without 
 pause, and I was delighted, so delighted to be talking, and so 
 delighted too that it was Lambert. Whether for some reason 
 I looked on him as my " salvation," or whether I pounced on 
 him at that moment because I took him for some one of another 
 world, I don't know — ^I did not consider it then — but I pounced 
 on him without considering. What I said then, I don't remember 
 at all, and I doubt whether any of it was coherent, I doubt 
 whether I even pronounced a word clearly ; but he listened very 
 attentively. He took the first sledge we came upon, and within 
 a few minutes I was sitting in his room in the warmth. 
 
 Every man, whoever he may be, must certainly preserve a 
 recollection of something which has happened to him, upon 
 which he looks, or is inclined to look, as something fantastic, 
 exceptional, outside the common order of things, almost 
 miraculous, whether it be a dream, a meeting, a divination, a 
 presentiment or anything of that kind. I am to this day inclined 
 to look upon this meeting with Lambert as something almost 
 supernatural . . . judging, that is, from the circumstances and 
 consequences of that meeting. It all happened from one point 
 
 335
 
 of view, however, perfectly naturally ; he was simply returning 
 from one of his nocturnal pursuits (the nature of it will be 
 explained later on) half-drunk, and stopping at the gate for a 
 moment, caught sight of me. He had only been in Petersburg 
 a few days. 
 
 The room in which I found myself was small and furnished 
 in an unsophisticated style, a typical example of the ordinary 
 Petersburg furnished lodgings of the middling sort. Lambert 
 himself, however, was very well and expensively dressed. On 
 the floor there lay two trunks, only half unpacked. A comer of 
 the room was shut off by a screen which concealed the bed. 
 
 " Alphonsine ! " cried Lambert. 
 
 " Presente ! " responded from behind the screen a cracked 
 female voice with a Parisian accent, and two minutes later 
 IVIlle, Alphonsine emerged, just out of bed, hurriedly dressed in 
 a loose wrapper, a queer creature, tall and as lean as a rake, a 
 brunette with a long waist and a long face, with dancing 
 eyes and sunken cheeks, who looked terribly the worse for 
 wear. 
 
 " Make hsiste " (he spoke to her in French, I translate), 
 " they must have got a samovar ; hot water quick, red wine 
 and sugar, a glass here, look sharp, he's frozen, it's a friend of 
 mine . . . he's been sleeping the night in the snow. . . ." 
 
 " Malheureux ! " she exclaimed with a theatrical air, clasping 
 her hands. 
 
 " Now then ! " he shouted, holding up his finger and speaking 
 exactly as though to a dog ; she at once desisted and ran to 
 carry out his orders. 
 
 He examined me and felt me over ; tried my pulse, touched 
 my forehead and my temple. " It's strange," he muttered, 
 " that you did not freeze. . . . However, you were entirely 
 covered with your fur coat, head and all, so that you were sitting 
 in a sort of nest of fur. . . ." 
 
 A glass of something hot arrived, I sipped it greedily and it 
 revived me at once ; I began babbling again ; I was half lying 
 on the sofa in a corner and was talking all the time, I talked 
 even as I sipped — but what I said, again I scarcely remember ; 
 moments and even whole intervals of time I've completely 
 forgotten. I repeat : whether he understood anything of what 
 I said, I don't know ; but one thing I distinctly gathered after- 
 wards, and that was that he succeeded in understanding me 
 sufficiently to deduce that he must not take his meeting with 
 
 336
 
 «ne lightly. ... I wШ explain later in its proper place how he 
 came to make this calculation. 
 
 I was not only extremely lively, but at moments, I believe, 
 cheerful. I remember the sun suddenly flooding the room with 
 light when the blinds were drawn up, and the crackling stove 
 which some one was lighting, who and how I forget. I remember, 
 too, the tiny black lap-dog which Mile. Alphonsine held in her 
 arms, coquettishly pressing it to her heart. This lap-dog 
 attracted me so much that I left off talking and twice stretched 
 out towards it, but Lambert waved his hand, and Alphonsine 
 with her lap-dog instantly vanished behind the screen. 
 
 He was very silent himself, he sat facing me and bending close 
 down to me, listened without moving; at times he smiled, a 
 broad slow smile, showing his teeth, and screwing up his eyes 
 as though reflecting intensely and trying to guess something. 
 I have a clear recollection only of the fact that when I told him 
 about the " document," I could not express myself intelligibly 
 and tell the story consecutively, and from his face I quite saw 
 that he could not understand me, but that he would very much 
 have liked to understand, so much so that he even ventured to 
 stop me with a question, which was risky, as at the slightest 
 interruption I broke off and forgot what I was talking of. How 
 long we sat and talked like this I don't know and cannot even 
 imagine. He suddenly got up and called to Alphonsine. 
 
 " He needs rest ; he may have to have the doctor. Do 
 everything he asks, that is . . . vovs comprenez, ma fille ? Voua 
 avez V argent, no ? here ! " and he drew out a ten-rouble note. 
 He began whispering with her : " Vous comprenez ? voics com- 
 prenez ? " he repeated to her, holding up his finger menacingly 
 to her, and frowning sternly. I saw that she was dreadfully 
 afraid of him. 
 
 " I'll come back, and you had better go to sleep," he said, 
 smiling to me, and took his cap. " 3Iais vous n'avez pas dormi de 
 tout, Maurice ! " Alphonsine began pathetically. " Taisez-vous 
 je dormirai ajjres,'' and he went out. 
 
 " Sauvee," she murmured, pathetically pointing after him. 
 
 " Monsieur, Monsieur," she began declaiming at once, taking 
 up an attitude in the middle of the room, "jamais homme ne 
 Jut si cruel, si Bismarck que cet etre, qui regarde une femme, 
 comme une salete de hazard. Une femme, qu'est-ce que ca 
 dans rwtre c'poque ? Tue-la I voild le dernier mot de VAcademie 
 francaise ! " 
 
 337
 
 I stared at her open-eyed ; I saw everything double, I had a 
 vision of two Alphonsines. ... I suddenly noticed that she 
 was crying, I started and realized that she had been talking 
 to me for a long time, and that I must have been asleep or 
 unconscious. 
 
 " . . . Hilas ! dt quoi m'aurait servi de le decouvrir plutSt" 
 she exclaimed, " et n^aurais-je pas auiant gagne d tenir ma 
 honte cachie toute ma vie ? Peut-etre n'est-il pas honnUe, d, 
 une demoiselle de s'expliquer si librement devant monsieur, 
 mais enfin je vous avoue que s4l m,4tait permis de vouloir 
 quelque chose, oh, ce serait de lui plonger au ссвиг топ couteau, 
 ma.is en detournant les yeux, de peur que son regard execrable 
 nefit trembler топ bras et ne gkiQUt топ courage ! II a assassine. 
 ce pape ru^se, m,onsieur, il lui arracha sa barbe rousse pour la 
 vendre a un artiste en cheveux au pont de Marichaux, tout pres 
 de la maison de Monsieur Andrieux — hautes nouveautes, articles 
 de Paris, linge, chemises, vous savez, n'est-ce pas ? . . . Oh, 
 monsieur, quand Vamitie rassemble d table epouse, enfants, 
 soeurs, amis, quand une vive allegresse enflamme топ caur, je 
 vous le demande, monsieur : est-il bonheur preferable a celui 
 dont tout jouit ? Mais il rit, monsieur, ce monstre execrable et 
 inconcevable, et si ce n4tait pas par Ventremise de Monsieur 
 Andrieux, jamais, oh, jamais je ne serais . . . Mais quoi, 
 monsieur, qu'avez vous, m,onsieur ? " 
 
 She rushed up to me. I believe I had an attack of shivering, 
 perhaps, a fainting fit. I cannot express what a painful and 
 miserable impression this half-crazy creature made upon me. 
 She imagined perhaps that she had been commanded to entertain 
 me : at any rate she did not leave my side for one instant. She 
 had рзгЬарз at one time or another been on the stage ; she 
 declaimed in a terrible way, pirouetted, talked incessantly, vhile 
 I had long been silent. All I could understand from her story 
 was that she had been closely connected with " la maison de 
 M. Andrieux — hautes nouveautes, articles de Paris, etc.," and 
 perhaps was one of the family of la Maison de M. Andrieux ; but 
 she had somehow been torn for ever from M. Andrieux, par ce 
 monstre furieux et inconcevable, and that was the point of the 
 tragedy. . . . She sobbed, but I fancied that this was all part 
 of the performance, and that she was not really crying at all ; 
 sometimes I fancied that she would suddenly drop to pieces, like 
 a skeleton ; she articulated her words in a jangling, broken 
 voice ; the word preferable, for instance, she pronounced 
 
 338
 
 prefer-a -аЫе, and on the syllable a positively baa-ed like a 
 sheep. Coming to myself on one occasion I found her executing 
 a pirouette in the middle of the room, but she was not actually 
 dancing, the pirouette had some connection with her story, and 
 she was simply impersonating some figure in it. Suddenly she 
 rushed and opened a little, old, out-of-tune piano that was in 
 the room, and began strumming on it and singing. 1 believe 
 that for ten minutes or more I lost consciousness completely, I 
 fell asleep, but the lap-dog yelped and I waked up again ; for a 
 moment consciousness returned completely and suddenly flooded 
 my mind with light ; I jumped up in horror : 
 
 '* Lambert, I am at Lambert's ! " I thought, and snatching 
 up my hat, I rushed to my fur coat. 
 
 " Ой aUez-vous, monsieur ? " cried the vigilant Alphonsine. 
 
 " I want to get out, I want to go away ! Let me out, don't 
 keep me. ..." 
 
 " Oui, monsieur ! " Alphonsine assented vigorously, and she 
 rushed to open the door into the corridor herself. " Mais ce 
 n'est pas loin, monsieur, c'est pas loin du tout, fa ne vavt pas la 
 peine de mettre voire chouba, c'est id pres, monsieur ! " she 
 shouted for the benefit of the whole corridor. Running out of 
 the room I turned to the right. 
 
 " Par id, monsieur, c'est par id ! " she shouted at the top of 
 her voice, clutching at ray coat with her long bony fingers, and 
 with the other hand pointing to the left of the corridor, where I 
 did not at all want to go. I broke away and ran to the outer 
 door opening on to the stairs. 
 
 " II s'en va, il s'en va .' " Alphonsine ran after me shouting in 
 her cracked voice ; " m/iis il me tuera, monsieur, il me tuera ! " 
 But I was already on the stairs and, though she ran after me 
 down stairs, I succeeded in opening the front door, dashing out 
 into the street, and jumping into the first sledge I met. I gave 
 the driver my mother's address. . . , 
 
 But the cloar consciousness that had flickered up for one 
 moment was soon dimmed. I still have a faint recollection of 
 the drive and being taken up to my mother's, but there I sank 
 almost at once into complete unconsciousness. Next day, as 
 they told me afterwards, and indeed I remember it myself, I had 
 
 339
 
 a moment of lucidity again. I found myself in Versilov's room 
 and on his sofa. I re member around me the faces of Versilov, 
 my mother, Liza ; I remember particularly Versilov's speaking 
 to me about Zerstchikov, and about Prince Sergay, and showing 
 me some letter to soothe me. They told me afterwards that I 
 kept asking with horror about someone called Lambert, and 
 kept hearing the barking of some lap-dog. But the faint light 
 of consciousness was soon quenched again : by the evening 
 of the second day I was completely prostrate with brain- 
 fever. But I will anticipate events,- and explain what had 
 happened. 
 
 When I had run out in the street from Zerstchikov's that 
 evening, and when calm had been restored there, Zerstchikov, 
 who had returned to the table, proclaimed aloud that a regrettable 
 mistake had been made : the missing money, four hundred 
 roubles, had been found in a pile of other money, and the bank 
 account turned out to be quite correct. Then Prince Sergay, 
 who had remained in the room, went up to Zerstchikov and 
 insisted that he should make a public declaration of my innocence 
 and should, moreover, send me an apology in the form of a 
 letter. Zerstchikov on his side accepted this suggestion as a 
 very proper one, and promised, in the presence of all, to send me 
 next day a letter of explanation and apology. Prince Sergay 
 gave him Versilov's address. And Versilov did in fact receive 
 next day a letter addressed to me in Zerstchikov's hand, and 
 more than thirteen hundred roubles belonging lo me, which I 
 had left on the roulette table. And so the affair with Zerstchikov 
 ended : this joyful news did much to hasten my recovery, when 
 I regained consciousness. 
 
 When Prince Sergay retiirned from the gambling saloon that 
 night he wrote two letters — one to me, and the other tQ his 
 old regiment, in which he had behaved so scandalously to Comet 
 Stepanov. He dispatched both letters next morning. After 
 that, he wrote a report for the authorities, and with that report 
 in his hand he went early in the morning to the officer in command 
 of his regiment and announced to him that he, " a common 
 
 criminal, who had taken part in the forging of the X railway 
 
 shares, surrendered to justice and asked to be tried." Therewith 
 he handed him the report in which all this was set out in writing. 
 He was arrested. 
 
 Here is the letter he wrote to me that night, word for 
 word : 
 
 340
 
 *' Precious Arkady Makarovitch, 
 
 " Having tried the lackey's way of escape, I have lost the 
 right to comfort my soul a little with the thought that I was 
 able in the end to dare to do what was just and fine. I have 
 sinned against my fatherland and against my family, and for 
 this I, the last of my family, am punishing myself. I don't know 
 how I could have caught at the bare idea of self-preservation, 
 and for a time have dreamed of buying them ofif with money ! I 
 should have still remained to all eternity a criminal in my 
 conscience ! Even if those people had given back the notes 
 that compromised me, they would never have been induced to 
 let me alone as long as 1 lived ! What remained ? To live 
 with them, to be on a level with them all my life — that was the 
 fate awaiting me ! I could not accept it, and have at last found 
 in myself strength enough, or perhaps only despair enough, to 
 act as I am acting now. 
 
 " I have written a letter to my old regiment, to my fellow 
 officers, clearing Stepanov's character. This is not and cannot 
 be an atonement : it is only the last will and testament of a man 
 who will be dead to-morrow. That is how one must look at it. 
 
 " Forgive me for turning away from j'ou in the gambling 
 saloon ; it was because at the moment I was not sure of you. 
 Now that I am a dead man I can make this confession . . . from 
 the other world, 
 
 ■ Poor Liza ! she knows nothing of this decision ; let her no-: 
 curse me, but judge of it herself. I cannot defend myself and 
 cannot even find the words to explain anything to her. I must 
 tell you, too, Arkady Makarovitch, that when she came to me 
 yesterday morning for the last time, I confessed that I had 
 deceived her, and owned that I had been to Anna Andrcyevna 
 with the intention of making her an offer. I could not, seeing 
 her love, keep this upon my conscience in face of my last deter- 
 mination, and I told her. She forgave me, she forgave every- 
 thing, but I could not believe her ; it is not forgiveness ; in her 
 place I could not forgive. 
 
 " Remember me a little. 
 
 " Your unhappy friend, 
 
 "The Last Prince Sokolsky.' 
 
 I lay unconscious for exactly nine days. 
 
 341
 
 PART III 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 Now for something quite different. 
 
 I keep declaring : " something different, something different," 
 yet I keep on scribbUng of nothing but myself. Yet I have 
 announced a thousand times ab-eady that I don't want to describe 
 myself at all, and I firmly meant not to do so when I began my 
 story : I quite understand that I'm not of the slightest interest 
 to the reader. I am describing and want to describe other 
 people, not myself, and if I keep coming in it's only a lamentable 
 mistake, because I can't avoid it, however much I should like 
 to. What I regret most is that I describe my own adventures 
 with such heat ; by doing so I give ground for supposing that 
 I am still the same as I was. The reader will remember, however, 
 that I have exclaimed more than once, " Oh, if one could only 
 change the past and begin all over again ! " I could not have 
 uttered that exclamation if I were not radically changed and had 
 not become an entirely different man now ; that is quite evident. 
 And no one can imagine how sick I am of these apologies and 
 prefaces, which I am continually forced to squeeze into the 
 very middle of my narrative ! 
 
 To return. 
 
 After nine days' unconsciousness I came to myself, regenerated 
 but not reformed ; my regeneration was a stupid one, however, 
 of course, if the word is taken in the wide sense, and perhaps 
 if it had happened now it would have been different. The idea, 
 or rather the feeling, thai possessed me was, as it had been a 
 thousand times before, the desire to get away altogether, but 
 this time I meant to go away, not as in the past, when I had so 
 often considered the project and been incapable of carrying 
 it out. I didn't want to revenge myself on anyone, and I give 
 
 343
 
 ray word of honour that I did not, though I had been insulted 
 by all of them. I meant to go away without loathing, without 
 cursing, and never to return, but I wanted to do this by my 
 own effort, and by real effort unassisted by any one of them, 
 or by anyone in the whole world ; yet I was almost on the 
 point of being reconciled with every one ! I record this absorbing 
 dream not as a thought, but as an overwhelming sensation. I 
 did not care to formulate it as long as I was in bed. Sick ard 
 helpless I lay in Versilov's room, which they had given up to 
 me ; I recognized, with a pang, how abjectly helpless I was. 
 
 What was tossing on the bed was not a man but a feeble straw, 
 and this impotence was not only through illness — and how 
 degrading I felt it ! And so from the very depth of my being, 
 from all the forces in me, a protest began to rise, and I wa^s 
 choking with a feeling of infinitely exaggerated pride and defiance. 
 Indeed, I can't remember any time in my whole life when I was 
 so full of arrogant feeling as I was during the earl}' days of 
 my convalescence, that is, while I was tossing like a weak straw 
 on my bed. 
 
 But for the time I held my peace, and even made up my mind 
 not to think of anything ! I kept peeping at their faces, trying 
 to guess from them all I wanted to know. It was evident that 
 they too did not want to ask questions or be inquisitive, but 
 talked of something irrelevant. This pleased me and at the 
 same time mortified me ; I won't attempt to explain the contra- 
 diction. I did not see Liza so often as my mother, though she 
 came in to see me every day, and indeed twice a day. From 
 fragments of their talk and from their whole air I gathered that 
 Liza had a great deal on her hands and that she was indeed often 
 absent from home on business of her own : the very fact that 
 she could have " business of her own " was something like a 
 grievance to me ; but all these were morbid, purely physical, 
 sensations, which arc not worth describing. Tatyana Favlovna 
 came, too, almost daily to see me, and though she was by no 
 means tender with me, she did not abuse me as usual, which 
 annoyed me extremely — so much so that I said to her openly : 
 " You know, Tatyana Pavlovna, when you're not scolding you 
 are very tedious." " Well, then, I won't come and see you," 
 she blurted out, and went away. And I was pleased that I had 
 got rid of one of them, at least. 
 
 Moat of all I worried my mother ; I was irritable with her. 
 I developed a terrific appetite and grumbled very much that 
 
 344
 
 the meals were late (and they never were late). Mother did 
 not know how to satisfy me. Once she brought some soup, and 
 began, as usual, feeding me with it herself, and I kept grumbling 
 as I ate it. And suddenly I felt vexed that I was grumbling : 
 " She is perhaps the only one I love, and I am tormenting her." 
 But I was none the less ill-humoured, and I suddenly began to 
 cry from ill-humour ; and she, poor darling, thought I was 
 crying from tenderness, stooped down and began kissing me. 
 I restrained myself and endured it, but at that instant I, posi- 
 tively hated her. But I always loved my mother, and at that 
 very time I loved her and did not hate her at all, but it happened 
 as it always does — that the one you love best you treat worst. 
 
 The only person I hated in those days was the doctor. He was 
 a young man with a conceited air, who talked abruptly and even 
 rudely, as though all these <=rientific people had only yesterday 
 discovered something special, when in reality nothing special 
 had happened; but ile " me liocrity," the man in the street, 
 is always like that. 1 restraif.ed myself for a long time, but at 
 last I suddenly broke ou'^; and informed him before every one 
 that he was hanging about unnecessarily, that I should get 
 better just as well without him ; that, though he looked like a 
 scientific man, he was filled with nothing but conventional ideas 
 and did not even understand that medicine had never cured 
 anyone ; that, in fact, he was in all probability grossly ill- 
 educated, " like all the specialists who had become so high and 
 mighty among us of late years." The doctor Avas very much 
 offended (showing by that very fact that he was that sort of 
 person) ; however, he still came as before. I told Versilov at last 
 that if the doctoi: did not give up coming, that I should say 
 something to him ten times as disagreeable. Versilov only 
 observed that it was impossible to say anything even twice as 
 disagreeable as I had said, let alone ten times. I was pleased 
 at his saying that. 
 
 He was a man, though ! I am speaking of Versilov. He, he was 
 the sole cause of it all, and, strange to say, he was the only one 
 towards whom I did not feel resentful. It was not only his 
 manner to me that won me over. I imagine that we felt at that 
 time that we owed each other many explanations . . . and 
 for that very reason it would be our best course never to explain. 
 It's extremely pleasant in such situations to have to do with 
 a man of intelligence : I have mentioned already, in the secord 
 part of my story, that he told me briefly and clearly of Prince 
 
 345
 
 Sergay's letter to me about Zerstchikov, about what he, Prince 
 Sergay, had said to the latter, and so on. As I had made up 
 my mind to keep quiet, I only asked him two or three brief 
 questions ; he answered them clearly and exactly but entirely 
 without superfluous words and, what was best of all, without 
 feeling. I луаз afraid of superfluous feeling at that time. 
 
 I said nothing about Lambert, but the reader will readily 
 understand that I thought a great deal about him. In my 
 delirium I spoke more than once about Lambert ; but, recovering 
 from my delirium and looking about me, I quickly reflected that 
 everything about Lambert remained a secret, and that every one, 
 even Versilov, knew nothing about him. Then I was relieved 
 and mj' fears passed away ; but I was mistaken, as I found out 
 later to my astonishment. He had come to the house during 
 my ilhiess, but Versilov said nothing to me about it, and I 
 concluded that Lambert had lost all trace of me for ever. Never- 
 theless. I often thought of him ; what is more, I thought of him 
 Hot only without repulsion, not only with curiosity, but even 
 with sympathy, as though foreseeing from him something new, 
 some means of escape in harmony with my new feelings and 
 plans. In short, I made up my mind to think over Lambert 
 as soon as I should be ready to think over anything. I will note 
 one strange fact : I had entirely forgotten where he lived and 
 in what street it had all happened. The room, Alphonsine, 
 the lap-dog, the corridor, all I remembered, so that I could have 
 sketched them at once ; but where it had all happened — that is, 
 in what street and in what house — I had utterly forgotten. 
 And, what is strangest of all, I only realized this three or four 
 days after I had regained complete consciousness, when I had 
 been occupied with the thought of Lambert for a long time. 
 
 These, then, were my first sensations on my resurrection 
 I have noted only what was most on the surface, and most 
 probably I was not able to detect what was most important. 
 In reality, perhaps, what was really most important was even 
 then taking shape and becoming defined in my heart ; I was 
 not, of course, always vexed and resentful simply at my broth's 
 not being brought me. Oh, I remember how sad I was then and 
 how depressed, especially at moments when I had remained 
 a long while alone. As ill-luck would have it, they soon saw 
 that I was dreary with them and that their sympathy irritated 
 me, and they began more and more often to leave me alone — 
 a superfluous delicacy of perception on their part. 
 
 346
 
 Oq the fourth day of consciousness I was lying in my bed at 
 three o'clock in the afternoon, and there was no one with me. 
 It was a bright day, and I knew that at four o'clock, when the 
 sun would set, its slanting red rays would fall on the corner of 
 my wall, and throw a patch of glaring light upon it. I knew that 
 from the days before, and that that would certainly happen in 
 an hour's time, and above all, that I knew of this beforehand, 
 as certainly as twice two make four, exasperated me to fury. 
 I turned round impulsively and suddenly, in the midst of the 
 profound stillness, 1 clearly distinguished the words : " Lord 
 Jesus Christ, have mercy upon us." The words were pronounced 
 in a half- whisper, and were followed by a deep-drawn sigh, 
 and then everything was still again. I raised my head 
 quickly. 
 
 I had before, that is the previous day, and even the day before 
 that, noticed something special in our three rooms downstairs. 
 In the little room beyond the dining-room where mother and 
 Liza were accustomed to sleep, there was evidently now some one 
 else. I had more than once heard sounds, both by day and by 
 night, but only for brief moments, and complete stillness followed 
 immediately and lasted for several hours, so that I took no 
 notice of the sounds. The thought had occurred to me the 
 evening before that Versilov was in there, especially as he soon 
 afterwards came in to me, though I knew for a fact from their 
 conversation that during my illness Versilov had been sleeping 
 out in another lodging. I had known for some time past that 
 mother and Liza had moved into my former " cofiin " upstairs 
 (to make -it quieter for me, I imagined) and I had even once 
 wondered how the two of them could have possibly fitted them- 
 selves into it. And now it suddenly appeared that there was 
 some person living in their old room, and that that person was 
 not Versilov. With an ease which I had not the least expected 
 (for I had till then imagined I was quite helpless) I dropped my 
 feet over the bed, slipped them into slippers, threw on a grey 
 astrachan dressing-gown which lay close at hand (Versilov had 
 sacrificed it for my benefit), and made my way through the 
 parlour to what had been mother's bedroom. What I saw there 
 completely astounded me ; I had never expected anything of 
 the kind, and I stood still in the doorway pertified. There was 
 
 347
 
 sitting there a very grey-headed old man, with a big and very 
 white beard, and it was clear that he had been sitting there for 
 a long time. He was not sitting on the bed but on mother's 
 little bench, resting his back against the bed. He held himself 
 so upright, however, that he hardly seemed to need a support 
 for his back, though he was evidently ill. He had over his shirt 
 a short jacket lined with fur. His knees were covered with 
 mother's plaid, and on his feet were slippers. He was, it could 
 be discerned, tall, broad-shouldered, and of a hale appearance, 
 in spite of his invalid state, though he was somewhat thin and 
 looked ill. He had rather a long face and thick but not very 
 long hair; he looked about seventy. On a Uttle table, within 
 reach, lay three or four books and a pair of silver-rimmed 
 spectacles. Though I had not the slightest idea of meeting him, 
 I guessed instantly who he was, though I was still unable to 
 imagine how he could have been sitting all those days, almost 
 beside me, so quietly that till that time I had heard nothing 
 of. him. 
 
 He did not stir on seeing me, he looked intently at me in silence, 
 just as I did at him, the only difference being that I stared at 
 him with the greatest astonishment, and he looked at me without 
 the slightest. Scrutinizing me, on the contrary, from head to 
 foot during those five or ten seconds of silence, he suddenly smiled 
 and even laughed a gentle noiseless laugh, and though the laugh 
 was soon over, traces of its serene gaiety remained upon his 
 face and above all in his eyes, which were very blue, luminous and 
 large, though they were surrounded by innumerable wrinkles, 
 and the eyelids were блуоПсп and drooping. This laugh of his 
 was what had most effect on me. 
 
 I consider that in the majority of cases people arc revolting 
 to look at when they are laughing. As a rule something vulgar, 
 something as it were degrading, comes to the surface when a 
 man laughs, though he is almost unconscious of the impression 
 he is making in his mirth, as little in fact as anyone knows what 
 he looks like when he is asleep. One person's face will look in- 
 telligent asleep, while another man, intelligent in waking life, 
 will look stupid and ridiculous when he is sleeping. I don't 
 know what this is due to : I only mean to say that people laugh- 
 ing, like people asleep, have no idea what they look like. The 
 vast majority of people don't know how to laugh at all. It is not 
 a matter of knowing how, though : it's a gift and it cannot be 
 cultivated. One can only cultivate it, perhaps, bj"^ training 
 
 348
 
 oneself to be different, by developing and improving and by 
 struggling against the evil instincts of one's character : then a 
 man's laugh might very likely change for the better. A man 
 will sometimes give himself away completely by his laugh, and 
 you suddenly know him through and through. Even an un- 
 mistakably intelligent laugh will sometimes be repulsive. What is 
 most essential in laughter is sincerity, and where is one to find 
 sincerity ? A good laugh must be free from malice, and people 
 are constantly laughing maliciously. A sincere laugh free from 
 malice is gaiety, and where does one find gaiety nowadays ? 
 People don't know how to be gay (Versilov made this observa- 
 tion about gaiety and I remember it). A man's gaiety is what 
 most betrays the whole man from head to foot. Sometimes one 
 will be for a long time unable to read a character, but if the man 
 begins to laugh his whole character will suddenly lie open before 
 you. It is onl}^ the loftiest and happiest natures whose gaiety 
 is infectious, that is, good-hearted and irresistible. I am not 
 talking of intellectual development, but of character, of the whole 
 man. And so if you want to see into a man and to understand 
 his soul, don't concentrate your attention on the way he talks 
 or is silent, on his tears, or the emotion he displays over exalted 
 ideas ; you лу111 see through him better when he laughs. If a 
 man has a good laugh, it means that he is a good man. Take 
 note of every shade ; a man's la,ugh must never, for instance, strike 
 you as stupid, however gay and good-humoured he may be. 
 If you notice the slightest trace of stupidity in his laughter, 
 you may be sure that that man is of limited intelligence, though 
 he is continually dropping ideas wherever he goes. Even if his 
 laugh is not stupid, but the man himself strikes you as being 
 ever so little ridiculous when he laughs, you may be sure that 
 the man is deficient in personal dignity, to some extent anyway. 
 Or if the laughter though infectious, strikes you for some reason 
 as vulgar, you may be sure that that man's nature is vulgar, 
 and all the generous and lofty qualities you have observed in 
 him before are either intentionally assumed or unconsciously 
 borrowed and that the man is certain to deteriorate, to go in 
 for the profitable, and to cast off his noble ideas without regret as 
 the errors and enthusiasm of youth. 
 
 I am intentionally introducing here this long tirade on the 
 subject of laughter and am sacrificing the continuitj' of my 
 story for the sake of it, for I consider it one of the most valuable 
 deductions I have drawn from life, and I particularly rccom- 
 
 349
 
 mend it to the attention of girls who arc ready to accept the 
 man of their choice, but are still hesitating and watching him 
 mistrustfully, unable to make their final decision : and don't let 
 them jeer at a wretched raw youth for obtruding his moral 
 reflections on marriage, a subject which he knows nothing about. 
 But I only understand that laughter is the surest test of the heart. 
 Look at a baby — some children know how to laugh to perfection ; 
 a crying baby is disgusting to me, but a laughing, merry one 
 is a sunbeam from paradise, it is a revelation from the future, 
 when man will become at last as pure and simple-hrarted as a 
 child. And, indeed, there was something childlike and incredibly 
 attractive in the momentary laughter of this old man. I went 
 up to him at once. 
 
 " Sit down, sit down a bit, you can scarcely stand on your legs, 
 I dare say," he urged me, motioning me to a seat beside him, 
 and still gazing into my face with the same luminous gaze. I sat 
 down beside him and said : 
 
 " I know you, you are Makar Ivanovitch." 
 
 " Yes, darling. It's very good that you are up. You are 
 young, it is good for you . The old monk looks towards the grave, 
 but the young must live." 
 
 " But are you ill ? " 
 
 " Yes, dear, chiefly in my legs ; my feet brought me as far as 
 the door, and here I've sat down and they are swollen. I've had 
 it since last Friday when there were degrees " {i.e. when there was 
 a frost) " I used to rub them with ointment you see ; the year 
 before last the doctor, Edmond Karlovitch, prescribed it me in 
 Moscow, and the ointment did good, aye, it did good ; but now 
 it's no use. And my chest, too, is choked up. And since 
 yesterday my spine has been bad, as though dogs were gnawing 
 it. ... I don't sleep at nights." 
 
 " How is it I haven't heard you here at all ? " I broke in. He 
 looked at me as though considering something. 
 
 " Only don't wake your mother," he added as though suddenly 
 remembering something. " She has been busy close at hand all 
 night, and as quiet as a mouse ; and now I know she is lying 
 down. Ach, it's bad for a sick monk," he sighed ; " the soul 
 hangs by a thread it seems, yet it still holds on, and still is glad 
 of the light ; and it seems, if all life were to begin over again 
 
 350
 
 the soul would not shrink even from that ; though maybe such 
 a thought is sinful." 
 
 " Why sinful ? " 
 
 " Such a thought is a dream, and the old monk should take 
 leave with blissful resignation. Again, if one goes to meet 
 death with murmur or repining that is a great sin, but if from the 
 gladness of the spirit one has grown to love life, I fancy God will 
 forgive, even a monk. It's hard for a man to tell of every sin 
 what is sinful and what is not ; therein is mystery passing the 
 mind of man. A monk must be content at all times, and ought 
 to die in the full light of his understanding, in holy peace and 
 blessedness, filled full with days, yearning for his last hour, 
 and rejoicing when he is gathered as the ear of wheat to the sheaf, 
 and has fulfilled his mystery." 
 
 " You keep talking of ' mystery * ; what does it mean ' having 
 fulfilled his mystery ' ? " I asked, and looked round towards the 
 door. I was glad that we were alone, and that all around the 
 stillness was unbroken. The setting sun cast a dazzling light 
 on the window. His talk was rather highflown and rambling, 
 but very sincere ; there was a sort of intense exaltation in it, 
 as though he really were delighted at my coming. But I noticed 
 unmistakable signs that he was feverish, extremely so in fact. 
 I, too, was ill ; I, too. had been in a fever, from the moment I 
 went in to him. 
 
 " What is the mystery ? Everything is a mystery, dear ; 
 in all is God's mystery. In every tree, in every blade of grass 
 that same mystery lies hid. Whether the tiny bird of the air 
 is singing, or the stars in all their multitudes shine at night in 
 heaven, the mystery is one, ever the same. And the greatest 
 mystery of all is what awaiteth the soul of man in the world 
 beyond. So it is, dear ! " 
 
 " I don't know in what sense you ... I am not speaking, of 
 course, to tease you, and I assure you I believe in God ; but all 
 these mysteries have long been discovered by human intelligence, 
 or if they have not yet been discovered they will be, for certain, 
 and probably in a very short time. The botanist knows per- 
 fectly well how the tree grows. The psychologist and the anato- 
 mist know why the bird srngs, or soon will know, and as for the 
 stars, they are not only all counted, but all their motions have 
 been calculated with the greatest exactitude, so that they can 
 predict even a thousand years beforehand the very minute 
 of the appearance of some comet . . . and now even the con^posi- 
 
 351
 
 tion of the most remote star is known. You take a microscope, 
 that is a sort of magnifying glass that magnifies a thousand times, 
 and look through it at a drop of water, and you will see in it a 
 whole new world, a whole world of living creatures, yet this, too, 
 was once a mystery, but it has been revealed by science." 
 
 " I've heard about that, darling, I have heard folk tell of it 
 more than once. To be sure, it's a great and glorious thing ; 
 all has been vouchsafed to man by God's will ; not for naught 
 did the Lord breathe into him the breath of life ; ' live and 
 learn.' " 
 
 " That's a commonplace. You're not antagonistic to science 
 though, not a clerical ? though I don't know whether you'll 
 understand ? " 
 
 " No, darling, I did not study science in my youth, and though 
 I am not learned I do not repine at that ; if it's not for me it will 
 be for another. Maybe better so, for every man has his allotted 
 part, for science, dear, is not of use for all. All men are unbridled, 
 each wants to astonish all the world, and I should have perhaps 
 more than all if I had been learned. But now being very un- 
 learned, how can I be puffed up when I know nothing ? You, 
 now, are young and clever, you must study — such is the lot 
 ordained you. Understand all things, that when you meet an 
 infidel or an evil-doer you may 1)^ able to answer him, and he may 
 not lead you astray with his frantic words, or confound your 
 unripe thoughts. That glass I saw- not so long ago." 
 
 He took breath and heaved a sigh. There was no doubt that 
 my coming in was a source of great satisfaction to him. His 
 desire to be communicative was almost morbid. What is more, 
 I am certainly not mistaken in declaring that at moments he 
 looked at me with extraordinary affection ; he laid his h;ind on 
 mine caressingly, stroked me on the shoulder . . . though there 
 were minutes when I must confess he seemed to forget all about 
 me, as though he had been sitting alone, and though he went on 
 talking Avarmly, it seemed at tiraes as though he were talking to 
 the air. 
 
 " In the Gennadiev desert, dear, there lives a man of great 
 understanding. He is of noble birth, and by rank a major, 
 and he has great possessions. When he lived in the world he 
 would not be bound by marriage ; he has been withdrawn from 
 the world for nearly ten years, loving still and silent resting- 
 places, and keeping his heart free from worldly vanities. He 
 follows all the monastic rules, but will not become a monk. 
 
 352
 
 and he has so many books, dear, as I have never seen in any other 
 man's possession ; he told me himself that his books were worth 
 eight thousand roubles. Н1з name is Pyotr Valerianitch. He 
 has taught me a great deal at different times, and I loved listen- 
 ing to him exceedingly. I said to him once : * How is it, sir, 
 that with your great understanding, after living here ten years 
 in monastic obedience, and in complete renunciation of your will, 
 how is it you don't take honourable vows, so as to be still more 
 perfect, ' and he said to me thereupon, ' ' You talk of my understand- 
 ing.old man, but perhaps my understanding has held me in bondage 
 and I have not kept it in submission. And you speak of my 
 obedience ; maybe I've long since lost the right measure for my- 
 self. And you talk of the remmciation of my will ; I am ready to 
 be deprived of my money on the spot and to give up my rank and to 
 lay aU my medals and ribbons on the table, but my pipe of tobacco, 
 though I've been struggling for ten years, I can't do without. 
 What sort of a monk should I be, and how could you glorify the 
 renunciation of my will ? * And I marvelled then at this humility. 
 Well, last year, about St. Peter's day, I went again to that desert 
 — the Lord led me there — and I saw standing in his cell that very 
 thing, a microscope ; he had ordered it for a great sum of money 
 from abroad. ' Stay,' said he, ' old man, I'll show you a marvel- 
 lous thing you have never hitherto looked upon ; you see a drop 
 of water as pure as a tear ; well, look what is in it and you will 
 see that the mechanicians will soon seek out all the mysteries 
 of God and not leave one for either you or me ! ' That is what 
 he said, I remember. But I had looked through such a micro- 
 scope thirty-five years before that, at Alexandr Vladimirovitch 
 Malgasov's, who was our old master, Audrey Petrovitch's maternal 
 uncle. It was from him the property came on his death со Andrey 
 Petrovitch. He was a grand gentleman, a great general, and he 
 used to keep a pack of hounds, and I lived many years with 
 him as huntsman ; so he, too, set up this microscope ; he 
 brought it with him, and he told all the servants to come up 
 one after another, male and female, and look through ; he showed 
 them a flea and a louse and the end of a needle, and a hair and a 
 drop of water. And it was diverting, they were afraid to go up 
 and afraid of the master — he was hasty. Some did not know how 
 to look properly, and the elder saw nothing ; others were frightened 
 and cried out ; the elder Savin Makarov covered his eyes with 
 both hands and cried, ' Do what you will with me, I won't go 
 near ! ' There was much foolish laughter. I didn't confess to 
 
 353
 
 Pyotr Valerianitch, though, that I had seen this marvel before 
 more than thirty- five years ago, because I saw it was a great 
 pleasure to him showing it ; I began, on the contrary, admiring . 
 it and marvelling. He waited a bit and asked, ' Well, old man, 
 what do you say now ? ' And I lifted myself up and said to 
 him, * The Lord said, Let there be light and there was hght,* 
 and thereiipon he said to me all at once, 'And was there not dark- 
 ness ? ' And he said that so strangely, he did not even laugh. 
 I wondered at him then, and he seemed to be angered and said 
 no more." 
 
 " The fact of the matter is your Pyotr Valerianitch is eating 
 rice and raisins in the monastery, and bowing to the ground, 
 while he does not believe in God, and you hit on the wrong 
 moment, that's all," I said. " And what's more, he is rather an 
 absurd person : I suppose he must have seen that microscope 
 a dozen times before, why should he go off his head when he 
 saw it for the thirteenth ? What nervous susceptibility . . . 
 he must have got that from living in a monastery." 
 
 " He was a man of pure life and lofty mind," the old man pro- 
 nounced impressively, "and he was not an infidel. There w£is 
 a cloud over his mind and his heart was not at peace. Very many 
 such men have come nowadays from the ranks of the gentry 
 and learned. And something more I will tell you, a man punishes 
 himself. But you watch them and do not worry them, and before 
 you lie down to sleep at night remember them in your prayers, 
 for such are seeking God. Do you pray at night ? " 
 
 " No, I regard it as an empty ceremony. I must own, though, 
 that I like your Pyotr Valerianitch. He's not a man of straw, 
 anyway, but a real person, rather like a man very near and well- 
 known to us both." 
 
 The old man only paid attention to the first part of my answer. 
 " You're wrong, my dear, not to pray ; it is a good thing, it 
 cheers the heart before sleep, and rising up from sleep and awaken- 
 ing in the night. Let me tell you this. In the summer in July 
 we were hastening to the monastery of Our Lady for the holy 
 festival. The nearer we got to the place the greater the crowd of 
 people, and at last there were almost two hundred of us gathered 
 together, all hastening to kiss the holy and miraculous reUcs 
 of the two great saints, Aniky and Grigory. We spent the night, 
 brother, in the open country, and I waked trp early in the morn- 
 ing when all was still sleeping and the dear sun had not yet 
 peeped out from behind the forest. I hfted up my bead, dear, 
 
 354
 
 I gazed about me and sighed. Everywhere beauty passing all 
 utterance ! All was still, the air was light ; the grass grows — 
 Grow, grass of God, the bird sings — Sing, bird of God, the babe 
 cries in the woman's arms — God be with you, little man ; grow 
 and be happy, little babe ! And it seemed that only then for 
 the first time in my life I took it all in. ... I lay down again, 
 I slept so sweetly. Life is sweet, dear ! If I were better, 1 
 should like to go out again in the spring. And that it's a mystery 
 makes it only the better ; it fills the heart with awe and wonder ; 
 and that awe maketh glad the heart : * All is in Thee my Lord, 
 and I, too, am in Thee ; have me in Thy keeping.' Do not repine, 
 young man ; it is even more beautiful because it is a mystery," 
 he added fervently. 
 
 " It's the more beautiful for being a mystery. ... I will 
 remember those words. You express yourself very inaccurately, 
 but I understand you. ... It strikes me that you understand 
 and know a great deal more than you can express ; only you 
 seem to be in delirium." ... I added abruptly, looking at his 
 feverish eyes and pale face. But he did not seem to hear my 
 words. 
 
 " Do you know, dear young man," he began again, as though 
 going on with what he had been saying before : " Do you know 
 there is a limit to the memory of a man on this earth ? The 
 memory of a man is limited to a hundred years. For a hundred 
 years after his death his children or his grandchildren who have 
 seen his face can still remember him, but after that though his 
 memory may still remain, it is only by hearsay, in thought, for all 
 who have seen his living face have gone before. And his grave 
 in the churchyard is overgrown with grass, the stones upon it 
 crumble away, and all men, and even his children's children, 
 forget him ; afterwards they forget even his name, for only a few 
 are kept in the memory of men — and so be it ! You may forget 
 me, dear ones, but I love you from the tomb. I hear, my children, 
 your gay voices ; I hear your steps on the graves of your kin : 
 live for a while in the sunshine, rejoice and I will pray to God 
 for you, I will come to you in your dreams . , , it is all the 
 same — even in death is love !...." 
 
 I was myself in the same feverish state as he was ; instead of 
 going away or persuading him to be quiet, or perhaps putting' 
 him to bed, for he seemed quite delirious, I suddenly seized his 
 arm and bending down to him and squeezing his hand, I said 
 m an excited whisper, v,ith inward tears ; 
 
 355
 
 " I am glad of you. I have been waiting a long time for you, 
 perhaps. I don't like any of them ; there is no ' seemliness ' 
 in them ... I won't follow them, I don't know where I'm 
 going, I'll go with you." . . . But luckily mother suddenly came 
 in, or I don't know how it would have ended. She came in only 
 just awako and looking agitated ; in her hand she had a table- 
 spoon and a glass ; seeing us she exclaimed : 
 
 " 1 knew lo would be so ! I am late with his quinine and he's 
 all in a fever ! I overslept myself, Makar Ivanovitch, darlinf. ! " 
 
 I got up and went out. She gave him his quinine and put him 
 to bed. I, too, lay down on mine in a state of great excite- 
 ment. I tossed about pondering on this meeting with intense 
 interest and curiosity. What I expected from it I don't know. 
 Of course, my reasoning was disconnected, and not thoughts 
 but fragments of thought» flitted through my brain. I lay with 
 my face to the wall, and suddenly I saw in the comer the patch 
 of glowing light which I had been looking forward to with such 
 curses, and now I remember my whole soul seemed to be leaping 
 for joy, and a new Ught seemed penetrating to my heart. I 
 remember that sweet moment and I do not want to forget it. 
 It was only an instant of new hope and new strength. ... I 
 was convalescent then, and therefore such transports may have 
 been the inevitable result of the state of my nerves ; but I have 
 faith even now in that bright hope — that is what I wanted to 
 record and to recall. Of course, even then I knew quite well 
 that I should not go on a pilgrimage with Makar Ivanovitch, 
 and that I did not know the nature of the new impulse that had 
 taken hold of me, but I had pronounced one word, though in 
 delirium, " There is no seemliness in their lives ! " " Of course," 
 I thought in a frenzy , "from this minute I am seeking 'seemliness,' 
 and they have none of it, and that is why I am leaving them." 
 
 There was a rustle behind me, I turned round : mother stood 
 there bending down to me and looking with timid inquiry into 
 my face. I took her hand. 
 
 " Why did you tell me nothing about our dear guest, mother ? " 
 I asked suddenly, not knowing I was going to say it. All the 
 uneasiness vanished from her face at once, and there was a flush 
 ae it were of joy, but she made me no reply except the words : 
 
 " Liza, don't forget Liza, either ; you've forgotten Liza." 
 
 She said this in a hurried murmur, flushing crimson, and would 
 Have made haste to get away, for above all things she hated 
 displaying her feelings, and in that she was like me, that is 
 
 356
 
 reverent and delicate ; of course, too, she would not care to 
 begin on the subject of Makar Ivanovitch with me ; what we 
 could say to each other with our eyes was quite enough. But 
 though I hated demonstrativeness, I still kept her by her hand ; 
 I looked tenderly into her eyes, and laughed softly and tendirly, 
 and with my other hand stroked her dear face, her hollow cheeks. 
 She bent down and pressed her forehead to mine. 
 
 " Well, Christ be with you," she said suddenly, standing up, 
 beaming all over : " get well, I shall count on your doing so. He 
 is ill, verj^ ill. Life is in God's hands. , . . Ach, what have I 
 said, oh that could not be ! . . ." 
 
 She went away. All her life, in fear and trembling and rever- 
 ence, she had honoured her legal husband, the monk, Makar 
 Ivanovitch, who with large-hearted generosity had forgiven her 
 once and for ever. 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 I HAD not ' forgotten ' Liza ; mother was mistaken. The keen- 
 sighted mother saw that there was something like coolness between 
 brother and sister, but it was rather jealousy than lack of love. 
 In view of what followed, I will explain in a couple of words. 
 Ever since Prince Sergay's arrest, poor Liza had shown a sort of 
 conceited pride, an unapproachable haughtiness, almost un- 
 endurable ; but every one in the house knew the truth and under- 
 stood how she was suffering, and if at first I scowled and was 
 sulky at her manner with us, it was simply owing to my petty 
 iгritabiUt^^ increased tenfold by illness — that is how I explain 
 it now. I had not ceased to love Liza ; on the contrary, I loved 
 her more than ever, only I did not want to be the first to make 
 advances, though I understood that nothing would have induced 
 her either to make the first advances. 
 
 As soon as all the facts came out about Prince Sergay, that is, 
 immediately after his arrest, Liza made haste at once to take up 
 an attitude to us, and to every one else, that would not admit 
 of the possibility of sympathy or any sort of consolation and 
 excuses for Prince Sergay. On the contrary, she seemed con- 
 tinually pricing herself on her luckless lover's action as though 
 it were the loftiest heroism, though she tried to avoid all dis- 
 
 357
 
 cussion of the subject. She seemed every moment to be tellii^ 
 us ail (though I repeat that she did not utter a word), ' None 
 of you would do the same — you would not give yourself up -at 
 the dictates of honour and duty, none of you have such a pure 
 and delicate conscience ! And as for his misdeeds, who has not 
 evil actions upon his conscience ? Only every one conceals them, 
 and this man preferred facing ruin to remaining ignoble in his 
 own eyes.' This seemed to be expressed by every gesture 
 Liza made. I don't know, but I think in her place I shovdd 
 have behaved almost in the same way. I don't know either 
 whether those were the thoughts in her heart, in fact I privately 
 suspect that they were not. With the other, clear part of her 
 reason, she must have seen through the insignificance of her 
 ' hero,' for who will not agree now that that unhappy man, 
 noble-hearted in his own way as he was, was at the same time 
 an absolutely insignificant person ? This very haughtiness and 
 as it were antagonism towards us all, this constant suspicious- 
 ness that we were thinking differently of him, made one surmise 
 that in the secret recesses of her heart a very different judg- 
 ment of her unhappy friend had perhaps been formed. But I 
 hasten to add, however, that in my eyes she was at least half right ; 
 it was more pardonable for her than for any of us to hesitate in 
 drawing the final conclusion. I will admit with my whole 
 heart that even now, when all is over, I don't know at all how 
 tij judge the unhappy man who was such a problem to us all. 
 
 Home was beginning to be almost a little hell on account of 
 her. Liza whose love was so intense was bound to suffer terribly. 
 It was characteristic of her to prefer to suffer in silence. Her 
 character was like mine, proud and domineering, and I thought 
 then, and I think now that it was that that made her love Prince 
 Sergay, just because he had no will at all, and that from the 
 first word, from the first hour, he was utterly in subjection to her. 
 This comes about of itself, in the heart, without any preliminary 
 calculation ; but such a love, the love of the strong woman for 
 the weak man, is sometimes incomparably more intense and 
 more agonizing than the love of equal characters, because the 
 stronger unconsciously undertakes responsibility for the weaker. 
 That is what I think at any rate. 
 
 All the family from the first surrotmded her with the tenderest 
 care, especially mother ; but Liza was not softened, she did not 
 respond to sympathy, and seemed to repulse every sort of help. 
 At fiirst she did talk lo mother, but every day she became more 
 
 358
 
 reluctant to speak, more abrupt and even more harsh. She 
 asked Versilov's advice at first, but soon afterwards she chose 
 Vassin for her counsellor and helper, as I learned afterwards 
 with surprise. . . . 
 
 She went to see Vassin every day ; she went to the law courts, 
 too, by Prince Sergay's instructions ; she went to the lawyers, to 
 the crown prosecutor ; she came in the end to being absent from 
 home for whole days together. Twice a day, of course, she 
 visited Prince Sergay, who was in prison, in the division for 
 noblemen, but these interviews, as I was fully convinced later, 
 were very distressing to Liza. Of course no third person can 
 judge of the relations of two lovers. But I know that Prince 
 Sergay was always wounding her deeply, and by what do you 
 suppose ? Strange to say, by his continual jealousy. Of that, 
 however, I wiU speak later ; but I will add one thought on the 
 subject : it would be hard to decide which of them tormented 
 the other more. Though with us ?he prided herself on her hero, 
 Liza perhaps behaved quite differently alone with him ; I 
 suspect so indeed from various facts, of which, however, I will 
 also speak later. 
 
 And so, as regards my feeling and my attitude towards Liza, 
 any external change there was was only simulated, a jealous 
 deception on both sides, but we had never loved each other 
 more than at that time. I must add, too, that though Liza 
 showed surprise and interest when Makar Ivanovitch first 
 arrived, she had since for some reason begim to treat him almost 
 disdainfully, even contemptuously. She seemed intentionally 
 to take not the slightest notice of him. 
 
 Having inwardly vowed " to be silent," as I explained in the 
 previous chapter, I expected, of course theoretically, that is in 
 my dreams, to keep my word. Oh, with Versilov, for instance, I 
 would have sooner begun talking of zoology or of the Roman 
 Emperors, than of her for example, or of that most important 
 line in his letter to her, in which he informed her that ' the docu- 
 ment was not burnt but in existence ' — a line on which I began 
 pondering to myself again as soon as I had begim to recover 
 and come to my senses after my fever. But alas ! from the 
 first steps towards practice, and almost before the first steps, 
 I realized how difficult and impossible it was to stick to 
 such resolutions : the day after my first acquaintance with 
 Makar Ivanovitch, I was fearfully excited by an imexpected 
 circumstance. 
 
 359
 
 I was excited by an unexpected visit from Darya Onisimovna, 
 the mother of the dead girl, Olya. From my mother I had 
 heard that she had come once or twice dtiring my iUness, and 
 that she was very much concerned about my condition. Whether 
 "that good woman," as my mother always called her when she 
 spoke of her, had come entirely on my account, or whether she 
 had come to visit my mother in accordance with an established 
 custom, I did not ask. Mother usually told me all the news of 
 the household to entertain me when she came with my soup to 
 feed me (before I could feed myself) : I always tried to appear 
 iminterested in these domestic details, and so I did not ask 
 about Darya Onisimovna ; in fact, I said nothing about her at 
 all. 
 
 It was about eleven o'clock ; I was just meaning to get out of 
 bed and install myself in the armchair by the table, when she 
 came in. I purposely remained in bed. Mother was very busy 
 upstairs and did not come down, so that we were left alone. 
 She sat down on a chair by the wall facing me, smiled and said 
 not a word. I foresaw this pause, and her entrance altogether 
 made an irritating impression on me. Without even nodding to 
 her, I looked her straight in the face, but she too looked straight 
 at me. 
 
 " Are you dull in your flat now the prince has gone ? " I asked, 
 suddenly losing patience. 
 
 *' No, I am not in that flat now. Through Anna Andreyevna 
 I am looking after his honour's baby полу." 
 
 " Whose baby ? " 
 
 " Andrey Petrovitch's," she brought out in a confidential 
 whisper, glancing round towards the door. 
 
 " Why, but there's Tatyana Pavlovna. . . ." 
 
 " Yes, Tatyana Pavlovna, and Anna Andreyevna, both of 
 them, and Lizaveta Makarovna also, and уош* mamma ... all 
 of them. They all take an interest ; Tatyana Pavlovna and 
 Anna Andreyevna are great friends now." 
 
 A piece of news ! She grew much livelier as she talked. I 
 looked at her with hatred. 
 
 " You are much livelier than when you came to see me last." 
 
 •' Oh, yes." 
 
 360
 
 *' I think, you've grown stouter ? " 
 
 She looked strangely at me : 
 
 " I have grown very fond of her, very.'* 
 
 " Fond of whom ? " 
 
 " Why, Anna Andreyevna. Very fond. Such a noble young 
 lady, and with such judgment. ..." 
 
 " You don't say so ! What about her, how are things now ? " 
 
 " She is very quiet, very." 
 
 " She was always quiet." 
 
 " Always." 
 
 " If you've come here with scandal," I cried suddenly, unable 
 to restrain myself, " let me tell you that I won't have anj^hing 
 to do with it, I have decided to drop . . . everything, every one. 
 ... I don't care — I am going away ! . . ." 
 
 I ceased suddenly, for I realized what I was doing. I felt it 
 degrading to explain my new projects to her. She heard me 
 without surprise and without emotion. But again a pause 
 followed, again she got up, went to the door and peeped into the 
 next room. Having assured herself that there was no one there, 
 and we were alone, she returned with great composure and sat 
 down in the same place as before. 
 
 " You did that prettily ! " I laughed suddenly. 
 
 " You are keeping on your lodging at the clerk's 1 " she asked 
 suddenly, bending a little towards me, and dropping her voice as 
 though this question were the chief object for which she had come. 
 
 " Lodging ? I don't know. Perhaps I shall give it up. . . 
 How do I know ? " 
 
 " They are anxiously expecting you : the man's very im- 
 patient to see you, and his wife too. Andrey Petrovitch assured 
 them you'd come back for certain." 
 
 " But what is it to you ? " 
 
 " Anna Andreyevna wanted to know, too ; she was very 
 glad to learn that you were staying." 
 
 " How does she know so positively that I shall certainly stay 
 on at that lodging ? " 
 
 I wanted to add, " And what is it to her," but I refrained from 
 asking through pride. 
 
 " And M. Lambert said the same thing, too." 
 
 " Wha-at ? " 
 
 " M. Lambert, he declared most positively to Andrey Petro- 
 \'itch that you would remain, and he assured Anna Andreyevna 
 of it, too." 
 
 361
 
 I felt shaken all over. What marvels! Then Lambert already 
 knew Versilov, Lambert had found his way to Versilov — Lambert 
 and Anna Andreyevna — he had found his way to her too ! I 
 felt overcome with fever, but I kept silent. My soul was flooded- 
 with a terrible rush of pride, pride or I don't know what. 
 But I suddenly said to myself at that moment, "If I ask 
 for one word in explanation, I shall be involved in that world 
 again, and I shall never have done with it." There was a glow 
 of hate in my heart. I resolutely made up my mind to be 
 mute, and to lie without moving ; she was silent too, for a 
 full minute. 
 
 " What of Prince Nikolay Ivanovitch ? '* I asked suddenly, 
 as though I had taken leave of my senses. The fact is, I asked 
 simply to change the subject, and again I chanced to ask the 
 leading question ; like a madman I pltmged back again into 
 that world from which I had just before, with such a shudder, 
 resolved to flee. 
 
 " His honour is at Tsarskoe Syelo. He is rather poorly ; and 
 as the hot days have begun in town, they all advised him to 
 move to their house at Tsarskoe for the sake of the air." 
 
 I made no answer. 
 
 " Madame and Anna Andreyevna visit him there twice a 
 week, they go together." 
 
 Anna Ajidreyevna and Madame (that is she) were friends then ! 
 They go together ! I did not speak. 
 
 " They have become so friendly, and Anna Andreyevna speaks 
 so highly of Katerina Nikolaevna. ..." 
 
 I still remained silent. 
 
 " And Katerina Nikolaevna is in a whirl of society again ; it's 
 one fete after another ; she is making quite a stir ; they say all 
 the gentlemen at coiu-t are in love with her . . . and every- 
 thing's over with M. Buring, and there's to be no wedding ; so 
 everybody declares . . . it's been off ever since then." 
 
 That is since Versilov's letter. I trembled all over, but I did 
 not utter a word. 
 
 "Anna Andreyevna is so sorry about Prince Sergay, and 
 Katerina Nikolaevna too, and they all say that he will be acquitted 
 and that Stebelkov will be condemned. . . ." 
 
 I looked at her with hatred. She got up and suddenly bent 
 down to me. 
 
 " Anna Andreyevna particularly told me to find out how jou 
 are," she said quite in a whisper ; " and she particularly begged 
 
 362
 
 you to go and see her as soon as you begin to go out ; good-bye. 
 Make haste and get well and I'll tell her. ..." 
 
 She went away. I sat on the edge of the bed, a cold sweat 
 came out on my forehead, but I did not feel terror : the incredible 
 and grotesque news about Lambert and his machinations did not, 
 for instance, fill me with horror in the least, as might have been 
 expected from the dread, perhaps unaccountable, with which 
 during my illness and the early days of my convalescence I 
 recalled my meeting with him on that night. On the contrary, 
 in that first moment of confusion, as I sat on the bed after Darya 
 Onisimovna had gone, my mind did not dwell on Lambert, but 
 . , . more than all I thought about the news of her, of her 
 rupture with Biiring, and of her success in society, of her fetes, 
 of her triumphs, of the " stir " she was making. " She's making 
 quite a stir," Darya Onisimovna's phrase, was ringing in my ears. 
 And I suddenly felt that I had not the strength to struggle out 
 of that whirlpool ; I had known how to control myself, to hold 
 my tongue and not to question Darya Onisimovna after her tales 
 of marvels ! An overwhelming thirst for that life, for their life, 
 took possession of my whole spirit and . . . and another blissful 
 thirst which I felt as a keen joy and an intense pain. My thoughts 
 were in a whirl ; but I let them whirl. . . . " Why be reasonable," 
 I felt. " Even mother kept Lambert's coming a secret," I 
 thought, in incoherent snatches. " Versilov must have told her 
 not to speak of it. ... I would rather die than ask Versilov 
 about Lambert ! " 
 
 " Versilov," the thought flashed upon me again. " Versilov and 
 Lambert. Oh, what a lot that's new among them ! Bravo, 
 Versilov ! He frightened the German Buring with that letter ; 
 he libelled her, la calomnie . . . il en reste tonjours qutlque 
 chose, and the German courtier was afraid of the scandal. Ha ! ha ! 
 it's a lesson for her." 
 
 " Lambert . . . surely Lambert hasn't found his way to 
 her ? To be sure he has ! Why shouldn't she have an intrigue 
 with him 1 " 
 
 At this point I suddenly gave up pondering on this senseless 
 tangle, and sank back in despair with my head on my pillow. 
 " But it shall not be," I exclaimed with sudden determination. 
 I jumped out of bed, put on my slippers and dressing-gown, and 
 went straight to Makar Ivanovitch's room, as though there were 
 in it a talisman to repel all enticements, a means of salvation, 
 and an anchor to which I could cling. 
 
 363
 
 It may really have been that I was feeling this at the time with 
 my whole soul ; else why should I have leaped up with such a 
 sudden and irresistible impulse and rushed in to Makar Ivano- 
 vitch in cuch a state of mind ? 
 
 But to my surprise I found other people — my mother and 
 the doctor — with Makar Ivanovitch. As 1 had for some reason 
 imagined I should find the old man alone, as he had been yester- 
 day, I stopped short in the doorway in blank amazement. 
 Before I had time to frown, Versilov came in followed by Liza. 
 ... So they had all met for some reason in Makar Ivanovitch's 
 room " just when they were not wanted ! " 
 
 " I have come to ask how you are," I said, going straight up 
 to Makar Ivanovitch . 
 
 " Thank you, my dear, I was expecting you ; I knew you 
 would come ; I was thinking of you in the night." 
 
 He looked into my face caressingly, and I saw that perhaps 
 he hked me best of them all, but I could not help seeing instantly 
 that, though his face was cheerful, his illness had made progress 
 in the night. The doctor had only just been examining him 
 very seriously. I learned afterwards that the doctor (the same 
 young man with whom I had quarrelled had been treating 
 Makar Ivanovitch ever since he arrived) had been very attentive 
 io the patient and had diagnosed a complication of various 
 diseases in him — but I don't know their medical terms. 
 Makar Ivanovitch, as I observed from the first glance, was 
 on the warmest, friendliest terras with him ; I disliked that at 
 that instant ; but I was of course in a very bad mood at the 
 moment. 
 
 " Yes, Alexandr Semyonovitch, how is our dear invalid to- 
 day," inquired Versilov. If I had not been so agitated, it would 
 have been most interesting to me to watch Versilov's attitude 
 to this old man ; I had wondered about it the day before. 
 What struck me most of all now was the extremely soft and 
 pleasant expression in Versilov's face, there was something 
 perfectly sincere in it. I have noted aheady, I believe, that 
 Versilov's face became wonderfully beautiful as soon as it 
 became ever so little kindly. 
 
 " Wh}', we keep quarrelling," answered the doctor. 
 
 364
 
 " With Макаг Ivanovitch ? I don't believe it ; it's impossible 
 to quarrel with him." 
 
 " But he won't obey ; he doesn't sleep at night. . . ." 
 
 " Come give over, Alexandr Semyonovitch, that's enough 
 scolding," said Makar Ivanovitch laughing. " Well, Andrey 
 Petrovitch, how have they treated our good lady ? Here 
 she's been sighing and moaning all the morning, she's worrying," 
 he added, indicating mother. 
 
 " Ach, Andrey Petrovitch," cried my mother, who was really 
 very uneasy; "do make haste and tell us, don't keep us in 
 suspense ; how has it been settled for her, poor thing ? " 
 
 " They have found her guilty and sentenced her ! " 
 
 " Ach ! " cried my mother. 
 
 " But not to Siberia, don't distress yourself — to a fine of 
 fifteen roubles, that's all ; it was a farce ! " 
 
 He sat down, the doctor sat down too ; they were talking of 
 Tatyana Pavlovna ; I knew nothing yet of what had happened. 
 I sat down on Makar Ivanovitch's left, and Liza sat opposite me 
 on the right ; she evidently had some special sorrow of her 
 own to-day, with which she had come to my mother ; there was 
 a look of uneasiness and irritation in her face. At that moment 
 we exchanged glances, and I thought to myself, "we are both 
 disgraced, and I must make the first advances." My heart was 
 suddenly softened to her. Versilov meanwhile had begun 
 describing what had happened that morning. 
 
 It seemed that Tatyana Pavlovna had had to appear before 
 the justice of the peace that morning, on a charge brought against 
 her by her cook. The whole affair was utterly absurd ; I have 
 mentioned already that the ill-tempered cook would sometimes, 
 when she was sulky, refuse to speak, and would not say a word 
 to her mistress for a whole week at a time. I mentioned, too, 
 Tatyana's weakness in regard to her, how she put up with any- 
 thing from her and absolutely refused to get rid of her. All 
 these whimsical caprices of old maiden ladies are, in my eyes, 
 utterly beneath contempt and so undeserving of attention. And 
 I only mention this story here because this cook is destined to 
 play a leading and momentous part in the sequel of my story. 
 
 So Tatyana Pavlovna, driven out of all patience by the 
 obstinate Finnish woman, who had refused to answer a word 
 for several days, had suddenly at last struck her, a thing she 
 had never done before. Even then the cook did not utter the 
 slightest sound, but the same day she communicated the fact 
 
 365
 
 to a discharged midshipman called Osyetrov, who earned a 
 precarious existence by undertaking cases of various sorts and of 
 course, by getting up such cases as this for the courts. It had 
 ended in Tatyana Pavlovna's being summoned before the justice 
 of the peace, "and when the case was tried Versilov had for some 
 reason appeared as a witness. 
 
 Versilov described all this with extraordinary gaiety and 
 humour, so that even mother laughed ; he even mimicked 
 Tatyana Pavlovna and the midshipman and the cook. The 
 cook had from the very beginning announced to the court that 
 she wanted a money fine, " For if they put my mistress in prison, 
 whom am I going to cook f or ? " In answer to the j udge, Tatyana 
 Pavlovna answered with immense condescension, not even 
 deigning to defend herself ; on the contrary, she had concluded 
 with the words, " I did beat her and I shall do it again," where- 
 upon she was promptly fined three roubles for her impudent 
 answer. The midshipman, a lean lanky young man, would 
 have begim with a long speech in defence of his client, 
 but broke down disgracefully to the amusement of the whole 
 court. 
 
 The hearing was soon over, and Tatyana Pavlovna was con- 
 demned to pay fifteen roubles to the injured Marya. 
 
 Tatyana Pavlovna promptly drew out her purse, and pro- 
 ceeded on the spot to pay the money, whereupon the midship- 
 man at once approached her, and was putting out his hand to 
 take it, but Tatyana Pavlovna thrust aside his hand, almost 
 with a blow, and turned to Marya. " Don't you trouble 
 madam, you needn't put yourself out, put it down in our accounts, 
 I'll settle with this fellow." "See, Marya, what a lanky fellow 
 you've picked out for yourself," said Tatyana Pavlovna, pointing 
 to the midshipman, hugely delighted that Marya had spoken to 
 her at last. 
 
 " He is a lanky one to be sure," Marya answered slily. " Did 
 you order cutlets with peas 1 I did not hear this morning, I 
 was in a hurry to get here." " Oh no, with cabbage, Marya, and 
 please don't burn it to a cinder, as you did yesterday." " No, 
 I'll do my best to-day, madam, let me have your hand," and 
 she kissed her mistress's hand in token of reconciliation ; she 
 entertained the whole court in fact. 
 
 "Ah, what a woman ! " said mother, shaking her head, very 
 much pleased with the news and Andrey Petrovitch's accoimt 
 of it, though she looked imeasily on the sly at Liza. 
 
 366
 
 " She has been a self-willed lady from her childhood," smiled 
 Мака г Ivanovitch. 
 
 " Spleen and idleness," opined the doctor. 
 
 " Is it I am self-willed ? Is it I am spleen and idleness ? " 
 asked Tatyana Pavlovna, coming in upon us suddenly, evidently 
 very well pleased with herself. " It's not for you to talk 
 nonsense, Alexandr Semyonovitch ; when you were ten years 
 old, you knew whether I was idle, and you've been treating 
 yourself for spleen for the last year and have not been able to 
 cure yourself, so you ought to be ashamed ;' well, you've picked 
 me to pieces enough ; thanks for troubling to come to the court, 
 Andrey Petrovitch. Well, how are you, Makarushka ; it's only 
 you I've come to see, not this fellow," she pointed to me, but at 
 once gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder ; I had never 
 before feeen her in such a good humour. " Well, how is he ?" 
 turning suddenly to the doctor and frowning anxiously. 
 
 " Why, he won't lie in bed, and he only tires himself out sitting 
 up like this." 
 
 " Why, I only sit up like this a little, with company," Makar 
 Ivanovitch murmured with a face of entreaty, like a child's. 
 
 " Yes, we like this, we like this ; we like a little gossip when 
 our friends gather roimd us ; I know Makarushka," said Tatyana 
 Pavlovna. 
 
 " Yes you're a quick one, you are 1 And there's no getting 
 over you ; wait a bit, let me speak : I'll lie down, darling, I'll 
 obey, but you know, to my thinking, ' If you take to yoxu: bed, 
 you may never get up,' that's what I've got at the back of my 
 head, friend." 
 
 " To be sure I knew that was it, peasant superstitions : * If I 
 take to my bed,' they say, ' ten to one I shan't get up,' that's 
 what the peasants very often fear, and they would rather keep 
 on their legs when they're ill than go to a hospital. As for you, 
 Makar Ivanovitch, you're simply home-sick for freedom, and 
 the open road — that's all that's the matter with you, you've 
 got out of the habit of staying long in one place. Why, you're 
 what's called a pilgrim, aren't you ? And tramping is almost a 
 passion in our peasantry. I've noticed it more than once in 
 them, our peasants are tramps before everything." 
 
 " Then Makar is a tramp according to you ? '* Tatyana 
 Pavlovna caught him up. 
 
 " Oh, I did not mean that, I used the word in a general sense. 
 Well yes, a religious tramp, though he is a holy man, yet he is a 
 
 367
 
 tramp. In a good respectful sense, but a tramp .... I speak 
 from the medical point of view. . . ." 
 
 " I assure you," I addressed the doctor suddenly : " that 
 you and I and all the rest here are more like tramps than this 
 old man from whom you and I ought to learn, too, because he 
 has a firm footing in life, while we all of us have no firm stand- 
 point at all. . . . But how should you understand that, 
 though ! " 
 
 I spoke very cuttingly, it seemed, but I had come in feeling 
 upset. I don't know why I went on sitting there, and felt as 
 though I were beside myself. 
 
 '^' What are you saying ? " said Tat5'^ana Pavlovna, looking 
 at me suspiciously. " How did you find him, Makar Ivano- 
 vitch ? " she asked, pointing her finger at me. 
 
 " God bless him, he's a sharp one," said the old man, with a 
 serious air, but at the words " sharp one " almost everyone 
 laughed. I controlled myself somehow ; the doctor laughed 
 more than anyone. It was rather 'unlucky that I did not know 
 at the time of a previous compact between them. Versilov, 
 the doctor, and Tatyana Pavlovna had agreed three days before 
 to do all they could to distract mother from brooding and appre- 
 hension on account of Makar Ivanovitch, whose illness was far 
 more dangerous and hopeless than I had any suspicion of then. 
 That's why they were all making jokes, and trying to laugh. 
 Only the doctor was stupid, and did not know how to make 
 jokes naturally : that was the cause of all that followed. If I 
 had known of their agreement at that time, I should not have 
 done what I did. Liza knew nothing either. 
 
 I sat listening with half my mind ; they talked and laughed 
 and all the time my head was full of Darya Onisimovna, and her 
 news, and I could not shake off the thought of her ; I kept 
 picturing how she had sat and looked, and had cautiously got 
 up, and peeped into the next room. At last they all suddenly 
 laughed. Tatyana Pavlovna, I don't in the least know why, 
 called the doctor an infidel : " Why, all you doctors are infidels ! " 
 
 " Makar Ivanovitch ! " said the doctor, very stupidly pretend- 
 ing to be offended and to be appealing to him as an umpire, 
 " am I an infidel ? " 
 
 " You an infidel ? No you are not an infidel," the old man 
 answered sedately, looking at him instantly. "No, thank 
 God ! " he said, shaking his head : " you are a merry-hearted 
 man." 
 
 368
 
 " And if a man's merry -hearted, he's not an infidel ? " the 
 doctor observed ironically. 
 
 " That's in its own way an idea," observed Versilov ; he was 
 not laughing, however. 
 
 " It's a great idea," I could not help exclaiming, struck by 
 the thought. 
 The doctor looked round inquiringly. 
 
 " These learned people, these same professors " (probably 
 they had been talking about professors just before), began 
 Makar Ivanovitch, looking down : "at the beginning, ough, I 
 was frightened of them. I was in terror in their presence, for I 
 dreaded an infidel more than anything. I have only one soul, 
 I used to think ; what if I lose it, I shan't be able to find another ; 
 but, afterwards, I plucked up heart. ' After all,' I thought, 
 ' they are not gods but just the same as we are, men of like 
 passions with ourselves.' And my curiosity was great. ' I shall 
 find out,' I thought, ' what this infidelity is like.' But after- 
 wards even that curiosity passed over." 
 
 He paused, though he meant to go on, still with the same 
 gentle sedate smile. There are simple souls who put complete 
 trust in every one, and have no suspicion of mockery. Such 
 people are always of limited intelligence, for they are ahvays 
 ready to display all that is precious in their hearts to every 
 newcomer. But in Makar Ivanovitch I fancied there was 
 something else, and the impulse that led him to speak was 
 different, and not only the innocence of simplicity : one caught 
 glimpses as it were of the missionary in him. I even caught, 
 with pleasure, some sly glances he bent upon the doctor, and 
 even perhaps on Versilov. The conversation was evidently a 
 continuation of a previous discussion between them the week 
 before, but unluckily the fatal phrase which had so electrified 
 me the day before cropped up in it again, and led me to an out- 
 burst which I regret to this day. 
 
 " I am afraid of the unbeliever, even now perhaps," the old 
 man went on with concentrated intensity ; " only, friend 
 Alexandr Semyonovitch, I tell you what, I've never met an 
 infidel, but I have met worldly men ; that's what one must call 
 them. They are of all sorts, big and little, ignorant and learned, 
 and even some of the humblest class, but it's all vanity. They 
 read and argue all their lives, filling themselves with the sweet- 
 ness of books, while they remain in perplexity and can come to 
 no conclusion. Some quite let themselves go, and give up 
 
 369
 
 taking notice of themselves. Some grow harder than a stone 
 and their hearts are full of wandering dreams ; others become 
 heartless and ^ivolous, and all they can do is to mock and jeer. 
 Another will, out of books, gather some flowers, and those 
 according to his own fancy ; but he still is full of vanity, and 
 there is no decision in him. And then again : there is a great 
 deal of dreariness. The small man is in want, he has no bread 
 and naught to keep his babes alive with, he sleeps on rough 
 straw, and all the time his heart is light and merry ; he is coarse 
 and sinful, yet his heart is light. But the great man drinks too 
 much, and eats too much, and sits on a pile of gold, yet there is 
 nothing in his heart but gloom. Some have been through all 
 the sciences, and are still depressed, and I fancy that the more 
 intellect a man has, the greater his dreariness. And then again : 
 they have been teaching ever since the world began, and to what 
 good purpose have they taught, that the world might be fairer 
 and merrier, and the abode of every sort of joy ? And another 
 thing I must tell you : they have no seemliness, they don't 
 even want it at all ; all are ruined, but they boast of their own 
 destruction ; but to return to the one Truth, they never think ; 
 and to live without God is naught but torment. And it seems 
 that we curse that whereby we are enlightened and knaw it not 
 ourselves : and what's the sense of it ? It's impossible to be a 
 man and not bow down to something ; such a man could not 
 bear the burden of himself, nor could there be such a man. If 
 he rejects God, then he bows down to an idol — fashioned of 
 wood, or of gold, or of thought. They are all idolaters and not 
 infidels, that is how we ought to describe them — ^though we 
 can't say there are no infidels. There are men who are down- 
 right infidels, only they are far more terrible than those others, 
 for they come with God's name on their lips. I have heard of 
 them more than once, but I have not met them at all. There 
 are such, friend, and I fancy, too, that there are bound to be." 
 
 " There are, Makar Ivanovitch," Versilov agreed suddenly : 
 " there are such, ' and there are bound to be.' " 
 
 " There certainly are, and ' there are certainly bound to be,' " 
 I burst out hotly, and impulsively, I don't know why ; but I^vas 
 carried away by Versilov's tone, and fascinated by a sort of idea 
 Ь the words •' there are bound to be." The conversation was 
 ai4 absolute siu-prise to me. But at that minute something 
 httpp<»ned also quite unexpected. 
 
 370
 
 It was a very bright day ; by the doctor's orders Makar 
 Ivanovitch's blind was as a rule not drawn up all day ; but 
 there was a curtain over the window now, instead of the blind, 
 so that the upper part of the window was not covered ; this was 
 because the old man was miserable at not seeing the sun at all 
 when he had the blind, and as we were sitting there the sun's 
 rays fell suddenly full upon Makar Ivanovitch's face. At first, 
 absorbed in conversation, he took no notice of it, but mechani- 
 cally as he talked he several times turned his head on one side, 
 because the bright sunlight hurt and irritated his bad ej^es. 
 Mother, standing beside him, glanced several times uneasily 
 towards the window ; all that was wanted was to screen the 
 window completely with something, but to avoid interrupting 
 the conversation she thought it better to try and move the 
 bench on which Makar Ivanovitch Was sitting a little to the 
 right. It did not need to be moved more than six or at the 
 most eight inches. She had bent down several times and taken 
 hold of the bench, but could not move it ; the bench with Makar 
 Ivanovitch sitting on it would not move. Feeling her efforts 
 unconsciously, in the heat of conversation, Makar Ivanovitch 
 several times tried to get up, but his legs would not obey him. 
 But mother went on straining all her strength to move it, and 
 at last all this exasperated Liza horribly. I noticed several 
 angry irritated looks from her, but for the first moment I did 
 not know to what to ascribe them, besides I was carried awaj' 
 by the conversation. And I suddenly heard her almost shout 
 sharply to Makar Ivanovitch : 
 
 " Do get up, if it's ever so Uttle : you see how hard it is for 
 mother." 
 
 The old man looked at her quickly, instantly grasped her 
 meaning, and hurriedly tried to stand up, but without success ; 
 he raised himself a couple of inches and fell back on the bench. 
 
 " I can't, my dearie," he answered plaintively, looking, as it 
 were, meekly at Liza. 
 
 " You can talk by the hour together, but you haven't the 
 strength to stir an inch ! " 
 
 " Liza ! " cried Tatynna Pavlovna. Makar Ivanovitch made 
 another great effort, 
 
 371
 
 " Take your crutches, they are lying beside you ; you can get 
 up with your crutches ! " Liza snapped out again. 
 
 " To be sure," said the old man, and he made haste to pick 
 up his crutches. 
 
 " He must be lifted ! " said Versilov, standing up ; the doctor, 
 too, moved, and Tatyana Pavlovna ran up, but before they had 
 time to reach him Makar Ivanovitch, leaning on the crutches, 
 with a tremendous effort, suddenly raised himself and stood up, 
 looking round with a triumphant air. 
 
 " There, I have got up ! " he said almost with pride, laugh- 
 ing gleefully ; " thank you, my dear, you have taught me a 
 lesson, and I thought that my poor legs would not obey me at 
 all. ..." 
 
 But he did not remain standing long ; he had hardly finished 
 speaking, when his crutch, on which he was leaning with the 
 whole weight of his body, somehow slipped on the rug, and as 
 his " poor legs " were scarcely any support at all, he fell heavily 
 full length on the floor. I remember it was almost horrible to 
 see. All cried out, and rushed to lift him up, but, thank God, he 
 had broken no bones ; he had only knocked his knees with a 
 heavy thud against the floor, but he had succeeded in putting 
 out his right hand and breaking his fall with it. He was picked 
 up and seated on the bed. He was very pale, not from fright, 
 but from the shock. (The doctor had told them that he was 
 suffering more from disease of the heart than anything.) 
 Mother was beside herself with fright, and still pale, trembling 
 all over and still a little bewildered, Makar Ivanovitch turned 
 suddenly to Liza, and almost tenderly, in a soft voice, said to 
 her : 
 
 " No, my dearie, my legs really won't hold me ! " 
 
 I cannot express what an impression this made on me, at the 
 time. There was not the faintest note of complaint or reproach 
 in the poor old man's words ; on the contrary, it was perfectly 
 evident that he had not noticed an5rthing spiteful in Liza's 
 words, and had accepted her shout as something quite befitting, 
 that is, that it was quite right to pitch into him for his remissness. 
 Ail this had a very great effect on Liza too. At the moment 
 when he fell she had rushed forward, like all the rest of us, and 
 stood numb with horror, and miserable, of course, at having 
 caused it all ; hearing his words, she almost instantly flushed 
 crimson with shame and remorse. 
 
 " That's enough ! " Tatvana Pavlovna commanded suddenly : 
 
 372
 
 " this comes of talking too much ! It's time we were off ; it's 
 a bad look-out when the doctor himself begins to chatter ! " 
 
 " Quite so," assented Alexandr Semyonovitch who was 
 occupied with the invalid. " I'm to blame, Tatyana Pavlovna ; 
 he needs rest." 
 
 But Tatyana Paklovna did not hear him : she had been for 
 half a minute watching Liza intently. 
 
 " Come here, Liza, and kiss me, that is if you care to kiss an 
 old fool like me," she said unexpectcdlj'. 
 
 And she kissed the girl, I don't know why, but it seemed 
 exactly the right thing to do ; so that I almost rushed to kiss 
 Tatyana Pavlovna myself. What was fitting was. not to over- 
 whelm Liza with reproach, but to welcome with joy and con- 
 gratulation the new feeling that must certainly have sprung up 
 in her. But instead of all those feelings, I suddenly stood up 
 and rapped out resolutely : 
 
 " Makar Ivanovitch, you used again the word ' secmliness,' 
 and I have been worrying about that word yesterda}^ and all 
 these days ... in fact, all my life I have been worrying about 
 it, only I didn't know what it was. This coincidence I look 
 upon as momentous, almost miraculous. ... I say this in your 
 presence ..." 
 
 But I was instantly checked. I repeat I did not know their 
 compact about mother and Makar Ivanovitch ; they considered 
 me, of course judging from my doings in the past, capable of 
 making a scene of any sort. 
 
 " Stop him, stop him ! cried Tatyana Pavlovna, utterly 
 infuriated. Mother began trembling. Makar Ivanovitch, seeing 
 the general alarm, was alarmed too. 
 
 " Arkady, hush ! " Versilov cried sternly. 
 
 " For me, my friends," I said raising my voice : " to see you 
 all beside this babe (I indicated Makar) is unseemly ; there is 
 only one saint here — and that is mother, and even she . . ." 
 
 " You are alarming him," the doctor said emphatically. 
 
 " I know I am the enemy to everyone in the world " (or some- 
 thing of the sort), I began faltering, but looking round once more, 
 I glared defiantly at Versilov. 
 
 " Arkady," he cried again, " just such a scene has happened 
 once here already between us. I entreat you, restrain yourself 
 now ! " 
 
 I cannot describe the intense feeling with which he said this, 
 A deep sadness, sincere and complete, was manifest in his face. 
 
 373
 
 What was most surprising was that he looked as though he 
 were guilty ; аз though I were the judge, and he were the 
 criminal. This was the last straw for me. 
 
 " Yes," I shouted to him in reply : " just such a scene we had 
 before, when I buried Versilov, and tore him out of my heart 
 . . . but then there followed a resurrection from the dead . . . 
 but now . . . now there will be no rising again ! But . . . but 
 all of you here shall see what I am capable of : you have no 
 idea what I can show you ! " 
 
 Saying this, I rushed into my room. Versilov ran after 
 me. 
 
 I had a relapse ; I had a violent attack of fever, and by night- 
 fall was delirious. But I was not all the time in delirium ; I 
 had itmumerable dreams, shapeless and following one another, 
 in endless succession. One such dream or fragment of a dream 
 I. shall remember as long as I live. I will describe it without 
 attempting to explain it ; it was prophetic and 1 cannot leave it 
 out. 
 
 I suddenly found myself with my heart full of a grand and 
 proud design, in a large lofty room ; I remember the room very well, 
 it was not at Tatyana Pavlovna's, I may observe, anticipating 
 events. But although I was alone, I felt continually with un- 
 easiness and discomfort that I was not alone at all, that I was 
 awaited, and that something was being expected of me. Some- 
 where outside the door people were sitting and waiting for 
 what I was going to do. The sensation was unendurable " Oh, 
 if I could only be alone ! " And suddenly she walked in. She 
 looked at me timidly, she was very much afraid, she looked into 
 my eyes. In my hand I had the. letter. She smiled to fascinate 
 me, she fawned upon me ; I was sorry, but I began to feel 
 repulsion. Suddenly she hid her face in her hands. I flung the 
 letter on the table with unutterable disdain, as much as to say, 
 ' You needn't beg, take it, I want nothing of you ! I revenge 
 myself for all your insults by contempt." I went out of the room, 
 choking with immense pride. But at the door Lambert 
 clutched me in the darkness ! " Fool, fool ! " he whispered, 
 holding me by the arm with all his might, " she will have to 
 open a high-class boarding-house for wenches in Vassilyevsky 
 Island." (N.B. — to get her living, if her father, hearing of the 
 
 374
 
 letter from me, were to deprive her of her inheritance, and 
 drive her out of the house. I quote what Lambert said, word 
 for word,as I dreamed it.) 
 
 ** Arkady Makarovitch is in quest of seemliness,' " I heard 
 the low voice of Anna Andreyevna, some\vhere close by on the 
 stairs ; but there was a note, not of approval, but of insufferable 
 mockery in her words. I returned to the room with Lambert. 
 But, seeing Lambert, sTie began to laugh. My first impression 
 was one of horrible dismay, such dismay that I stopped short 
 and would not go up to her. I stared at her, and could not 
 beheve my eyes, as though she had just thrown off a mask : the 
 features were the same, but each feature seemed distorted by an 
 insolence that was beyond all bounds. " The ransom, the 
 ransom, madam ! " cried Lambert, and both laughed louder than 
 ever, while my heart went cold. " Oh, can that shameless creature 
 be the woman one glance from whom set my heart glowing with 
 virtue ! " 
 
 " You see what these proud creatures in their good society 
 are ready to do for money ! " cried Lambert. But the shameless 
 creature was not even abashed by that ; she laughed at my 
 being so horrified. Oh, she was ready to pay the ransom, that 
 I saw, and . . . and what came over me ? I no longer felt 
 pity or disgust ; I was thrilled as I had never been before. . . . 
 I was overwhelmed by a new and indescribable feeling, such as 
 I had never known before, and strong as life itself. ... I could 
 not have gone away now for anything on earth ! Oh, how it 
 pleased me that it was so shameful ! I clutched her hands ; the 
 touch of her hands sent an agonizing thrill through me, and I 
 put my lips to her insolent crimson lips, that invited me, quiver- 
 ing with laughter. 
 
 Oh, away with that vile memory ? Accursed dream ! I 
 swear that until that loathsome dream nothing like that shameful 
 idea had ever been in my mind. There had never been even an 
 unconscious dream of the sort (though I had kept the " letter " 
 sewn up in my pocket, and I sometimes gripped my pocket with 
 a strange smile). How was it all this came to me so complete ? 
 [t was because I had the soul of a spider ! It shows that all 
 this had long ago been hatching in my corrupt heart, and lay 
 latent in my desires, but my waking heart was still ashamed, and 
 my mind dared not consciously picture anything of the sort. 
 But in sleep the soul presented and laid bare all that was hidden 
 in the heart, with the utmost accuracy, in a complete picture and 
 
 375
 
 in prophetic form. And was that what I had threatened to 
 show them, when I had run out of Makar Ivanovitch's room that 
 morning ? But enough : for the time no more of this ! That 
 dream is one of the strangest things that has happened in my 
 Ufe. 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 Three days later I got up from my bed, and as soon as I was on 
 my legs I felt that I should not go back to it again, I felt all 
 over that convalescence was at hand. All these little details 
 perhaps would not be worth writing, but then several days 
 followed which were not remarkable for anything special that 
 happened, and yet have remained in my memory as something 
 soothing and consolatory, and that is rare in my reminiscences. 
 I will not for the time attempt to define my spiritual condition ; 
 if I were to give an account of it the reader would scarcely 
 believe in it. It will be better for it to be made clear by facts 
 themselves. And so I will only say one thing : let the reader 
 remember the soul of the spider ; and that in the man who 
 longed to get away from them all, and from the whole world 
 for the sake of " seemliness ! " The longing for " seemliness " 
 was still there, of course, and very intense, but how it could be 
 linked with other longings of a very different sort is a mystery 
 to me. It always has been a mystery, and I have marvelled a 
 thousand times at that faculty in man (and in the Russian, I 
 believe, more especially) of cherishing in his soul his loftiest 
 ideal side by side with the most abject baseness, and all quite 
 sincerely. Whether this is breadth in the Russian which takes 
 him so far or simply baseness — that is the question ! 
 
 But enough of that. However that may be, a time of calm 
 followed. All I knew was that I must get well at all costs and 
 as quickly as possible that I might as soon as possible begin to 
 act, and so I resolved to live hygienically and to obey the doctor 
 (whoever he might be), disturbing projects I put off with great 
 good sense (the fruit of this same breadth) to the day of my 
 escape, that is, to the day of my complete recovery. How all 
 the peaceful impressions and sensations in that time of stillness 
 were consistent with the painfully sweet and agitated throbbings 
 of my heart when I dreamed of violent decisions I do not know,
 
 but again I put it all down to " breadth." But there was no 
 trace now of the restlessness I had suffered from of late. I put 
 it all off for the time, and did not tremble at the thought of the 
 future as I had so recently, but looked forward to it, like a wealthy 
 man relying on his power and his resources. I felt more and 
 more proud and defiant of the fate awaiting me, and this was 
 parti}' due, I imagine, to my actual return to health, and the 
 rapid recovery of my vital forces. Those few days of final and 
 complete recovery I recall even now with great pleasiu-e. 
 
 Oh, they forgave me everything, that is my outburst, and 
 these were the people whom I had called " unseemly " to their 
 faxies 1 That I love in people ; that is what I call intelligence 
 of the heart ; anyway, this attracted me at once, to a certain 
 degree, of course. Versilov and I, for instance, talked together 
 like the best of friends, but only to a certain point : if at times 
 we became ever so little too expansive (and we were over- 
 expansive at times) we pulled ouiselves up at once as though a 
 trifle ashamed of something. There are cases when the victor 
 cannot help feeling abashed before the vanquished, and just 
 because he has gained the upper hand over him. I was evidently 
 the victor : and I was ashamed. 
 
 That morning, that is the one on which I got up again after 
 my relapse, he came in to see me, and then I learned from him 
 for the first time of their compact in regard to mother and 
 Makar Ivanovitch. He added that though the old man was 
 better, the doctor would not answer for the future. I promised 
 him with my whole heart that I would be more careful of my 
 behaviour in the future. While Versilov was telling me all-thiii 
 I detected for the first time that he was most genuinely con- 
 cerned about the old man, far more, indeed, than I could have 
 expected from a man like him : and that he looked upon him 
 as a being for some reason particularly precious to himself, not 
 simply for mother's sake. This at once interested me and 
 almost surprised me, and I must confess if it had not been for 
 Versilov I should have overlooked and failed to appreciate a 
 great deal in this old таъ, who has left one of the most lasting 
 and original impressions on my mind. 
 
 Versilov seemed to be afraid of my attitude to Makar Ivano- 
 vitch, that is he distrusted my intelligence and my tact, and he 
 was therefore particularly pleased afterwards when he discerned 
 that I knew how to behave with a man of quite different ideas 
 and conceptions, could, in fact, be broad-minded and make 
 
 377
 
 allowances. I must confess, too (and I don't think it's humiliat- 
 ing to do so), that in this man of the people I foimd something 
 absolutely new to me in regard to certain feelings and concep- 
 tions, something I had known nothing of, something far more 
 serene and consolatory than my own previous ideas on those 
 subjects. It was none the less impossible sometimes to keep 
 from being impatient at some positive superstitions in which he 
 believed with the most revolting placidity and steadfastness. 
 But this, of course, was only due to his lack of education ; his 
 soul was rather happily constructed, so much so that I have 
 never met a man superior in that respect. 
 
 What attracted one first of all, as I have observed already, 
 was his extraordinary pure-heartedness and his freedom from 
 amour-propre ; one felt instinctively that he had an almost 
 sinless heart. He had " gaiety " of heart, and therefore " seemli- 
 ness." The word " gaiety " he was very fond of and often used. 
 He sometimes showed an almost abnormal exaltation, an almost 
 abnormal fervour, partly, I imagine, because the fever never 
 really left him ; but that did not mar his beautiful serenity. 
 There were contrasts in him, too : side by side with his mar- 
 vellous simplicity (at times, to my vexation, he completely 
 failed to detect irony) there was a sort of sly subtlety, most 
 frequently apparent in controversy. And he was fond of contro- 
 versy, though at times only through caprice. It was evident 
 that he had been on foot over a great part of Russia, had heard 
 a great deal ; but I repeat, what he liked best of all was religious 
 emotion, and therefore everything that led up to it, and he was 
 fond of telling incidents that moved one to tenderness and 
 reverence. 
 
 He was fond of telling stories in general. I listened to many 
 tales from him of his own wanderings and various legends of 
 the lives of the " ascetics " of ancient times. I'm not familiar 
 with these stories, but I believe that he told them all wrong, 
 adapting them for the most part from the traditions current 
 among the peasantry. It was simply impossible to accept some 
 of his versions. But together with evident distortions or even 
 inventions there were continual flashes of something wonderfully 
 %mplete, full of peasant feeling, and always touching. ... I 
 
 378
 
 recftU, for instance, one long story out of the life of " Marja of 
 Egypt." Of this " life " and of all such " lives " I had had no 
 idea at all till then. I frankly confess that it was almost im- 
 possible to hear the story without tears, not from tender feeling, 
 but from a sort of strange ecstasy. One felt something strange 
 and burning like the parched sandy desert upon which the holy 
 woman wandered among lions. I don't want to talk of this 
 though, and, indeed, I am not competent to do so. 
 
 Apart from the tender feeling of his stories I particularly liked 
 certain extremely original views on disputed questions of modem 
 life. He told me once, for instance, of something that had 
 happened recently with a retired soldier ; he had almost wit- 
 nessed the incident. A soldier had come home to his village 
 from serving in the army and did not like going back to live 
 with peasants, the peasants did not like him either. The man 
 went wrong, took to drinking, and robbed some one. There was 
 no strong evidence against him, but he was taken up and tried. 
 The lawyer was defending him successfully — there was no proof 
 against him, but suddenly, after listening a long time, the prisoner 
 suddenly stood up and interrupted him. " No, you stop," said 
 he, and then he told the whole story " to the tiniest grain of 
 dust " ; he confessed his full guilt with tears and penitence. 
 The jury went out, were shut up to confer, and suddenly they 
 all came back. " No, not guUty ! " Every one shouted, and 
 rejoiced, and the soldier stood rooted to the spot ; he seemed 
 turned into a post, and couldn't make head or tail of it ; he 
 didn't understand a word of the judge's exhortation to him 
 when he dismissed him. The soldier came out to freedom and 
 still couldn't believe it. He began to fret, sank into brooding, 
 gave up eating and drinking, spoke to no one, and on the fifth 
 day he took and hanged himself. " That's what it is to live 
 with sin on the soul," said Makar Ivanovitch in conclusion. Of 
 course that's a foolish story, and there are masses of such stories 
 nowadays in all the newspapers, but I liked his tone, and most 
 of all some phrases of quite a new significance. Describing, for 
 instance, how the soldier was disliked by the peasants when ho 
 went back to the village, Makar Ivanovitch used the expression, 
 " And we know what a soldier is : a soldier's a peasant spoilt." 
 Speaking afterwards of the lawyer who had almost won the 
 case, he said : " We know what a lawyer is : a lawyer's a 
 conscience for hire." Both these expressions he brought out 
 without effort and almost without noticing them, and yet those 
 
 379
 
 two utterances revealed a complete and special attitude of 
 mind on those subjects, not borrowed but peculiar to Makar 
 Ivanovitch if not to the whole peasantry. These judgments 
 among the peasants in regard to certain subjects are sometimes 
 really marvellous in their originality. 
 
 "And how do you look upon the sin of suicide, Makar Ivano- 
 vitch ? " I asked him, apropos of the same story. 
 
 " Suicide is the greatest human sin," he answered with a sigh, 
 " but God alone is judge of it, for He alone knows all, every 
 limit, every measure. We must pray without ceasing for such 
 sinners. Whenever you hear of such a sin pray fervently at 
 bedtime for the sinner ; if only you breathe a sigh for him to 
 God, even though you don't know his name — the more acceptable 
 will be your prayer for him." 
 
 " But will my prayer be any help to him if he is condemned 
 already ? " 
 
 " How can you tell ? There are many, ah, many without 
 faith who thereby confound those of little knowledge. Heed 
 them not, for they know not what foolishness they are speaking. 
 The prayer of the living for the condemned may still, in truth, 
 benetit him. So what a plight for him who has no one to pray 
 for him. Therefore, at your evening prayer say also at the 
 end : ' Lord Jesus, have mercy on all those also who have none 
 to pray for them.' Very acceptable and pleasant will be this 
 prayer. Also for all living sinners — ' Lord, who boldest all 
 destinies in Thy hand, save all sinners that repent not ! ' — 
 that, too, is a good prayer." 
 
 I promised him I would pray, feeling that I was giving him 
 immense pleasure by this promise. And his face did, in fact, 
 beam with joy ; but I hasten to add that in such cases he did 
 not ta'-i-e up a superior attitude to me, as a monk speaking to 
 a raw youth ; on the contrary, he very often liked listening to 
 me. He was never weary in fact of hearing me talk on various 
 subjects, realizing that though a " youth " I was immeasurably 
 superior to him in education. He was very fond, for instance, 
 of talking of the life of hermits in the desert, and thought of 
 the "desert" as something far above "pilgrimage." I hotly 
 opposed him, laying stress on the egoism of these people, who 
 had abandoned the world and all the services they might have 
 rendered mankind, simply with the egoistic idea of their own 
 salvation. At first he didn't quite understand ; I suspect, 
 indeed, he didn't understand at all, but he zealously defended 
 
 380
 
 the " desert." " At first, of course, one grieves (that is when 
 first one goes to dwell in the desert), but then each day one is 
 more glad at heart, and at last one looks upon the face of God." 
 
 Then I drew a picture to him of the useful activity in the world 
 of the man of science, the doctor, or any friend of humanity, 
 and roused him to real enthusiasm, for I spoke with warmth ; 
 he kept eagerly assenting to my words, " That's so, dear, that's 
 so ! God bless you, your thoughts are true." 
 
 But when I had finished he did not seem to agree entirely. 
 
 " To be sure, to be sure," he sighed deeply, " but are there 
 many who hold fast and are not led astray ? Though money be 
 not their God, yet it is a demi-god — a great temptation, and 
 then there's the female sex, and then doubt and envy. And so 
 they will forget their great work, and will be absorbed in little 
 things. But in the desert a man strengthens himself for every 
 great deed. My dear, what is there in the world ? " he 
 exclaimed with intense feeling. " But is it only a dream ? 
 Take a grain of sand and sow it on a stone ; when thslt yellow 
 grain of sand of yours on the stone springs up, then your dream 
 will come true in the world. That's a saying of ours. Very 
 different from Christ's ' Go and give all that thou hast to the 
 poor and become the servant of all.' Then thou wilt be a 
 thousandfold richer than ever before ; for not by bread alone, 
 not by rich garments, not by pride, not by envy, wilt thou be 
 happy, but by love multiplied immeasurably. Not a little 
 riches, not a hundred-thousand, not a million, but the whole 
 world wilt thou gain ! Now we gather and have not enough 
 and squander senselessly, but then there will be no orphans nor 
 beggars, for all will be my people, all will be akin. I have 
 gained all, I have bought all, every one ! Now it is no uncommon 
 thing for the rich and powerful to care nothing for the length 
 of their days, and to be at a loss to invent a pastime ; then thy 
 days and thy hours will be multiplied a thousandfold, for thou 
 wilt grudge the loss of a single minute, and wilt rejoice in every 
 minute in gaiety of heart. Then thou wilt attain wisdom, not 
 from books alone, but wilt be face to face with God Himself ; 
 and the earth will shine more brightly than the sun, and there 
 shall be no more sorrow nor sighing, nothing but one priceless 
 Paradite. . . .'* 
 
 It was these enthusiastic outbursts that I believe Versilov 
 liked particularly. He was in the room on this occasion. 
 
 " Makar Ivanovitch," I interrupted suddenly, feeling im- 
 
 381
 
 mensely stirred myself (I. remember that evening), " why, it's 
 communism, absolute communism, you're preaching ! " 
 
 And as he knew absolutely nothing of the doctrine of com- 
 munism, and heard the word indeed for the first time, I began 
 at once expounding to him all I knew on the subject. I must 
 confess my knowledge wais scanty and confused, even now, in 
 fact, it is not very ample. But in spite of that I discoursed with 
 great heat on what I did know. To this day I recall with 
 pleasure the extraordinary impression I made on the old man. 
 It was more than an impression. It was really an overwhelming 
 effect. He was passionately interested, too, in the historical 
 details, asking, " Where ? How ? Who arranged it ? Who 
 said so ? " I have noticed, by the way, that that is charac- 
 teristic of the Russian peasant. If he is much interested he 
 is not content with general ideas, but insists on having the 
 most solid and exact facts. It was just for such details that 
 I was at a loss, and as Versilov was present I felt ashamed of 
 my incompetence, and that made me hotter than ever. In the 
 end Makar Ivanovitch could do nothing but repeat with emotion, 
 " Yes : yes 1 " though he had evidently lost the thread and 
 did not understand, I felt vexed, but Versilov interrupted 
 the conversation and said it was bedtime. We were all in the 
 room and it was late. But when he peeped into my room a 
 few minutes later I asked him at once what he thought of 
 Makar Ivanovitch, and what was his opinion of him ? Versilov 
 laughed gaily (but not at my mistakes about communism — he 
 did not mention them in fact). I repeat again, he seemed 
 absolutely devoted to Makar Ivanovitch, and I often caught a 
 very attractive smile on his face when he was listening to the 
 old man. At the same time this smile did not prevent his 
 criticising him. 
 
 " Makar Ivanovitch is above all not a peasant but a house- 
 serf," he pronounced with great readiness, " who has been a 
 servant, bom a servant, and of servants. The house-serf e and 
 servants used to share a very great deal in the interests of their 
 masters' private, spiritual, and intellectual life in the past. 
 Note that to this day Makar Ivanovitch is most interested in 
 the life of the gentry and upper class. You don't know yet 
 how much interest he takes in recent events in Russia. Do you 
 know that he is a great politician ? Don't feed him on honey, 
 but tell him where anyone is fighting and whether we are going 
 to fight. In old days I used to delight him by such accounts. 
 
 382
 
 He has Ihe greatest respect for science, and of all sciences is 
 fondest of astronomy. At the same time he has worked out for 
 himself something so independent that nothing you could do 
 would shake it. He has convictions, firm, fairly clear . . . and 
 genuine. Though he's so absolutely uneducated he is often 
 able to astound one by his surprising knowledge of certain ideas 
 which one would never have expected to find in him. He 
 extols the ' desert ' with enthusiasm, but nothing would induce 
 him to retire to the desert or enter a monastery, because he is 
 above all things a ' tramp,' as he was so charmingly called by 
 Alexandr Semyonovitch (and by the way there's no need for 
 you to be angry with him). Well; and what more ? He's some- 
 thing of an artist, many of his sayings are his own, though some 
 are not. He's somewhat halting in his logic, and at times too 
 abstract ; he has moode of sentimentality, but of a thoroughly 
 peasant kind, or rather moods of that tenderness universally 
 found among peasants, which the people introduce so freely into 
 their religious feelings. As for his purity of heart and freedom 
 from malice, I won't discuss them ; it's not for you and me to 
 begin upon that. . . ,'* 
 
 To complete my jicture of Makar Ivanovitch I'll repeat some 
 of his stories, choosing those taken from private life. These stories 
 were of a strange character. It was impossible to extract any 
 sort of moral or general tendency from them, except perhaps 
 that they were all more or less touching. There were some, 
 however, which were not touching, some, in fact, were quite 
 gay, others even made fim of certain foolish monks, so that he 
 actually discredited his own convictions by telling them. I 
 pointed this out to him, but he did not understand what I meant. 
 Sometimes it was difficult to imagine what induced him to tell 
 the story, so that at times I wondered at his talkativeness and 
 put it down to the loquacity of old age and his feverish condition. 
 
 " He is not what he used to be," Versilov whispered to me 
 once, " he was not qviite like this in the old days. He will soon 
 die, much sooner than we expect, and we must be prepared." 
 
 I have forgotten to say that we had begun to have something 
 like "evenings." Besides my mother, who never left him, 
 Versilov was in his Uttle room every evening ; I came too — and 
 indeed I had nowhere else to go. Of late Liza, too, had always 
 
 383
 
 been present, though she came a little later than the rest of us, 
 and always sat in silence. Tatyana Pavlovna came too, and, 
 though more rarely, the doctor. Somehow I suddenly began to 
 get on with the doctor, and though we were never very friendly 
 there were no further scenes between us. I liked a sort of 
 simple-mindedness which I detected in him, and the attachment 
 he showed to our family, so that I made up my mind at last to 
 forgive him his professional superciliousness, and, moreover, I 
 taught him to wash his hands and clean his nails, even if he 
 couldn't put on clean linen. I explained to him bluntly that 
 this was not a sign of foppishness or of elegant artificiality, but 
 that cleanliness is a natural element of the trade of a doctor, 
 and I proved it to him. Finally, Lukerya often came out of 
 the kitchen and stood at the door listening to Makar Ivanovitch's 
 stories. Versilov once called her in from the door, and asked 
 her to sit down with us. I liked his doing this, but from that 
 time she gave up coming to the door. Her sense of the fitting ! 
 I quote one of his stories, selecting it simply because I remem- 
 ber it more completely. It is a story about a merchant, and 
 I imagine that such incidents occur by thousands in our cities 
 and country towns, if only one knew how to look for them. The 
 reader may prefer to skip the story, especially as I quote it in 
 the old man's words. 
 
 I'll tell you now of a wonderful thing that happened in our 
 town, Afimyevsk. There was a merchant living there, his name 
 was.Skotoboynikov, Maxim Ivanovitch, and there was no one 
 richer than he in all the coimtryside. He built a cotton factory, 
 and he kept some hundreds of hands, and he exalted himself 
 exceedingly. And everything, one may say, was at his beck and 
 call, and even those in authority hindered him in nothing, and 
 the archimandrite thanked him for his zeal : he gave freely of 
 his substance to the monastery, and when the fit came upon 
 him he sighed and groaned over his soul and was troubled not 
 a Uttle over the life to come. A widower he was and childless ; 
 of his wife there were tales that he had beaten her from the 
 first year of their marriage, and that from his youth up he had 
 been apt to be too free with his hands. Only all that had 
 happened long ago ; he had no desire to enter into the bonds of 
 another marriage. He had a weakness for strong drink, too, 
 
 384
 
 and when the time came he would nm drunk about the town, 
 naked and shouting ; the town was of little account and was 
 full of iniquity. And when the time was ended he was moved 
 to anger, and all that he thought fit was good, and all he bade 
 them do was right. He paid his people according to his pleasure, 
 he brings out his reckoning beads, puts on his spectacles : " How 
 much for you, Foma ? " " I've had nothing since Christmas, 
 Maxim Ivanovitch ; thirty-nine roubles is my due." " Ough ! 
 what a sum of money ! That's too much for you ! It's more 
 than you're worth altogether ; it would not be fitting for you ; 
 ten roubles off the beads and you take twenty-nine." And the 
 man says nothing no one dares open his lips ; all are dumb 
 before him. 
 
 " I know how much I ought to give him," he says. " It's 
 the only way to deal with the folk here. The folk here are 
 corrupt. But for me they would have perished of hunger, all 
 that are here. The folk here are thieves again. They covet 
 all that they behold, there is no courage in them. They are 
 drimkards too ; if you pay a man his meney he'll take it to the 
 tavern and will sit in the tavern till he's naked — not a thread 
 on him, he will come out as bare as your hand.. They are mean 
 ^^Tetches. A man wiU sit on a stone facing the tavern and 
 begin wailing : ' Oh mother, my dear mother, why did you 
 bring me into the world a hopeless drunkard ? Better you had 
 strangled me at birth, a hopeless drunkard like me ! ' Can you 
 call that a man 1 That's a beast, not a man. One must first 
 teach him better, and then give him money. I know when to 
 give it him." 
 
 That's how Maxim Ivanovitch used to talk of the folk of 
 Afimyevsk. Though he spoke evil of them, yet it was the 
 truth. The folk were froward and unstable. 
 
 There lived in the same town another merchant, and he died. 
 He was a yoimg man and light-minded. He came to ruin and 
 lost all his fortune. For the last year he struggled like a fish 
 on the sand, and his life drew near its end. He was on bad 
 terms with Maxim Ivanovitch all the time, and was heavily in 
 debt to him. And he left behind a widow, still young, and 
 five children. And for a young widow to be left alone without 
 a husband, like a swallow without a refuge, is a great ordeal, to say 
 nothing of five little children, and nothing to give them to eat. 
 .Their last possession, a wooden house, Maxim Ivanovitch had 
 taken for a debt. She set them all in a row at the church porch, 
 
 385
 
 the eldest a boy of seven, and the others all girls, one smaller 
 than another, the biggest of them four, and the youngest babe 
 at the breast. When Mass was over Maxim Ivanovitch came 
 out of church, and all the little ones, all in a row, knelt down 
 before him — she had told them to do this beforehand — and they 
 clasped their little hands before them, and she behind them, with 
 the fifth child in her arms, bowed down to the earth before him 
 in the sight of all the congregation : " Maxim Ivanovitch, have 
 mercy on the orphans ! Do not take away their last crust 1 
 Do not drive them out of their home ! " And all who were 
 present were moved to tears, so well had she taught them. She 
 thought that he would be proud before the people and would 
 forgive the debt, and give back the house to the orphans. But 
 it did not fall out so. Maxim Ivanovitch stood still. " You're 
 a young widow," said he, " you want a husband, you are not 
 weeping over your orphans. Your husband cursed me on his 
 deathbed." And he passed by and did not give up the house. 
 " Why follow their foolishness (that is, connive at it) ? If I 
 show her benevolence they'll abuse me more than ever. All that 
 nonsense will be revived and the slander will only be confirmed." 
 
 For there was a story that ten years before he had sent to 
 that widow before she wa^ married, and had offered her a 
 great sum of money (she was very beautiful), forgetting that 
 that sin is no less than defiling the temple of God. But he did 
 not succeed then in his evil design. Of such abominations he 
 had committed not a few, both in the town and ali over the 
 province, and indeed had gone beyond all bounds in such doings. 
 
 The mother wailed with her nurselings. He turned the 
 orphans out of the house, and not from spite only, for, indeed, a 
 man sometimes does not know himself what drives him to carry 
 out his will. Well, people helped her at first and then she went 
 out to work for hire. But there was little to be earned, save at 
 the factory ; she scrubs floors, weeds in the garden, heats the 
 bath-house, and she carries the babe in her arms, and the other 
 four run about the streets in their little shirts. When she made 
 them kneel down at the church porch they still had little shoes, 
 and little jackets of a sort, for they were merchant's children : 
 but now they began to run barefoot. A child soon gets through 
 its little clothes we know. Well, the children didn't care : so 
 long as there was sunshine they rejoiced, like birds, did not feel 
 their ruin, and their voices were like little bells. The widow 
 thought " the winter will come and what shall I do with you 
 
 386
 
 then ? If God would only take you to Him before then ! " 
 But she had not to wait for the winter. About our parts the 
 children have a cough, the whooping-cough, which goes from 
 one to the other. First of all the baby died, and after her the 
 others fell ill, and all four little girls she buried that autumn 
 one after the other ; one of them, it's true, was trampled by the 
 horses in the street. And what do you think ? She buried 
 them and she wailed. Though she had cursed them, yet when 
 Grod took them she was sorry. A mother's heart ! 
 
 All she had left was the eldest, the boy, and she hung over 
 him trembling. He was weak and tender, with a pretty Uttle 
 face like a girl's, and she took him to the factory to the foreman 
 who was his godfather, and she herself took a place as nurse. 
 
 But one day the boy was running in the yard, and Maxim 
 Ivanovitch suddenly drove up with a pair of horses, and he had 
 just been drinking ; and the boy came rushing down the steps 
 straight at him, and slipped and stumbled right against him as 
 he was getting out of the droshky, and hit him with both hands 
 in the stomach. He seized the boy. by the hair and yelled, 
 " Whose boy is it ? A birch ! Thrash hira before me, this 
 minute." The boy was half-dead with fright. They began 
 thrashing him ; he screamed. " So you scream, too, do you ? 
 Thrash him till he leaves off screaming." Whether they thrashed 
 him hard or not, he didn't give up screaming till he fainted 
 altogether. Then they left off thrashing him, they were 
 frightened. The boy lay senseless, hardly breathing. They did 
 say afterwards they had not beaten him much, but the boy 
 was terrified. Maxim Ivanovitch was frightened ! " Wbose 
 boy is he ? " he asked. When they told him, " Upon my word 
 Take him to his mother. Why is he hanging about the factory 
 here ? " For two days afterwards he said nothing. Then he 
 asked again : " How's the boy ? " And it had gone hard with 
 the boy. He had fallen ill, and lay in the comer at his mother's, 
 and she had given up her job to look after him, and inflammation 
 of the lungs had set in. 
 
 " Upon my word ! " said Maxim Ivanovitch, " and for so little. 
 It's not as though he were badly beaten. They only gave him 
 a bit of a fright. I've given all the others just as sound a 
 thrashing and never had this nonsense." He expected the 
 mother to come and complain, and in his pride he said nothing 
 As though that were likely ! The mother didn't dare to com- 
 plain. And then he sent her fifteen roubles from himself, and 
 
 387
 
 a doctor ; and not because he was afraid, but because he thought 
 better of it. And then soon his time came and he drank, for 
 three weeks. 
 
 Winter passed, and at the Holy Ascension of Our Lord, 
 Maxim Ivanovitch asks again : " And how's that same boy ? " 
 And all the winter he'd been silent and not asked. And they 
 told him, " He's better and living with his mother, and she goes 
 out by the day." And Maxim Ivanovitch went that day to 
 the widow. He didn't go into the house, but called her out to 
 the gate while he sat in his droshky. " See now, honest widow," 
 says he. " I want to be a real benefactor to your son, and to 
 show him the utmost favour. I will take him from here into 
 my house. And if the boy pleases me I'll settle a decent fortune 
 on him ; and if I'm completely satisfied with him I may at my 
 death make him the heir of my whole property as though he 
 were my own son, on condition, however, that you do not come 
 to the house except on great holidays. If this suits you, bring 
 the boy to-morrow morning, he can't always be playing knuckle- 
 bones." And saying this, he drove away, leaving the mother 
 dazed. People had overheard and said to her, " When the boy 
 grows up he'll reproach you himself for having deprived him of 
 such good fortune." In the night she cried over him, but in the 
 morning she took the child. And the lad was more dead than alive. 
 
 Maxim Ivanovitch dressed him like a little gentleman, and 
 hired a teacher for him, and sat him at his book from that hour 
 forward ; and it came to his never leaving him out of hie sight, 
 always keeping him with him. The boy could scarcely begin to 
 yawn before he'd shout at him, " Mind your book ! Study ! 
 I want to make a man of you." And the boy was frail ; ever 
 since the time of that beating he'd had a cough. " As though 
 we didn't live well in my house ! " said Maxim Ivanovitch, 
 wondering ; " at his mother's he used to run barefoot and gnaw 
 crusts ; why is he more puny than before ? " And the teacher 
 said, " Every boy," sajs he, " needs to play about, not to be 
 studying all the time ; he needs exercise," and he explained it 
 aU to him reasonably. Maxim Ivanovitch reflected. " That's 
 true," he said. And that teacher's name was Pyotr Stepano- 
 vitch ; the Kingdom of Heaven be his ! He was almost like a 
 crazy saint, he drank much, too much indeed, and that was the 
 reason he had been turned out of so many places, and he lived 
 in the town on alms one may say, but he was of great intelligence 
 and strong in science. " This is not the place for me," ho 
 
 388
 
 thought to himself, " I ought to be a professor in the university ; 
 here I'm buried in the mud, my very garments loathe me." 
 Maxim Ivanovitch sits and shouts to the child, " Play ! " and 
 he scarcely dares to breathe before him. And it came to such 
 a pass that the boy could not hear the sound of his voice without 
 trembling all over. And Maxim Ivanovitch wondered more and 
 more. " He's neither one thing nor the other ; I picked him 
 out of the mud, I dressed him in drap de dames with little boots 
 of good material, he has embroidered shirts like a general's son, 
 why has he not grown attached to me ? Why is he as dumb as 
 a httle wolf ? " And though people had long given up being 
 surprised at Maxim Ivanovitch, they began to be surprised at 
 him again — the man was beside himself : he pestered the httle 
 child and would never let him alone. " As sure as I'm alive 
 I'll root up his character. His father cursed me on his deathbed 
 after he'd taken the last sacrament. It's his father's character." 
 And yet he didn't once use the birch to him (after that time he 
 was afraid to). He frightened him, that's what he did. He 
 frightened him without a birch. 
 
 And something happened. One day, as soon as he'd gone 
 out, the boy left his book and jumped on to a chair. He had 
 thrown his ball on to the top of the sideboard, and now he wanted 
 to get it, and his sleeve caught in a china lamp on the sideboard, 
 the lamp fell to the floor and was smashed to pieces, and the 
 crash was heard all over the house, and it was an expensive 
 thing, made of Saxony china. And Maxim Ivanovitch heard at 
 once, though he was two rooms away, and he yelled. The boy 
 rushed away in terror. He ran out on the verandah, across the 
 garden, and through the back gate on to the river-bank. And 
 there was a boulevard running along the river-bank, there were 
 old willows there, it was a pleasant place. He ran down to the 
 water, people saw, and clasped his hands at the very place where 
 the feny-boat comes in, but seemed frightened of the water, and 
 stood as though turned to stone. And it's a broad open space, 
 the river is swift there, and boats pass by ; on the other side 
 there are shops, a square, a temple of God, shining with golden 
 domes. And just then Mme. Ferzing, the colonel's Avife, came 
 hurrying down to the ferry with her little daughter. The daughter, 
 who was also a child of eight, was wearing a little white frock ; 
 she looked at the boy and laughed, and she was сагг} ing a little 
 country basket, and in it a hedgehog. " Look, mother," said 
 she, " how the boy is looking at my hedgehog ! " "No," said 
 
 389
 
 the lady, " he's frightened of something. What are you afraid 
 of, pretty boy ? " (All this was told afterwards.) " And what 
 a pretty boy," she said ; " and how nicely he's dressed. Whose 
 boy are you ? " she asked. And he'd never seen a hedgehog 
 before, he went up and looked, and forgot everything at once — 
 such is childhood ! " What is it you have got there ? " he asked. 
 " It's a hedgehog," said the Uttle lady, " we've just bought it 
 from a peasant, he found it in the woods." " What's that," 
 he asked, '' what is a hedgehog ? " and he began laughing and 
 poking it with his finger, and the hedgehog put up its bristles, 
 and the little girl was delighted with the boy. " We'll take it 
 home with us and tame it," she said. " Ach," said he, " do 
 give me your hedgehog ! " And he asked her this so pleadingly, 
 and he'd hardly uttered the words, when Maxim Ivanovitch came 
 running down upon him. " Ah, there you are ! Hold him ! " 
 (He was in such a rage, that he'd run out of the house after him, 
 without a hat.) Then the boy remembered everything, he 
 screamed, and ran to the water, pressed his little fists against his 
 breast, looked up at the sky (they saw it, they saw it !) and 
 leapt into the water. Well, people cried out, and jumped from 
 the ferry, tried to get him out, but the current carried him away. 
 The river was rapid, and when they got him out, the little thing 
 was dead. His chest was weak, he couldn't stand being in the 
 water, his hold on life was weak. And such a thing had never 
 been known in those parts, a little child like that to take its life ! 
 What a sin ! And what could such a little soul say to our Lord 
 God in the world beyond ? 
 
 And Maxim Ivanovitch brooded over it ever after. The man 
 became so changed one would hardly have known him. He 
 sorrowed grievously. He tried drinking, and drank heavily, but 
 gave it up — it was no help. He gave up going to the factory 
 too, he would listen to no one. If anyone spoke to him, he 
 would be silent, or wave his hand. So he spent two months, 
 and then he began talking to himself. He would walk about 
 talking to himself. Vaskovo, the little village down the hill, 
 caught fire, and nine houses were burnt ; Maxim Ivanovitch 
 drove up to look. The peasants whose cottages were burnt 
 came round him wailing ; he promised to help them and gave 
 orders, and then he called his steward again and took it back. 
 "There's no need," said he, "don't give them anything," and 
 he never said why. " God has sent me to be a scorn unto all 
 men," said he, " like some monster, and therefore so be it. 
 
 390
 
 Like the wind," said he, " has my fame gone abroad." The 
 archimandrite himself came to him. He was a stem man, the 
 head of the community of the monastery, "What are you doing ?" 
 he asked sternly. 
 
 " I will tell you " And Maxim Ivanovitch opened the Bible 
 and pointed to the passage : 
 
 " Whoso shall offend one of these little ones, which believe in 
 me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about 
 his neck and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea." 
 (Math, xviii, 6.) 
 
 " Yes," said the archimandrite, " though it was not said 
 directly of this, yet it fits it well. It is sad when a man loses his 
 measure — the man is lost. And thou hast exalted thyself." 
 
 And Maxim Ivanovitch sits as though a stupor had come upon 
 him. The archimandrite gazed upon him. 
 
 " Listen," said he, " and remember. It is said : * the word 
 of a desperate man flies on the wind.' And remember, also, that 
 even the angels of God are not perfect. But perfect and sinless 
 is one only, our Lord Jesus Christ, and Him the angels serve. 
 Moreover, thou didst not will the death of that child, but wast 
 only without wisdom. But this," said he, " is marvellous 
 in my eyes. Thou hast committed many even worse iniquities. 
 Many men thou hasc ruined, many thou hast corrupted, many 
 thou hast destroyed, no less than, if thou hadst slain them. 
 And did not his sisters, all the four babes, die almost before thine 
 eyes ? Why has this one only confounded thee ? For all these 
 in the past thou hast not grieved, I dare say, but bast even 
 forgotten to think of them. Why art thou so horror-stricken 
 for this child for whom thou wast not greatly to blame ? " 
 
 " I dream at night," Maxim Ivanovitch said. 
 
 " And what ? " 
 
 But he told nothing more. He sat mute. The archimandrite 
 marvelled, but with that he went away. There was no doing 
 anything with him. 
 
 And Maxim Ivanovitch sent for the teacher, for Pyotr 
 Stepanovitch ; they had not met since that day. 
 
 " You remember him ? " says he. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " You painted a picture with oil colours, here in the tavern," 
 said he, " and took a copy of the chief priest's portrait. Could 
 you paint me a picture ? " 
 
 " I can do anything, I have every talent. I can do everything." 
 
 391
 
 " Paint me a very big picture, to cover the whole wall, and 
 paint in it first of all the river, and the slope, and the ferry, and 
 all the people who were there, the colonel's wife, and her daughter 
 and the hedgehog. And paint me the other bank too, so that 
 one can see the church and the square and the shops, and where 
 the cabs stand — ^paint it all just as it is. And the boy by the 
 ferry, just above the river, at that very place, and paint him 
 with his two little fists pressed to his little breast. Be sure to 
 do that. And open the heavens above the church on the 
 further side, and let all the angels of heaven be flying to meet 
 him. Can you do it or not ? " 
 " I can do anything." 
 
 " I needn't ask a dauber like you. I might send for the finest 
 painter in Moscow, or even from London itself, but you remember 
 his face. If iff not like, or little like, I'll only-give you fifty 
 roubles. But if it's just like, I'll give you two hundred. You 
 remember his eyes were blue. . . . And it must be made a very, 
 very big picture." 
 
 It was prepared. Pyotr Stepanovitch began painting and 
 then he suddenly went and said : 
 " No, it can't be painted like that." 
 " Why so ? " 
 
 " Because that sin, suicide, is the greatest of all sins. And 
 would the angels come to meet him after such a sin ? " 
 " But he was a babe, he was not responsible." 
 " No, he was not a babe, he was a youth. He was eight years 
 old when it happened. He was bound to render some account." 
 Maxim Ivanovitch was more terror-stricken than ever. 
 " But I tell you what, I've thought something," said Pyotr 
 Stepanovitch, " we won't open the heaven, and there's no need 
 to paint the angels, but I'll let a beam of light, one bright ray of 
 light, come down from heaven as though to meet him. It's all 
 the same as long as there's something." 
 
 So he painted the ray. I saw that picture myself afterwards, 
 and that very ray of light, and the river. It stretched right 
 across the wall, all blue, and the sweet boy was there, both little 
 hands pressed to his breast, and the little lady, and the hedge- 
 hog, he put it all in. Only Maxim Ivanovitch showed no one 
 the picture at the time, but locked it up in his room, away 
 from all eyes ; and when the people trooped from all over the 
 town to see it, he bade them drive every one away. There was a 
 great talk about it. PVotr Stepanovitch seemed as though he 
 
 392
 
 were beside himself. " I can do anything now," said he. " I've 
 only to set up in St. Petersburg at the court." He was a very 
 polite man, but he liked boasting beyond all measure. And his 
 fate overtook him ; when he received the full two hundred 
 roubles, he began drinking at once, and showed his money to 
 every one, bragging of it, and he was murdered at night, when 
 he was drunk, and his money stolen by a workman with whom 
 he was drinking, and it all became known in the morning. 
 
 And it all ended so that even now they remember it every- 
 where there. Maxim Ivanovitch suddenly drives up to the same 
 widow. She lodged at the edge of the town in a working- woman's 
 hut ; he stood before her and bowed down to the ground. And 
 she had been iU ever since that time and could scarcely move. 
 
 " Good mother," he wailed, " honest widow, marry me, 
 monster as I am. Let me live again ! " 
 
 She looks at him more dead than alive. 
 
 " I want us to have another boy," said he. " And if he is 
 bom, it will mean that that boy has forgiven us both, both you 
 and me. For so the boy has bidden me." 
 
 She saw the man was out of his mind, and in a frenzy, but 
 she could not refrain. 
 
 " That's all nonsense," she answered him, " and only 
 cowardice. Through the same cowardice I have lost all my 
 children. I cannot bear the sight of you before me, let alone 
 accepting such an everlasting torture." 
 
 Maxim Ivanovitch drove off, but he did not give in. The 
 whole town was agog at such a marvel. Maxim Ivanovitch 
 sent match-makers to her. He sent for two of his aunts, 
 working women in the chief town of the province. Aunts thej" 
 were not, but kinsfolk of some sort, decent people. They began 
 trying to turn her, they kept persuading her and would not 
 leave the cottage. He sent her merchants' wives of the town too, 
 and the wife of the head priest of the cathedral, and the wives of 
 officials ; she was besieged by the whole town, and she got 
 really sick of it. 
 
 " If my orphans had been living," she said, " but why should 
 I now ? Am I to be guilty of such a sin against my children ? " 
 
 The archmandrite, too, tried to persuade her. He breathed 
 into her ear : 
 
 " You will make a new man of him." 
 
 She was horrified, and people wondered at her. 
 
 " How can you refuse such a piece of luck ? ' 
 
 393
 
 And this was how he overcame her in the end. 
 
 " Anyway he was a suicide," he said, " and not a babe, but a 
 youth, and owing to his years he could not have been admitted 
 to the Holy C!ommunion, and so he must have been bound to 
 give at least some account. If you enter into matrimony with 
 me, I'll make you a solemn promise, I'll build a church of God 
 to the eternal memory of his soul." 
 
 She could not stand out against that, and consented. So they 
 were married. 
 
 And all were in amazement. They lived from the very first 
 day in great and unfeigned harmony, jealously guarding their 
 marriage vow, and like one soul in two bodies. She conceived 
 that winter, and they began visiting the churches, and fearing 
 the wrath of God. They stayed in three monasteries, and 
 consulted prophecy. He built the promised church, and also a 
 hospital, and almshouses in the town. He founded an endow- 
 ment for widows and orphans. And he remembered all whom 
 he had injured, and desired to make them restitution ; he began 
 to give away money without stint, so that his wife and the 
 archimandrite even had to restrain him ; " for that is enough," 
 they said. Maxim Ivanovitch listened to them. " I cheated 
 Foma of his wages that time," said he. So they paid that back 
 to Foma. And Foma was moved even to tears. " As it is I'm 
 content . . ." says he, " you've given me so much without 
 that." It touched every one's heart in fact, and it shows it's true 
 what they say that a living man will be a good example. And 
 the people are good-hearted there. 
 
 His wife began to manage the factory herself, and so well that 
 she's remembered to this day. He did not give up drinking, 
 but she looked after him at those times, and began to nurse 
 him. His language became more decorous, and even his voice 
 changed. He became merciful beyond all wont, even to animals. 
 If he saw from the window a peasant shamelessly beating his 
 horse on the head, he would send out at once, and buy the horse 
 at double its value. And he received the gift of tears. If any 
 one talked to him he melted into tears. When her time had 
 come, God answered their prayers at last, and sent them a son, 
 and for the first time Maxim Ivanovitch became glad ; he gave 
 alms freely, and forgave many debts, and invited the whole 
 town to the christening. And next day he was black as night. 
 His wife saw that something was wrong with him, and held up 
 to him the new-born babe. 
 
 394
 
 " The boy has forgiven us," she said ; " he has accepted our 
 prayers and our tears for him." 
 
 And it must be said they had neither of them said one word 
 on that subject for the whole year, they had kept it from each 
 other in their hearts. And Maxim Ivanovitch looked at her, 
 black as night. " Wait a bit," said he, " consider, for a whole 
 year he has not come to me, but last night he came in my 
 dream." 
 
 " I was struck to the heart with terror when I heard those 
 strange words," she said afterwards. 
 
 The boy had not come to him in his dream for nothing. 
 Scarcely had Maxim Ivanovitch said this, when something 
 happened to the new-bom babe, it suddenly fell ill. And the 
 child was ill for eight days; they prayed unceasingly and sent 
 for doctors, and sent for the very best doctor in Moscow by 
 train. The doctor came, and he flew into a rage. 
 
 " I'm the foremost doctor," said he, " all Moscow is awaiting 
 me. 
 
 He prescribed a drop, and hurried away again. He took 
 eight hundred roubles. And the baby died in the evening. 
 
 And what after that ? Maxim Ivanovitch settled ail hi;» 
 property on his beloved wife, gave up all his money and all 
 his papers to htr, doing it all in due form according to law, 
 then he stood before her and bowed down to the earth. 
 
 " Let me go, my priceless spouse, save my soul while it is still 
 possible. If I spend the time without profit to my soul, I shall 
 not return. I have been hard and cruel, and laid heavy burdens 
 upon men, but I believe that for the woes and wanderings that 
 lie before me, God will not leave me without requital, seeing 
 that to leave all this is no little cross and no little woe." 
 
 And his wife heard him with many tears. 
 
 " You are all I have now upon the earth, and to whom am I 
 left ? " said she, " I have laid up affection in my heart for you 
 thLs year." 
 
 And every one in the town counselled him against it and 
 besought him ; and thought to hold him back by force. But 
 he would not listen to them, and he went away in secret by 
 night, and was not seen again. And the tale is that he perse- 
 veres in pilgrimage and in patience to this day, and visits hie 
 dear wife once a year. 
 
 395
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 1 
 
 I AM now approaching the culminating catastrophe to which 
 my whole story is leading up. But before I can continue I 
 must give a preliminary explanation of things of which I knew 
 nothing at the time when I was taking part in them, but which 
 I only understood and fully realized long afterwards, that is 
 when everything was over. I don't know how else to be clear, 
 as otherwise I should have to write the whole story in riddles. 
 And so I will give a simple and direct explanation, sacrificing so- 
 called artistic effect, and presenting it without any personal 
 feelings, as though I were not writing it myself, something after 
 the style of an enlre/ilet in the newspaper. 
 
 The fact is that my old schoolfellow, Lambert, might well, 
 and indeed with certainty, be said to belong to one of those dis- 
 reputable gangs of petty scoundrels who form associations for 
 the sake of what is now called chantage, an offence nowadays 
 defined and punished by our legal code. The gang to which 
 Lambert belonged had been formed in Moscow and had already 
 succeeded in a good many enterprises there (it was to some ex- 
 tent exposed later on). I heard afterwards that they had in 
 Moscow an extremely experienced and clever leader, a man no 
 longer young. They embarked upon enterprises, sonii^times 
 acting individually and sometimes in concert. While they 
 were responsible for some filthy and indecent scandals (accounts 
 of which have, however, already been published in the news- 
 papers) they also carried out some subtle and elaborate intrigues 
 under the leadership of their chief. I found out about some of 
 them later on, but I will not repeat the details. I will only 
 mention that it was their characteristic method to discover 
 some secret, often in the life of people of the greatest respccta 
 bility and good position. Then they would go to these persons 
 and threaten to make public documentary evidence (v\hich they 
 often did not possess) and would demand a sum of money as 
 the price of silence. There are things neither sinful nor criminal 
 Avhich even honourable and strong-minded people would dread 
 to have exposed. They worked chiefly upon family secrets. 
 To show how adroit their chief sometimes was in his proceedings, 
 
 396
 
 I will describe in three lines and without any details one of their 
 exploits. A really wicked and sinful action was committed in 
 a certain honourable family ; the wife of a well-kno"WTi and 
 highly respected man entered into a secret love-affair with p, 
 young and wealthy officer. They scented this out, and what 
 they did was to give the young man plainly to understand that 
 they would inform the husband. They hadn't the slightest proof, 
 and the young man knew that quite well, and indeed thoy did 
 not conceal it from him. But the whole ingenuity and the whole 
 cunning of their calculations lay in the reflection that on receiv- 
 ing information, even without proofs, the husband would take 
 exactly the same steps as though he had positive proofs. They 
 relied upon their knowledge of the man's character, and of 
 the circumstances of the family. The fact was that one member 
 of the gang was a young man belonging to a very good set, 
 and he had been able to collect information beforehand. They 
 extracted a considerable sum from the lover, and without any 
 risk to themselves, because their victim was himself eager for 
 secrecy. 
 
 Though Lambert took part in this affair, he was not actually 
 one of the Moscow gang ; acquiring a taste for the work he began 
 by degrees and experimentally acting on his own account. I 
 may mention beforehand that he was not altogether well fitted 
 for it. He was very sharp and calculating, but hasty, and what's 
 more, simple, or rather naive, that is he had very little knowledge 
 of men or of good society. I fancy, for instance, that he did not 
 realize the capacity of the Moscow chief, and imagined that the 
 organization and conduct of such projects were very easy. And 
 he imagined that almost every one was as great a scoundrel as 
 he was himself, and if once he had conceived that a certain person 
 was afraid, or must be afraid for this reason or for that, he would 
 be as certain that the man was afraid as though it were an axio- 
 matic truth. I don't know how to express this ; I'll explain 
 the fact more clearly later, but in my opinion he had rather a 
 coarse-grained intelligence, and not only had he no faith in 
 certain good and generous feelings, but perhaps he had actually 
 no conception of them. 
 
 He had come to Petersburg because he had long conceived of 
 Petersburg as offering a wider scope for his energies, and because 
 in Moscow he had got into a scrape, and because some one was 
 looking for him there with extremely evil intentions. On arriving 
 in Petersburg he at once got into touch with an old comrade, 
 
 397
 
 but he found the outlook unpromising and nothing to be done on 
 a large scale. Hih acquaintance had increased, but nothing 
 had come of it, " They're a wretched lot here, no better than 
 boys," he said to me himself afterwards. And behold, one fine 
 morning at sunrise he found me half -frozen under a wall, and at 
 once dropped upon the scent of what he regarded as a " very 
 rich job." 
 
 It all rested on my ravings as I thawed in his lodgings. 
 I was practically delirious then ! But from my words it was 
 manifest that of all the affronts I had suffered on that momentous 
 day, the thing which most rankled in my heart, and was most 
 vivid in my memory, was the insult I had received from Biiring 
 and from her ; I should not otherwise have talked of nothing else in 
 my delirium at Lambert's, but should have raved of Zerstchikov 
 for example, but it was only of the former I had talked, as I 
 learned afterwards from Lambert himself. And besides, I was 
 in a sort of ecstasy, and looked upon both Lambert and Alphonsine 
 on that awful morning as, so-to-say, champions and deliverers. 
 Afterwards, as I got better and lay in bed, wondering what 
 Lambert could have learned from my ravings, and to what ex- 
 tent I had babbled, it never occurred to me even to suspect that 
 he could have found out so much. Oh, of course, from the 
 gnawing at ray conscience I suspected even then that I had said 
 a great deal I should not have said, but, I repeat, I never imagined 
 that it had gone so far. I ho^)ed, too, that I was not able to 
 articulate my words clearly, and indeed I reckoned upon this, 
 as I distinctly remembered it. And yet it turned out in fact that 
 my articulation had been much more distinct than I afterwards 
 supposed and hoped. But the worst of it was that all this only 
 came to light afterwards, and long afterwards, and that was a 
 misfortune for me. 
 
 From my deliriums, my ravings, my mutterings, my transports, 
 and so on, he learned, to begin with, almost all the surnames 
 correctly, and even some addresses. And, secondly, he was able 
 to get a fairly correct idea of the consequence of the persons con- 
 cerned (the old prince, her, Biiring, Anna Andreyevna, and even 
 Versilov) ; thirdly, he learned that I had been insulted and was 
 threatening revenge ; and lastly, and chiefly, that there was in 
 existence a mysterious, hidden document, a letter, such, that if 
 it were shown to a half-crazy old prince he would learn that his 
 own daughter thought him a lunatic and was already consulting 
 lawyers to get him locked up — and would either go quite mad, 
 
 398
 
 or would turn her out of the house, and leave her out of his 
 will, or would marry a certain Mile. Versilov whom he already 
 wanted to marry, and was being prevented from marrying. In 
 short, Lambert understood a great deal ; no doubt a great deal 
 still remained obscure, but the expert blackmailer had anyway 
 dropped on a trustworthy scent. When I ran away after- 
 wards from Alphonsine he promptly found out my address (in the 
 simplest possible way, by going to the address bureau) ; and 
 then immediately made the necessary inquiries, from which 
 he discovered that all these persons about whom I had babbled 
 to him did actually exist. Then he promptly took the first 
 step. 
 
 The most important fact was the existence of the document, 
 and that I was in po.ssession of it, and that that document was 
 of the highest value — of that Lambert had no doubt. Here I 
 omit one circumstance, which will come in better later, in its 
 proper place, and will only mention here that that circumstance 
 was what principally confirmed Lambert in the conviction of 
 the real existence and, still more, of the value of the document. 
 It was, I may say beforehand, a momentous circumstance, of 
 which I could have no conception either at the time or afterwards. 
 until the final catastrophe, when everything was discovered and 
 became evident of itself. And so, convinced of the main facts, 
 his first step was to go to Anna Andreyevna. 
 
 Yet one thing perplexes me to this day : how he, Lambert, 
 succeeded in gaining admittance to, and fastening himself upon, 
 such an unapproachable and superior personage as Anna Andrey- 
 evna. It is true that he gathered information about her, but 
 what of that ? It is true that he was extremely well dressed, 
 spoke French with a Parisian accent, and had a French surname, 
 but surely Anna Andreyevna must have discerned that he was a 
 scoundrel at once ? Or is one to suppose that a scoundrel was 
 just what she wanted at that time ? But surely that cannot be 
 so ? 
 
 I never could find out the details of their interview, but I 
 have often pictured the scene to myself in ray imagination. 
 What is most likely is that from the first word Lambert posed as 
 a friend of ray childhood, anxious over a dear and cherished 
 comrade. But no doubt at that first interview he succeeded in 
 hinting quite clearly that I had a document, and letting her know 
 that it was a secret, and that only he, Lambert, was in possession 
 of it, and that I was intending to revenge myself on Mme. 
 
 399
 
 Ahmakov by means of it, and so on, and so on. Above all he could 
 explain to her as precisely as possible the importance and value 
 of this document. As for Anna Andreyevna she was in such a 
 position that she must have caught at any information of this 
 kind, must have listened with the closest attention, and . . . 
 must have risen to the bait through " the struggle for existence." 
 Just at that time they had abstracted her fianc6 from her, and 
 had cd,rried him off under guardianship to Tsarskoe ; and they 
 had even put her under supervision, too. And then a find like 
 this ! This was not a case of some old woman whispering in her 
 ear, 6f tearful lamentations, of scheming and backbiting, there 
 was a letter, an actual piece of ^\Titing, that is a positive proof 
 of the treacherous design of his daughter, and of all those who 
 had snatched him from her, and that, therefore, he must be 
 saved even by flight, to her, to Anna Andreyevna, and must be 
 married to her in twenty-four hours, otherwise he would be at 
 once spirited away into a lunatic asylum. 
 
 And perhaps the fact that Lambert attempted no subterfuges 
 with the young lady even for a moment, but practically blurted 
 straight out from the first word : 
 
 " Mademoiselle, either remain an old maid or become a princess 
 and a millionaire. There is a document and I will steal it from 
 the lad and give it to you . . . for a note of hand from you for 
 thirty thousand." 
 
 I positively imagine that that's just how it was. Oh, he 
 thought they were all as scoundrelly as himself ; I repeat he 
 had that sort of simplicity, that sort of innocence of the scoundrel 
 . . . However it happened, it may very well be that even when 
 she was demeaning herself like this, Anna Andreyevna was not 
 embarrassed for a minute, but could perfectly well control her- 
 self and listen to the blackmailer talking in his own style — and 
 all from " the breadth of her nature." Oh, no doubt she flushed 
 a little at first, and then she mastered herself and listened. And 
 when I imagine that proud, unapproachable, genuinely dignified 
 girl, with her brains, too, hand in hand with Lambert, well . . . 
 what a mind I A Russian mind, so large, with such a desire for 
 breadth, a woman's too, and in such circumstances I 
 
 Now I'll make a r«^sume. By the time I went out after my 
 illness, Lambert had two plans (I know that for a fact now). 
 The first was to get an lOU for not less than thirty thousand 
 from Anna Andreyevna for the letter, and then to help her to 
 frighten the prince, to abduct him and to get her married to him 
 
 400
 
 at once — something of that sort anyway. The plan for this was 
 complete. They were only waiting for ray help, that is for the 
 document. 
 
 The second plan was to desert Anna Andreyevna, throw her 
 over, and sell the letter to Mme. Ahmakov, if that would pay 
 him better. In this he was reckoning on Biiring. But Lambert 
 had not yet applied to Mme. Ahmakov, and was only on her 
 track. He was waiting for me too. 
 
 Oh, he needed me, that is, not me but the letter ! He had 
 formed two plans in regard to me also. The first was, if neces- 
 sary, to act in concert with me, and to go halves with me, first 
 taking possession of me morally and physically. But the second 
 plan attracted him much more. It was to deceive me as a silly 
 boy, and to steal the letter from me, or even simply to take it 
 from me by force. This was his favourite plan, and the one he 
 cherished in his dreams. I repeat, there was a circumstance 
 which made him reckon with certainty on the success of his 
 second plan, but, as I have said already, I will explain that later. 
 In any case he awaited me with nervous impatience. Every- 
 thing depended upon me, every step and every decision. 
 
 And I roust do him the justice to say that he knew how to 
 restrain himself till the time came, in spite of his hasty temper. 
 He did not come to see me all the while I was ill, he only came 
 once to the house and saw Versilov ; he did not worry or frighten 
 me, he kept up an attitude of complete independence as regards 
 me till the day and hour of my going out. As for the possibility 
 of my giving up the letter, telling about it, or destroying it, he 
 had no anxiety on that score. From my words he had been able 
 to gather how much importance I attached to secrecy, and how 
 afraid I was that some one might find out about the letier. And 
 that I should go straight to him and to no one else, on the first 
 day I was well enough, he did not doubt in the least either. 
 Darya Onisimovna came to see me partly by his orders, and he 
 knew that my curiosity and apprehension were already aroused, 
 and that I should not hold out. . . . And, indeed, he had taken 
 all precautions, he was in a position to know what day I was 
 going out, so that I could hardly have eluded him if I had wanted 
 to. 
 
 But however eagerly Lambert may have been expecting me 
 Anna Andreyevna perhaps was awaiting me even more eagerly 
 I must say frankly that Lambert was to some extent right in his 
 reckoning when he contemplated throwing her over, and it was 
 
 2o 
 
 401
 
 her own fault. In spite of the agreement that no doubt existed 
 between them (in what form I don't know, but I have no doubt 
 about it), Anna Andreyevna up to the very last moment was 
 not fully open vrith him. She did not lay all her cards on the 
 table. She hinted at complete agreement on her part and at all 
 sorts of promises — but she confined herself to hints. She listened 
 perhaps to his whole plan in detail ; but she only approved in 
 silence. I have good evidence for this conclusion, and the reason 
 of it all was that she was uxiiting for me. She луоиИ rather have 
 had to do with me than with the rascally Lambert — that's a fact 
 I have no doubt of. That I understand ; but her mistake was in 
 letting Lambert at last understand it. And it would not have 
 suited him at all, if passing him by she had enticed the letter 
 out of me and entered into a compact with me. Moreover, at 
 that time he had complete confidence in the " soundness of the 
 job " ; another man in his place would have had fears and still 
 have been uncertain ; but Lambert was young, insolent, and 
 filled with impatient greed for gain ; he knew little of human 
 nature, and confidently assumed that all were scoundrels. 
 Such a man could have no doubts, especially as he had already 
 observed all sorts of traits in Anna Andreyevna which supported 
 his belief. 
 
 One last point, and the most important : did Versilov know 
 anything by that time, and had he even then taken part with 
 Lambert in any plan, however remote ? No, no, no, at that time 
 he had not. Though, perhaps, even then a fatal word had been 
 dropped. But enough, enough, I am hastening too far ahead. 
 
 Well, and what of me ? Did I know anything, and what did 
 I know on the day I went out ? When I began this entrefilet 
 I declared that I knew nothing on that day, but found out about 
 everything much later, and only when it was all over. That's the 
 truth, but is it th,^ full truth ? No, it is not ; I certainly knew 
 something already, I knew a great deal, indeed. But how ? 
 Let the reader remember my dream / If I could have had such 
 a dream, if it could have surged up from my heart and taken 
 that shape, I must have had, not a knowledge but a presenti- 
 ment of a very great deal of what I have just explained, though 
 in actual fact I only discovered it when everything was over. I 
 had no knowledge of it, but my heart was throbbing with fore- 
 bodings, and evil spirits had possession of my dreams. And it 
 was to that man that I rushed, fully knowing what sort of man 
 be was and foreseeing everything even in detail. And why did 
 
 402
 
 I rush to him ? Imagine ; it seems to me now at the very minute 
 when I am writing that I knew exactly at the time why I was 
 rushing to him, though, again, I knew nothing then. Perhaps 
 the reader will understand this. Now to get on with my story, 
 fact by fact. 
 
 It begins two days before my outbiu'st, when Liza came home 
 m the evening in a state of agitation. She felt terribly humiliated 
 and indeed something insufferable had happened to her. 
 
 I have already mentioned the terms she was on with Vassin. 
 She went to see him not simply to show us that she did not need 
 us, but because she really had a high opinion of him. Their 
 acquaintance had begun at Luga, and I always fancied that Vassin 
 was not indifferent to her. In the misfortunes that had over- 
 whelmed her she might naturally have wished for the advice 
 of a calm, resolute, always lofty mind such as she supposed 
 Vassin 's to be. Besides, women are not very clever in appre- 
 ciating a man's mind at its true value when they like a man ; 
 and they will gladly accept paradoxes as the closest reasoning, 
 if they fall in with their own desires. What Liza liked in Vassin 
 was his sympathy for her in her position and, as she had fancied 
 at first, his sympathy with Prince Sergay. When, later on, 
 she suspected his feeling for her, she could not help appreciating 
 the sympathy he showed for his rival. When she told Prince 
 Sergay that she sometimes went to consult Vassin, he had from 
 the first shown the greatest uneasiness ; he began to be jealous. 
 Liza was offended at this, and purposely maintained her friendly 
 relations with Vassm. Prince Sergay said nothing, but was 
 gloomy, Liza confessed to me (long afterwards) that Vassin 
 had very soon ceased to attract her ; he was composed, and just 
 this everlasting unruffled composure, which had so attracted her 
 at first, afterwards seemed to her distasteful. One would have 
 thought he was practical, and he did, in fact, give her some 
 apparently good advice, but all his advice, as ill-luck would have 
 it, appeared later on impossible to carry out. He gave his 
 opinions sometimes too conceitedly, and showed no trace of 
 diffidence with her, becoming more and more free in his manner 
 as time went on, which she ascribed to his unconsciously feeling 
 less and less respect for her position. Once she thanked him for 
 his invariable goodwill to me, and for talking to me as an 
 
 403
 
 intellectual equal though he was so superior to me (she was 
 repeating my words). He answered : 
 
 " That's not so, and not for that reason. It's because I see no 
 difference between him and other people, I don't consider him 
 more foolish than the clever, or more evil than the good. I treat 
 every one alike because every one's alike in my eyes." 
 
 " Why, do you mean to say you see no differences 1 " 
 
 " Oh, of course, people are all different in one way or another, 
 hut differences don't exist for me because the differences between 
 people don't concern me ; to me they are all the same and every- 
 thing's the same ; and so I'm equally kind to all." 
 
 " And don't you fmd it dull ? " 
 
 " No, I'm always satisfied with myself." 
 
 " And there's nothing you desire ? " 
 
 " Of course there is. But nothing I desire very much. There's 
 scarcely anything I want, not another rouble. Whether I wear 
 cloth of gold or remain as I am is all the same to me. Cloth 
 of gold would add nothing to me. Tit-bits don't tempt me. 
 Could places or honours be worth the place that I am worth ? " 
 
 Liza declared on her honour that these were literally his Avords. 
 But it's not fair to criticize them like this without knowing the 
 cireum«;tances under which they were uttered. 
 
 Little by little Liza came also to the conclusion that his in- 
 dulgent attitude to Prince Sergay was not due to sympathj' for 
 her, but was perhaps only because " all were alike to him. and 
 differences did not exist for him." But in the end he did ap- 
 parently begin to lose his indifference, and to take up an attitude 
 not only of disapproval, but even of contemptuous irony towards 
 Prince Sergay. This incensed Liza, but Vassin remained tm- 
 affected. Above all, he alwaj's expressed himself gently, and 
 showed no indignation even in his disapproval, but confined him- 
 self to logical exposition of her hero's worthlessness ; but there 
 was irony in this very logic. Finally he demonstrated almost 
 directly the " irrationality," the perverse violence of her love. 
 " Your feelings have been mistaken, and a mistake once recog- 
 nized ought invariably to be corrected." 
 
 This had happened on that very day ; Liza indignantly got up 
 from her place to go, but it will hardly be believed Avhat this 
 rational man did next, and how he concluded. \Mth the air 
 of a man of honour, and even with feeling, he offered her his hand. 
 Liza bluntly called him a fool to his face and walked out. 
 
 To suggest deserting a man in misfortune because that man was- 
 
 404
 
 " unworthy of her," and above all to suggest it to a woman 
 who was with child by that very man — there you have the mind 
 of these people ! I call this being dreadfully theoretical and 
 knowing nothing whatever of life, and put it down to a prodigious 
 conceit. And what's more, Liza saw quite clearly that he was 
 actually proud of his action, because he knew of her condition. 
 With tears of indignation she hurried off to Prince Sergay, 
 and he positively surpassed Vassin. One would have thought 
 that after what she told him he might have been convinced 
 that he had no cause for jealousy ; but he became perfectly 
 frantic. But jealous people are always like that 1 He made a 
 fearful scene and insulted her so outrageously that she almost 
 resolved to break off all relations with him. 
 
 She came home, however, still controlling herself, but she could 
 not help telling mother. Oh, that evening the ice was com- 
 pletely broken, and they were on their old affectionate terms 
 again ; both, of course, shed tears as usual in each other's arms, 
 and Liza apparently regained her composure, though she was 
 very gloomy. She sat through the evening in Makar Ivano- 
 vitch's room, without uttering a word, but without leaving the 
 room. She Hstened very attentively to what he said. Ever 
 since the incident with the bench she had become extremely 
 and, as it were, timidly respectful to him, though she still 
 remained taciturn. 
 
 But this time Makar Ivanovitch suddenly gave an unexpected 
 and wonderful turn to the conversation. 1 may mention that 
 Versilov and the doctor had talked of his health with very gloomy 
 faces that morning. I may mention, too, that we had for some 
 days been talking a great deal about mother's birthday, and 
 making preparations to celebrate it in five days' time. Apropos 
 of her birthday Makar Ivanovitch suddenly launched into 
 reminiscences of mother's childhood, and the time when she 
 " couldn't stand up on her little feet." " She was never out of 
 my arms," the old man recalled. " I used to teach her to walk 
 too sometimes. I set her up in a corner three steps away and 
 called her, and she used to totter across to me, and she wasn't 
 frightened, but would run to me laughing, she'd rush at me 
 and throw her arms round my neck. I used to tell you fairy- 
 tales later on, Sofia Andreyevna ; you were very fond of fairy 
 tales, you'd sit on my knee listening for two hours at a stretch 
 They used to wonder in the cottage, ' just see how she's taken to 
 Makar.' Or I'd carry you off into the woods, I'd seek out a 
 
 405
 
 raspberry-bush, I would sit you down by it, and cut you a whistle- 
 pipe out of wood. When we'd had a nice walk, I'd carry you 
 home in my arms — and the little thing would fall asleep. Once 
 she was afraid of a wolf ; she flew to me all of a tremble, and 
 there wasn't a wolf there at all." 
 
 " I remember that," said mother. 
 
 " Can you-really remember it ? " 
 
 " I remember a great deal. Ever since I remember anything 
 in life I have felt your love and tender care over me," she said 
 in a voice full of feeling, and she suddenly flushed crimson. 
 
 Makar Ivanovitch paused for a little. 
 
 " Forgive me, children, I am leaving you. The term of my life 
 is close at hand. In my old age I have found consolation for 
 all afflictions. Thank you, my dear ones." 
 
 " That's enough, Makar Ivanovitch darling," exclaimed Versi- 
 lov in some agitation. " The doctor told me just now that you 
 were a great deal better. ..." 
 
 Mother listened in alarm. 
 
 " Why, what does he know, your Alexandr Semyonovitch — 
 he's a dear man and nothing more. Give over, friends, do you 
 think that I'm afraid to die ? After my morning prayer to-day 
 I had the feeling in my heart that I should never go out again 
 from here ; it was told me. Well, what of it, blessed be the name 
 of the Lord. Yet I have a longing to be looking upon all of you 
 still. Job, after all his sufferings, was comforted looking upon his 
 new children, and forgot the children that were gone — it is im- 
 possible ! Only with the years the sorrow is mingled with the 
 joy and turned to sighs of gladness. So it is in the world. 
 Every soul is tried and is comforted. I thought, children, to say 
 one little word to you," he went on with a gentle, exquisite smile 
 which I shall never forget, and he turned to me, " be zealous for 
 the Holy Church, my dear, and if the time calls for it — die for her ; 
 but wait a bit, don't be frightened, it won't be at once," he added, 
 laughing. " Now perhaps you don't think of it, afterwards you 
 will think of it. And something more. Any good thing you 
 bethink yourself to do, do it for the sake of God and not for envy. 
 Stand Hrmly to your cause, and do not give way through any sort 
 of cowardice ; act steadily, neither rushing nor turning about ; 
 well, that is all I want to tell you. Only accustom yourself to 
 pray daily and unceasingly. I say this now, maybe you'U 
 remember it. I should like to say something to you, too, Audrey 
 Petrovitch, sir, but God will find your heart without my words. 
 
 406
 
 And for long years we have ceased to speak of that, ever since 
 that arrow pierced my heart. Now that I am departing I would 
 only remind you of what you promised then. . . ." 
 
 He almost whispered the last words, with his eyes cast down. 
 
 " Makar Ivanovitch ! " Versilov said in confusion, and he got 
 up from his chair. 
 
 " There, there, don't be troubled, sir, I only recalled it . . . 
 and in the sight of God I am more to blame than any of you, 
 seeing that though you were my master I oiight not to have 
 allowed this weakness, and therefore, Sofia, fret not your soul 
 too much, for all your sin is mine, and you scarcely had full 
 judgment in those days, so I fancy ; nor maybe you either, sir," 
 he smiled with lips that quivered from some sort of pain, " and 
 though I might then have taught you, my wife, even with the 
 rod and indeed ought to have, yet I pitied you when you fell in 
 tears before me, and hid nothing, and kissed my feet. Not to 
 reproach you have I recalled this, beloved, but only to reijLmd 
 Audrey Petrovitch . . . for you remember, sir, yourself your 
 promise, as a nobleman, and all will be covered with the wedding 
 crown. I speak before the children, master . . ." 
 
 He was extremely agitated and looked at Versilov as though 
 expecting from him some word of confirmation. I repeat it was 
 all so sudden, so unexpected, that I sat motionless. Versilov 
 was no less agitated : he went up to mother in silence and warm ly 
 embraced her ; then mother, also in silence, went up to IMakar 
 Ivanovitch and bowed down to his feet. 
 
 In short the scene was overwhelming ; on this occasion we were 
 by ourselves. Even Tatyana Pavlovna was not present. Liza 
 drew herself up in her chair and listened in silence ; suddenly she 
 stood up and said firmly to Makar Ivanovitch : 
 
 " Bless me, too, Makar Ivanovitch for my great anguish. To 
 morrow will decide my whole fate, and you will pray for me 
 to-day." 
 
 And she went out of the room. I knew that Makar Ivano\atch 
 knew all about her already from mother But it was the first 
 time I had seen mother and Versilov side by side : till then I had 
 only seen her as his slave near him. There was still so much I did 
 not understand and had not detected in that man whom I had 
 condemned, and so I went back to my room in confusion. And 
 it must be said that it was just at this time that my perplexity 
 about him was greatest. He had never seemed to me so 
 mysterious and unfathomable as just at that time ; but it's just 
 
 407
 
 about that that I'm writing this whole accoxmt ; all in its good 
 time. 
 
 " It turns out though," I thought to myself as I got into bed, 
 ' that he gave his word ' as a nobleman ' to marry mother if 
 she were left a widow. He said nothing of that when he told me 
 about Makar Ivanovitch before." 
 
 Liza was out the whole of the following day, and when she came 
 back, rather late, she went straight to Makar Ivanovitch. I 
 thought I would not go in that I might not be in their way, but 
 soon, noticing that mother and Versilov луеге already there, I 
 went in. Liza was sitting by the old man crying on his shoulder, 
 and he with a sorrowful face was stroking her head. 
 
 Versilov told me in my room afterwards that Prince Sergay 
 insisted on having his way, and proposed marrying Liza at the 
 first opportunity before his trial was over. It was hard for Liza 
 to make up her mind to it, though she scarcely had the right to 
 refuse. And indeed Makar Ivanovitch " commanded " her to be 
 married. Of course all this would have come about of itself, 
 and she would certainly have been married of her о^лтг accord 
 and without hesitation, but at the moment she had been so in- 
 sulted by the man she loved, and she was so humiliated by this 
 love even in her own eyes that it was difficult for her to decide. 
 But apart from her mortification there was another circumstance 
 deterring her of which I could have no suspicion. 
 
 " Did you hear that all those young people on the Petersburg 
 Side were arrested ? " Versilov added suddenly. 
 " AVhat ? Dergatchev ? " I cried. 
 " Yes, and Vassin, too." 
 
 I was amazed, especially to hear about Vassin. 
 " Why, was he mixed up in anything ? Good heavens, what 
 will happen to them now ! And just when Liza was being so 
 severe upon him ! . . . What do you think ? What maj' happen 
 to them ? It's Stebelkov, I swear it's Stebelkov's doing." 
 
 " We won't go into it," said Versilov, looking at me strangely 
 (as people look at a man who has no knowledge or suspicion of 
 something). " Who can tell what is going on among them, and 
 who can tell what may happen to them ? I didn't come to speak 
 of that. I hear you meant to go out to-morrow. Won't you be 
 going to see Prince Sergay ? " 
 
 " The first thing ; though I must own it's very distasteful to 
 me. Why, have you some message to send him ? " 
 
 "No, nothing. I shall see him myself. I'm sorry for Liza. 
 
 408
 
 And Avhat advice can Makar Ivanovitch give her ? He knows 
 nothing about Ufe or about people himself. Another thing, my 
 dear boy" (it was a long time since he had called me "my dear 
 boy"), " there are here too . . . certain young men . . . among 
 whom is your old schoolfellow, Lambert ... I fancy they are 
 all great rascals. ... I speak simply to warn you. . . . But, of 
 course, it's your business, and I have no right . . ." 
 
 " Andrey Petrovitch ! " I clutched his hand, speaking without 
 a moment's thought and almost by inspiration as I sometimes do 
 (the room was almost in darkness). " Andrey Petrovitch, 1 have 
 said nothing ; you have seen that of course, I have been silent till 
 now, do you know why ? To avoid knowing your secrets. I've 
 simply resolved not to know them, ever. I'm a coward. I'm 
 afraid your secrets may tear you out of my heart altogether, and 
 1 don't want that to happen. Since it's so, why should you know 
 my secrets ? It doesn't matter to you where I go. Does it ? " 
 
 " You are right ; but not a word more, I beseech you ! " he 
 said, and went away. So, by accident, we had the merest scrap 
 of an explanation. But he only added to my excitement on the 
 eve of my new step in life next day, and I kept waking up all 
 night in consequence. But I felt quite happy. 
 
 Next day I went out of the house at ten o'clock in the morning, 
 doing my utmost to steal out quietly without taking leave or 
 saying anythuig. I, so to speak, slipped out. Why I did so I 
 don't know ; but if even mother had seen that I was going 
 out and spoken to me I should have answered with something 
 spiteful. When I foimd myself in the street and breathed the 
 cold outdoor air I shuddered from an intense feeling — almost 
 animal — which I might call "carnivorous." What was I going 
 for, where was I going ? The feeling was utterly undetined 
 and at the same time I felt frightened and dehghted, both at 
 once. 
 
 " Shall I disgrace myself to-day or not ? " I thought to m\-self 
 with a swagger, though I knew that the step once taken that day 
 would be decisive, and could not be retrieved all my life. But 
 it's no use talking in riddles. 
 
 I went straight to the prison to Prince Sergay. I had received 
 a letter for the superintendent from Tatyana Pavlovna two days 
 
 409
 
 before, and I met with an excellent reception. I don't know 
 whether he was a good man, and it's beside the point ; but he 
 permitted my interview with the prince and arranged that it 
 should take place in his room, courteously giving it up for our use. 
 The room was the typical room of a government official of a 
 certain standing, living in a government building — I think to 
 describe it is unnecessary. 
 
 So it tiimed out that Prince Sergay and I were left 
 alone. 
 
 He came in dressed in some sort of half-military attire, but 
 wearing very clean linen and a dandified tie ; he was washed and 
 combed, at the same time he looked terribly thin and very yellow. 
 I noticed the same yellowness even in his eyes. In fact he was 
 so changed in appearance that I stood still in amazement. 
 
 " How you have changed ! " I cried. 
 
 " That's nothing. Sit down, dear boy," half-fatuously he 
 motioned me to the armchair and sat down opposite, facing 
 me. " Let's get to the point. You see, my dear Alexey 
 Makarovitch . . ." 
 
 " Arkady," I corrected him. 
 
 " What ? Oh yes ! No matter ! Oh yes ! " He suddenly 
 collected himself. " Excuse me, my dear fellow, we'll return to 
 the point." 
 
 He was, in fact, in a fearful hiu-ry to turn to something. He 
 was entirely from head to foot absorbed by something ; some 
 vital idea which he wanted to formulate and expound to me. 
 He talked a great deal and fearfully fast, gesticulating and ex- 
 plaining with strained and painful effort, but for the first minute 
 I really could make nothing of it. 
 
 "To put it briefly " (he had used this expression "To put it 
 briefly " ten times already), " to put it briefly," he concluded, " I 
 troubled you yesterday, Arkady Makarovitch, and so urgently 
 through Liza begged you to come to me, as though the place were 
 on fire, but seeing that the essential part of the decision is bound 
 to be momentous and conclusive for me . . ." 
 
 " Excuse me, prince," I interrupted, " did you send me a 
 message yesterday ? Liza said nothing to me about it." 
 
 " What ? " he cried, suddenly stopping short in extreme 
 astonishment, almost in alarm. 
 
 " She gave me no message at all. She came home last night so 
 upset that she couldn't say a word to me." 
 
 Prince Sergay leapt up from his seat 
 
 410
 
 " Are you telling me the truth, Arkady Makarovitch ? If 
 so this . . . this . . ." 
 
 " Why, what is there so serious about it ? Why are you so 
 uneasy ? She simply forgot or something." 
 
 He sat down and seemed overcome by a kind of stupor. It 
 seemed as though the news that Liza had given me no message 
 had simply crushed him. He suddenly began talking rapidly 
 and waving his hands, and again it was fearfully difficult to follow 
 him. 
 
 " Stay ! " he exclaimed suddenly, pausing and holding up his 
 finger. " Stay, this . . . this ... if I'm not mistaken this is a 
 trick ! . . ."he muttered with the grin of a maniac, " and it 
 means that . . ." 
 
 " It means absolutely nothing," I interposed, " and I can't 
 understand how such a trivial circumstance can worry you so 
 much. . . . Ach, prince, since that time — since that night, do 
 you remember ..." 
 
 " Since what night, and what of it ? " he cried pettishly, 
 evidently annoyed at my interrupting him. 
 
 " At Zerstchikov's. where we saw each other last. Why, before 
 your letter. . . . Don't you remember you were terribly excited 
 then, but the difference between then and now is so great that I 
 am positively horrified when I look at you." 
 
 " Oh yes," he pronounced in the tone of a man of polite society, 
 seeming suddenly to remember. " Oh yes ; that evening . . . 
 I heard. . . . Well, and are you better ? How are you after all 
 that, Arkady Makarovitch ? . . . But let us return to the point. 
 I am pursuing three aims precisely, you see ; there are three 
 problems before me, and I . . ." 
 
 He began rapidly talking again of his " chief point." I realized 
 at last that I was listening to a man who ought at once to have 
 at least a vinegar compress applied to his head, if not perhaps to 
 be bled. All his incoherent talk turned, of course, around his 
 trial, and the possible issue of it, and the fact that the colonel 
 of his regiment had visited him and given him a lengthy piece of ad - 
 vice about something which he had not taken, and the notes he had 
 just lately sent to some one, and the prosecutor, and the certainty 
 that they would deprive him of his rights as a nobleman and send 
 him to the Northern Region of Russia, and the possibility of settling 
 as a colonist and regaining his position, in Tashkent, and his plans 
 for training his son (which Liza would bear him) and handing 
 domething down to him " in the wilds of Archangel, in the 
 
 411
 
 Holmogory." " I wanted your opinion, Arkady Makarovitch, 
 belie v^e me I so feel and value ... If only you knew, if only you 
 knew, Arkady Makarovitch, my dear fellow, my brother, what 
 Liza means to me, what she has meant to me here, now, all this 
 time ! " he shouted, suddenly clutching at his head with both 
 hands, 
 
 " Serga}' Fetrovitch, surely you won't sacrifice her by taking 
 her away with you ! To the Holmogory ! " I could not refrain 
 from exclaiming. Liza's fate, bound to this maniac for life, 
 suddenly, and as it were for the first time, rose clearly before my 
 imagination. He looked at me, got up again, took one step, 
 turned and sat down again, still holding his head in his hands. 
 " I'm always dreaming of spiders ! " he said suddenly. 
 " You are terribly agitated. I should advise you to go to bed, 
 prince, and to ask for a doctor at once." 
 
 "Ко, excuse me — of that afterwards. I asked you to come 
 and see me chiefly to discuss our marriage. The marriage, as you 
 know, is to take place here, at the church. I've said so already. 
 Permission has been given for all this, and, in fact, they 
 encourage it. . . .As for Liza ..." 
 
 " Prince, have pity on Liza, my dear fellow ! " I cried. " Don't 
 torture her, now, at least, don't be jealous ! " 
 
 " AVhat ! " he cried, staring at me intently with eyes almost 
 starting out of his head, and his whole face distorted into a 
 sort of broad grin of senseless inquiry. It лyas evident that the 
 words " don't be jealous " had for some reason made a fearful 
 impression on him. 
 
 " Forgive me, prince, I spoke without thinking. Oh prince, 
 I have lately come to know an old man, my nominal fat her. . . . 
 Oh, if you could see him you would be calmer. . . . Liza thinks 
 so much of him, too." 
 
 " Ah, yes, Liza . . . ah, yes, is that your father ? Or . . . 
 pardon, топ cher, something of the sort ... I remember . . . 
 she told me ... an old man. . . . I'm sure of it, I'm sure of it. 
 I knew an old man, too . . . mais passons. ... The chief point 
 is to make clear what's essential at the moment, we must . . ." 
 I got up to go away. It was painful to me to look at him. 
 " I don't understand ! " he pronounced sternly and with dig- 
 nity, seeing that I had got up to go. 
 " It hurts me to look at you," I said. 
 
 " Arkady Makarovitch, one word, one word more ! " He 
 clutched me by the shoulder with quite a different expression and 
 
 412
 
 gesture, and sat me down in the armchair. " You've heard about 
 those . . . you understand ? " he bent down to me. 
 
 " Oh yes, Dergatchev. No doubt it's Stebelkov's doing ! " 
 I cried impulsively. 
 
 " Yes, Stebelkov. And . . . you don't know ? " 
 
 He broke off and again he stared at me with the same wide 
 eyes and the same spasmodic, senselessly questioning grin, which 
 grew broader and broader. His face gradually grew paler. I 
 felt a sudden shudder. I remembered Versilov's expression 
 when he had told me of Vassin's arrest the day before. 
 
 " Oh, is it possible ? " I cried, panic-stricken. 
 
 " You see, Arkady Makarovitch, that's why I sent to you to 
 explain ... I wanted . . ."he began whispering rapidly. 
 
 " It was you who informed against Vassin ! " I cried. 
 
 " No ; you see, there was a manuscript. Vassin gave it only a 
 few days ago to Liza ... to take care of. And she left it here 
 for me to look at, and then it happened that they quarrelled 
 next day ..." 
 
 " You gave the manuscript to the authorities ! " 
 
 " Arkady Makarovitch, Arkady Makarovitch ! " 
 
 ** And so you," I screamed, leaping up, emphasizing every 
 word, " without any other motive, without any other object, 
 simply because poor Vassin was your rival, simply out of jealousy, 
 you gave up the manuscript entrusted to Liza . , . gave it up to 
 whom ? To whom ? To the Public Prosecutor ? " 
 
 But he did not answer, and he hardly could have answered, 
 for he stood before me like a statue, still Avith the same sickly 
 smile and the same fixed look. But suddenly the door opened 
 and Liza came in. She almost swooned when she saw us 
 together. 
 
 " You're here ? So you're here ? " she cried, her face suddenly 
 distorted, seizing my hand. " So you . . . know ? " 
 
 But she could read in my face already that I " knew." With 
 a swift irresistible impulse I threw my arms round her and held 
 her close ! And at that minute for the first time I grasped in all 
 its intensity the hopeless, endless misery which shrouded in 
 unbroken darkness the whole life of this . . . wilful seeker after 
 suffering. 
 
 " Is it possible to talk to him now," she said, tearing herself 
 away from me. " Is it possible to be лvith him ? Why are you 
 here ? Look at him look at him I And can one, can one judge 
 him ? " 
 
 413
 
 Her face was full of infinite suffering and infinite coinpassion 
 as exclaiming this she motioned towards the unhappy wretch. 
 
 He was sitting in the armchair with his face hidden in his hands. . 
 And she was right. He was a man in a raging fever and not 
 responsible. They put him in the hospital that morning, and by 
 the evening he had brain fever. 
 
 Leaving Prince Sergay with Liza I went off about one o'clock 
 to my old lodging. I forgot to say that it was a dull, damp day, 
 with a thaw beginning, and a warm wind that would upset the 
 nerves of an elephant. The master of the house met me with a 
 great display of delight, and a groat deal of fuss and bustle, which 
 I particularly dishke, especially at such moments. I received 
 this drily, and went straight to my room, but he followed me, 
 and though he did not venture to question me, yet his face was 
 beaming with curiosity, and at the same time he looked as though 
 he had a right to be curious. I had to behave politely for my 
 o-WTi sake ; but though it was so essential to me to find out 
 something (and I knew T should learn it), I yet felt it revolting 
 to begin cross-examining him. I inquired after the health of his 
 wife, and we went in to see her. The latter met me deferentially 
 indeed, but with a businesslike and taciturn manner ; this 
 to some extent softened my heart. To be brief, I learned on this 
 occasion some very wonderful things. 
 
 Well, of course, Lambert had been and he came twice after- 
 wards, and " he looked at all the rooms, saying that perhaps he 
 wouFd take them." Darya Onisimovna had come several times, 
 goodness knows why. " She was very inquisitive," added my 
 landlord. 
 
 But I did not gratify him by asking what she was inquisitive 
 about. I did not ask questions at all, in fact. He did all the 
 talking, while I kept up a pretence of rummaging in my trunk 
 (though there was scarcely anything left in it). But what was 
 most vexatious, he too thought fit to play at being mysterious, 
 and noticing that I refrained from asking questions, felt it in- 
 cumbent upon him to be more fragmentary and even enigmatic 
 in his communications. 
 
 " The young lady has been here, too," he added, looking at me 
 strangely. 
 
 414
 
 " What young iady ? " 
 
 " Anna Andreyevna ; she's been here twice ; she made the 
 acquaintance of my wife. A very charming person, very pleasant. 
 Such an acquaintance is quite a privilege, Arkady Makarovitch." 
 
 And as he pronounced these words he positively took a step 
 towards me. He seemed very anxious that I should understand 
 something. 
 
 " Did she really come twice ? " I said with surprise. 
 
 " The second time she came with her brother." 
 
 " That was with Lambert," I thought involuntarily. 
 
 " No, not with ]\lr. Lambert," he said, seeming to guess at once, 
 as though piercing into my soul with his eyes. " But with her 
 real brother, young Mr. Versilov. A hummer- junker, I bt Jicve." 
 
 I was very much confused. He looked at me, smiling very 
 caressingly. 
 
 " Oh, and some one else came and was asking after you, that 
 ma'amselle, a French lady, Mamselle Alphonsine de Verden. Oh, 
 how well she sings and recites poetry. She'd slipped off to see 
 Prince Nikolay Ivanovitch at Tskarskoe, to sell him a dcg, she told 
 me, a rare kind, black, and no bigger than Д'оиг fist . . ." 
 
 I asked him to leave me alone on the pretext of a headache. 
 He immediately fell in with my request, even breaking off in the 
 middle of a sentence, and not only without the slightest sign of 
 huffiness, but almost with pleasure, waving his hand mysteriously, 
 as though to say, " I understand, I understand," and though he 
 did not actually say this he could not resist the satisfaction of 
 walking out of the room on tiptoe. 
 
 There arc very vexatious people in the world. 
 
 I sat for an hour and a half alone, deliberating ; rather, not really 
 deliberatmg but dreaming. Though I was perplexed I was not 
 in the least surprised. I even expected to hear something more, 
 other marvels. " Perhaps they have already hatched them," I 
 thought. I had for a long time been firmly persuaded that the 
 machinery of their plot was wound up and was in full swing. 
 " ТЬел''ге only waiting for me," I thought again with a sort of 
 irritable and pleasant self-satisfaction. That they were eagerly 
 awaiting me, and were scheming to carry out some plan at my 
 lodging was clear as day. " The old prince's wedding, can it be ? 
 He's surrounded by a regular network of intrigue. But am I 
 going to permit it, my friends ? That's the question," I said in 
 conclusion with haughty satisfaction. 
 
 " Once I begin I shall be carried away by the whirlpool like a 
 
 415
 
 chip. Ara I free now, this minute, or am I not ? When I go back 
 to mother this evening can I still say to myself as I have done all 
 these days ' I am my own master ' ? " 
 
 That was the gist of my questions, or rather of the throbbing 
 at my heart in the hour and a half I spent sitting on the bed in 
 the corner, with my elbows on my knees and my head propped 
 in my hands. But I knew, I knew even then that all these 
 questions were utter nonsense, and that I was drawn only by her 
 —by her, by her alone ! At last I have said this straight out and 
 have лvгitten it with pen on paper, though even now as I write 
 this a year later I don't know what name to give to the feeling I 
 had then ! 
 
 Oh, I was sorry for Liza, and my heart was full of a most 
 unfeiiined grief. Nothing but the feeling of pain on her account 
 could have calmed or effaced in me for a time that " cariuvorous- 
 ness " (I recall that word). But Г was immensely spurred on by 
 curiosity and a sort of dread and another feeling — I don't know 
 what ; but I know and I knew then that it was an evil feeling. 
 Perhaps my impulse was to fall at her feet, or perhaps I wanted 
 to put her to every torture, and " quickly, quickly " to show her 
 something. No grief, no compassion for Liza, could stop me. 
 Could I have got up and gone home ... to Makar Ivanovitch ? 
 
 " And is it quite impossible to go to them, to find out every- 
 thing from them, and to go away from them for ever, passing 
 unscathed among marvels and monsters ? " 
 
 At three o'clock, pulling myself together and reflecting that I 
 might be late, I went out hastily, took a cab, and flew to Anna 
 Andreyevna. 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 As soon as I was announced, Anna Andreyevna threw down her 
 sewing and rushed to meet me in the outermost of her rooms, 
 a thing which had never happened before. She held out both 
 hands to me and flushed quickly. She led me into her room 
 in silence, sat down to her needlework again, made me sit down 
 beside her. She did not go on with her sewing, but still 
 scrutinized me with the same fervent sympathy, without uttering 
 a word. 
 
 416
 
 " You sent Darya Onisimovna to me," I began bluntly, rather 
 overwhelmed by this exaggerated display of sympathy, though 
 I found it agreeable. 
 
 She suddenly began talking without answering my question. 
 
 " I have heard all about it, I know all about it. That terrible 
 night. . . . Oh, what you must have gone through ! Can it be 
 true ! Can it be true that you were found unconscious in the 
 frost ? " 
 
 " You heard that . . . from Lambert. ..." I muttered, 
 reddening. 
 
 " I heard it all from him at the time ; but I've been eager to 
 :see you. Oh, he came to me in alarm ! At your lodging . . . 
 where you have been lying ill, they would not let him in to see 
 you . . . and they met him strangely ... I really don't кполу 
 how it was, but he kept telling me about that night ; he told me 
 that when you had scarcely come to yovirself, you spoke of me, 
 and . . . and of your devotion to me. I was touched to tears, 
 Arkady Makarovitch, and I don't know how I have deserved 
 such warm sympathy on your part, especially considering the 
 condition in which you were yourself ! Tell me, M. Lambert 
 was the friend of your childhood, was he not ? " 
 
 " Yes, but what happened 1 ... I confess I was indiscreet, 
 and perhaps I told him then a great deal I shouldn't have." 
 
 " Oh, I should have heard of that wicked horrible intrigue 
 apart from him ! I always had a presentiment that they would 
 drive you to that, always. Tell me, is it true that Buruig dared 
 to lift his hand against you ? " 
 
 She spoke as though it were entirely owing to Biiring and her 
 that I had been found under the wall. And she is right too, I 
 thought, but I flared up : 
 
 " If he had lifted his hand against me, he would not have gone 
 away unpunished. And I should not be sitting before you now 
 without having avenged myself," I answered hotly. It struck 
 me that she wanted for some reason to irritate me, to set me 
 against somebody (I knew of course against whom) ; yet I fell 
 in with it. 
 
 " You say that you had a presentiment that I should be 
 driven to this, but on Katerina Nikolaevna's side it was of course 
 only a misunderstanding . . . though it is true that she was too 
 hasty in allowing her kindly feeling for me to be influenced by 
 that misunderstanding. . . ." 
 
 " I should think she was too hasty indeed 1 " Anna Andreyevna 
 
 417
 
 assented quickly, with a sort of ecstasy of sympathy. " Oh, 
 if only you knew the intrigue that is being hatched there now ! 
 Of course, Arkady Makarovitch, of course it is difficult for you 
 to realize now all the delicacy of my position," she brought out, 
 blushing and casting down her eyes. " Since I saw you last . , . 
 that very morning I took a step which not everyone would be able 
 to understand and interpret rightly ; so it is hardly likely that it 
 would be understood by anyone with yoiu" still uncorrupted 
 mind, and your fresh, loving, imsophisticated heart. Believe 
 me, my dear friend, I appreciate your devotion to me, and I 
 shall repay it with my everlasting gratitude. In the world, of 
 course, they will throw stones at me, they have thrown them 
 already. But even if they were right, from their odious point 
 of view, which of them could, which of them dare judge me ? 
 I have been abandoned by my father from childhood up ; we 
 Versilovs are an ancient noble Russian family, yet we are 
 adventurers, and I am eating the bread of charity. Was it not 
 natural I should turn to one who has taken the place of a father 
 to me, at whose hands I have received nothing but kindness 
 during all these years '2 My feelings for him are known only to 
 God, and he alone can judge them, and I refuse to accept the 
 judgment of the world upon the step I have taken. When 
 there is, moreover, at the bottom of this the most cunning, the 
 most evil intrigue, and the plot to ruin a trusting, noble-hearted 
 father is the work of his own daughter, is it to be endured ? No, 
 I will save him if I have to ruin my reputation, I am ready to 
 be with him simply as a nurse, to take care of him, and to look 
 after him, but I will not let hateful, cold, mercenary worldlinesh 
 triumph ! " 
 
 She spoke with unwonted fire, very possibly half assumed, 
 though at the same time sincere, because it was evident how 
 deeply involved she was in the matter. Oh, I felt that she was 
 lying (though sincerely, for one can lie sincerely). And that she 
 was now evil ; but it is wonderful how it often is, in dealing with 
 women : this assumption of perfect refinement, these lofty 
 manners, these inaccessible heights of well-bred grandeur and 
 proud chastity — all this quite threw me out of my reckoning, 
 and I began agreeing with her on every point, so long as I was 
 with her ; that is, I could not bring myself to contradict her, 
 anyway. Oh. a man is in absolute moral .slavery to a woman, 
 esj)ecially if he is a generous man ! Such a woman can convince 
 1 generous man of anything she likes. " She and Lambert, my 
 
 418
 
 goodness ! " I thought, looking at her in perplexity. To tell 
 the whole truth, however, I don't know what to think of her to 
 this day ; truly her feelings were known only to God, and, besides, 
 human beings are such complicated machines, that one caimot 
 analyse them in some cases, and above ail if the human being in 
 question is a woman. 
 
 " Anna Andreyevna, what is it you exactly want me to do 1 '* 
 I asked, with a good deal of decision however. 
 
 " How ? What do you mean by your question, Arkady 
 Makarovitch ? " 
 
 " I fancy, from everything . . . and from certain other con- 
 siderations . . ."I explained stammering, " that you sent to 
 me because you expected something from me ; so what is it 
 exactly ? " 
 
 Without answermg my question, she immediately began 
 talking again, as rapidly and as earnestly as before : 
 
 " But I cannot, I am too proud to enter into explanations 
 and negotiations with unknown persons, like M. Lambert. I 
 have been waiting for you, I don't want M. Lambert. My 
 position is awful, desperate, Arkady Makarovitch ! I am forced 
 to duphcit}', hemmed in by the machinations of that woman — 
 and that is more than I can endure. I am driven almost to the 
 humiliation of intriguing, and I have been waiting for you as my 
 saviour. You must not blame me for looking greedily about me 
 to find one friend at least, and so I cannot help being glad to see 
 a friend : he, who could think of me and even utter my name, 
 half frozen on that night, must be devoted to me. That's what 
 I've been thinking all this time and that is why I rely on you." 
 She looked into my face with impatient inquiry. And again 
 I had not the heart to disillusion her, and to tell her plainly 
 that Lambert had deceived her, and that I had by no means told 
 him that I was so devoted to her, and that her name was not 
 the only one I mentioned. And so by my silence I confirmed, 
 as it were, Lambert's lie. Oh, she knew very well, I am con- 
 vinced, that Lambert had been exaggerating and simply lying 
 to her, solely in order to have a plausible excuse to call upon 
 her, and to get into touch with her ; though she looked into my 
 face as though she were convinced of my truth and devotion, she 
 must have known that I did not bring myself to contradict her 
 from delicacy of feeling, and the awkwardness of youth. But 
 v/hether I was right in this surmise, I don't know. Perhaps I 
 am horribly evil-minded. 
 
 419
 
 " My brother is taking my part," she said with sudden heat, 
 seeing that I was not disposed to speak. 
 
 " I'm told you have been at my lodgings," I muttered in 
 confusion. 
 
 " Yes . . . you know poor Prince Nikolay Ivanitch has no 
 place now where he can take refuge from this intrigue, or rather 
 from his own daughter, unless in your lodgings, that is the 
 lodgings of a friend ; you know he looks upon you at least 
 as a friend ! . . . Afld if you will only do something for his 
 benefit, then do this — if only you can, if only you have the 
 generosity and courage . . . and, and finally if it is really true, 
 that there is something you can do. Oh, it is not for my sake, 
 it's not for my sake, but for the sake of the poor old man, the 
 only person who genuinely loved you, and who has become as 
 attached to you as though you were his own son, and is still 
 missing you ! For myself I expect nothing, even from you — 
 since even my own father has played me such a treacherous, 
 such a spiteful trick." 
 
 " I believe, Andrey Petrovitch . . ."I began. 
 
 " Andrey Petrovitch," she repeated with bitter mockery ; 
 '* Andrey Petrovitch, in answer to a direct question from me, 
 told me on his word of honour that he had never had any inten- 
 tions in regard to Katerina Nikolaevna and I completely believed 
 it when I took that step ; and yet it seemed that his composure 
 only lasted till he heard of Baron Buring." 
 
 " That's wrong, " I cried, " there was a moment when I too 
 believed in his love for that woman, but it's a mistake . . . and 
 even if it were so, he might, I should think, be perfectly 
 composed about it now . . . since the retirement of that 
 gentleman." 
 
 " What gentleman ? " 
 
 " Buring." 
 
 " Who has told you of his retirement ? Perhaps the gentle 
 man in question never had any such views," she jeered malig- 
 nantly ; I fancied too, that she looked at me jeeringly. 
 
 " Darya Onisimovna told me," I muttered in confusion, 
 which I was not able to conceal, and which she saw only too 
 clearly. 
 
 " Darya Onisimovna is я very nice person, and, of course, I 
 cannot forbid her loving ше, but she has no means of knowing 
 what does not concern he:." 
 
 My heart began to ache ; and, as she had been reckoning on 
 
 420
 
 rousing my indignation, I did in fact begin to feel indignant, 
 but not with " that woman," but for the time being with Anna 
 Andreyevna herself. I got up. 
 
 " As an honourable man, I ought to warn you, Anna Andrey- 
 evna, that уош: expectations ... in regard to me . . . may 
 turn out to be utterly unfounded. ..." 
 
 " I expect you to be my champion," she said, looking at me 
 resolutely : " abandoned as lam by every one . . . your sister, 
 if you care to have it so, Arkady Makarovitch." 
 
 Another instant, and she would have bm-st into tears. 
 
 " Well, you had better not expect anjrthing, for, ' perhaps ' 
 nothing will come of it," I muttered with an indescribable 
 feeling of disgust. 
 
 " How am I to understand your words ? " she said, showing 
 her consternation too plainly. 
 
 " Why, that I am going away from you all, and — that's the 
 end of it ! " I suddenly exclaimed almost furiously, " and the 
 letter — I shall tear up. Good-bye " 
 
 I bowed to her, and went out without speakmg, though at the 
 same time I scarcely dared to look at her, but had hardly gone 
 downstairs when Darya Onisimovna ran after me, with a half 
 sheet of paper folded in two. Where Darya Onisimovna had 
 sprung from, and where she had been sitting while I was talking 
 with Anna Andreyevna, I cannot conceive. She did not utter a 
 word, but merely gave me the paper, and ran away. I unfolded 
 it : on the paper, clearly and distinctly written, was Lambert's 
 address, and it had apparently been got ready several days 
 before. I suddenly recalled that when Darya Onisimovna had 
 been with me that day, I had told her that I did not know where 
 Lambert lived, meaning, " I don't know and don't want to 
 know." But by this time 1 had learned Lambert's address 
 from Liza, whom I had specially asked to get it for me from the 
 address bureau. Anna Andreyevna's action seemed to me too 
 definite, even cynical : although I had declined to assist her, 
 she was simply sending me straight to Lambert, as though she 
 had not the slightest faith in my refusal. It was quite clear to 
 me that she knew everj'thing about the letter, and from whom 
 could she have ieamt it if not from Lambert, to whom she was 
 sending me that I might co-operate with him. 
 
 There was no doubt that they aU, every one of them, looked 
 upon me as a feeble boy without character or will, with whom 
 they could do anjiihing, I thought with indignation. 
 
 421
 
 2 
 
 Nevertheless, I did go to Lambert's. Where else could I 
 have satisfied my curiosity ? Lambert, as it appeared, lived a 
 long way off, in Cross АБеу, close to the Summer Gardens, still 
 in the same lodgings ; but when I ran away from him that night 
 I had so completely failed to notice the way and the distance, 
 that when I got his address from Liza, four days earlier, I was 
 surprised and could scarcely believe that he lived there. As I 
 was going upstairs I noticed at the door of the flat, on the 
 third storey, two young men, and thought they had rung the 
 bell before I came and were waiting for the door to be opened. 
 While I was mounting the stairs they both, turning their backs 
 on the door, scrutinized me very attentively, " The flat is all 
 let out in rooms, and they must be going to see another lodger," 
 I thought, frowning, as I went up to them. It would have been 
 very disagreeable to me to find anyone else at Lambert's. Try- 
 ing not to look at them, I put out my hand to the bell, 
 
 " Attendez ! " one of them cried to me. 
 
 " Please, please don't ring again yet," said the other yoimg 
 man in a soft musical voice, slightly drawling the words. " Here 
 we'll finish this, and then we'll all ring altogether. Shall we ? " 
 
 I waited. They were both very young men, about twenty or 
 twenty-two ; they were doing something rather strange at the 
 door, and I began to watch them with surprise. The one who 
 had cried " attendez " was a very tall fellow, over six feet, thin 
 and lean, but very muscular, with a very small head in propor- 
 tion to his height, and with a strange, as it were comic expression 
 of gloom on his rather pock-marked though agreeable and by no 
 means stupid face. There was a look as it were of exaggerated 
 intentness and of unnecessary and excessive deteimination in 
 his eyes. He was very badly dressed : in an old wadded over- 
 coat, with a little fur collar of mangy-looking raccoon ; it was 
 too short for him* and obviously second-hand. He had on 
 shabby high boots almost like a peasant's, and on his head was 
 a horribly crushed, dirty-looking top-hat. His whole appearance 
 ЛУЁ13 marked by slovenliness ; his ungloved hands were dirty 
 and his long nails were black. His companion, on the other 
 hand, was smartly dressed, judging from his light skunk fur coat, 
 his elegant hat, and the light new gloves on his slender fingers ; 
 
 422
 
 he was about my height, and he had an extremely charming 
 expression on his fresh and youthful face. 
 
 The tall fellow was taking off his tie — an utterly threadbare 
 greasy ribbon, hardly better than a piece of tape — and the pretty - 
 looking youth, taking out of his pocket another newly purchased 
 black tie, was putting it round the neck of the tall fellow, who, 
 with a perfectly serious face, submissively stretched out hie 
 very long neck, throwing his overcoat back from his shoulders. 
 
 " No ; it won't do if the shirt is so dirty," said the younger 
 one, " the effect won't be good, it will only make it look dirtier. 
 I told you to put on a collar. I don't know how ... do you 
 know how to do it," he said, turning suddenly to me. 
 
 " What ? " I asked. 
 
 " Why, fasten his tie. You see it ought to go like this, to 
 hide his dirty shirt, or else the whole effect is spoilt whatever 
 we do. I have just bought the tie for a rouble at Filip's, the 
 hairdresser's, on purpose for him." 
 
 " Was it — ^that rouble ? " muttered the tall one. 
 
 " Yes, I haven't a farthing now. Then you can't do it ? In 
 that case we must ask Alphonsine." 
 
 " To see Lambert ? " the tall fellow asked me abruptly. 
 
 "Yes," I answered with no less determination, looking- him 
 in the face. 
 
 " Dolgorowky 1 " he went on with the same air and the 
 same voice. 
 
 " No, not Korovkin," I answered as abruptly, mistaking what 
 he said. 
 
 " Dolgorowky ? " the tall fellow almost shouted again, and 
 he took a step towards me almost menacingly. His companion 
 burst out laughing. 
 
 " He says ' Dolgorowky ' and not Korovkin," he explained 
 to me. " You know in the Journal des Debats the French con- 
 stantly distort Russian names. . . ." 
 
 " In the Independance,'' growled the tall fellow. 
 
 "... Well,it's just the same in the /ndepeTidawce.Dolgoruky. 
 for instance, they write Dolgorowky — I have seen it myself, and 
 Valonyev is always written comte Wallonieff." 
 
 " Doboyny ! " cried the tall fellow. 
 
 " Yes, there's Doboyny, too, I've seen it myself ; and we both 
 laughed ; some Russian Madame Doboyny abroad . . . but 
 there's no need to mention them all, you Imow," he said, turning 
 suddenly to the tall fellow. 
 
 423
 
 " Excuse me, are you M. Dolgoruky ? " 
 
 " Yes, my name is Dolgoruky ; how do you know it ? * 
 
 The tall one suddenly whispered something to the pretty - 
 looking lad ; the latter frowned and shook his head, but the tall 
 fellow immediately addressed me ; 
 
 " Monsieur le frince, vous n'avez pas de rouble d' argent 1юиг 
 nous, pas deux, mais un seul, voulez-vous ? " 
 
 " Oh, how horrid you are," cried the boy. 
 
 " Nous vous rendons," concluded the tall one, mispronounc- 
 ing the French words coarsely and clumsily. 
 
 " He's a cynic, you know," the boy laughed to me ; " and do 
 you suppose he can't speak French ? He speaks like a Parisian, 
 but he is mimicking those Russians who are awfully fond of 
 talking aloud in French together before other people, though 
 they can't speak it themselves. ..." 
 
 '■ Dans les wagons,'" the tall fellow explained. 
 
 " To be sure, in railway carriages ; oh, what a bore you are ! 
 There's no need to explain. Why will you always pretend to 
 be a fool ? " 
 
 Meanwhile I took out a rouble and offered it to the tall 
 fellow. 
 
 " Nous vous rendons, ^^ said the latter, pocketing the rouble ; 
 and turning to the door with a perfectly unmoved and serious 
 face, he proceeded to kick it with his huge coarse boot and 
 without the faintest sign of ill-humour. . . . 
 
 " Ah, you will be fighting with Lambert again 1 " the boy 
 observed uneasily. " You had much better ring the bell ! " 
 
 I rang the bell, but the tall fellow continued kicking the door 
 nevertheless. 
 
 " Ah, sacre . . ." we heard Lambert's voice the other side of 
 the door, and he quickly opened it. 
 
 " Dites done, voulez-vous que je vous casse la tete, топ ami ! " 
 he shouted to the tall man. 
 
 " Mon ami, voild Dolgorowky, V autre тюп ami,^^ the tall fellow 
 replied with dignified gravity, staring at Lambert, who was 
 red with anger. As soon as the latter saw me, he seemed suddenly 
 transformed. 
 
 " It's you, Arkady ! At last ! Then you are better, better 
 are you at last ? " 
 
 He seized my hands, pressing them warmly ; he was in fact so 
 genuinely delighted that I felt pleased at once, and even began 
 to like him. 
 
 424
 
 " I've come to you first of all ! '* 
 
 *' Alphonsine ! " cried Lambert. 
 
 She instantly skipped out from behind the screen. 
 
 " Le voild ! " 
 
 " C'est lui ! " cried Alphonsine, clasping and unclasping her 
 hands ; she would have rushed to embrace me, but Lambert 
 protected me. 
 
 " There, there, there, down, down ! " he shouted to her as 
 though she were a dog. " It's like this, Arkady : some fellows 
 have agreed to dine together to-day at the Tatars'. I shan't 
 let you go, you must come with us. We'll have dinner ; I'll 
 get rid of these fellows at once, and then we can have a 
 chat. Come in, come in I We'll set off at once, only wait a 
 minute . . ." 
 
 I went in and stood in the middle of that room, looking about 
 me, and remembering it, Lambert behind the screen hurriedly 
 dressed. The tall fellow and his companion followed us in, in 
 spite of Lambert's words. We all remained standing. 
 
 " Mile. Alphonsine, voulez-voiis me baiser ? " growled the tall 
 man. 
 
 " Mile. Alphonsine" the younger one was beginning, showing 
 her the tie, but she flew savagely at both of them. 
 
 " Ah, le petit vilain ! " she shouted to the younger one ; " ne 
 tn'approchez pas, ne me salissez pas, et vous, le grand dadais, 
 je votts planque a la porte ious les deux, savez vous tela ! " 
 
 Though she warned him off with contempt and disgust, as 
 though she were really afraid of being soiled by contact with 
 him (which I could not at all understand because he was such a 
 pretty fellow, and turned out to be just aS- well dressed when he 
 took off his overcoat), the younger of the two men kept asking 
 her to tie his tall friend's cravat for him, and to put him on one 
 of Lambert's clean collars first. She was on the point of beating 
 them in her indignation at such a suggestion, but Lambert 
 overhearing, shouted to her behind the screen not to hinder 
 them, but to do as they asked ; " they won't leave off if you 
 don't," he added, and Alphonsine instantly produced a collar 
 and began to fasten the tall man's cravat without the slightest 
 sign of disinclination. The man stretched out his neck just as 
 he had done on the stairs, while she tied his cravat. 
 
 " Mile. Alphonsine, avez vous vendu voire bologne ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 " Qu'est-ce que fa, ma bologne ? '* 
 
 425
 
 The younger man explained that " ma bologne " meant a 
 lapdug. 
 
 " Tiens, quel est ce baragouin ? " 
 
 " Je paWe comme une dame russe sur les eaux minirales,^* ■ 
 observed le grand dadais, still with his neck outstretched. 
 
 " Qu'est-ce que fa qu'une dame russe sur les eaux minerales et 
 . . . ou est done votre jolie m,ontre, que Lambert vous a donnie" 
 she said suddenly to the younger one. 
 
 " What, no watch again," Lambert chimed in irritably behind 
 the screen. 
 
 " We've eaten it up ! " growled le grand dadais. 
 
 " L sold it for eight roubles : it was only silver gilt, and you 
 said it was gold ; so now at the shop it's only sixteen roubles," 
 the yoimger answered Lambert, defending himself reluctantly. 
 
 " We must put an end to this ! " Lambert said even more 
 irritably. " I don't buy you clothes, my young friend, and give 
 you good things, for you to spend them on your tall friend. . . . 
 What was that tie too that you bought him ? " 
 
 " That was only a rouble ; that was not with your money. 
 He had no cravat at all, and he ought to buy a hat too." 
 
 " Nonsense ! " Lambert was really angry. " I gave him 
 enough for a hat too, and he goes off and wastes it on oysters 
 and champagne. He positively reeks ; he's dirty and imtidy ; 
 you can't take him anywhere. How can I take him out to 
 dinner ? " 
 
 " I'm a cad," growled the dadais. " Nov^ avons un rouble 
 d'argent que тюиз avons jyrete chez notre nouvel ami.'^ 
 
 " Don't you give him an3rthing, Arkady," Lambert cried 
 again. 
 
 " Excuse me, Lambert ; I ask you plainly for ten roubles," 
 cried the boy, growing suddenly angry and flushing, which made 
 him look twice as handsome as before ; " and don't ever dare 
 to say such stupid things as you did just now to Dolgoruky. 
 I must have ten roubles to pay Dolgoruky back that 
 rouble at once, and with the rest I'll buy Andreyev a hat, 
 so you see." 
 
 Lambert came out from behind the screen ; 
 
 " Here are three yellow notes, and three roubles, and there's 
 nothing more till Tuesday, and don't dare ... or else. . ." 
 
 Le grand dadais fairly snatched the money from him. 
 
 " Dolgorowky, here is the rouble nous vous rendons avec 
 beaucoup de grdce. Petya, come along ! " he called to his com- 
 
 426
 
 panion. Then holding up the two notes and waving them in 
 the air, while he stared fixedly at Lambert, he yelled at the top 
 of his voice : 
 
 " Ohe Lambert ! Ой est Lambert, as-tu vu Lambert ? " 
 
 " How dare you, how dare you," Lambert yelled too, in 
 terrible wrath : I saw that underlying all this was something 
 in the paust of which 1 knew nothing, and I looked on in astonish- 
 ment. But the tall fellow was not in the least alarmed by 
 Lambert's wrath ; on the contrary, he yelled louder than ever : 
 " Ohe Lambert ! " and so on. And so shouting, they went out 
 on the stairs. Lambert was rimning after them, but he turned 
 back. 
 
 " I'll throw them out by the scr-r-ruff of their necks ! They 
 cost more than they are worth. . . . Come along, Arkady ! I'm 
 late. I am expected there by another . . . fellow I need . . . 
 a beast too. . . . They're all beasts ! A low lot, a low lot 1 " 
 he shouted again, almost gnashing his teeth ; but all at once he 
 recovered himself completely. 
 
 " I am glad that you have come at last. Alphonsine, not a 
 step out of the house ! Let us go." 
 
 At the steps a smart tum-out was waiting for him. We got 
 in ; but all the way he could not quito regain his composure 
 and get over a sort of rage agamst the two young men. I was 
 surprised at his taking it so seriously ; and what's more, at 
 their being so disrespectful to Lambert, and his seeming almost 
 frightened of them. 
 
 From the old impression that had been stamped on me from 
 childhood, it stiU seemed to me that every one must be afraid of 
 Lambert, as ш spite of all my independence, I certainly stood 
 in awe of him myself at that moment, 
 
 " I tell you now they are all a low lot," Lambert persisted. 
 " Would you believe it that tall ruffian pestered me, the day 
 before yesterday, in decent company. He stood in front of me 
 and shouted : ' Ohe Lambert ! ' in decent company ! Ever>' 
 one laughed, and do you know, it was for me to give him money 
 — would 3'ou believe it. I gave it him. Oh, that — r-r-ruffian ! 
 Would you believe it ? He was an ensign in a regiment, but he 
 was kicked out, and, you wouldn't imagine it, but he is a man of 
 education : he was brought up in a good family, you would 
 hardly beheve it ! He has ideas, he might . . . and damn it 
 all ! And he is a perfect Hercules. He is of use, though of not 
 much use. And you can see he does not wash his hands. I 
 
 427
 
 interested a lady in his ease, an old ladj' of very good position, 
 telling her that he was penitent, and on the point of committing 
 suicide from remorse, and he went to see her, sat down and 
 began whistling. And the other, the pretty fellow, is a general's 
 son ; his family is ashamed of him. I got him off when he was 
 arrested, I saved him, and you see how he repays me. There 
 are no jDeople worth their salt here 1 I'll pay them out, I'll pay 
 them out ! " 
 
 " They know my name ; did you talk to them about me ? " 
 
 " Yes, it was stupid of me. Please stay on a little after dinner, 
 control your feelings. . . . There's an awful canaille coming. 
 Yes, he"s an awful canaille, and awfully cimning ; they are all 
 rascals here, there's not an honest man about ! Well, we'll 
 finish — then. . , What's your favourite dish ? But it doesn't 
 matter, the fare is always good. I'll pay, don't you worry. It's 
 a good thing you are well dressed. I can give you money. 
 You must come often. Only fancy, I've stood them meat and 
 drink here, it's fish pie every day of the week ; that watch he 
 sold — it's the second time. That little fellow, Trishatov, you 
 saw hiia ; Alphonsine is sick at the very sight of him, and won't 
 let him come near her ; and here in the presence of officers he 
 calls out : ' I must have woodcock.' I stood him woodcock ! 
 But I'll pay them out." 
 
 " Do you remember, Lambert, how we went to a restaurant 
 together in INloscow, and you stuck a fork into me, and how you 
 had fifty roubles then ! " 
 
 " Yes, I remember ! Damn it, I remember ! I like you . . . 
 you may believe it. Nobody likes you ; but I like you ; I'm 
 the only one that does, you remember that. . . . The pock- 
 marked fellow that is coming here is a cunnmg canaille ; don't 
 you answer any of his questions ; if he begins talking, it's all right ; 
 but if he begins questioning, make some nonsensical answer, or 
 hold youi- tongue." 
 
 At any rate, in his exciteme'nt he did not question me much 
 on the way. I even felt insulted at his having such confidence 
 in me, and not even suspecting that I mistrusted him ; I fancied 
 that I detected in him the absurd idea that he could still order 
 me about. " And what's more, he's awfully ignorant and ill- 
 bred," I thought, as 1 went into the restaiu'ant. 
 
 428
 
 I had been into that restaurant, in the Morskaya, before, during 
 my disgraceful period of degradation and depravity, and so the 
 impression of those rooms, of those lackeys looking at me, and 
 recognizing me as a familiar visitor, and finally the impression 
 made on me by the mysterious company of Lambert's friends, 
 amongst whom I fovmd myself so suddenly, and to whom I 
 seemed already to belong, and above all an obscure feeling 
 that of my own freewill I was going into something abominable, 
 and that I should certainly end up by doing something horrid — 
 all this seemed to go through me in a flash. There was a moment 
 when I very nearly went away ; but the moment passed and I 
 remained. 
 
 The " pock-marked man," of whom for some reason Lambert 
 was so much afraid, was already waiting for us. He was one 
 of those men of stupidly practical appearance, whom I have 
 always from my childhood detested ; he was about forty-five, 
 of middle height, with hair just turning grey. He was disgust- 
 ingly close-shaven, except for two little neatly trimmed grey 
 whiskers, like sausages, one on each side of his extremely flat 
 and spiteful-looking face. He was of course dull, solemn, and 
 taciturn, and even conceited, as such nonentities always are. 
 He looked at me very attentively, but he did not say a word. 
 Lambert was so stupid that though he sat us down at the same 
 table together, he did not think it necessary to introduce us, and 
 so he may well have taken me for one of the blackmailers 
 associated with Lambert. To the two young men (who arrived 
 almost simultaneously with us) he did not address a single word 
 during the whole of dinner, but it was evident that he knew them 
 well. He talked only to Lambert, and then almost in a Avhisper, 
 and indeed Lambert did most of the talking, and the pock-marked 
 man confined himself to fragmentary and wrathful ejaculations, 
 which sounded like an ultimatum. He behaved superciliously, 
 was ill-humoured and sarcastic, while Lambert on the other 
 hand was extremely excited and was evidently trying to persuade 
 him all the time, probably urging him on to some undertaking. 
 On one occasion I put out my hand to take a bottle of red wine ; 
 the pock-marked man immediately took a bottle of sherry and 
 handed it to me, though he had not said a word to me till then. 
 
 429
 
 " Try this," he said, offering me the bottle. I guessed, on the 
 spot, that he too, knew everything in the world about me — my 
 story, and my name, and perhaps the fact that Lambert was 
 counting upon me. The idea that he was taking me for a 
 satellite maddened me again, and Lambert's face betrayed an 
 intense and very stupid uneasiness when the pock-marked man 
 addressed me ; the latter noticed it and laughed. " There's no 
 doubt that Lambert depends on all of them," I thought, hating 
 him at that instant with my whole soul. In this way, though 
 we were sitting at the same table, throughout the whole dinner 
 we were divided into two groups ; the pock-marked man with 
 Lambert, facing each other close to the window, while I was 
 beside the grubby Andreyev, and Trishatov sat facing me. 
 Lambert hurried on the dinner, continually urging the waiters 
 to make haste with the dishes. When the champagne was 
 brought he held out his glass to me : 
 
 " To your health, let's clink glasses ! " he said, breaking off his 
 conversation with the pock-marked man. 
 
 " And will you let me clink with you too 1 " said the pretty 
 youth, holding out his glass across the table. Till the champagne 
 arrived he had been very silent, and seemed pensive. The 
 dadais said nothing at all, but sat silent and ate a great deal. 
 
 " With pleasure," I answered Trishatov. We clinked glasses 
 and drank. 
 
 " But I'm not going to drink your health," observed the 
 dadais turning to me ; " not because I desire your death, but 
 so that you may not drink any more here to-day." He spoke 
 gloomily and ponderously. " Three glasses is enough for you. 
 I see you are looking at my imwashed fist ! " he went on, putting 
 his fist on the table. " I don't wash it, but as it is I put it at 
 Lambert's service for smashing other people's heads when he's 
 in a tight place." And saying this he brought down his fist on 
 the table with such force that he set all the plates and glasses 
 rattling. Besides us there were people dining at foiur other 
 tables, all of them officers or gentlemen of dignified appearance. 
 It was a fashionable restaurant ; all broke off their conversation 
 for a moment and looked round to our comer ; and indeed I 
 fancied we had attracted curiosity for some time past. Lambert 
 flushed crimson. 
 
 "Ah, he's at it again ! I thought I had asked you to behave 
 yourself, Nikolay Semyonovitch," he said to Andreyev in a 
 furious whisper. The latter gave him a prolonged stare. 
 
 430
 
 " I don't want my new friend Dolgorowky to drink a great 
 deal here to-daз^" 
 
 Lambert flushed more hotly than ever. 
 
 The pock-marked man listened in silence but with evident 
 pleasure. Andreyev's behaviour seemed to please him, for 
 some reason. I was the only one who did not understand why 
 I was not to drink much wine. 
 
 " He says that because he's only just had some money ! 
 You shall have another seven roubles directly after dinner — 
 only do let us have dinner, don't disgrace lis," Lambert hissed 
 at him. 
 
 " Aha ! " the dadais growled triumphantly. At this the 
 pock-marked man was absolutely delighted, and he sniggered 
 spitefully. 
 
 " Listen, you really . . ." began Trishatov to his friend with 
 imeasiness and almost distress in his voice, evidently anxious to 
 restrain him. Andreyev subsided, but not for long ; that was 
 not his intention. Just across the table, five paces from ue, 
 two gentleman were dining, engaged in lively conversation. 
 Both were middle-aged gentleman, who looked extremely 
 conscious of their own dignity ; one was tall and very stout, the 
 other was also very stout but short, they were discussing in 
 Polish the events of the day in Paris. For some time past the 
 dadais had been watching them inquisitively and listening to 
 their talk. The short Pole evidently struck him as a comic 
 iigvure, and he promptly conceived an aversion for him after 
 the manner of envious and splenetic people, who often take such 
 sudden dislikes for no reason whatever. Suddenly the short 
 Pole pronounced the name of the deputy, Madier de Montjeau, 
 but, as so many Poles do, he pronounced it with an accent on 
 the syllable before the last, instead of on the last syllable ; this 
 was enough for the dadais, he turned to the Poles, and drawing 
 up himself with dignity, he suddenly articulated loudly and 
 distinctly as though addressing a question to them : 
 
 " Madier de Montjeau ? " 
 
 The Poles turned to him savagely. 
 
 " What do you want 1 " the tall stout Pole shouted threaten- 
 ingly to him in Russian. 
 
 The dadais paused. " Madier de Montjeau," he repeated 
 suddenly again, to be heard by the whole room, giving no sort 
 of explanation, just as he had stupidly set upon me at the door 
 with the reiterated question " Dolgorowky." The Poles jumped 
 
 431
 
 up from their seats, Lambert leapt up from the table and rushed 
 to Andreyev, but leaving him, darted up to the Poles and began 
 making cringing apologies to them. 
 
 " They are buffoons, Pani, they are buffoons," the little Pole 
 repeated contemptuously, as red as a carrot with indignation. 
 " Soon it will be impossible to come ! " There was a stir all over 
 the room too, and a murmur of disapproval, though laughter 
 was predominant. 
 
 " Come out . . . please . . . come along ! " Lambert 
 muttered completely disconcerted, doing his utmost to get 
 Andreyev out of the room. The latter looking searchingly at 
 Lamljert, and judging that he would now give the money, agreed 
 to follow him. Probably he had already extorted money from 
 Lambert by the same kind of disgraceful behaviour, Trishatov 
 seemed about to run after them too, but he looked at me and 
 checked himself. 
 
 " Ach, how horrid," he said hiding his eyes with his slender 
 fingers. 
 
 " Very horrid," whispered the pock-marked man, looking 
 really angry at last. 
 
 Meanwliile Lambert came back looking quite pale, and gesticu- 
 lating eagerly, began whispering something to the pock-marked 
 man. The latter listened disdainfully, and meanwhile ordered 
 the waiter to make haste with the coffee ; he was evidently in a 
 hurry to get off. And yet the whole affair had only been a 
 schoolboyish prank. Trishatov got up with his cup of coffee, 
 and came and sat down beside me. 
 
 " I am very fond of him," he said to me with a face as open 
 as though he had been talking to me like this all his life. " You 
 can't imagine how unhappy Andreyev is. He has wasted 
 all his sister's dowry on eating and drinking, and in fact all 
 they had he spent on eating and drinking during the year he 
 was in the service, and I see now he worries. And as for his not 
 washing, it's just through despair. And he has awfully strange 
 ideas : he'll tell j'ou all of a sudden that he's both a scoundrel 
 and an honest man — that it's all the same and no difference : 
 and that there's no need to do anything, either good or bad, 
 they are just the same, one may do good or bad, but that the 
 best of all is to be still, not taking off one's clothes for a month 
 at a time, to eat, and drink, and sleep — and nothing else. But 
 believe me, he only says that. And do you кполу, I really 
 beheve he played the fool like this just now to break off with 
 
 432
 
 Lambert once for all. He spoke of it yesterday. Would you 
 believe it, sometimes at night or when he has been sitting long 
 alone, he begins to cry, and, do you know, when he cries, it's 
 different from anyone else ; he howls, he howls in an awful w'oy, 
 and you know it's even more pitiful . . . and he's such a big 
 strong fellow, and then all of a sudden — to see him howling. It 
 is sad, poor fellow, isn't it ? I want to save him, though I am 
 a wretched hopeless scamp myself, you wouldn't believe. Will 
 you let me in, Dolgoruky, if I ever come and see you ? " 
 
 " Oh, do come, I really hke you." 
 
 " What for ? Well, thank you. Listen, will you drink an- 
 other glass ? But after all you'd better not. He was right 
 when he said you had better not drink any more," he suddenly 
 gave me a significant wink, " but I'll drink it all the same. I 
 have nothing now, but would you believe it, I can't hold mj^self 
 back in anything; if you were to tell me I must not dine at a 
 restaurant again, I should be ready to do anything, simply to 
 dine there. Oh, we genuinely want to be honest, I assure you, 
 but we keep putting it off, 
 
 " Andr the years pass by and the best of our years ! 
 
 " I am awfully afraid that he will hang himself. He'll go and do 
 it without telling anyone. He's like that. They are all hanging 
 themselves nowadays ; why, I don't know — perhaps there are a 
 great many people like us. I, for instance, can't exist without 
 money to spend. Luxuries matter a great deal more to mc 
 than necessities. 
 
 " I say, are you fond of music ? I'm awfully fond of it. I'll 
 play you something when I come and see you. I play very 
 well on the piano and, I studied music a very long time. I've 
 studied seriously. If I were to compose an opera, do you know 
 I should take the subject from Faust. I am very fond of that 
 subject. I am always making up a scene in the cathedral, 
 just imagining it in my head, I mean. The Gothic cathedral, 
 the interior, the choirs, the hymns ; Gretchcn enters, and 
 mediaeval singing, you know, so that you can hear the fifteenth 
 century in it. Gretchen overwhelmed with grief ; to begin with 
 a recitative, subdued but terrible, full of anguish; the choiis 
 thunder on, gloomily, sterni}', callously, 
 
 " Dies irae, dies ilia / 
 
 "And all of a sudden — the voice of the devil, the song of the 
 
 433
 
 devil. He is unseen, there is only his song, side by side with 
 the hymns, mingling with the hymns, almost melting into them, 
 but at the same time quite diflferent from them — that must be 
 managed somehow. The song is prolonged, persistent, it must 
 be a tenor, it must be a tenor. It begins softly, tenderly : ' Do 
 you remember, Gretchen, when you were innocent, when you 
 were a child, you came with your mother to this cathedral and 
 lisped your prayers from an old prayer-book ? ' But the song 
 gets louder and louder, more intense ; on higher notes : there's 
 a sound of tears in them, misery unceasing, and hopoless, and 
 finally despair. 'There's no forgiveness, Gretchen, there's no 
 forgiveness for you here ! ' Gretchen tries to pray, but only 
 cries of misery rise up from her soul — ^you know Avhen the breast 
 is convulsed with tears — -but Satan's song never ceases, and 
 pierces deeper and deeper into the soul like a spear ; it gets higher 
 and higher, and suddenly breaks off almost in a shriek : ' The 
 end to all, accursed one ! ' Gretchen falls on her knees, clasps 
 her hands before hor — and then comes her prayer, something 
 very short, semi-recitative, but naive, entirely without ornament, 
 something mcdijBval in the extreme, four lines, only four lines 
 altogether — Stradella has some such notes — and at the last note 
 she swoons ! General confusion. She is picked up, carried out, 
 and then the choir thunders forth. It is, as it were, a storm of 
 voices, a hymn of inspiration, of victory, overwhelming, some- 
 thing in the style of our 
 
 ' Borne on hirjh by angels ' 
 
 — so that everything is shaken to its foundations, and it all 
 passes into the triumphant cry of exaltation * Hosanna ! ' — ^as 
 though it were the cry of the whole universe and it rises and 
 rises, and then the curtain falls ! Yes, you know if only I could, 
 I should have done something ; only I can never do anything 
 now, I do nothing but dream. I am always dreaming ; my 
 whole life has turned into a dream. I dream at night too. Ah, 
 Dolgoruky, have you read Dickens' ' Old Curiosity Shop ' ? " 
 
 " Yes, why ? " 
 
 " Do you remember — wait, I will have another glass — do 
 you remember, there's one passage at the end, when they — 
 that mad old man and that charming girl of thirteen, his grand- 
 child, take refuge after their fantastic flight and wandering in 
 some remote place in England, near a Gothic mediaeval church, 
 and the Uttle girl has received some post there, and shows the 
 
 434
 
 church to visitors . . . then the sun is setting, and the child in 
 the church porch, bathed in the last rays of light, stands and 
 gazes at the sunset, with gentle pensive contemplation in her 
 child soul, a soul full of wonder as though before some mystery, 
 for both alike are mysteries, the sun, the thought of God, and 
 the church, the thought of man, aren't they ? Oh, I don't 
 know how to express it, only God loves such first thoughts in 
 children. . . . While near her, on the step, the crazy old grand- 
 father gazes at her with a fixed look . . . you know there's 
 nothing special in it, in that picture of Dickens, there's absolutely 
 nothing in it, but yet one will remember it all one's life, and it 
 has survived for all Europe — why ? It's splendid ! It's the 
 innocence in it ! And I don't know what there is in it, but it's 
 fine. I used always to be reading novels when I was at school. 
 Do you know I had a sister in the country only a year older than 
 me. . . . Oh, now it's all sold, and we have no country-place 1 
 I was sitting with her on the terrace under our old lime trees, 
 we were reading that novel, and the sun was setting too, and 
 suddenly we left off reading, and said to one another that we 
 would be kind too, that we would be good — I was then preparing 
 for the university and . . . Ach, Dolgoruky, you кполу, every 
 man has his memories ! . . ." 
 
 And he suddenly let his pretty li"^tle head fall on my shoulder 
 and burst out crying. I felt very very sorry for him. It is true 
 that he had drunk a great deal of wine, but he had talked to me 
 so sincerely, so like a brother, with such feeling. . . . Suddenly, 
 at that instant, we heard a shout from the street, and there was a 
 violent tapping at the window (there was a large plate-glass window 
 on the ground floor, so that anyone could tap on the window 
 with his fingers from the street). This was the ejected Andreyev. 
 
 " ОЛё Lambert! Ou est Lambert? As-tu vu Lambert?" we 
 heard his wild shout in the street. 
 
 " Ah ! yes, here he is ! So he's not gone away ? " cried the 
 boy, jumping up from his place. 
 
 " Our account ! " Lambert cried through his clenched teeth 
 to the waiter. His hands shook with anger as he paid the bill, 
 but the pock-marked man did not allow Lambert to pay for him, 
 
 " Why not ? Why, I invited you, you accepted my invitation." 
 
 ** No, excuse me," the pock-marked man pulled out his purse, 
 and reckoning out his share he paid separately. 
 
 " You'll offend me, Semyoh Sidorovitch." 
 
 " That's what I wish," Semyon Sidorovitch snapped out, 
 
 435
 
 taking his hat, and without saying good-bye to anybody, he 
 vialkcd alone out of the room. Lambert tossed the money to 
 the waiter and hurriedly ran after him, .even forgetting my 
 existence in his confusion. Trishatov and I walked out last of 
 all. Andreyev was standing like a post at the door, waiting for 
 Tri.shatov. 
 
 " You scoundrel ! " cried Lambert, unable to restrain himself. 
 " There, there ! " Andreyev grunted at him, and with one swing 
 of his arm he knocked otf his round hat, which went spinning 
 along the pavement. Lambert flew abjectly to pick it up. 
 
 " Ving-cinq rqjibles ! " Andreyev showed Tri.shatov the note, 
 which he had just got from Lambert. 
 
 ' That's enough," Trishatov shouted to him. " Why must you 
 always make an uproar ? . . . And why have you wrung twenty- 
 five roubles out of him ? You only ought to have had seven." 
 
 " Why did I wring it out of him ? He promised us a private 
 dinner with Athenian women, and instead of women he regaled 
 us with the pock-marked man, and Avhat's more, I did not finish 
 my dinner and I've been freezing here in the cold, it's certainly 
 worth eighteen roubles. He owed me seven, so that makes 
 twenty-five." 
 
 " Go to the devil both of you ! " yelled Lambert. " I'll send 
 you both packing, I'll pay you out . . ." 
 
 " Lambert, 111 send you packing. I'll pay you out ! " cried 
 Andreyev. " Adieu, топ prince, don't drink au}' more wine ! 
 Petya, marche ! Ohe Lambert/ Oh est Laynba-t? As-tu vu 
 Lambert ? " he roared for the last time as he strode away. 
 
 " So I shall come and see you, may I ? " Trishatov murmured 
 hurriedly, and hastened after his friend. 
 
 I was left alone with Lambert. 
 
 " Well . . . come along ! " he brought out, seeming stupefied 
 and breathing with difficulty. 
 
 " Where shall I come along ? I'm not coming anywhere wuth 
 you ! " I made haste to reply defiantly. 
 
 " You're not coming," he said, startled and apprehensive. 
 " Why, I have only been waiting for us to be alone ! " 
 
 " But where to go ? " I must confess I, too, had a slight ringing 
 in my head, from the three glasses of champagne and the two 
 wine-glasses of sherry I had drunk. 
 
 " This way, tliis wa3'. Do you see ? " 
 
 " But this is an oyster bar r you see it is written up. It smells 
 80 horrid ..."
 
 "That's only because you have just had dinner. We won't 
 have oysters, but I'll give you some champagne. . . ." 
 
 " I don't want any ! You want to make me drunk." 
 
 " That's what the\' told j'ou ; they've been laughing at you. 
 You believe blackguards like that ! " 
 
 " No, Trishatov's not a blackguard. But I know hovv to take 
 care of myself — that's all ! " 
 
 " So you've a will of your own, have you ? " 
 
 " Yes, I have a character ; more than 3'ou have, for 3'ou're 
 servile to everybody j-ou meet. You disgraced us, you btgged 
 pardon of the Poles like a lackey. 1 suppose you've often been 
 beaten in restaurants ? " 
 
 " But Ave must have a talk, you fool ! " he cried with the same 
 contemptuous impatience, which almost implied, what are 
 you driving at ? " VVhy, you are afraid, aren't you ? Are you 
 my friend or not ? " 
 
 " I am not your friend and you are a swindler. We'll go along 
 simply to show you I'm not afraid of you. Oh, what a horrid 
 smell, it smells of cheese ! How disgusting 1 " 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 I 
 
 I MUST beg the reader to remember again that I had a slight 
 giddiness in my head ; if it had not been for that I should have 
 acted and spoken differently. In the shop, in a back room, one 
 could indeed have eaten oysters, and we sat down to a table 
 covered with a filthy cloth. Lambert ordered champagne ; a 
 glass of cold wine of a golden colour was set before me and seemed 
 looking at me invitingly ; but I felt annoyed. 
 
 " You see, Lambert, what annoys me most is that you think 
 you can order me about now as you used to do at Touchard's, 
 while you are cringing upon everybody here." 
 
 " You fool ! Aie, let's clink glas.scs." 
 
 " You don't even deign to keep up appearances with me : you 
 might at least disguise the fact that you want to make me drunk." 
 
 " You arc talking rot and you're drunk. You must drink 
 some more and you'll be more cheerful. Take your glass, take it ! " 
 
 " Why do you keep on " take it' ? I am going and that's the 
 end of it." 
 
 437
 
 And I really did get up. He was awfully vexed : 
 
 " It was Trishatov whispered that to j'ou : I saw you whisper- 
 ing. You are a fool for that. AJphonsine is really disgusted if 
 he goes near her, . . . He's a dirty beast, I'll tell you what he's 
 like." 
 
 " Y6u've told me already. You can talk of nothing but your 
 Alphonsine, you're frightfully Umited." 
 
 " Limited ? " he did not understand. "They've gone over now 
 1o that pock-marked fellow. That's what it is ! That's why I 
 sent them about their business. They're dishonest. That 
 fellow's a blackguard and he's corrupting them. I insisted that 
 they should always behave decently." 
 
 1 sat still and as it were mechanically took my glass and 
 drank a draught. 
 
 " I'm ever so far ahead of you in education," I said. But he 
 was only too delighted that I went on sitting there, and at once 
 filled up my glass. 
 
 " And you know you're afraid of them ! " I went on taunting 
 him, and no doubt I was even nastier than he was at that moment. 
 " Andreyev knocked your hat off, and you gave him twenty-five 
 roubles for it." 
 
 " I did give it him, but he'll pay me back. They are rebellious, 
 but I'll be quits with them." 
 
 " You are awfully upset by that pock-marked man. And do 
 you know it strikes me that I'm the only one left you. All your 
 hopes now are resting on me — aren't they ? " 
 
 " Yes, Arkasha, that is so : j'ou are the only friend left me ; 
 you are right in saying that ! " he slapped me on the shoulder. 
 
 What could be done with a man so crude ; he was utterly 
 obtuse, and took irony for serious praise. 
 
 " You could save me from bad things if you would be a good 
 comrade, Arkady," he went on, looking at me caressingly. 
 
 " In what way could I save you ? " 
 
 " You know yourself what it is. Without me, like a fool, you 
 will certainly be stupid ; but I'd get you thirty thousand and we 
 would go halves and you know how. W^y, think who you are ; 
 you're nothing — no name, no position, and here you'd win first 
 prize straight off : and having such a fortune, you'll know how to 
 make a career ! " 
 
 I was simply astoxmded at this attack. I had taken for granted 
 that he would dissemble, but he had begun upon it with such 
 bluntness, such schoolboyish bluntness. I resolved to listen to 
 
 438
 
 him from a desire to be open-minded and . . . from intense 
 curiosity. 
 
 " Look here, Lambert, you won't understand this, but I'm 
 consenting to Usten to you because I'm open-minded," I declared 
 firmly, and again I took a gulp at my glass. Lambert at once 
 filled it up. 
 
 " I'll tell you what, Arkady : if a fellow like Buring had 
 dared to abuse me and strike me in the presence of a lady I 
 adored, I don't know what I should have done ! But you put up 
 with it, I'm ashamed of you : you're a poor creature ! " 
 
 " How dare you say that Buring struck me ! " I shouted, 
 turning crimson. " It was more I struck him than he me." 
 
 " No, it was he struck you, not you struck him." 
 
 " You're lying, I trod on Ids foot too ! " 
 
 " But he shoved you back, and told the footman to drag you 
 away . . . and she sat and looked on from her carriage and 
 laughed at you ; she knows that you have no father and that 3'ou 
 can be insulted." 
 
 " I don't understand this schoolboyish conversation, Lambert. 
 and I'm ashamed of it. You are saying this to irritate me, and 
 as crudely and as openly as though I were a boy of sixteen. 
 You've been plotting with Anna i^ndre^^evna ! " I cried, trcmbhng 
 with anger, and still mechanically sipj)ing my wine. 
 
 " Aima Andreyevna's a sly jade ! She's huml)ugging you and 
 me and all the world ! I have been waiting for you, because you 
 can best finish off with that woman." 
 
 " With what woman ? " 
 
 '' With Madame Ahmakov. I know all about it. You told me 
 yourself that she is afraid of that letter you've got . . ." 
 
 " What letter . . . you're talking nonsense. . . . Have you 
 seen her 1 " I muttered in confusion. 
 
 " Yes, I saw her. She's beautiful. Tres bdle ; and you've taste." 
 
 " I know you've seen her but you did not dare speak to her, 
 and I wish you did not dare to speak of her either." 
 
 " You're a boy, and she laughs at you — so there ! We had a 
 virtuous lady like that in ^Moscow. Ough, didn't she turn up her 
 nose ! but she began to tremble when we threatened that we 
 would tell all we knew and she knuckled under directly ; and we 
 got all we wanted both ways, money, and — you understand ? 
 Now she's virtue unapproachable again in society — foo ! my word, 
 isn't she high and mighty, and hasn't she got a turn-out. Ah, you 
 should have seen that little back room it happened in ! You've 
 
 439
 
 not lived ; if only you knew the little back rooms they don't 
 shrink from . . ." 
 
 " I've thought that," I could not help mutterinc;. 
 
 " They're corrupt to their very finger-tips ; you don't kno%v 
 what they're capable of ! Alphonsine lived in a house like that, 
 and she was disgusted." 
 
 " I have thought of that," I chimed in again. 
 
 " But they beat you, and you complain . . ." 
 
 " Lambert, you're a blackguard, you're a damned beast ! " I 
 cried, suddenly pulling myself together and beginning to tremble. 
 " I have dreamed all this, you were in it and Anna Andrej'evna 
 . . . Oh, you damned brute 1 Did you really think I was such a 
 scoimdrel ? I dreamed it because I knew that you would say 
 this. And besides, all this can't be so simple that you can talk 
 to me about it so simply and directly." 
 
 " He is in a rage, tut, tut, tut ! " Lambert drawled, laughing 
 and triumphant. " Well, Arkasha, my boy, now I've found out all 
 I wanted to know. That's why I was so eager to see 3'ou. Listen, 
 you love her I see, and want to revenge yourself on Buring. 
 'J'hat's what I wanted to find out. I've been suspecting 
 it all this time while I've been waiting to see you. Ceci 
 pose, celd change la question. And so much the better, 
 for she loves you too. So you must marry her without a 
 moment's delay, that's the best thing ; you can't do anj'thing else, 
 that's your safest position. And then remember, Arkady, that 
 3'ou have a friend in me of whom you can make any use you like. 
 And that friend will help you, and will marry you : I'll move 
 heaven and earth, Arkasha 1 And you can give your old friend 
 thirty thousand for his trouble afterwards, eh 1 And I'll help 
 you, don't doubt that. I know all the ins and outs of the busi- 
 ness, and they shall give you the whole dowry, and you'll be a 
 wealthy man with a career before you 1 " 
 
 Though my head was in a Avhirl I looked at Lambert with 
 wonder. He was in earnest, and not merely in earnest in what he 
 said, but in believing in the possibility of my marrying ; I could 
 see that he thoroughly believed in it himself, and, in fact, caupht 
 at the idea with enthusiasm. I saw, of course, too, that he wa:^ 
 entrapping me like a schoolboy (I certainly must have scon it 
 even then) ; but the thought of marrying her so thrilled me that 
 though I wondered how Lambert could believe in such a fantastic 
 notion, yet, at the same time I tried violently to believe in it 
 myself, though I did not for an instant lose consciousness of the 
 
 440
 
 fact that it could not possibly come to pass. All this was mingled 
 together at the same time. 
 
 " But is it possible ? " I faltered. 
 
 " Why not ? you will show her the letter, she'll be frightened 
 and marry you to keep her money." 
 
 I made up my mind not to stop Lambert in his vile suggestions, 
 for he disclosed them to me with such simplicity and did not 
 suspect that I might be revolted by them ; I did mutter, however, 
 that I should not like to marry her simply by force. 
 
 " I don't want to use force for anything ; how can you be so 
 base as to think me capable of it ! " 
 
 " Hoity-toity ! Why, she'll marry you of her own accord : 
 it won't be your doing, she'll be frightened and marry you herself, 
 and she'll marry you because she loves you, too," Lambert put 
 in hastily. 
 
 " That's a lie ; j'ou're laughing at me. How do you know she 
 loves me ? " 
 
 *' Of course she does. I know it. And Anna Andreyevna 
 assumes it. It's the truth in earnest. I'm telling you that 
 Anna Andreyevna assumes it. And I'll tell you something else 
 when you come to me, and you'll see that she does love you. 
 Alphonsine has been at Tsarskoe ; she foimd out there . . ." 
 
 " What could she find out there ? " 
 
 " You come back with me ; she'll tell you herself, and it vrill 
 please you. Why, aren't you as good as anybody, you are hand- 
 some, you are well educated." 
 
 " Yes, I am well educated," I answered, hardly able to 
 breathe ; my heart was thumping and, of course, not only from 
 the wine. 
 
 " You are handsome, you are well dressed.** 
 
 " Yes, I'm well dressed." 
 
 *' And you are good-natured. . . ." 
 
 " Yes, I'm good-natured." 
 
 " Why shoiildn't she consent ? Biiring won't take her without 
 money anyway, and you can deprive her of her money — so she'll 
 be in a fright : you'll marry her and punish Biiring. Why, vou 
 told me yourself that night after you were frozen that she was in 
 love with you." 
 
 " Can I have told you that ? I'm sure I did not tell you that." 
 
 " Yes, you did." 
 
 " I was delirious when I said that. I suppose I told you of the 
 letter too ? " 
 
 441
 
 " Yes, you told me you had such a letter ; I thought at the time 
 how can he let slip his luck if he has such a letter ? " 
 
 " It's all a mad idea, and I'm not so stupid as to believe it," I 
 muttered ; " to begin with there's a difference in our ages, and 
 besides I've no siuname." 
 
 " But she'll marry you though ; she can't help marrying you 
 when it's a question of so much money — I'll arrange that. And, 
 what's more, she loves you. You know that old prince is very 
 well disposed to you ; through his protection, you know, you can 
 form connections ; and what does it matter if you have no name, 
 nowadays nothing of that's necessary : once you pocket the 
 money you'll get on and get on, and in ten years' time you will be 
 such a millionaire that all Russia will resoimd with your fame, 
 so you won't need a name then. Why, you can buy a title in 
 Austria. And when you get married, keep her well in hand. 
 They want a firm hand. If a woman's in love, she likes to feel a 
 man's got a tight grip on her. Women 4ike will in a man. When 
 you frighten her with the letter, from that hour you will show her 
 you have strength of will. ' Ah,' she'll say ' he's so young, and 
 yet he has will.' " 
 
 I sat, as it were, spell-bound. I should never with anyone 
 else have sunk to such an idiotic conversation. But in this case a 
 sort of voluptuous craving drew me on to continue it. Besides, 
 Lambert was so stupid and so low that no one could feel ashamed 
 of anjrthing before him. 
 
 " No, do you know, Lambert," I said suddenly : " yon may 
 say what you like, but a great deal of this is absurd ; I have been 
 talking to you because we were schoolfellows, and we need not be 
 ashamed of saying anything to one another ; but I would not have 
 demeaned myself to it with anyone else for any consideration. 
 And, first of aU, tell me why you keep repeating so positively that 
 she's in love with me ? That was quite good what you said just 
 now about having capital ; but you see, Lambert, you don't 
 know anything of good society : all this is still with them on the 
 most patriarchal, family system, so to say, and, therefore, as so far 
 she does not know my abilities and what a position I may achieve 
 in the world, she'll be ashamed of me. But I won't conceal from 
 you, Lambert, that there really is one point that might give one 
 hope. You see : she might marry me from gratitude, because I 
 might save her from a man she hates. And she is afraid of that 
 man." 
 
 " Ah, you mean your father ? Whj', is he so much in love 
 
 442
 
 with her ? " Lambert said, pricking up his ears with peculiar 
 curiosity. 
 
 " Oh no ! " I cried : " and how horrid you are, and at the 
 same time how stupid, Lambert ! Why, if he were in love with her, 
 how could I want to marry her ? After all we are father and 
 son, that would be shameful. He loves my mother, my mother, 
 and I saw how he held her in his arms. I did think at one time 
 he loved Katerina Nikolaevna, but now I know for certain that 
 though he may once have loved her, he has hated her for a long 
 time now . . . and wants to revenge himself on her, and she's 
 afraid of him, for I tell you, Lambert, he is very terrible \\hen 
 he begins to revenge himself. He becomes almost insane. When 
 he's in a rage with her, he doesn't stick at anything. This is a 
 feud in the old style on account of the loftiest principles. In our 
 time we don't care a hang for any general principles ; nowadays 
 there are no general principles but only special cases. Ah, 
 l^mbert, you don't understand, you are as stupid as a post ; 
 I am talking to you about these principles, but I am sure you 
 don't understand. You are awfully uneducated. Do you re- 
 member you used to beat me I Now I'm stronger than you are — 
 do you know that ? " 
 
 " Arkasha, come home with me ! We'll spend the evening and 
 drink another bottle, and Alphonsine will sing to the guitar." 
 
 " No, I'm not coming. Listen, Lambert, I've got an ' idea.' 
 If 1 don't succeed and don't marry, I shall fall back on the ' idea ' ; 
 but you haven't an idea." 
 
 '■ All right, all right, you shall tell me about it, come along." 
 
 " I am not coming," I said, getting up. " I don't want to. and 
 I'm not coming. I shall come and see you, but you are a black- 
 guard. I'll give you thirty thousand, but I am cleaner and better 
 than you. ... I see, j'^ou want to deceive me all round. But 
 I forbid you even to think of her : she's above every one, and 
 your plan is so low that I really wonder at you, Lambert. I 
 want to be married, that's a different matter ; but I don't want 
 money, I despise money. I wouldn't take it if she begged me to 
 on her knees . . . but marriage, marriage, that's a different 
 matter. But you know that was quite right what you said, that 
 one ought to keep a tight hand on her. It's a good thing to love, 
 to love passionately, with all the generosity of which a man is 
 capable, and which can never be found in a woman ; but to be 
 despotic is a good thing too. For, do you know, Lambert, a 
 woman loves despotism. You understand woman, Lambert. 
 
 443
 
 But you are wonderfully stupid in everything else. And do you 
 know, Lambert, you are not at all such a blackguard as you seem, 
 you're simple. I like you. Ah, Lambert, why are you such a 
 rogue ? What a jolly time we might have if you weren't I You 
 know Trishatov's a dear." 
 
 These last incoherent phrases I muttered in the street. Oh, 
 I set all this down in every trivial detail, that the reader may see 
 that with all my enthusiasm and my vows and promises to re- 
 form, and to strive for " seemliness," I was capable then of falling 
 so easily and into such filth. And I swear that if I were not fully 
 convinced that I am no longer the same, but have gained strength 
 of character by practical life, I should not have confessed all this 
 to the reader. 
 
 We went out of the shop, and Lambert supported me slightly, 
 putting his arm round me. Suddenly I looked at him, and saw 
 in his fixed, terribly intent and perfectly sober eyes the very 
 same expression as I had seen that morning when I was frozen 
 and when he had led me to the cab with his arm round me in the 
 same way, and listened, all eyes and ears, to my incoherent babble. 
 Men who are drunk but not quite hopelessly drunk, sometimes 
 have moments of absolute soberness. 
 
 " I'm not going home with you for anything," I declared 
 firmly and coherently, looking at him sarcastically and putting 
 aside his arm. 
 
 " Come, nonsense. I'll tell Alphonsine to make tea for us, 
 come ! " 
 
 He was horribly confident that I should not get away ; he put 
 his arm round me and held me with a sort of relish, as his prey, 
 and the prey was what he needed of course, that evening and in 
 that condition ! It will be clear later why. 
 " I'm not coming ! " I repeated. " Cab ! " 
 At that instant a sledge drove up and I jumped into it. 
 " Where are you off to ? What are you about ! " yelled 
 Lambert, clutching at my fur coat in extreme dismay. 
 
 " And don't dare to follow me ! " I cried, " don't drive after 
 me." At that very instant the sledge started, and my coat was 
 torn out of Lambert's hands. 
 
 " You'll come all the same ! " he shouted after me in an angry 
 voice. 
 
 " I shall come if I want to. I can do as I like ! " I retorted, 
 turning round in the sledge. 
 
 444
 
 He did not follow me, of course, because there did not happen 
 to be another sledge at hand, and I succeeded in getting out of 
 his sight. I drove on as far as the Haymarket, and there I 
 stopped and dismissed the sledge. I had a great desire to walk. 
 I was not conscious of being tired or of being much intoxicated, 
 I felt full of vigour ; I was aware of a fresh flow of energy, of an 
 exceptional readiness for any sort of enterprise, and of innumer- 
 able pleasant ideas in my brain. 
 
 My heart was thudding violently and loudly, I could hear 
 every beat. And everything seemed so charming, so easy. 
 When I passed the sentry at the Haymarket I felt inclined to go 
 up and kiss him. There was a thaw, the market-place was dingy 
 and evil-smelling, but I was delighted even with the market- 
 place. 
 
 " I am in the Obuhovsky Prospect," I thought, " and afterwards 
 I shall turn to the left and come out in the Semyonovsky Polk. 
 I shall take a short cut, that's delightful, it's all delightful. My 
 coat is unbuttoned, how is it no one snatches it off, where are the 
 thieves ? They say there are thieves in the Haymarket ; let 
 them come, I might give them my fur coat. What do I 
 want with a fur coat ? A fur coat is property. La pro- 
 рпШ c'est le vol. But what nonsense, and how nice ever}'- 
 thing is ! It's nice that the snow is melting. Why frost ? 
 There's no need of a frost at all. It's nice to talk non- 
 sense too. What was it I said to Lambert about principles ? 
 I said there were no general principles, but only special cases ; 
 that was stuff, utter stuff ! And I said it on purpose, out of 
 swagger. I am a little ashamed, but after all it doesn't matter, 
 I'll make up for it. Don't be ashamed, don't distress yourself, 
 Arkady Makarovitch. Arkady Makarovitch. I like люи. I like 
 you very much, in fact, my young friend. It's a pity you're a 
 little rascal . . . and . . . and . . . ah, yes . . . ah ! " 
 
 I suddenly stood still, and my heart began to ache with ecstasy 
 again. 
 
 " Good God ! what was it he said ? He said that she loves 
 me. Oh, he is a scoundrel, he told a lot of lies, that was to make 
 me stay the night with him. But perhaps not. He said Anna 
 Andreyevna thinks so too. . . . Ba ! But Darya Onisimovna 
 might have found out something about it for him ; she pokes 
 
 445
 
 her nose into everything. And why didn't I go to him ? I 
 should have found out everything ! Н'ш ! He has a plan, and I 
 had a presentiment of it all, every bit of it. The dream. A 
 bold scheme, M. Lambert, only let me tell you it won't be so. 
 Perhaps it will though, perhaps it will ! And can he bring off 
 my marriage ? Perhaps he can. He is naive and he believes it. 
 He is stupid and impudent like all practical people. Stupidity 
 and impudence combined are a great force. But confess, you 
 were really afraid of Lambert, Arkady Makarovitch ! And what 
 does he Avant with honest people ? He says so seriously : * There 
 isn't an honest man here ! ' Why, what are you yourself ? And 
 what am I ! Don't scoundrels need honest men ? In swindling 
 honest men are more needed than anywhere. Ha ! ha ! You 
 did not know that till now, Arkady Makarovitch, you were so 
 innocent. Good God 1 What if he really were to bring about my 
 marriage ! " 
 
 I stood still again. Here I must confess something stupid 
 (as it is all so long ago) : I must confess that I had long before 
 been wishing to be married — at least not wishing, and it 
 would never have happened (and I can guarantee it never will in 
 the future), but more than once — ^a great many times in fact — > 
 I had dreamed how splendid it would be to be married, es- 
 pecially as I was falling asleep at night. I began to dream of it 
 when I was about sixteen. I had a schoolfellow of my own age 
 at the high school, called Lavrovsky, such a quiet, sweet, pretty 
 boy, not particularly distinguished in any other way, however. 
 I hardly ever talked to him. One day we happened to be sitting 
 side by side, and he was very dreamy, and suddenly he said to 
 me : ' Ah, Dolgoruky, what do you think, we ought to be married 
 now ; yes, really when should we be married if not now ; now 
 would be the very best time, and yet it's impossible.' And he 
 said that so frankly. And I agreed with it at once entirely, 
 for I already had visions of something of the sort. For several 
 days afterwards we met and talked, as it were, in secret, only of 
 that however. But afterwards, I don't know how it happened, 
 but we left off talking to each other and drifted apart. And from 
 that time I began to dream of marriage. This, of course, would 
 not have been worth mentioning, only I wanted to show how 
 far back this feeling sometimes goes. . . . 
 
 " There is only one serious objection," I mused, as I went on 
 again. " Oh, of course, the trivial difference in our ages is no 
 real obstacle, but she is such an aristocrat and I am simply 
 
 446
 
 Dolgoruky ! It's awfully horrid ! H'm ! Couldn't Versilov 
 marry mother and petition the government for me to be legiti- 
 matized as a reward for his services, so to say. . . . He's been in 
 the service, so must have rendered services ; he was a mediator 
 at the emancipation. . . . Oh, damn it all, how loathsome." 
 
 I suddenly uttered this exclamation and stood still for the 
 third time, but this time I felt as though I had been crushed 
 to the earth. The agonizing feeling of humiliation from the 
 cousciousntss that I oould desire anything so shameful as the 
 change of my surname by being legitimized, this treachery to my 
 whole childhood, all this in one flash shattered my previous 
 mood, and all my joyfuhiess was dissipated like smoke. " No, 
 I'll never tell that to anyone," I thought, turning crimson: 
 "I've sunk so low because I'm in love and stupid. . . . No, 
 if Lambert is right in anything, it is that nowadays, in our age, 
 the man is what matters, and afterwards his money. Or rather 
 not his money, but rather his property. With a capital like that 
 I would throw myself into the ' idea,' and all Russia would ring 
 with my fame in ten years, and I would revenge myself on them all. 
 And there's no need to stand on ceremony with her. Lambert's 
 right there. She'll be frightened and simply marry me. She'il 
 consent in the simplest and most abject way, and marry me." 
 " You don't know, you don't know in what little back room that 
 happened ! " I remembered Lambert's words. " That's true," 
 I went on miising : " Lambert's right in everything, a thousand 
 times more right than Versilov and I and all the idealists ! He 
 is a realist. She shall see that I have strength of will, and she 
 will say : ' Ho has will ! ' Lambert's a scoundrel, and all he 
 wants is to get tliirty thousand out of me, and yet he is the only 
 friend I have. There is no other sort of friendship and there can 
 be no other, that's all been invented by unpractical people. 
 And I shan't be even' degrading her ; shall I be degrading her-? 
 Not in the least : all women are like that ! Are there any women 
 who are not abject ? That's why she must have a man over her ; 
 that's why she's created a subordinate creature. Woman is vice 
 and temptation, and man is honour and generosity. So it will be to 
 the end of time. And what if I do mean to use that ' document ' 1 
 That does not matter. That does not prevent honour or 
 generosity. Pure, unadulterated Schillers don't exist, they are 
 invented. It does not matter if one has to pass through filth to 
 get there, as long as the goal is magnificent. It will all be washed 
 off, it will all be smoothed away afterwards. And now it's only 
 
 447
 
 ' breadth,' it's only life, it's only vital truth — that's what it is 
 called nowada5's." 
 
 Oh, I repeat again : I must be forgiven for recording all my 
 drunken ravings at the time. Of course this is only the essence 
 of what I thought then, but I fancy I used those very words. 
 I was bound to -record them because I have sat down to write 
 in order to condemn myself. And what is to be condemned, if 
 not that ? Can there be anything graver in my life ? Wine is 
 no justification. In vino Veritas. 
 
 Entirely absorbed in such dreams I did not notice that I had 
 reached home, that is, mother's lodgings. I did not even notice 
 going in, but as soon as I slipped into our tiny entrance, I realized 
 at once that something unusual was happening. 
 
 There were loud voices and outcries in the room, and I 
 could hear that mother was crying. In the doorway I almost 
 fell over Ьикегз'а, who was running from Makar Ivanovitch's 
 room to the kitchen. I flung down my fur coat and went in to 
 Makar Ivanovitch, for they were all gathered together in his 
 room. 
 
 There I found mother and Versiiov. Mother was supported 
 in his arms, and he was pressing her to his heart. Makar Ivano- 
 vitch was sitting as usual on his little bench, but he seemed 
 overcome with Avcakness, and Liza had her arms round his 
 shoulders and with an effort was holding him up ; and it was 
 evident that he was on the point of falling. I took a rapid step to- 
 wards him and realized with a shudder that the old man was dead. 
 
 He had only just died, one minute before I arrived. Only ten 
 minutes before he had felt just as usual. No one was with him 
 then but Liza ; she had been sitting with him, telling her grief, 
 and he had been stroking her head just as he had done the day 
 before. Suddenly he began to tremble (Liza told us), tried to 
 stand up, tried to cry out, and began falling on his left side, and 
 was silent. " Rupture of the heart ! " said Versiiov. Liza 
 uttered a scream that could be heard all over the house, and 
 they had all run in at once, and all that only the minute before 
 I came in. 
 
 " Arkady," Versiiov cried, " run instantly to Tatyana 
 Pavlovna. She's sure to be at home. Ask her to come at once. 
 Take a sledge. Make haste, I entreat you ! " 
 
 His eyes were shining. I remember that clearly. I did not 
 notice in his face anything like simple pity, anything like tears. 
 The others, mother, Liza, and Lukerya, were crying. I was struck, 
 
 448
 
 on the contrary — and I remember this very well — ^by a look of 
 unusual excitement almost of elation in his face. I ran for 
 Tatyana Pavlovna. 
 
 It was not far to go, as the reader knows already. I did not 
 take a sledge, but ran all the way without stopping. My mind 
 was in confusion, and yet there was something almost like elation 
 in my heart, too. I realized something momentous was happen- 
 ing. Every trace of drunkenness had disappeared completely, 
 and with it every ignoble thought, by the time I was ringing at 
 Tatyana Pavlovna's door. 
 
 The Finnish cook opened the door : " Not at home ! " she said 
 and would have shut it at once. 
 
 " Not at home ? " I cried, and rushed headlong into the 
 passage. " Impossible ! Makar Ivanovitch is dead ! " 
 
 " Wha — at ! " I heard Tatyana Pavlovna cry out in her 
 drawing-room, through the closed door. 
 
 " He is dead ! Makar Ivanovitch is dead ! Andrey Petrovitch 
 begs /ou to go this minute ! " 
 
 " What nonsense you're talking." 
 
 The bolt clicked, but the door only opened an inch. " What 
 has happened, tell me ! . . ." 
 
 " I don't know, he was dead when I arrived. Andrey Petro- 
 vitch says it's rupture of the heart ! " 
 
 " I'll come at once, this minute. Run and tell them I'm 
 coming, run along ! run along ! run along ! What are you 
 stopping for ? " 
 
 But through the half-opened door I had distinctly seen some 
 one come suddenly out from behind the curtain that screened 
 Tatyana Pavlovna's bed, and that some one was standing at the 
 back of the room behind Tatyana Pavlovna. Mechanically and 
 instinctively I clutched at the lock and would not let the door Ъ(^ 
 shut. 
 
 " Arkady Makarovitch, is it really true that he's dead ? " I 
 heard a soft, smooth, ringing voice, a well-known voice that 
 thrilled everything in my heart at once. In the question was a 
 note of some emotion that deeply stirred her heart. 
 
 " Oh, if that's how it is," cried Tatyana Pavlovna, abandoning 
 the door, " if that's how it is — you may settle it to please yourself. 
 It's your own doing ! " 
 
 She ran full speed out of the flat, flinging on her kerchief and 
 her fur coat as she went downstairs. We were left alone. I 
 ■threw ofi my fur coat, took a step forward, and shut the door. 
 
 449 2"
 
 ^e stood before me as she had done that time before, with a 
 bright face, and just as she had done then, she held out both 
 hands to me. As though I had been struck down I literally fell 
 at her feet. 
 
 I was beginnmg to cry, I don't know why ; I don't remember 
 how she made me sit down beside her, I only remember, as one of 
 my most precious memories, that we sat side by side, hand in 
 hand, and talked eagerly : she was questioning me about the old 
 man and his death, and I was telling her about him — so that it 
 might have been supposed that I had been crying over Makar 
 Ivanovitch, though that would have been the acme of absurdity ; 
 and I know that she could not possibly have suspected me of such 
 childish banality. All at once I pulled myself together and felt 
 ashamed. I imagine now that I cried simply from joy, and I 
 beUeve she knew that perfectly well,, so that my heart is quite at 
 rest when I remember it. 
 
 It suddenly struck me as very strange that she зЬоиИ go on 
 questioning me about Makar Ivanovitch. 
 
 " Why, did you know him ? " I asked in surprise. 
 
 ** Yes. I have never seen him, but he has played a part in my 
 life, too. I was told a great deal about him at one time, by that 
 man whom I fear. You know what man I mean." 
 
 " All I know is that * that man ' has been in the past much 
 nearer to your heart than you told me before," I said. I don't 
 know what I meant to express by this, but I spoke as it were 
 reproachfully and with a frown. 
 
 " You say he was kissing your mother just now ? Holding her 
 in his arms ? You saw that yourself ? " she did not hear what I 
 said, but went on cross-examining me. 
 
 " Yes, I saw it ; and, believe me," I hastened to assure her, 
 seeing her joy, " it was with true and generous feeling." 
 
 " God grant it," she said, crossing herself. " Now he is set free. 
 That admirable old man simply held his life in bondage. His 
 death will mean for him a renewal of duty . . . and dignity, as 
 they were renewed once before. Oh, he is before all things 
 generous, he will give peace of heart to your mother, whom he 
 loves more than anything on earth, and will at last be at peace 
 himself, and thank God — it's high time." 
 
 " He is dear to you 1 " 
 
 45P
 
 " Yes, very dear, though not in the way he would have liked 
 to be and you mean by your question." 
 
 " And is it for yourself or for him that you are afraid now 1 " 
 I asked suddenly. 
 
 " Oh, these are deep questions, let us leave them." 
 ' Let us leave them, of couj*se ; but I knew nothing of this, 
 nor of too much else perhaps ; but may you be right, now every- 
 thing will begin anew, and if anyone is to be renewed, it's I first of 
 all. I have been base in my thoughts in regard to you, Katerina 
 Nikolaevna, and not more than an hour ago, perhaps, I was guilty 
 of a low action in regard to you, but do you know I am sitting 
 beside you and feel no pang of conscience. For everything now is 
 over, and everything is beginning anew, and the man who was 
 plotting vileness against you an hour ago I don't know, and don t 
 want to know ! " 
 
 "Come, calm yourself," she smiled; "one would think you 
 were a little delirious." 
 
 " And how can one condemn oneself beside you, whether one 
 is good or vile — you are as far beyond one as the sun, . . . Tell 
 me, how could you come out to me after all that's happened ? 
 Oh, if only you knew what happened only an hour ago ! And 
 what a dream has come true." 
 
 " I expect I know all that," she smiled softly : " you have just 
 been wanting to punish me in some way, you swore to ruin me, 
 and would certainly have killed, or at least have beaten, anyone 
 who had dared to say one word against me." 
 
 Oh, she smiled and jested : but this was only from her excessive 
 kindness, for her heart at that moment, as I realized later, was 
 full of such an immense anxiety of her own, such a violent over- 
 mastering emotion, that she can only have talked to me and have 
 answered mj' foolish irritating questions, she can only have done 
 that as one sometimes answers the persistent prattle of a little 
 child, simply to get rid of it. I understood that dully and felt 
 ashamed, but I could not help persisting. 
 
 " No," I cried, unable to control myself. " No, I did not kill 
 the man who spoke ill of you, I encouraged him instead ! " 
 
 " Oh, for goodness' sake, please don't ; there's no need to tell me 
 anything," she said, suddenly putting out her hand to stop me, 
 with a look of compassion in her face ; but I leapt up from my 
 seat and was standing before her, to tell her everything, and if I 
 had told her, nothing of what happened afterwards would have 
 happened, for it would certainly have ended in my confessing 
 
 451
 
 everything and returning the document to her. But she suddenly 
 laughed. 
 
 " There's no need, there's no need of anj^hing, no facts at all ! 
 I know all your misdoings ; I'm ready to bet that you meant to 
 marry me or something of that sort, and you have only just been 
 plotting about it with some one, with some accomplice, some old 
 school friend. . . . Why I believe I've guessed right ! " she cried, 
 looking gravely at my face. 
 
 " What . . . how could you guess ! " I faltered like a fool, 
 tremendously impressed. 
 
 ^' Well, what next I But that's enough, that's enough ! I 
 forgive you, but no more about it," she waved her hand again, 
 with unmistakable impatience. " I am given to dreaming my- 
 self, and if you only knew what shifts I have recourse to in my 
 dreams when I let myself go ! That's enough, you make me 
 forget what I was going to say. I am very glad that Tatyana 
 Pavlovna has gone away ; I have been very anxious to see you, 
 and we could not have talked as we are doing before her. I 
 believe I was to blame for what happened. I was 1 Of course 
 I was ! " 
 
 " You to blame ? But I had betrayed you to him, and — what 
 can you have thought of me ! I have been thinking of that all 
 this time, all these days, I've been thinking and feeling about it 
 every minute." (It was not a lie.) 
 
 " There was no need for you to distress yourself so much, I 
 quite understood at the time how it had all happened ; you 
 simply spoke too freely in your joy, and told him that you 
 were in love with me and that I . . . well, that I listened to you. 
 Just what you would do at twenty. You love him more than 
 anyone in the world, don't you, and look to him to be your friend, 
 your ideal ? I quite understood that, but it was too late. Oh 
 yes, I was to blame : I ought to have sent for you at the time, 
 and have set your mind at rest, but I felt annoyed ; and I told 
 them not to admit you ; that's what led to the scene at the 
 entrance, and then that night. And do you know, Uke you. I've 
 been dreaming all this time of meeting you secretly, only I did 
 not know how to arrange it ? And what do you suppose I 
 dreaded more than anything ? That you would believe what he 
 said against me." 
 
 " Never ! " I cried. 
 
 " The memory of oiu" meetings in the past is dear to me ; the 
 boy in you is very dear to me, and perhaps, too, that very 
 
 452
 
 sincerity . . . you know, I'm a very serious person, I am one of 
 the most serious and gloomy characters among modem women, 
 let me tell you . . . ha — ha — ha ! We'll have another talk 
 some time, but now I'm not quite myself, I am upset and . . . 
 I believe I'm a little hysterical. But, at last, at last, he will let 
 me, too, live in peace." 
 
 This exclamation broke from her unconsciously ; I understood 
 it at once, and did not want to catch it up, but I trembled all over. 
 
 " He knows I've forgiven him ! " she exclaimed suddenly again, 
 as though to herself. 
 
 " Could you really forgive him that letter ? And how could 
 he tell that you forgave him ? " I could not help exclaiming. 
 
 " How could he tell \ Oh, he knows," she went on answering 
 me, yet she looked as though she had forgotten my existence and 
 were talking to herself. " He has come to his senses now. And 
 how could he not know that I forgave him, when he knows every 
 secret of my soul by heart ? Why, he knows that I am a little 
 after his kind myself." 
 
 " You ? " 
 
 " Why, yes, he knows that. Oh, I'm not passionate, I'm calm : 
 but like him I should like all men to be fine, ... Of course 
 there was something made him love me." 
 
 " How could he say that you had all the vices." 
 
 " He only said that ; he has another secret in his heart. And 
 didn't he write an awfully funny letter ? " 
 
 " Funny ? " (I was listening to her with strained attention. 
 I imagined that she really was hysterical, and . . . was speaking, 
 perhaps, not for my benefit ; but I could not resist the question.) 
 
 " Oh yes, funny, and how I should have laughed, if ... if 
 I hadn't been frightened. Though I'm not such a coward, don't 
 think it ; but I didn't sleep all night after that letter, it seemed 
 written in blood and frenzy . . . and after such a letter what was 
 left to come. I love life, I'm horribly afraid for my life, I'm 
 horribly cowardly in that. . . . Ah, listen," she cried, suddenly 
 darting at me, " go to him, he's alone now, he can't be there still, 
 most Likely he's gone off somewhere alone ; make haste and find 
 him, you must make haste, run to him, show him that you are his 
 son and love him, prove that you are the dear kind boy, my 
 student Avhom I ... Oh, God give you happiness, I love nobody, 
 and it is better so, but I want every one to be happy, every one, 
 and him above all, and let him know that ... at once ... I 
 should be very glad." 
 
 453
 
 She got up and suddenly disappeared behind the curtain. 
 At that instant tears were shining on her face (hysterical after her 
 laughter). I remained alone, agitated and confused. I was 
 completely at a loss to what to ascribe such emotion in her, an 
 emotion which I never should have suspected. Something 
 seemed to be clutching at my heart. 
 
 I waited five minutes, ten ; the profound silence suddenly 
 struck me, and I ventured to peep out of the door, and to call. 
 In answer to my call Marya appeared and informed me in the 
 most stolid tone, that the lady had put on her things long, long 
 ago and gone out by the back way. 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 This was enough for me. I snatched up my fur coat and, throwing 
 it on as I went, rushed off with the thought : " She bade me go 
 to him, but where shall I find him ? " 
 
 But together with everything else I was struck by the question, 
 "Why does she suppose that something has happened, and that 
 now he will leave her in peace ? Of course, because he will 
 marry mother, but what is she feeling ? Is she glad that he 
 will marry mother, or is she unhappy about it ? And was that 
 why she was hysterical ? Why is it I can't get to the bottom 
 of it ? " 
 
 I note this second thought that flashed upon me, literally 
 in order to record it : it is important. That evening was a 
 momentous one. And really one is forced to believe in pre- 
 destination : I had not gone a hundred steps in the direction 
 of mother's lodging when I came across the man I was looking 
 for. He clutched me by the shoulder and stopped me. 
 
 " It's you ! " he cried joj^ully, and at the same time with the 
 greatest astonishment. " Only fancy, I've been at your lodgings," 
 he began quickly, " I have been looking for you, I've been asking 
 for you, you are the one person I want in the whole universe ! 
 Your landlord told me some extraordinary tale ; but you weren't 
 there, and I came away and even forgot to tell him to ask you to 
 run round to me at once, and, would you believe it, I set off, 
 nevertheless, with the positive conviction that fate could not fail 
 to send you to me now when most I need you, and here 3'ou are 
 
 454
 
 the first person to meet me ! Come home with me : you've 
 never been to my rooms." 
 
 In fact we had been looking for each other, and something of 
 the same sort had happened to each of us. We walked very 
 rapidly. 
 
 On the way he uttered only a few brief phrases, telling me he 
 had left mother with Tatyana Pavlovna and so on. He walked 
 holding my arm. His lodging was not far off and we soon 
 arrived. I had, in fact, never been in these rooms of his. It was 
 a small flat of three rooms, which he had taken or rather Tatyana 
 Pavlovna had taken simply for that " tiny baby." The flat 
 had always been under Tatyana Pavlovna's supervision, and in it 
 had been installed a nurse with the baby (and now Darya Onisi- 
 movna, too), but there had always been a room there for Versilov, 
 the outermost of the three, a fairly good and spacious room, 
 snugly furnished, like a study for literary pursuits. On the table, 
 on the shelves, and on a whatnot there were numbers of books 
 (while at mother's there were none at all) ; there were manu- 
 scripts and bundles of letters — in fact, it all looked snug and as 
 though it had been long inhabited, and I know that in the past 
 Versilov had sometimes, though not very often, moved into this 
 flat altogether, and had stayed there even for weeks at a time. 
 The first thing that caught my attention was a portrait of mother 
 that hung over the writing table ; a photograph in a magnificent 
 carved frame of rare wood, obviously taken abroad and judging 
 from its size a very expensive one. I had never heard of this 
 portrait and knew nothing of it before, and what struck me most 
 of all was the likeness which was remarkable in a photograph, 
 the spiritual truth of it, so to say ; in fact it looked more like a real 
 portrait by the hand of an artist than a mere mechanical print. 
 When I went in I could not help stopping before it at once. 
 
 " Isn't it, isn't it ? " Versilov repeated behind me, meaning, 
 " Isn't it like ? " I glanced at him and was struck by the 
 expression of his face. He was rather pale, but there was a 
 glowing and intense look in his eyes which seemed shining with 
 happiness and strength. I had never seen such an expression 
 on his face. 
 
 " I did not know that you loved mother so much ! " I blurted 
 out, suddenly delighted. 
 
 He smiled blissfully, though in his smile there was a suggestion 
 of something like a martyr's anguish, or rather something humane 
 and lofty ... I don't know how to express it ; but highly 
 
 455
 
 developed people, I fancy, can never have triumphantly and 
 complacently happy faces. He did not answer, but taking the 
 portrait from the rings with both hands brought it close to him, 
 kissed it, and gently hung it back on the wall. 
 
 " Observe," he said ; " photographs very rarely turn out good 
 likenesses, and that one can easily understand : the originals, 
 that is all of us, are very rarely like ourselves. Only on rare 
 occasions does a man's face express his leading quality, his most 
 characteristic thought. The artist studies the face and divines 
 its characteristic meaning, though at the actual moment when 
 he's painting, it may not be in the face at all. Photography 
 takes a man as he is, and it is extremely possible that at 
 moments Napoleon would have turned out stupid, and Bismarck 
 tender. Here, in this portrait, by good luck the sun caught Sonia 
 in her characteristic moment of modest gentle love and rather wild 
 shrinking chastity. And how happy she was when at last she 
 was convinced that I was so eager to have her portrait. Though 
 that photograph was taken not so long af^o, still she was younger 
 then and handsomer ; yet even then she had those hollow cheeks, 
 those lines on her forehead, that shrinking timidity in her eyes, 
 which seems to gain upon her with the years, and increase as time 
 goes on. Would you believe it, dear boy ? I can scarcely 
 picture her now with a different face, and yet you know she was 
 once young and charming. Russian women go off quickly, their 
 beauty is only a passing gleam, and this is not only due to racial 
 peculiarity, but is because they are capable of unhmited love. 
 The Russian woman gives everything at once when she loves — 
 the moment and her whole destiny and the present and the future : 
 she does not know how to be thrifty, she keeps nothing hidden in 
 reserve ; and their beauty is quickly consumed upon him whom 
 they love. Those hollow cheeks, they too were once a beauty 
 that has been consumed on me, on my brief amusement. You 
 are glad that I love your mother, and perhaps you didn't believe 
 that I did love her ? Yes, my dear, I did love her very much, 
 but I've done her nothing but harm. . . . Here is another 
 portrait — look at that, too." 
 
 He took it from the table and handed it me. It, too, was a 
 photograph, a great deal smaller, in a thin oval wooden frame — 
 it was the face of a young girl, thin and consumptive, and at the 
 same time very good-looking ; dreamy and yet strangely lacking 
 in thought. The features were regular, of the t3i^e suggesting 
 the pampering of generations, but it left a painful impression : 
 
 456
 
 it looked as though some fixed idea had taken possession of this 
 creature and was torturing her, just because it was too much for 
 her strength. 
 
 " That . . . that is the girl you meant to marry and who died 
 of consumption . . . her step-daughter ? " I said rather timidly. 
 
 " Yes, I meant to marry her, she died of consumption, her 
 step-daughter. I knew that you knew ... all that gossip. 
 Though you could have known nothing about it but the gossip. 
 Put the portrait down, my boy, that was a poor, mad girl and 
 nothing more." 
 
 " ReaUy mad ? " 
 
 " Or imbecile ; I think she was mad though. She had a child 
 by Prince Sergay. It came about through madness not through 
 love ; it was one of Prince Sergay's most scoundrelly actions. 
 The child is here now in the next room, and I've long wanted to 
 show it to you. Prince Sergay has never dared come here to 
 look at the child ; that was the compact I made with him abroad. 
 I took the child to bring up with your mother's permission. 
 With your mother's permission I meant at the time to marry that 
 unhappy creature ..." 
 
 " Could such permission have been possible ? " I protested 
 warmly. 
 
 " Oh yes, she allowed it : jealousy could only have been felt 
 of a woman, and that was not a woman." 
 
 " Not a woman to anyone but mother ! I shall never in my 
 life believe that mother was not jealous ! " I cried. 
 
 " And you're right. I guessed it was so when everything was 
 over, that is when she had given her permission. But enough of 
 that. It all came to nothing through Lidya's death, and perhaps 
 it wouldn't have come off if she had lived, and even now I don't 
 let mother come to see the child. It was only an episode. My 
 dear boy, I've been looking forward to having you here for ever 
 so long. I've been dreaming of how we should get to know 
 each other here. Do vou know how long ? — for the last two 
 years." 
 
 He looked at me sincerely and truthfully, and with a warmth 
 of heart in which there was no reserve. I gripped his hand : 
 
 " Why have you put it off, why did you not invite me long ago ? 
 If only you knew all that has been , . . which would not have 
 been if only you had sent for me earUer ! . . ." 
 
 At that instant the samovar was brought in, and Darya 
 Onisimovna suddenly brought in the baby asleep. 
 
 457
 
 " Look at it," said Versilov ; " I am fond of it, and I told them 
 to bring it in now that you might look at it. Well, take it away 
 again, Darya Onisimovna. Sit down to the samovar. I shall 
 imagine that луе have always lived together like this, and that 
 we've been meeting every evening with no parting before us. 
 Let me look at you : there, sit like this, that I can see your face. 
 How I love your face. How I used to imagine your face when I 
 was expecting you from Moscow. You ask why I did not send 
 for you long ago ? Wait a little, perhaps you will understand 
 that now." 
 
 " Can it be that it's only that old man's death that has set 
 your tongue free ? That's strange ..." 
 
 But though I said that, I looked at him with love. We talked 
 like two friends in the highest and fullest sense of the word. 
 He had asked me to come here to make something clear to me, 
 to tell me something, to justify himself ; and yet everything wsis 
 explained and justified before a word was said. Whatever I 
 might hear from him now, the result was already attained, and 
 we both knew that and were happy, and looked at each other 
 knowing it. 
 
 " It's not the death of that old man," he answered : " it's not 
 his death alone, there is something else too, which has happened 
 at the same time. . . . God bless this moment and our future for 
 a long time to come ! Let us talk, my dear boy. I keep wander- 
 ing from the point and letting myself be drawn off. I want to 
 speak about one thing, but I launch into a thousand side issues. 
 It's always like that when the heart is full. . . . But let us talk ; 
 the time has come and I've been in love with you, boy, for ever 
 80 long . . ." 
 
 He sank back in the armchair and looked at me once more. 
 
 " How strange it is to hear that, how strange it is," I repeated 
 in an ecstasy of delight. And then I remember there suddenly 
 came into his face that habitual line, ae it were, of sadness and 
 mockery together, which I knew so well. He controlled himself 
 and with a certain stiffness began. 
 
 2 
 
 " You see, Arkady, if I had asked you to come earlier what 
 
 should I have said to you ? That question is my whole answer." 
 
 " You mean that now you are mother's husband, and my 
 
 458
 
 father, while then . . . You did not know what to say to me 
 before about the social position ? Is that it ? " 
 
 " Not only about that, dear boy. I should not have known 
 what to say to you : there was so much I should have had to be 
 silent about. Much that was absurd, indeed, and humiliating, 
 because it was like a mountebank performance — ^yes, a regular 
 show at a fair. Come, how could we have understood each other 
 before, луЬеп I've only understood myself to-day at five o'clock 
 this afternoon, just two hours before Makar Ivanovitch's death ? 
 You look at me with unpleasant perplexity. Don't be uneasy : 
 I will explain the facts, but what I have just said is absolutely 
 true ; my whole life has been lost in mazes and perplexity, and 
 suddenly they are all solved on such a day, at five o'clock this 
 afternoon ! It's quite mortifying, isn't it ? A little while ago I 
 should really have felt mortified." 
 
 I was listening indeed with painful wonder ; that old expression of 
 Versilov's, which I should have liked not to meet that evening after 
 what had been said, was strongly marked. Suddenly I exclaimed : 
 
 " My God ! You've received something from her ... at five 
 o'clock this afternoon ? " 
 
 He looked at me intently, and was evidently struck at my 
 exclamation : and, perhaps, at my expression : " from her." 
 
 " You shall know all about it," he said, with a dreamy smile, 
 " and, of course, I shall not conceal from you anything you ought 
 to know ; for that's what I brought you here for ; but let us put 
 that off for a time. You see, my dear boy, I knew long ago that 
 there are children who brood from their earliest years over their 
 family through being humiliated by the unseemliness of their 
 surroundings and of their parents' lives. I noticed these brooding 
 natures while I was still at school, and I concluded then that it all 
 came from their being prematurely envious. Though I was myself 
 a brooding child, yet . . . excuse me, my dear, I'm wonderfully 
 absent-minded. I only meant to say that almost all this time 
 I have been continually uneasy about you. I always imagined 
 you one of those little creatures doomed to solitude, though 
 conscious of being gifted. Like you, I was never fond of my 
 schoolfellows. It is sad for those natures who are flung back 
 on their own resources and dreams, especially when they have a 
 passionate, premature and almost vindictive longing for 'seemli- 
 ness ' — yes, ' vindictive.' But enough, dear boy, I'm wander- 
 ing from the point. Before I had begim to love you, I was 
 picturing you and your solitary wild dreams. . . . But enough ; 
 
 459
 
 I've actually forgott'^n what I had begun to speak about. But 
 all this had to be said, however. But what could I have said to 
 you before ? Now I see your eyes looking at me, and I feel it's 
 my son looking at me. Why, even yesterday I could not have 
 believed that I should ever be sitting and talking to my boy as 
 I am to-day." 
 
 He certainly did seem unable to concentrate his mind, and at 
 the same time he seemed, as it were, softened. 
 
 " I have no need to dream and brood now ; it's enough for me, 
 now, that I have ^юи ! I will follow you ! " I said, dedicating 
 mj^self to him with my whole heart. 
 
 " Follow me ? But my wanderings are just over, they have 
 ended to-day : you are too late, my dear boy. To-day is the end 
 of the last act, and the curtain has gone down. This last act has 
 dragged on long. It began very long ago — the last time I rushed 
 off abroad. I threw up everything then, and you must know, 
 my dear, I broke off all relations for good with your mother, and 
 told her I was doing so myself. That you ought to know. I told 
 her then I was going away for ever ; that she would never see me 
 again. What was worst of all, I even forgot to leave her any 
 money. I did not think of you either, not for one minute. I 
 went away meaning to remain in Europe and never to return 
 home, my dear. I emigrated." 
 
 " To Herzen ? To take part in the revolutionary propaganda 
 abroad ? Probably all yoiir life you have been taking part in 
 political conspiracies ? " I cried, unable to restrain myself. 
 
 " No, my dear, I've never taken part in any conspiracy. But 
 how your eyes sparkle ; I like your exclamations, my dear. No, 
 I simply went away then from a sudden attack of melancholy. 
 It was the typical melancholy of the Russian nobleman, I really 
 don't know how to describe it better. The melancholy of our 
 upper class, and nothing else." 
 
 " Of the serf -owner . . . the emancipation of the serfs," I was 
 beginning to mutter, breathless, 
 
 " Serf -owner 1 You think I was grieving for the loss of it ? 
 That I could not endure the emancipation of the serfs. Oh no, 
 my boy ; why, we were all for the emancipation. I emigrated 
 with no resentful feeling. I had only just been a mediator, 
 and exerted myself to the utmost, I exerted myself disinterestedly, 
 and I did not even go away because I got very little for my 
 liberalism. We none of us got anything in those days, that is to 
 say again, not those that were like me, I went away more in 
 
 460
 
 pride than in penitence, and, believe me, I was far from imagining 
 that the time had come for me to end my life as a modest shoe- 
 maker, i/e suis gentilhomme avant tout et je mourrai gentil- 
 homme ! Yet all the same I was sad. There are, perhaps, a 
 thousand of my sort in Russia, no more perhaps really, but you 
 know that is quite enough to keep the idea alive. We are the 
 bearers of the idea, my dear boy ! . . . I am talking, my darling, 
 in the strange hope that you may understand this rigmarole. 
 I've brought you here acting on a caprice of the heart : I've 
 long been dreaming of how I might tell you something . . . you, 
 and no one else. However . . . however . . ." 
 
 " No, tell me," I cried : " I see the look of sincerity in your 
 face again. . . . Tell me, did Europe bring you back to hfe again ? 
 And what do you mean by the ' melancholy of the nobleman ! ' 
 Forgive me, darling, I don't understand yet." 
 
 " Europe bring me back to life ? Why, I went to bury 
 Europe ! " 
 
 " To bury ? " I repeated in surprise. 
 
 He smiled. 
 
 " Arkady dear, my soul was weary then, and I was troubled 
 in spirit. I shall never forget my first moments in Eiu-ope that 
 time. I had stayed in Europe before, but this was a special time, 
 and I had never gone there before with such desperate sadness, 
 and . . . with such love, as on that occasion. I will tell you 
 about one of my first impressions, one of the dreams I had in 
 those days, a real dream. It was when I was in Germany, I had 
 only just left Dresden, and in absence of mind I passed the station 
 at which I ought to have got out, and went off on to another line. 
 I had to get out at once to change, it was between two and three 
 in the afternoon, a fine day. It was a little German town : I 
 was directed to an hotel. I had to wait ; the next train was at 
 eleven o'clock at night. I was quite glad of the adventure, for I 
 was in no particular haste to get anywhere, and was simply 
 wandering from place to place, my dear. The hotel turned out 
 to be small and poor, but all surrounded by green trees and 
 flower-beds, as is always the case in Germany. They gave me a 
 tiny room, and as I had been travelling all night I fell asleep, 
 after dinner, at four o'clock in the afternoon. 
 
 " I dreamed a dream that was a complete surprise to me, for I 
 had never had any dreams of the sort before. In the gallery at 
 Dresden there is a picture by Claude Lorraine, called in the 
 catalogue ' Acis and Galatea,' but I used to call it ' The Golden 
 
 461
 
 Age,' I don't know why. I had seen it before, but I had noticed 
 it again in passing three days earlier. I dreamed of this picture, 
 but not as a picture, but, as it were, a reality. J. don't know 
 exactly what I did dream though : it was just as in the picture, 
 a corner of the Grecian Archipelago, and time seemed to have 
 gone back three thousand years ; blue smiling waves, isles and 
 rocks, a flowery shore, a view like fairyland in the distance, a 
 setting sun that seemed calling to me — there's no putting it into 
 words. It seemed a memory of the cradle of Europe, and that 
 thought seemed to fill my soul, too, with a love as of kinship. 
 Here was the earthly paradise of man : the gods came down from 
 the skies, and were of one kin with men. . . . Oh, here lived a 
 splendid race ! they rose up and lay down to sleep happy and 
 innocent ; the woods and meadows were filled with their songs 
 and merry voices. Their wealth of untouched strength was 
 spent on simple-hearted joy and love. The sun bathed them in 
 warmth and light, rejoicing in her splendid children . . . Mar- 
 vellous dream, lofty error of mankind ! The Golden Age is the 
 most unlikely of all the dreams that have been, but for it men 
 have given up their life and all their strength, for the sake of it 
 prophets have died and been slain, without it the peoples will 
 not live and cannot die, and the feeling of all this I lived through, 
 as it were, in that dream ; rocks and sea, and the slanting rays 
 of the setting sun — all this I seemed still to see when I woke up 
 >nd opened my eyes, literally wet with tears. I remembered that 
 I. was glad, a sensation of happiness I had never known before 
 thrilled my heart till it ached ; it was the love of all humanity. 
 It was by then quite evening ; through the green of the flowers 
 that stood in the windows of my little room, broke slanting 
 rays that flooded me with light. And then, my dear — that setting 
 sun of the first day of European civilization which I had seen in 
 my dream was transformed for me at once on waking, into the 
 setting sun of the last day of civilization ! One seemed to hear 
 the death-knell ringing over Europe in those days. I am not 
 speaking of the war and the Tuileries ; apart from that, I knew 
 that all Avould pass away, the whole face of the old world of 
 Europe — sooner or later, but I, as a Russian European, could not 
 accept it. Yes, they had only just burnt the Tuileries. . . . 
 
 " Oh, rest assured, I know it was logical; I quite understand 
 the irresistible force of the idea, but as the bearer of the idea of 
 the highest Russian culture, I could not accept it, for the highest 
 Russian thought is the reconciliation of ideas, and who in the 
 
 462
 
 whole world could understand such a thought at that time; 
 I was a solitary wanderer. I am not speaking of myself 
 personally — it's the Russian idea I'm speaking of. There all 
 was strife and logic ; there the Frenchman was nothing but 
 a Frenchman, the German was nothing but a German, and this 
 more intensely so than at any time in their whole history ; 
 consequently never had the Frenchman done so much harm to 
 France, or the German to Germany, as just at that time ! In 
 those days in all Europe there was not one European : I alone 
 among all the vitriol-throwers could have told them to their face 
 that their Tuileries was a mistake. And I alone among the 
 avenging reactionists could have told them that the Tuileries, 
 although a crime, was none the less logical. And that, my boy, 
 was because I, as a Russian, was the only European in Russia. 
 I am not talking of myself, I am talking of the whole Russian idea. 
 I have been a wanderer, my boy. I was a wanderer, and I knew 
 well that I must wander and be silent. But yet I was sad. I 
 cannot help respecting my position as a Russian nobleman. My 
 boy, I believe you are laughing ? " 
 
 " No, I'm not laughing," I said in a voice full of feeling, " I'm 
 not laughing at all; you thrilled my heart by your vision of 
 * The Golden Age,' and, I assure you, I'm beginning to understand 
 you. But, above all, I'm glad that you have such a respect for 
 yourself. I hasten to tell you so . I never expected that of you ! ' ' 
 
 " I've told you already that I love your exclamations, dear 
 boy," he smiled again at my naive exclamation, and getting up 
 from his chair, began unconsciously walking up and down the 
 room. I, too, got up. He went on talking in his strange language 
 which was yet so deeply pregnant with thought. 
 
 " Yes, boy, I tell you again, I cannot help respecting my 
 position as a Russian nobleman. Among us has been created 
 by- the ages, a type of the highest culture never seen before, and 
 existing nowhere else in the world — the type of world-wide 
 compassion for all. It is a Russian type, but since it is taken 
 from the most highly cultured stratum of the Russian people, I 
 have the honour of being a representative of it. That tзфe is the 
 custodian of the future of Russia. There are, perhaps, only a 
 thousand of us in Russia, possibly more, possibly less — but all 
 
 463
 
 Russia has existed, so far, only to produce that thousand. I shall 
 be told with indignation that the result is poor, if so many ages 
 and so many milUons of people have been spent to produce only 
 this thousand. I don't think it Uttle." 
 
 I listened with strained attention. A conviction, the guiding 
 principle of a whole life, was emerging. That " thousand men " 
 made his personaUty stand out in such strong reUef ! 
 
 I felt that his expansiveness with me was due to some external 
 shock. He talked so warmly to me because he loved me ; but 
 the reason he had suddenly begun to talk, and the reason he so 
 wanled to talk to me especially, I could not guess. 
 
 " I emigrated," he went on ; " and I regretted nothing I had 
 left behind. I had served Russia to the utmost of my abilities 
 as long as I was there ; when I went away I went on serving her, 
 too, but in a wider sense. But serving her in that way I served 
 her far more than if I had remained only a Russian, just as the 
 Frenchman at that time was a Frenchman, and a German only a 
 German. In Europe they don't imderstand that yet. Europe 
 has created a noble type of Frenchman, of Englishman, and of 
 German, but of the man of the future she scarcely knows at 
 present. And, I fancy, so far she does not want to know. And that 
 one can well imagine ; they are not free and we are free. I, with 
 my Russian melancholy, was the only one free in Europe. . . . 
 
 " Take note, my dear, of a strange fact : every Frenchman 
 can serve not only his France, but humanity, only on condition 
 that he remains French to the utmost possible degree, and it's the 
 same for the Englishman and the Grerman. Only to the Russian, 
 even in our day, has been vouchsafed the capacity to become 
 most of all Russian only when he is most European, and this is 
 true even in our day, that is, long before the millennium has 
 been reached. That is the most essential difference between 
 us Russians and all the rest, and in that respect the position in 
 Russia is as nowhere else. I am in France a Frenchman, with a 
 German I am a German, with the ancient Greeks I am a Greek, 
 and by that very fact I am most typically a Russian. By that 
 very fact I am a true Russian, and am most truly serving Russia, 
 for I am bringing out her leading idea. I am a pioneer of that 
 idea. I was an emigrant then, but had I forsaken Russia ? No, 
 I was still serving her. What though I did nothing in Europe, 
 what if I only went there as a wanderer (indeed, I know that was 
 so) it was enough that I went there with my thought and ray 
 consciousness. I carried thither my Russian melancholy. Oh, 
 
 464
 
 it was not only the bloodshed in those days that appalled me, and 
 it was not the Tuileries, but all that was bound to follow it. 
 They are doomed to strife for a long time yet, because they are 
 still too German and too French, and have not yet finished strug- 
 gling in those national characters. And I regret the destruction 
 that must come before they have finished. To the Russian, Euroi)e 
 is as precious as Russia : every stone in her is cherished and dear. 
 Europe is as much our fatherland as Russia. Oh, even more so. 
 No one could love Russia more than I do, but I never reproached 
 myself that Venice, Rome, Paris, the treasures of their arts and 
 sciences, their whole history, are dearer to me than Russia. Oh, 
 those old stones of foreign lands, those wonders of God's ancient 
 world, those fragments of holy marvels are dear to the Russian, and 
 are even dearer to us than to the inhabitants of those lands them- 
 selves ! They now have other thoughts and other feelings, and 
 they have ceased to treasure the old stones. . . . There the 
 conservative struggles only for existence ; and the vitriol -thrower 
 is only fighting for a crust of bread. Only Russia lives not for 
 herself, but for an idea, and, you must admit, my dear, the 
 remarkable fact that for almost the last hvmdred years Russia 
 has lived absolutely not for herself, but only for the other States 
 of Europe ! And, what of them ! Oh, they are doomed to pass 
 though fearful agonies before they attain the Kingdom of God." 
 
 I must confess I listened in great perplexity ; the very tone of 
 his talk alarmed me, though I could not help being impressed by 
 his ideas. I was morbidly afraid of falsity. I suddenly observed 
 in a stem voice : 
 
 " You spoke just now of the ' Kingdom of God.' I've heard 
 that you used to preach, used to wear chains ? " 
 
 " Let my chains alone," he said with a smile : " that's quite a 
 different matter. I did not preach anything in those days, but 
 that I grieved for their God, that is true. Atheism was pro- 
 claimed . . . only by one group of them, but that made no 
 difference ; it was only the hot-heads, but it was the first active 
 step — that's what mattered. In that, too, you have their logic ; 
 but there's always melancholy in logic. I was the outcome of a 
 different culture, and my heart could not accept it. The in- 
 gratitude with which they parted from the idea, the hisses and 
 pelting with mud were intolerable to me. The brutality of the 
 process shocked me. Reality always has a smack of the brutal 
 about it, even when there's an unmistakable striving towards the 
 ideal, and, of course, I ought to have known that ; but yet I was 
 
 465
 
 a man of another type ; I was free to choose, and they were not, 
 and I wept, I wept for them, I wept for the old idea. And I wept, 
 perhaps, with real tears, with no figure of speech." 
 
 " Did you believe so much in God ? " I asked incredulously. 
 
 " My dear boy, that question, perhaps,"ls unnecessary. Sup- 
 posing I did not believe very much, yet I could not help grieving 
 for the idea. I could not help wondering, at times, how man 
 could live without God, and whether that will ever be possible. 
 My heart always decided that it was impossible ; but at a certain 
 period perhaps it is possible ... I have no doubt that it is coming ; 
 but I always imagined a different picture. . . ." 
 
 " What picture ? " 
 
 It was true that he had told me before that he was happy ; 
 there was, of course, a great deal of enthusiasm in his words ; 
 that is how I take a great deal that he said. Respecting him as I 
 do, I can't bring myself to record here, on paper, aU our conversa- 
 tion ; but some points in the strange picture I succeeded in getting 
 out of him I will quote. What had always worried me most was 
 the thought of those " chains," and I wanted to clear up the 
 matter now, and so I persisted. Some fantastic and extremely 
 strange ideas, to which he gave utterance then, have remained in 
 my heart for ever. 
 
 " I picture to myself, my boy," he said with a dreamy smile, 
 " that war is at an end and strife has ceased. After curses, 
 pelting with mud, and hisses, has come a lull, and men are left 
 alone, according to their desire : the great idea of old has left 
 them ; the great source of strength that till then had nourished 
 and fostered them was vanishing like the majestic sim setting 
 in Claude Lorraine's picture, but it was somehow the last day of 
 humanity, and men suddenly understood that they were left quite 
 alone, and at once felt terribly forlorn. I have never, my dear 
 boy, been able to picture men imgrateful and grown stupid. 
 Men left forlorn would begin to draw together more closely and 
 more lovingly ; they would clutch one another's hands, realizing 
 that they were all that was left for one another ! The great idea 
 of immortality would have vanished, and they would have to fill 
 its place ; and all the wealth of love lavished of old upon Him, 
 who was immortal, would be turned upon the whole of nature, 
 on the world, on men, on every blade of grass. They would 
 inevitably grow to love the earth and life as they gradually 
 became aware of their own transitory and finite nature, and with 
 a special love, not as of old, they would begin to observe and 
 
 466
 
 would discover in nature phenomena and secrets which they had 
 Dot suspected before, for they would look on nature with new 
 eyes, as a lover looking on his beloved. On awakening they 
 would hasten to kiss one another, eager to love, knowing that 
 the days are short, and that is all that is left them. They would 
 work for one another, and each would give up all that he had to 
 all, and by that only would be happy. Every child would know 
 and feel that every one on earth was for him like a father or 
 mother. ' To-morrow may be my last day,' each one would think, 
 looking at the setting sim ; ' but no matter, I shall die, but all 
 they will remain and after them their children,' and that thought 
 that they will remain, always as loving and as anxious over each 
 other, would replace the thought of meeting beyond the tomb. 
 Oh, they would be in haste to love, to stifle the great sorrow in 
 their hearts. They would be proud and brave for themselves, 
 but would grow timid for one another ; every one would tremble 
 for the life and happiness of each ; they would grow tender to one 
 another, and would not be ashamed of it as now, and would 
 be caressing as children. Meeting, they would look at one another 
 with deep and thoughtful eyes, and in their eyes would be love 
 and sorrow. . . . 
 
 " My dear boy," he broke off with a smile, " this is a fantasy 
 and a most improbable one ; but I have pictured it to myself so 
 often, for all my life I could not have lived without it, and the 
 thought of it. I am not speaking of my belief : my faith is great, 
 I am a deist, a philosophic deist, like all the thousand of us I 
 imagine, but . . . but it's noteworthy that I alwaj'S complete 
 my picture with Heine's vision of ' Christ on the Baltic Sea.' 
 I could not get on without Him, I could not help imagining Him, 
 in fact, in the midst of His bereaved people. He comes to them, 
 holds out His hands, and asks them, ' How could they forget 
 Him ? ' And then, as it were, the scales would fall from their 
 eyes and there would break forth the great rapturous hymn of the 
 new and the last resurrection . . . 
 
 " Enough of that, my dear ; but my ' chains ' are all nonsense ; 
 don't trouble уош" mind about them. And another thing : 
 you know that I am modest and sober of speech ; if I'm talking 
 too freely now, it's . . . due to various feelings, and it's with 
 you ; to no one else shall I ever speak like this. I add this to set 
 your mind at rest." 
 
 But I was really touched ; there was none of the falsity I had 
 dreaded, and I was particularly delighted to see clearly that he 
 
 467
 
 really had been melancholy and suffering, and that ho really, 
 undoubtedly, had loved much, and that was more precious to me 
 than anything. I told him this with impulsive eagerness. 
 
 " But do you know," I added suddenly, " it seems to me that 
 in spite of all your melancholy in those days you must have been 
 very happy ? " 
 
 He laughed gaily. 
 
 " You are particularly apt in your remarks to-day." he said. 
 " Well, yes, I was happy. How could I be unhappy with a melan- 
 choly Hke that ? No one is freer and happier than a Russian 
 wanderer in Europe, one of our thousand. I am not laughing 
 when I say that, and there's a great deal that's serious in it. 
 And I would not have given up my melancholy for any happiness. 
 In that sense I've always been happy, my dear, all my life. And 
 through being happy I began then, for the first time in my life, 
 really to love your mother." 
 
 " How do you mean for the first time in your life ? " 
 
 " It was just that. Wandering and melancholy, I suddenly 
 began to love her as I had never loved her before, and I sent for 
 her at once." 
 
 " Oh, tell me about that, too, tell me about mother." 
 
 " Yes, that's why I asked you here," he smiled gaily. " And 
 do you know I was afraid that you'd forgiven the way I tfeated 
 your mother for the sake of Herzen, or some little conspiracy. . . ." 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 As we talked the whole evening and stayed together till midnight, 
 I am not recording the whole conversation, but am only selecting 
 what cleared up for me one enigmatic point in his life. 
 
 I will begin by saying that I have no doubt that he loved my 
 mother, and though he did abandon her and " break off all 
 relations with her " when he went away, it was, of course, only 
 because he was bored or something of that kind, which is apt to 
 happen indeed to every one on earth, but whi<;h is always difficult 
 to explain. Abroad, after some length of time, however, he 
 suddenly began to love mother again, at a distance, that is in 
 thought, and sent for her. I shall be told perha])s that it was a 
 " caprice," but 1 think differently : to my mind it was a question 
 
 468
 
 of all that can be serious in human life, in spite of the apparent 
 sloppiness which I am ready, if you like, to some extent to admit. 
 But I swear that I put his grieving for Europe unmistakably on 
 a level with, and in fact incomparably higher than, any modem 
 practical activity in the construction of railways. His love 
 for humanity I recognize as a most sincere and deep feeling, 
 free from any sort of pose, and his love for mother as something 
 quite beyond dispute, though perhaps a little fantastic. Abroad, 
 in melancholy and happiness, and I may add in the strictest 
 monastic solitude (this fact I learned afterwards through Tatyana 
 Pavlovna), he suddenly thought of mother — to be exact, thought 
 of her " hollow cheeks," and at once sent for her. 
 
 " My dear," he blurted out among other things, " I suddenly 
 reflected that my serving the idea did not release me, as a 
 morally rational creature, from the duty of making, in the course 
 of my life, at least one fellow-creature happy, in a practical 
 way. 
 
 " Can such a bookish thought have really been the reason of 
 it ? " I asked him with surprise. 
 
 " It's not a bookish thought. Though — perhaps it is. It was 
 everything together ; you know I loved your mother really, 
 sincerely, not bookishly. If I hadn't loved her, I shouldn't 
 have sent for her, but should have made happy some casual 
 German, man or woman, if I had formulated that thought. To 
 make in one's lifetime at least one fellow-creature happy, in 
 a practical way, that is really happy, I would make a binding 
 duty for every educated man ; just as I would make it a law or 
 an obligation for every peasant to plant at least one tree in his 
 life to counteract the deforestation of Russia ; though indeed 
 one tree in one's lifetime isn't much, one might order him to 
 plant one every year. The man of higher education and culture, 
 pm^uing higher ideas, sometimes loses sight of reality altogether 
 becomes ridiculous, capricious and cold, and indeed I may say 
 stupid, not only in practical life but in theory. The duty not 
 to neglect practice and to make at least one real person happy 
 would correct everything and would give fresh life even to the 
 philanthropist himself. 
 
 " As a theory this is very absurd ; but if it were adopted in 
 practice and became a habit, it would not be stupid at all. I 
 have experienced it myself : so soon as I began to develop this 
 idea of a new creed, and at first of course in jest, I suddenly 
 began to realize the depth of the love for your mother that lay 
 
 469
 
 hidden ш my heart. Until then I had not understood that I 
 loved her. While I lived with her I was only charmed with her 
 while she was pretty, then I began to be moody and changeable. 
 It was only in Germany that I understood that I loved her. 
 It began with her hollow cheeks, of which I could never think, 
 and sometimes not even see, without a pain in my heart, real 
 physical pain. There are memories that hurt, my dear, that 
 cause actual pain. Almost everyone has some such memories, 
 only people forget them, but it does happen that they suddenly 
 recall them, or perhaps only some feature of them, and then 
 they cannot shake them off. I began to recall a thousand 
 details of my life with Sonia. In the end they recalled them- 
 selves, and came crowding on my mind, and almost tortured 
 me while I was waiting for her coming. What distressed me 
 most of all was the memory of her everlasting submissiveness 
 to me, and the way she continually thought herself inferior to 
 me, in every respect, even — imagine it — physically ; she was 
 ashamed and flushed crimson when I looked at her hands and 
 fingers, which were by no means aristocratic, and not lier fingers 
 only — she was ashamed of everything in herself, in spite of my 
 loving her beauty. She was always shrinkingly modest with 
 me, but what was wrong was that in it there was always a 
 sort of fear, in short she thought herself something insignificant 
 beside me, something almost unseemly in fact. I used really 
 sometimes to think at first that she still looked upon me as her 
 master, and was afraid of me, but it was not that at all. Yet, 
 I assure you, no one was more capable of understanding my 
 failings, and I have never in my life met a woman with so much 
 insight and delicacy of heart. Oh, how unhappy she was if I 
 insisted at first, when she was so pretty, on her dressing smartly ; 
 it was a question of vanity, and some other feeling, that was 
 wounded. She realized that it would never be in her line to 
 be a lady, and that in any dress but her o\^ti she would simply 
 be ridiculous. As a woman she did not want to be ridiculous 
 in her dress, and knew that every woman has her own style of 
 dress, which thousands and hundreds of thousands of women 
 will never understand — so long as they are dressed in the fashion. 
 She feared my ironical looks — that was what she feared ! 
 
 " But it was particularly sad for me to recall the look of deep 
 amazement which I often caught fixed upon me, during the time 
 we were together : in her eyes there was the fullest comprehension 
 of her lot and of the future awaiting her, so that I too felt 
 
 470
 
 weighed down, by that look in them, though I must admit, in 
 those days, I did not discuss things with her, and treated all this 
 somewhat disdainfully. And, you know, she wasn't alwaj's 
 such a timorous, shy creature as she is now ; even now it 
 happens that she will all at once grow gay, and look as prett}' 
 as a girl of twenty ; and in those days in her youth she was 
 very fond of chattering and laughing, only with people she was 
 at home with, with girls and women belonging to the household ; 
 and how she started if I came on her unawares, if she were 
 laughing, how she blushed, and how timorously she looked at 
 me ! Once, not long before I went abroad, almost on the eve of 
 my breaking off all relations with her, in fact, I went into her 
 room and found her alone, at a little table, without any work 
 in her hands, but deep in thought, resting her elbow on the 
 table. It had hardly ever happened to her before to sit without 
 work, i^t that time I had quite given up showing her affection. 
 I succeeded in stealing in very quietly, on tiptoe, and suddenly 
 embracing and kissing her. . . . She leapt up — and I shall never 
 forget the rapture, the bliss in her eyes, and suddenly it was 
 succeeded by a swift rush of colour, and her eyes flashed. Do 
 you know what I read in those flashing eyes ? * You are kissing 
 me as a charity — that's what it is ! ' She began sobbing 
 hysterically, making the excuse that I had startled her, but even 
 at the time it made me think. And, in fact, all such reminis- 
 cences are very dreary things, dear boy. It's like those painful 
 scenes which you sometimes find in the works of great artists, 
 which one remembers ever afterwards with pain ; for instance, 
 Othello's last monologue in Shakespeare, Yevgeny, at the feet 
 of Tatyana, or the meeting of the runaway convict with the 
 little girl on the cold night at the well, in ' Les Miserables ' of 
 Victor Hugo ; it stabs the heart once for all, and leaves a wound 
 for ever. Oh, how eager I was for Sonia to come and how I 
 longed to hold her in my arms ! I dreamed with feverish im- 
 patience of a complete new programme of existence ; I dreamed 
 that gradually, by systematic efforts, I would break down that 
 constant fear of me in her soul, would make her appreciate her 
 own value, and all in which she was actually superior to me. 
 Oh, I knew quite well, even then, that I always began to love 
 3'our mother as soon as we were parted, and always grew cold 
 to her at once as soon as we were together again ; but that 
 time, it was different, then it was different." 
 
 I was astonished : " And she ? " the idea flashed across me. 
 
 471
 
 " Well, and how did mother and you meet then ? " I asked 
 cautiously. 
 
 " Then ? Oh, we didn't meet then at all. She only got as 
 far as Konigsberg, and stopped there, and I was on the Rhine. 
 I didn't go to her, and I told her to stay there and wait. We 
 only saw each other again long after, oh, long after, when I went 
 to her to ask her to consent to my marriage. . . ." 
 
 2 
 
 Now I'm coming to the core of it all, that is, as far as I was 
 able to grasp it myself ; for, indeed, his own account began to 
 be somewhat disconnected. His talk became ten times as 
 incoherent and rambling as soon as he reached this part of the 
 story. 
 
 He met Katerina Nikolaevna suddenly, just when he was 
 expecting mother, at the moment of most impatient expectation. 
 They were all, at the time, on the Rhine, at some spa, all drinking 
 the waters. Katerina NikoJaevna's husband was by then almost 
 dying, he had, at any rate, been given up by the doctors. She 
 made an impression on him at the first meeting, as it were cast 
 a sort of spell upon him. It was a case of fate. It's remarkable 
 that recalling it and writing it down now, I don't remember 
 that he once used the word " love " in connection with her, or 
 spoke of " being in love." The word " fate " I remember. 
 
 And, of course, it was fate. He did not choose it, " he did not 
 want to love her." I don't know whether I can give a clear 
 account of it, but his whole soul was in revolt at the fact that 
 this could have happened to him. Everything in him that was 
 free was annihilated by this meeting. And the man was fettered 
 for life to a woman who had really nothing to do with him. He 
 did not desire this slavery of passion. To state the fact plainly, 
 Katerina Nikolaevna is a type rare amongst society women — a 
 type perhaps unique in that circle. That is, she is an extremely 
 good-natured and straightforward woman. I've heard, indeed 
 I know for a fact that this was what made her irresistible in 
 the fashionable world whenever she made her appearance in 
 it. (She used at times to withdraw into complete seclusion.) 
 
 Versilov did not believe, of course, when he first met her, that 
 she was like that ; in fact, he believed she was the exact opposite, 
 that she was a hypocrite and a Jesuit. At this point I will 
 
 472
 
 anticipate by quoting her own criticism of him : she declared 
 that he could not help thinking what he did of her " because an 
 idealist always runs his head against reality and is more inclined 
 than other people to assume anything horrid." 
 
 I don't know if this is true of idealists in general, but it was 
 entirely true of him, no doubt. I may perhaps add here my 
 own judgment, which flashed across my mind while I was 
 listening to him then : I thought that he loved mother, more so 
 to say with the humane love one feels for all mankind, than with 
 the simple love with which women are loved as a rule, and that 
 as soon as he met a woman whom he began to love with that 
 simple love, he at once turned against that love — most probably 
 because the feeling was new to him. Perhaps, though, this idea 
 is incorrect ; I did not of course utter it to him. It would have 
 been indelicate, and he really was in such a condition that it 
 was almost necessary to spare him : he was agitated ; at some 
 points in his story he simply broke ofiF, and was silent for some 
 moments, walking about the room with a vindictive face. 
 
 She soon divined his secret. Oh, perhaps she flirted with him 
 on purpose ; even the most candid women are base in these 
 cases, and it is their overwhelming instinct. It ended in a 
 rupture full of rankling bitterness, and I believe he tried to kill 
 her ; he frightened her, and would have killed her, perhaps, 
 " but it was all tiu-ncd to hatred." Then there came a strange 
 period : he was suddenly possessed by the strange idea of 
 torturing himself by a discipline, " the same as that used by the 
 monks. Gradually, by systematic practice, you overcome your 
 will, beginning with the most absurd and trivial things, and end by 
 conquering youi* will completely, and become free." He added 
 that this practice of the monks is a serious thing ; in the course 
 of a thousand years it has been brought by them to a science. 
 But what is most remarkable is that he gave himself up to this 
 idea of discipline, not in order to get rid of the image of Katerina 
 Nikolaevna, but in the full conviction that he had not only 
 ceased to love her, but hated her. He so thoroughly believed 
 in his hatred for her as to conceive the idea of loving and marry- 
 ing her step-daughter, who had been seduced by Prince Sergay, 
 to persuade himself absolutely of this new love, and to win the 
 poor imbecile's heart completely, by his devotion making her 
 perfectly happy. Why, instead of devoting himself to her, he 
 did not think of mother, who was all this time waiting for him 
 at Konigsberg, remained for me inexplicable. . . . He quite 
 
 473
 
 forgot mother, indeed, and even neglected to send money for 
 her maintenance, so that Tatyana Pavlovna bad to come to her 
 rescue ; yet finally he did go to mother " to ask her permission " 
 to marry the young lady, pleading that " such a bride was not 
 a woman." Oh, perhaps all this is only a portrait of a theoretical 
 man, as Katerina Nikolaevna said of him later. But why is it, 
 though, that these theoretical people (if they really are theoretical 
 people) are capable of such very real suffering, and end in such 
 very real tragedy ? On that evening, however, I looked at it 
 differently, and I was disturbed by the thought : 
 
 " All your development, your whole soul, has been won by 
 the suffering and the struggle of your whole life, while her 
 perfection has cost her nothing. That's unjust. . . . Woman 
 is revolting in that way." I said this wirfiout the least inten- 
 tion of flattering him, speaking with warmth and indignation. 
 
 " Perfection ? Her perfection ? But she has no sort of 
 perfection ! " he said suddenly, seeming almost surprised at my 
 words. " She is the most ordinary woman, she is really a 
 contemptible woman. . . . But she is bound to have every 
 perfection ! " 
 
 " Why is she bound to ? " 
 
 " Because she has such power, she is bound to have every 
 sort of perfection ! " he cried vindictively. 
 
 *' The saddest thing is that you are so harassed evert now," 
 I could not help blurting out suddenly. 
 
 " How harassed ! " he repeated my words again, standing 
 still before me as though in some perplexity. And suddenly 
 a slow, gentle, dreamy smile lighted up his whole face, and he 
 held up his finger as though considering. Then as though 
 waking up, he took from the table an open letter, and flung it 
 down in front of me. 
 
 " Read it ! You must know everything . . . and why have 
 you made me rake up all this bygone foolishness ? ... It has 
 only roused up nasty and spiteful feelings in my heart. ..." 
 
 I cannot describe my astonishment. The letter was from 
 her to him, received by him that afternoon at five o'clock. I 
 read it, almost shaking with emotion. It was not long, and was 
 written so simply and straightforwardly, that as I read it I 
 seemed to see her before me and hear her words. With the 
 most simple truthfulness (and so almost touchingly) she con- 
 fessed her terror, and then simply besought him to " leave her 
 in peace." In conclusion, she told him that she definitely was 
 
 474
 
 to marry Btiring. Till then she had never written a word to 
 him. 
 
 And this is what I could make out of his explanation : 
 
 As soon as he had read the letter that day, he was aware of 
 a new sensation : for the first time in those fatal two years he 
 felt not the sUghtest hatred for her, or the slightest shock of 
 emotion, such as had " driven him out of his mind" at a mere 
 rumour of Btiring. " On the contrary, I sent her my blessing, 
 with perfect sincerity," he told me, with deep feeling. I heard 
 these words with ecstasy. Then all the passion and agony that 
 had possessed him had vanished all at once of itself, like a dream, 
 like an obsession that had lasted two years. Hardly yet able to 
 beUeve in himself he hastened to mother's and — arrived at the 
 very moment when she was set free by the death of the old man 
 who had bequeathed her to him. The coincidence of these 
 two events had deeply stirred his soul. Not long afterwards 
 he rushed to find me — and that immediate thought of me I 
 shall never forget. 
 
 I shall never forget the end of that evening either. The 
 whole man was suddenly transformed again. We did not 
 separate till late at night. The effect that all he told me 
 had upon me I will describe later, in its proper place, and will 
 confine myself now to a few words, in conclusion, about him. 
 Kcflecting upon it now, I realize that what captivated me so 
 much at the time was his humility, so to speak, with me, his 
 frank sincerity with a boy like me ! "It was infatuation, but my 
 blessings on it ! " he exclaimed. "But for that blind obsession 
 I might perhaps have never discovered in my Jieart my sole 
 queen, my suffering darling — ^your mother." These passionate 
 words, wrung from him by over-mastering feeling, I note 
 particularly, in view of what followed. But at the time he 
 gained complete possession of my heart and conquered it. 
 
 I remember in the end we became very cheerful. He asked 
 for some champagne, and we drank to mother, and to the 
 " future." Oh, he was so full of life, and so eager to live ! But 
 we suddenly became extremely merry, not from the wine : we 
 only drank two glasses. I don't know why, but in the end 
 we laughed almost helplessly. We began talking of quite 
 extraneous matters ; he began telling me an anecdote and I 
 told him one. And our laughter and our anecdotes, were by 
 no means malicious or amusing, but we were merry. He was 
 unwilUng to let me go : " Stay, stay a little longer," he repeated, 
 
 475
 
 and I stayed. He even came out to see me home ; it was an 
 exquisite evening, with a slight frost. " Tell me, have you sent 
 her an answer yet ? " I asked, quite casually, as I pressed his 
 hand for the last time at the cross road. 
 
 " No, not yet, but that's no matter. Come to-morrow, come 
 early. . . . Oh, and another thing : drop Lambert altogether 
 and tear up that * document,' and make haste about it. Good- 
 bye ! " 
 
 Saying this he went away quickly : I remained standing still, 
 and so much taken aback that I could not bring myself to call 
 after him. The expression, the " document," startled me particu- 
 larly : how could he have known of it, and that particular word 
 too, if not from Lambert ? I went home in great confusion. 
 And hoAv can it have happened, the question flashed upon me 
 suddenly, that such an obsession for two years can have vanished 
 Uke a dream, like a vapour, like a phantom. 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 1 
 
 Вот I waked up next morning feeling fresher and in better 
 heart. I unconsciously reproached myself, indeed, with peifect 
 sincerity, for a certain levity, and, as it were, superciliousness, 
 with which it seemed to me, recalling it, I had listened to .some 
 parts of his " confession " the evening before. Supposing it 
 had been to some extent muddled, and some revelations had 
 been, as it were, a little dehrious and incoherent, he had not, of 
 course, prepared to deliver a speech when he invited me the 
 day before. He had simply done me a great honour in turning 
 to me, as his one friend at such a moment, and I shall never 
 forget hie doing it. On the contrary, his confession was 
 " touching," though people may laugh at me for saying so, and 
 if there were glimpses from time to time of something cynical, 
 or even something that seemed ridiculous, I was not so narrow 
 аз to be unable to understand and accept realism, which did 
 not, however, detract from the ideal. The great point was 
 now that I understood the man, and I even felt, and was almost 
 vexed at feeling, that it had all turned out to be so simple : 
 I had always in my heart set that man on a supreme pinnacle, 
 in the clouds, and had insisted on shrouding his life in mystery, 
 
 476
 
 so that I had naturally лу18Ье(1 not to fit the key to it so 
 easily. 
 
 In his meeting with her, however, and in the suffering- he 
 had endured for two years, there was much that was complex. 
 " He did not want to live under the yoke of fate ; he wanted to 
 be free, and not a slave to fate ; through his bondage to fate 
 he had been forced to hurt mother, who was still waiting for him 
 at Konigsberg. . . ." Besides, I looked upon him in any case as 
 a preacher : he cherished in his heart the golden age, and knew 
 all about the future of atheism ; and then the meeting with her 
 had shattered everything, distorted everything ! Oh, I was not 
 a traitor to her, but still I was on his side, Mother, for instance, 
 I reflected, would have been no liindrance, nor would marriage 
 with her be so indeed. That I understood ; that \\as some- 
 thing utterly different from his meeting with that woman. 
 Mother, it is true, would not have given him peace either, but 
 that was all the better : one cannot judge of such men as of 
 others, and their life must always be different ; and that's not 
 unseemly at all ; on the contrary, it would be unseemly if they 
 settled down and became altogether like other ordinary people. 
 His praises of the nobility, and his words : " Je mourrai 
 gentilhomme," did not disconcert me in the least ; I understood 
 what sort of gentilhomme he was ; he луаз a man ready to aban- 
 don ever3d:hing, and to become the champion of pclitical rights 
 for all, and the leading Russian thought of a universal harmony 
 of ideas. And even though all this might be nonsense, that is 
 " the universal harmony of ideas " (which is of course incon- 
 ceivable), yet the very fact that he had all his life bowed doл\-n 
 to an idea, and not to the stupid golden calf, was good. My 
 God ! why, conceiving " my idea," had I, I myself — could I — 
 have been bowing down to the golden calf, could I have been 
 aiming onlj' at money, then ? I swear that all I wanted was 
 the idea ! I swear I would not have had one chair, one sofa 
 upholstered in velvet, and I would have eaten the same plate of 
 soup as now, if I had had millions. I dressed and hurried off 
 impatiently to see him. I may add that in regard to his out- 
 burst yesterday about the " document," I was ever so much 
 more at ease in my mind than I had been the day before. To 
 begin with, I hoped to have it out with him, and besides, what 
 was there in Lambert's having wormed his way in to him, and 
 having talked to him of something ? But what rejoiced me 
 most was an extraordinary sensation : it came from the thought 
 
 4V
 
 that "he no longer loved her " ; I put absolute faith in it, and 
 felt as if some one had lifted a fearful weight ofiE my heart. I 
 recall a conjecture that flashed upon me at the time : that the 
 unseemliness and senselessness of his laat violent outbreak, 
 on hearing about Buring, and the sending of that insulting 
 letter, that that final crisis might be taken as a sign and augury 
 of a change in his feeling, and an approaching return to sanity ; 
 it must be as it is in illness, I thought, and, in fact, he is bound 
 to reach the opposite extreme, it is a pathological episode, and 
 nothing more. 
 
 This thought made me bappy. 
 
 " And let her arrange her life as she pleases, let her marry 
 her Buring as much as she likes, so long as he, my father, my 
 friend, loves her no longer," I exclaimed. 
 
 I had, however, certain secret feelings of my own, on which 
 I do not care to enlarge in my notes here. 
 
 That's enough. And now, without further reflections, I will 
 give an account of the awful event that followed, and how the 
 facts worked together to bring it about. 
 
 At ten o'clock, just as I was getting ready to go out, to see 
 him of course, Darya Onisimovna appeared. I asked her 
 joyfully : " whether she came from him ? " and heard Avith 
 vexation that she did not come from him, but from Anna Andrey- 
 evna, and that she, Darya Onisimovna, " had left the lodging as 
 soon as it was light." 
 
 " What lodging ? " 
 
 " Why, the same where you were yesterday. You know, the 
 lodging where you were yesterday, where the baby is ; it is taken 
 in my name now, and Tatyana Pavlovna pays the rent. . . ." 
 
 " Oh, well, that's nothing to me ! " I interrupted with annoy- 
 ance. " Is he at home, anyway ? Shall I find him ? " 
 
 And to my surprise I heard from her that he had gone out 
 even before she had ; so she had gone out as soon as it was light, 
 and he had gone out even earlier. 
 
 " Then has he come back yet ? " 
 
 " No, he's certainly not back yet, and perhaps he won't come 
 back at all," she declared, turning upon me the same sharp 
 and f urtivn eye, and keeping it fixed on me, as she had done on 
 
 478
 
 the occasion I have described, when she visited me as I lay ill 
 in bed. What infuriated me most was that their mysteries and 
 imbecilities should be forced on me again, and that these people 
 could not get on without secrets and intrigues. 
 
 " Why do you say : ' he will certainly not come back ' ? What 
 do you mean by that ? He has gone to see mother, that's all ! " 
 
 " I d— don't know." 
 
 " And what have you come for ? " 
 
 She told me that she had just come from Anna Andreyevna, 
 who had sent her for me, and urgently expected me at once, or 
 else it would be " too late." These last enigmatic words finally 
 exasperated me : 
 
 " Why too late ? I don't want to come and I'm not coming ! 
 I won't let them take possession of me again ! I don't care a 
 damn for Lambert, you can tell her so, and if she sends Lambert 
 to me, I'll kick him out, you can tell her so 1 " 
 
 Darya Onisimovna was awfully alarmed. 
 
 " Oh no," she said, taking a step towards me, clasping her 
 hands AS though she were beseeching me. " Don't be so hasty. 
 There's something very important the matter, very important 
 to yourself, to them, too, to Audrey Petrovitch, to your mamma, 
 to every one. ... Go and see Anna Andreyevna at once, she 
 can't wait any longer ... I assure you, on my honour . . . 
 and afterwards you can make your decision." 
 
 I looked at her with surprise and repulsion. 
 
 " Nonsense, it will be nothing, I'm not coming I " I shouted 
 obstinately and vindictively; " Now everything's different ! 
 Though how could you understand that ? Good-bye, Darya 
 Onisimovna, I won't go on purpose, I won't question you on 
 purpose. Yousimply bother me. I don't want to know anything 
 about your mysteries." 
 
 As she did not go away, however, but still stood waiting, I 
 snatched up my fur coat and cap, and went out myself, leaving 
 her in the middle of the room. There were no letters or papers 
 in my room, and I never used to lock my door when I went out. 
 But before I had reached the front door my landlord ran after 
 me downstairs, without his hat, aud not in full uniform. 
 
 " Arkady Makarovitch ' Arkady Makarovitch 1 " 
 
 " What now ? " 
 
 ** Have you no instructions to leave ? '* 
 
 " No, nothing." 
 
 He looked at me with eyes like gimlets, in evident imeaeiness : 
 
 479
 
 " About your room, for instance '.' " 
 
 *' What about my room ? Why, I sent you the rent when it 
 was due ? " 
 
 " Oh no, sir, I was not thinking of the money," he said with a 
 broad smile, his eyes still piercing into me like pins. 
 
 " Whj% what on earth's the matter with you all ? " I shouted 
 at last, growing almost savage. " What do you want too ? " 
 
 He Avaittd for a few seconds longer, still seeming to expect 
 something from me. 
 
 " Well, then, you will give instructions later ... if you are 
 not in the humour now," he muttered, grinning more broadly 
 than ever ; "you go on and I'll see to it." 
 
 He ran back upstairs. Of course all this might well make 
 one reflect. I purposely avoid omitting a single detail in all 
 that petty tomfoolery, for every little detail heljx^d to make up 
 the final situation and had its place in it, a fact of which the 
 reader will be convinced. But that they really did bother me 
 was true. If I was upset and irritated, it was at hearing again 
 in their words that tone of intrigue and mystery of which I was 
 80 sick, and which so brought back the past. But to continue. 
 
 It turned out that Versilov was not at home, and it appeared 
 that he really had gone out as soon as it was light. " To 
 mother's, of course " : I stuck obstinately to my idea. I did not 
 question the nurse, rather a stupid peasant woman, and there 
 was no one else in the lodging. I ran to mother's and I must 
 admit I was so anxious that I took a sledge half-way. He had 
 not been at mother s since the evening before. There was no one 
 with mother except Tatyana Pavlovna and Liza. Liza began 
 getting ready to go out as soon as I went in. 
 
 They were all sitting upstairs, in my " coffin." In the draw- 
 ing room Makar Ivanovitch was laid out on the table, and an 
 old man was reading the psalter over him in an even, monotonous 
 voice. For the future I am not going to describe anything more 
 that does not relate to the matter in hand. I will only say that 
 the coflin, which they bad already made, was standing in the middle 
 of the room, and w as not a plain one, though it was black ; it was 
 upholstered in velvet, and the pall was of an expensive sumptuous- 
 ness that was not in keeping with the character of a monk, or 
 with the convictions of the dead man ; but such was the special 
 desire of my mother and Tatyana Pavlovna, who arranged the 
 matter together. 
 
 I had not of course expected to tiad thtm cheerful ; but the 
 
 480
 
 peculiar overwhelming distress mixed with uneasiness and 
 anxiety, which I read in their eyes, struck me at once, and 1 
 instantly concluded that " sorrow for the dead was certainly 
 not the only cause." All this, I repeat, I remember perfectly. 
 
 In spite of ever)rthing I embraced mother tenderly and at 
 once asked about him. A gleam of tremulous curiosity came 
 into mother's eyes at once. I made haste to mention that we 
 had spent the whole evening together, till late at night, but 
 that to-day he had been away from home since early morning, 
 though at parting last night he had asked me to come as early 
 as I could this morning. Mother made no answer, and Tatyana 
 Pavlovna, seizing a favoiu-able moment, shook her finger at me 
 meaningly. 
 
 " Good-bye, brother," Liza blurted out, going quickly out of 
 the room. I ran after her, of course, but she stopped short at 
 the outer door. 
 
 " I thought you would guess you must come with me," she 
 said in a rapid whisper. 
 
 " Liza, what's the matter ? " 
 
 " I don't know what, but a great deal, no doubt the last 
 chapter of * the same old story.' He has not come, but 
 they have heard something about him. They won't tell you, 
 you needn't trouble yourself, and you won't ask, if you are 
 sensible ; but mother's shattered. I've not asked about any- 
 thing either. Good-bye." 
 
 She opened the door. 
 
 " And, Liza, about you, yourself, have you nothing to tell 
 me ? " I dashed after her into the entry. Her terribly exhausted 
 and despairing face pierced my heart. She looked at me, not 
 simply with anger, but with a sort of exasperated fury, laughed 
 bitterly, and waved me off. 
 
 " If only he were dead I should thank God I " she flung up 
 at me from the stairs, and was gone. She said this of Prince 
 Sergay, and he, at that very time, was lying delirious and 
 unconscious. 
 
 I went upstairs, sad but excited. " The same old story ! 
 What same old story ? " I thought defiantly, and I had suddenly 
 an irresistible impulse to tell them at least a part of the im- 
 pression left upon me by his last night's confession, and the 
 confession too. " They're thinking some evil of him now, so 
 let them know all about it 1 " floated through my mind. 
 
 I remember that I succeeded very cleverly in beginning to 
 
 481 2h
 
 tell them my story. Instantly their faces betrayed an intense 
 ctiriosity. This time Tatyana Pavlovna positively fixed me 
 with her eyes ; but mother showed more reserve ; she was very 
 grave, but the glimmer of a faint, beautiful, though utterly 
 hopeless smile came into her face, and scarcely left it aU the time 
 I was talking. I told the story well, of course, though I knew that 
 it would be almost beyond their comprehension. To my surprise 
 Tatyana Pavlovna did not attack me, did not insist on minute 
 details, or try to pick holes as she usually did sis soon as I began 
 telling anything. She only pinched up her lips and screwed 
 up her eyes, as though making an effort to get to the bottom 
 of it. At times I positively fancied that they understood it 
 all, though that could hardly have been so. . . . I spoke for in- 
 stance of his convictions, but principally of his enthusiasm last 
 night, his enthusiastic feeling for mother, his love for mother 
 and how he had kissed her portrait. . . . Hearing this they 
 exchanged a rapid silent glance with each other, and mother 
 flushed all over, though both continued silent. Then . . . then 
 I could not of course before mother touch on the principal point, 
 that is his meeting with her and all the rest of it, above all her 
 letter to him the day before, and his moral resurrection after 
 getting that letter ; and that indeed was the chief point, so 
 that all his feeling, with which I had hoped to please mother so 
 much, naturally remained inexplicable, though of course that was 
 not my fault ; I had told all that could be told extremely well. 
 I ended in complete confusion ; their silence was still unbroken 
 and I began to feel very uncomfortable with them. 
 
 " Most likely he's come back now, and may be at my lodgings 
 waiting for me," I said, and got up to go. 
 
 " Go and see ! go and see ! " Tatyana Pavlovna urged me 
 resolutely. 
 
 " Have you been downstairs ? " mother asked me, in a sort 
 of half whisper, as she said good-bye. 
 
 " Yes, I have been, and I bowed down and prayed for him. 
 What a peaceful, serene face he has, mother ! Thank you, mother, 
 for not sparing expense over his coffin. At first I thought it 
 strange, but I thought, at once, that I should have done the 
 same." 
 
 " Will you come to the church to-morrow ? " she asked, and 
 her Lips trembled. 
 
 " What do you mean, mother ? " I asked in surprise. " I shall 
 como to the requiem service to-day, and I shall come again ; 
 
 482
 
 and . . . besides, to-morrow is your birthday, mother darling ! 
 To think that he died only three days before ! " 
 
 I went away painfully surprised : how could she ask such 
 questions, whether I were coming to the funeral service in the 
 church ? "If that's what they think of me, what must they think 
 of him ? " 
 
 I knew that Tatyana Pavlovna would run after me and I 
 purposely waited at the outer door of the flat ; but she 
 pushed me out on to the stairs and closed the door behind 
 her. 
 
 " Tatyana Pavlovna, don't you expect Andrey Petrovitch to- 
 day or to-morrow, then ? I am alarmed. . . ." 
 
 "Hold your tongue. Much it matters yoiir being alarmed. 
 TeU me, tell me what you kept back when you were telling us 
 about that rigmarole last night ! " 
 
 I didn't think it necessary to conceal it, and feeling almost 
 irritated with Versilov I told her all about Katerina Nikolaevna's 
 letter to him the day before and of the effect of the letter, that 
 is of his resurrection into a new life. To my amazement the 
 fact of the letter did not surprise her in the least, and I guessed 
 that she knew of it already. 
 
 " But you are lying." 
 
 " No, I'm not." 
 
 " I dare say," she smiled malignantly, as though meditating: 
 '* risen again, has he, so that's the latest, is it ? But is it true 
 that he kissed her portrait ? " 
 
 " Yes, Tatyana Pavlovna." 
 
 " Did he kiss it with feeling, he wasn't putting it on ? " 
 
 " Putting it on, as though he ever did ! For shame, Tatyana 
 Pavlovna ; you've a coarse soul, a woman's soul." 
 
 I said this with heat ; but she did not seem to hear me ; she 
 seemed to be pondering something again, in spite of the terrible 
 chilliness of the stairs. I had on my fur coat, but she was in 
 her indoor dress. 
 
 " I might have asked you to do something, the only pity is 
 you're so stupid," she said with contempt and apparent vexation. 
 "Listen, go to Anna Andreyevna's, and see what's going on there. 
 . . . But no, don't go ; a booby's always a booby ! Go along, 
 quick march, why do you stand like a post ? " 
 
 " And I'm not going to Anna Andreyevna's. Anna Andreyevna 
 sent to ask me herself." 
 
 *' She did ? Darya Onisimovna ? " she turned to me quickly ; 
 
 483
 
 she had been on the point of going away, and had already 
 opened the door, but she shut it again with a slam. 
 
 " Nothing will induce me to go to Anna Andreyevna's," I 
 repeated with spiteful enjoyment ; " I won't go because I've 
 just been called a booby, though I've never been so sharp-sighted 
 as to-day. I see all you're doing, it's as clear as day, but I'm 
 not going to Anna Andreyevna all the same ! " 
 
 " I know it," she exclaimed, but again pursuing her own 
 thoughts, and taking no notice of my words at all. " They 
 will devour her now completely, and draw her into a deadly 
 noose." 
 
 " Anna Andreyevna ? " 
 
 " Fool ! " 
 
 " Then whom do you mean ? Surely not Katerina Nikolaevna ? 
 What sort of deadly noose ? " 
 
 I was terribly frightened, a vague but terrible idea set 
 my whole heart quivering. Tatyana Pavlovna looked at me 
 searchingly. 
 
 " What are you up to there ? " she asked suddenly. " What 
 are you meddling in there ? I've heard something about you 
 too, you'd better look out ! " 
 
 " Listen, Tatyana Pavlovna, I'll tell you a terrible secret, 
 only not just now, 'there's not time now, but to-morrow, when 
 we're alone ; but in return you tell me the whole truth, how and 
 what you mean by a deadly noose, for lam all in a tremble. . . ." 
 
 " Much I care for your trembling," she exclaimed. " What's 
 this other secret you want to tell to-morrow ? Why, you know 
 nothing whatever ! " she transfixed me with a questioning look. 
 " Why, you swore then that Kraft had burnt the letter, didn't 
 you ? " 
 
 " Tatyana Pavlovna, I tell you again, don't torment me," 
 I p3rsisted in my turn, not answering her question, for I was 
 beside myself. ** Take care, Tatyana Pavlovna, that your hiding 
 this from me may not lead to something worse . . . why, 
 yesterday he was absolutely turning over a new leaf ! " 
 
 " Go along, you idiot ! you are like a love-sick sparrow your- 
 self, I'll be bound ; father and son in love with the same idol ! 
 Foo, horrid creatures I " 
 
 She vanished, slamming the door indignantly. Furious at 
 the impudent, shameless cynicism of these last words, a cynicism 
 of which only a woman would have been capable, 1 ran away, 
 deeply insulted. But I won't describe my vague sensations as 
 
 484
 
 I have vowed to keep to facts which will explain everything 
 now ; on my way of course, I called in at his lodging, and heard 
 from the nurse that he had not been homo at all. 
 
 " And isn't he coming at all ? " 
 
 " Goodness knows." 
 
 3 
 
 Facts, facts ! . . . But will the reader understand T I remember 
 how these facts overwhelmed me and prevented me from thinking 
 clearly, so that by the end of the day my head was in a perfect 
 whirl. And so I think I must say two or three words by way of 
 introduction. 
 
 The question that tormented me was this : if he really had 
 gone through a spiritual change and had ceased to love her, in 
 that case where should he have been now ? The answer was : 
 first of all with me whom he had embraced the evening before, 
 and next with mother, whose portrait he had kissed. And yet, 
 in spite of these natural alternatives, he had suddenly, " as soon 
 as it was light," left home and gone off somewhere, and Darya 
 Onisimovna had for some reason babbled of his not beiKg likely 
 to return. What's more, Liza had hinted at the " last chapter " 
 of some " same old story," and of mother's having some news 
 of him, and the latest news, too ; moreover, they undoubtedly 
 knew of Katerina Nikolaevna's letter, too (I noticed that), and 
 yet they did not believe in "his resurrection into a new life " 
 though they had listened to me attentively. Mother was crushed, 
 and Tatyana Pavlovna had been diabolical^ sarcastic at the 
 word " resurrection." But if all this was so, it must mean that 
 some revulsion of feeling had come over him again in the night, 
 another crisis, and this — after yesterday's enthusiasm, emotion, 
 pathos 1 So all his " resurrection " had burst like a soap-bubble, 
 and he, perhaps, was rushing about somewhere again now, in the 
 same frenzy as he had been after hearing the news of Biiring ! 
 There was the question, too, what would become of mother, of 
 me, of all of us, and . . . and, finally, what would become of 
 her ? What was the deadly noose Tatyana had babbled of when 
 she was sending me to Anna Andreyevna ? So that " deadly 
 noose " was there, at Anna Andreyevna's ! Why at Anna 
 Andreyevna's ? Of course I should run to Anna Andreyevna's ; 
 I had said that I wouldn't go en purpose, only in annoyance ; I 
 would run there at once, but what was it Tatyana had said about 
 
 485
 
 the " document " ? And hadn't he himself said to me the 
 evening before : " Bum the document " ? 
 
 These were my thoughts, this was what strangled me, too, in 
 a deadly noose ; but what I wanted most of all was him. With 
 him I could have decided everything — I felt that ; we should 
 have understood each other in two words ! I should have 
 gripped his hands, pressed them ; I should have found burning 
 words in my heart — this was the dream that haunted me. Oh, 
 I would have calmed his frenzy. . . . But where was he ? Where 
 was he ? 
 
 And, as though this were not enough, Lambert must needs 
 turn up at such a moment, when I was so excited ! When I was 
 only a few steps from my door I met him ; he uttered a yell of 
 delight on seeing me, and seized me by the arm. 
 
 "I've been to see you thr-r-ree times already. . . . Enfin! 
 come and have lunch." 
 
 " Stay, have you been to my rooms ; was Andrey Petrovitch 
 there ? " 
 
 " No, there was no one there. Dr-r-rop them all ! You're a 
 fool, you were cross yesterday ; you were drunk, and I've some- 
 thing important to tell you ; I heard a splendid piece of news 
 this morning, about what we were discussing yesterday. ..." 
 
 " Lambert," I interrupted hurriedly, breathing hard and 
 unconsciously declaiming a little. " I am only stopping with 
 you no.w to finish with you for good. I told you yesterday, but 
 you still won't understand. Lambert, you're a baby and as 
 stupid as a Frenchman. You persist in thinking that it's the 
 same as it was at Touchard's, and that I'm as stupid as at 
 Touchard's. . . . But I'm not so silly as I was at Touchard's. , . . 
 I was drunk yesterday, but not from wine, but because I was 
 excited ; and if I seemed to agree with the stuff you talked, it 
 was because I pretended, so as to find out what you were driving at. 
 I deceived you, and you were delighted and believed it and went 
 on talking nonsense. Let me tell you that marrying her is such 
 nonsense that it wouldn't take in a schoolboy in the first form. 
 How could you imagine I should believe it ? Did you believe 
 it ? You believed it because you have never been in aristocratic 
 society, and don't know how things are done among decent 
 people. Things aren't done so simply in aristocratic society, 
 «nd it's not possible for her so simply to go and get married. . . . 
 Now I will tell you plainly what it is you want : you mean to 
 entice me, so as to make me drunk, and to get me to give up 
 
 486
 
 the document, and to join you in some scoimdrelly plot against 
 Katerina Nikolaevna ! So I tell you it's nonsense ! I'll never 
 come to you. And you may as well know that to-morrow or 
 the day after that letter will be in her own hands, for it belongs 
 to her, for it was written by her, and I'll give it to her myself, 
 and if you caxe to know where, I can tell you that through 
 Tatyana Pavlovna, her friend, I shall give it at Tatyana Pav- 
 lovna's, and in Tatyana Pavlovna's presence, and I'll take nothing 
 from her for giving it her. And now be off and keep away from 
 me for ever, or else ... or else, I shan't treat you so civilly 
 next time, Lambert. . . ." 
 
 As I finished I was in a slight shudder all over. A very 
 serious thing and the nastiest habit in life, which vitiates 
 everything in all one does, is ... is showing off. Some evil 
 spirit prompted me to work myself up with Lambert, till rapping 
 out the words with relish, and raising my voice higher and higher, 
 in my heat I ended up by dragging in the quite unnecessary 
 detail, that I should return the document through Tatyana 
 Pavlovna, and in her lodging ! But I had such a longing to 
 crush him ! When I burst out so directly about tbe letter, and 
 suddenly saw his stupid alarm, I immediately felt a desire to 
 overwhelm him by giving him precise details. And this womanish, 
 boastful babbling was afterwards the cause of terrible mis- 
 fortunes, for that detail about Tatyana Pavlovna and her lodging 
 was naturally caught up and retained by a scoundrel who had 
 a practical mind for little things ; in more exalted and important 
 matters he was useless and unintelligent, but for such trifles 
 he had a keen sense, nevertheless. If I had held my tongue 
 about Tatyana Pavlovna, great disasters would not have occurred. 
 Yet when he heard what I said, for the first minute he waw 
 terribly upset, 
 
 " Listen," he muttered. " Alphonsine . . . Alphonsine will 
 sing. . . . Alphonsine has been to see her ; listen. I hav(5 a 
 letter, almost a letter, in which Mme. Ahmakov writes of you ; 
 the pock-marked fellow got it for me, do you remember him — 
 and you will see, you will see, come along ! " 
 " You are Ijnmg ; show me the letter ! " 
 " It's at home, Alphonsine has got it ; come along ! " 
 He was lying and talking wildly, of course, trembling for fear 
 I should run away from him ; but I suddenly abandoned him 
 in the middle of the street, and when he seemed disposed to 
 follow me I stood still and shook my fist at him. But he already 
 
 487
 
 stood hesitating, and let me get away ; perhaps a new plan had 
 dawned upon him. But the meetings and surprises in store for 
 me were not yet over. . . . And when I remember the whole 
 of that disastrous day, it al\^ays seems as though all those 
 surprises and imforeseen accidents were somehow conspiring 
 together and were showered on my head from some accursed 
 horn of plenty. I had scarcely opened the door of my lodging 
 when in the entry I jostled against a tall young man, of digni- 
 fied and elegant exterior with a long pale face, wearing a 
 magnificent fur coat. He had a pince-nez on his nose ; but as 
 soon as he saw me he took it off (evidently as a mark of politeness), 
 and courteously lifting his top-hat, but without stopping, how- 
 ever, said to me with an elegant smile : " Hullo, bonsoir," and 
 passing me went downstairs. We recognized each other at once, 
 though I had only once seen him for a moment in Moscow. It 
 was Anna Andreyevna's brother, the young kammer- junker, 
 VersOov's son, and consequently almost my brother. He was 
 accompanied by my landlady. (The landlord was not yet back 
 from his office.) As soon as he had gone, I simply pounced on 
 her : 
 
 " What has he been doing here ? Has he been in my room t '* 
 
 " He's not been in your room at all. He came to see me . . ." 
 she snapped out briefly and dryly, and returned to her rcom. 
 
 " No, you can't put me off like that," I cried. '* Kindly 
 answer me ; why did he come ? " 
 
 " My goodness I Am I always to tell you why people come 
 to see me ? We may have our own interests to consider, mayn't 
 we 1 The young man may have wanted to borrow money ; he 
 found out an address from me. Perhaps I promised it him last 
 time. . . ." 
 
 " Last time ? When ? " 
 
 " Oh my goodness, why it's not the first time he's been I '* 
 
 She went away. The chief thing I gathered was the change 
 of tone. They had begun to be- rude to me. It was clear that 
 this was another secret ; secrete were accumulating with every 
 step, with every hour. For the first time young Versilov had 
 come with his sister, with Anna Andreyevna, when I was ill ; 
 I remember that perfectly, as well as Anna Andreyevna's amazing 
 words the day before, that, perhaps, the old prince would stay 
 at my rooms. . . . But all this was so mixed up and so monstrous 
 that I could scarcely gather anything from it. Clapping my 
 hands to my forehead, and not even sitting down to rest, I ran 
 
 488
 
 to Anna Andreyevna's ; it appeared that she was not at home, 
 and I received from the porter the information that " she had 
 gone to Tsarskoe ; and might, perhaps, not be back till about 
 this time to-morrow." 
 
 She was at Tsarskoe, and no doubt with the old prince, and 
 her brother was examining my lodgings ! " No, that shall not 
 be," I cried, gnashing my teeth ; " and if there really is some 
 ' deadly noose ' I will defend * the poor woman ' I " 
 
 From Anna Andreyevna's I did not return home, for there 
 suddenly flashed upon my feverish brain the thought of the 
 restaurant on the canal side, where Andrey Petrovitch had the 
 habit of going in his gloomy hours. Delighted at this conjecture, 
 I instantly ran thither ; it was by now four o'clock and was 
 already beginning to get dark. In the restaurant I was told 
 that he had been there, stayed a little while and had gone 
 away, but, perhaps, he would come back. I suddenly deter- 
 mined to wait for him, and ordered diimer; there was a hope 
 any how. 
 
 I ate my dinner, ate, indeed, more than I wanted, so as to 
 have a right to stay as long as possible, and I stayed, I believe, 
 four hours. I won't describe my disappointment and feverish 
 impatience, everything within me seemed shaking and quivering. 
 That organ, those diners — oh, all the dreariness of it is stamped 
 upon my soul, perhaps for the rest of my life I I won't describe 
 the ideas that whirled in my head like a crowd of dry leaves in 
 autumn after a hurricane ; it really was something like that, 
 and I confess that I felt at times that my reason was beginning 
 to desert me 
 
 But what worried me till it was a positive pain (in a side-current, 
 of course, besides my chief torment) was a persistent poisonous 
 impression, persistent as a venomous autumn fly, which one 
 does not think about but which whirls about one, pesters one, 
 and suddenly bites one painfully ; it was only a reminiscence, 
 an incident of which I had never spoken to anyone in the world 
 before. This was what it was, since it seems I must tell this, 
 too. 
 
 When it was settled that I was to leave Moscow and come to 
 Petersburg, I received instructions through Nikolay Semyonovitch 
 to wait for money to be sent me for the journey. From whom 
 
 489
 
 the money was coming I did not ask ; I knew it was from Versilov, 
 and as I dreamed day and night of my meet'ng with him, making 
 exalted plans about it while my heart almost swooned within 
 me, I had quite given up speaking about him aloud even to 
 Marie Ivanovna. I remember that I had money of my own, 
 but I proceeded to wait expectantly for the money to come by post. 
 
 Suddenly, however, Nikolay Semyonovitch, returing home, 
 informed me (as usual briefly and without going off into explana- 
 tions) that I was to go next day to Myasnitsky, at eleven o'clock 
 in the morning, to Prince V.'s flat, and that there Andrey Petro- 
 vitch's son, the kammer- junker, Versilov, who had just arrived 
 from Petersburg and was staying with his schoolfellow. Prince V., 
 would hand over to me a sum of money for my journey. On the 
 face of it the arrangement was simple enough : Andrey Petro- 
 vitch might well send the money by his son rather than by post ; 
 but the news crushed me and filled me with alarm. I had no 
 doubt that Versilov wished to bring his son, my brother, and me 
 together ; this threw a light upon the intentions and feelings 
 of the man of whom I dreamed ; but a question of the utmost 
 magnitude presented itself to me : how should I, and how must 
 I behave at this utterly unexpected interview, and how could I 
 best keep up my dignity ? 
 
 Next day, exactly at eleven o'clock, I turned up at Prince V.'s 
 flat, which, as I was able to judge, was splendidly furnished, 
 though it was a bachelor's establishment. I was kept waiting 
 in the hall where there were several lackeys in livery. And from 
 the next room came sounds of loud talk and laughter : Prince V. 
 had other visitors besides the kammer- junker. I told the foott 
 man to announce me, and, I fancy, in rather haughty terms. 
 Anyway, he looked at me strangely, and, as I fancied, not so 
 respectfully as he should have done. To my amazement he was 
 a very long time in announcing me, five minutes, and all the while 
 the same laughter, and the same sounds of conversation reached 
 me. 
 
 I waited standing, knowing that it would be impossible and 
 unseemly for me, " just as much a gentleman," to sit down in a 
 hall where there were footmen. My pride would have prevented 
 me under any circumstances from entering the drawing-room 
 without a special invitation ; over-fastidious pride perhaps it was, 
 but that was only fitting. To my amazement the two lackeys 
 who were left in the hall had the impertinence to sit down. 
 I turned away to avoid noticing it, and yet I could not held 
 
 490
 
 quivering all over, and suddenly turning and stepping up to one 
 of the footmen, I ordered him to go " at once " and take in my 
 name again. In spite of my stern expression and extreme 
 excitement, the lackey looked at me lazily, without getting up, 
 and the other one answered for him : 
 
 " It's been taken in, don't disturb yourself." 
 
 I made up my mind to wait only another minute or possibly 
 even less, and then to go. I was very well-dressed : my suit and 
 overcoat were new anyway, and my linen was perfectly fresh, 
 Marie Ivanovna had seen to that with a special view to the 
 occasion. But I learned for a fact, much later, when I was in 
 Petersburg, that these lackeys had heard the evening before 
 from young Versilov's valet that " the young gentleman's 
 bastard brother, a student, was coming." I know this now for 
 a fact. 
 
 The minute passed. It's a strange sensation when one decides 
 and cannot decide. " Shall I go or not, shall I go or not ? " 
 I repeated to myself every second, almost in a fever, and suddenly 
 the lackey who had taken my name returned. Between his 
 fingers he held fluttering four red notes — forty roubles ! 
 
 " Here, sir, will you please take forty roubles ! " 
 
 I boiled over. This was such an insult ! All the night before 
 I had been dreaming of the meeting Versilov had arranged be- 
 tween us two brothers ; I had spent the whole night in feverish 
 visions of the demeanour I ought to adopt, that I might not dis- 
 credit — not discredit the whole cycle of ideas which I had worked 
 out in my solitude, and which might have made me feel proud 
 in any circle. I dreamed of how proud, gentlemanly, and sad, 
 perhaps, I would be even in Prince V.'s society, and how in that 
 way I should be admitted into that circle — oh, I'm not sparing 
 myself, and so be it, for it's just such details that I ought to 
 record ! And then — to be given forty roubles by a lackey in the 
 hall, and after being kept ten minutes waiting, and not even in 
 an envelope, not even on a salver, but straight from the lackey's 
 fingers ! 
 
 I shouted so violently at the lackey that he started and stepped 
 back ; I told him he must go back at once and " his master must 
 bring the money himself " — in fact, my request was, of course, 
 incoherent and incomprehensible to the man. But I shouted so 
 that he went. To make things worse my shouting was heard 
 in the room, and the talk and laughter suddenly subsided. 
 
 Almost at the same time I heard footsteps, dignified, quiet, 
 
 491
 
 unhurried, and a tall figure of a handsome and haughty-looking 
 young man (he seemed to me then even thinner and paler than 
 when I met him to-day) appeared in the doorway a yard from- 
 the door leading into the passage. He was wearing a magni- 
 ficent red silk dressing-gown and slippers, and had a pince-nez 
 on his nose. Without uttering a word he fixed me with his 
 pince-nez and proceeded to stare at me. I took one step towards 
 him like a wild beast, and began glaring at him defiantly. But 
 he only scrutinized me for a moment, ten seconds at the utmost ; 
 suddenly I detected on his lips a scarcely perceptible, but most 
 malignant smile — what made it so malignant was that it was 
 scarcely perceptible : he turned round without a word and 
 went back into the room, just as deliberately, just as quietly and 
 smoothly as he had come. Oh, these insolent fellows are trained 
 by their mothers from childhood to be insolent ! I lost my head 
 of course. . . . Oh, why did I lose my head ! 
 
 Almost at that moment the same lackey reappeared with the 
 same notes in his hand. 
 
 " Be so good as to take this, it is sent you from Petersburg, 
 but his honour can't see you : ' perhaps another time, when he's 
 more at leisure.' " I felt that these last words were his own 
 addition. But I was still overwhelmed with confusion. I took 
 the money and walked to the door, I took it simply because I 
 was confused, I ought not to have taken it ; but the lackey, 
 no doubt wanting to mortify me further, ventured upon a 
 regular flunkey's impertinence ; he flung the door extra wide 
 open before me, and pronounced with exaggerated emphasis and 
 dignity, as I went out : 
 
 " This way, if you please ! " 
 
 " You blackguard," I roared at him, and I raised my hand, 
 but I did not bring it down ; " and your master's a blackguard, 
 too ! Tell him so directly," I added, and went down the stairs. 
 
 " Don't you dare ! If I were to report that to my master, you 
 would be taken, that very minute, with a note to the police 
 station. And don't you dare threaten me ! " 
 
 I went down the stairs. It was a grand open staircase, and 
 above I could be watched as I went down the rod carpeted stairs. 
 All three lackeys came out and stood looking over the banisters. 
 I made up my mind to keep quiet, of course : to brawl with 
 lackeys was impossible. I walked the whole length of the stairs 
 without increasing my pace ; I believe I even moved more slowly. 
 
 Oh, there may be philosophers (and shame upon them !) who 
 
 492
 
 will say that all this is nonsense, the irritability of a milksop ; 
 let them say so, but for me it was a wound — a wound which has 
 not healed to this day, even to the present moment, when I am 
 writing this, when all is over and even avenged. Oh, I swear 
 I am not given to harbouring malice and I am not revengeful. 
 No doubt I always, even before my illness, wanted to revenge 
 myself when I was insulted, but I swear it was only to revenge 
 myself by magnanimity. Let me revenge myself magnanimously, 
 but so that he felt it and understood, and I should have been 
 avenged ! And, by the way, I must add : that though I am not 
 revengeful I have a good memory for injuries, in spite of being 
 magnanimous ; I wonder whether others are the same ? Then 
 oh, then I went with generous feelings, perhaps absurd, but no 
 matter : better they were absurd and generous, than not absurd 
 but mean, vulgar and mediocre ! I never told anyone of that 
 meeting with " my brother," even Marie Ivanovna, even Liza : 
 that interview was exactly like an. insulting slap in the face. 
 And now I came across this gentleman when I least expected to 
 meet him ; he smiles to mo, takes off his hat and says bonsoir 
 in quite a friendly way. That give one something to think about 
 of course. . , . But the wound was reopened. 
 
 After sitting for more than four hours in the restaurant I 
 suddenly rushed away as though I were in a fit, again to Versilov's 
 of course, and again, of course, I did not find him at home ; he 
 had not been to the house at all ; the nurse was bored, and she 
 asked me to send Darya Onisimovna ; as though I had thoughts 
 for that ! I ran to mother's, but did not go in. Calling Lukerya 
 into the passage I learnt from her that he had not been there 
 either, and that Liza, too, was not at home. I saw that Lukerya, 
 too, would have liked to ask me something, and also, perhaps, 
 to give me some commission ; but I had no thoughts for that ! 
 There was one last hope left — that he had gone to my lodging ; 
 but I had no faith in this. 
 
 I have already stated that I was almost out of my mind. 
 And lo, and behold ! in my room I found Alphonsine and 
 my landlord. They were coming out, it is true, and in Pyotr 
 Ippolitovitch's hand was a candle. 
 
 " What's this 1 " I yelled at the landlord, almost senselessly. 
 " How dare you take that hussy into my room ? " 
 
 493
 
 " Tien,'" cried Alphonsine : " et les amis ? " 
 
 " Get out," I roared. 
 
 " Mai3 c'est un ours ! " she whisked out into the passage, 
 pretending to be alarmed, and instantly disappeared into the 
 landlady's room, Pyotr Ippolitovitch, still holding the candle 
 in his hand, came up to me with a severe face. 
 
 " Allow me to observe, Arkady Makarovitch, that you are too 
 hasty ; with all respect to you. Mademoiselle Alphonsine is not 
 a hussy, but quite the contrary, indeed, is here, not as your 
 visitor, but as my wife's, with whom she has been for some time 
 past acquainted." 
 
 " And how dared you take her into my room ? " I repeated, 
 clutching at my head, which almost suddenly began to ache 
 violently. 
 
 " By chance. I went in to shut the window, which I had opened 
 to air the room ; and as Alphonsine Karlovna and I were con- 
 tinuing our conversation, she came into your room simply follow- 
 ing me." 
 
 " That's a lie. Alphonsine's a spy, Lambert's a spy I Perhaps 
 you're a spy, too ! And Alphonsine came into my room to steal 
 something." 
 
 " That's as you please. You'll say one thing to-day, but to- 
 morrow you'll speak differently. And I've let our rooms for 
 some time, and have moved with my wife into the little room 
 so that Alphonsine Karlovna is almost as much a lodger here as 
 you are." 
 
 " You've let your rooms to Lambert ? " I cried in dismay. 
 
 " No, not to Lambert," he answered with the same broad grin, 
 in which, however, the hesitation I had seen in the morning was 
 replaced by determination. " I imagine that you know to whom 
 and only affect not to know for the sake of appearances, and 
 that's why you're angry. Good-night, sir ! " 
 
 " Yes, yes, leave me, leave me alone ! " I waved my hand, 
 almost crying, so that he looked at me in surprise ; he went 
 away, however. I fastened the door with the hook and threw 
 myself on my bed with my face in the pillow. And that is how 
 I passed that awful day, the first of those three momentous days 
 with which my story concludes. 
 
 454
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 1 
 
 Вит, again anticipating the course of events, I find it is necessary 
 to explain to the reader something of what is coming, for the 
 logical sequence of the story is obscured by such numerous 
 incidents, that otherwise it would be impossible to understand 
 it. 
 
 That something is the " deadly noose " to which Tatyana 
 Pavlovna let slip an allusion. It appeared that Anna Andreyevna 
 had ventured at last on the most audacious step that could be 
 imagined in her jwsition ; she certainly had a will of her own ! 
 On the pretext of his health the old prince had been in the nick 
 of time carried ofiE to Tsarskoe Syelo so that the news of his 
 aaproaching marriage with Anna Andreyevna might not be 
 spread abroad, but might for the time be stifled, so to say, in 
 embryo, yet the feeble old man, with whom one could do any- 
 thing else, would not on any consideration have consented to 
 give up his idea and jilt Anna Andreyevna, who had made him 
 an offer. On this subject he was a paragon of chivalry, so that 
 he might sooner or later bestir himself and suddenJy proceed to 
 carry out his intentions with that irresistible force which is so 
 very frequently met with in weak characters, for they often 
 have a line beyond which they cannot be driven. Moreover, he 
 fully recognised the delicacy of the position of Anna Andreyevna, 
 for whom he had an unbounded respect ; he was quite alive to 
 the possibility of rumours, of gibes, of injurious gossip. The 
 only thing that checked him and kept him quiet for the time 
 was that Katerina Nikolaevna had never once allowed herself 
 to drop the faintest hint reflecting on Anna Andreyevna in his 
 presence, or to raise the faintest objection to his intention of 
 marrying her ; on the contrary, she showed the greatest cordiality 
 and every attention to her father's fiancee. In this way Anna 
 Andreyevna was placed in an extremely awkward position, 
 perceiving with her subtle feminine instinct that she would 
 wound all the old prince's tenderest feelings, and would arouse 
 his distrust and even, perhaps, his indignation by the slightest 
 criticism of Katerina Nikolaevna, whom he worshipped, too, and 
 now more than ever just because she had so graciously and 
 
 495
 
 dutifully consented to his marriage. And so for the present 
 the conflict was waged on that plane : the two rivals vied with 
 one another in delicacy and patience, and as time went on the 
 prince did not know which of them to admire the most, and like 
 all weak but tender-hearted people, he ended by being miserable 
 and blaming himself for everything. His depression of spirits 
 reached a morbid point, I was told : his nerves were thoroughly 
 upset, and instead of regaining health in Tsarskoe, he was, so 
 I was assured, on the point of taking to his bed. 
 
 Here I may note in parenthesis what I only learnt long after- 
 wards that Biiring had bluntly proposed to Katerina Niko- 
 laevna that they should take the old gentleman abroad, inducing 
 him to go by some sort of strategy, letting people know privately 
 meanwhile that he had gone out of his mind, and obtaining a 
 doctor's certificate to that effect abroad. But Katerina Niko- 
 laevna would not consent to that on any account ; so at least 
 it was declared afterwards. She seems to have rejected the 
 project with indignation. All this is only a rather roundabout 
 rumour, but I believe it. 
 
 And just when things had reached this apparently hopeless 
 position, Arma Andreyevna suddenly learnt through Lambert 
 that there was in existence a letter, in which the daughter had 
 consulted a lawyer about declaring her father insane. Her 
 proud and revengeful mind was roused to the utmost. Recalling 
 previous conversations with me and putting together many 
 trifling circumstances, she could not doubt the truth of it. Then, 
 inevitably, the plan of a bold stroke matured in her resolute, 
 inflexible, feminine heart. . . . That plan was to tell the prince 
 all about it, suddenh', with no preliminaries or negotiations, 
 to frighten him, to give him a shock, to prove to him that what 
 inevitably awaited him was the lunatic asylum, and if he were 
 perverse, if he refused to believe and expressed indignation, to 
 show him his daughter's letter, as though to say, " Since there 
 was once an intention of declaring him insane, it might well be 
 tried again in order to prevent his marriage." Then to take 
 the frightened and shattered old man to Petersburg — straight 
 to my lodging. 
 
 It was a terrible risk, but she had complete confidence in her 
 powers. Here I will digress for a moment to observe that the 
 later course of events proved that she had not been mistaken 
 as to the effect of this blow ; what is more, the effect of it exceeded 
 her expectations. The news of the existence of this letter 
 
 496
 
 produced, perhaps, a far stronger effect on the old prince than 
 she or any of us had anticipated. I had no idea until then that 
 the old prince had heard of this letter before ; but like all weak 
 and timid people he did not believe the rumour, and did his 
 utmost to dismiss it from his mind in order to preserve his 
 serenity ; what is more, he reproached himself for his baseness 
 in being ready to believe it. I may add that the fact, that is 
 the existence of the letter, had a far greater effect on Katerina 
 Nikolaevna than I had expected. . . . In fact, this scrap of paper 
 turned out to be of far greater consequence than I, carrying it 
 in my pocket, had imagined. But I am running too far ahead. 
 
 But why, I shall be asked to my lodgings ? Why convey the 
 old prince to my pitiful little den, and alarm him, perhaps, by 
 the sordidness of his surroundings ? If not to his own home 
 (where all her plans might be thwarted at once), why not to 
 some " sumptuous " private apartments, as Lambert urged ? 
 But it was just on this that Anna Andreyevna reckoned in her 
 desperate step. 
 
 Her chief object was to confront the prince with the docu- 
 ment ; but nothing would have induced me to give it up. And 
 as there was no time to lose, Anna Andreyevna, relying on her 
 power to carry off the position, resolved to begin without the 
 document, bringing the old prince straight to me — for what 
 purpose ? To catch me by that same step ; so to say, to kill 
 two bird? with one stone. She reckoned on working upon me 
 by the sudden blow, the shock, the unexpectedness of it. She 
 anticipated that when I found the old man in my room, when 
 I saw his helplessness and his alarm, and heard them all imploring 
 me, I should give in and show the document ! I must confess 
 her calculation was crafty and clever, and showed psychological 
 insight ; what is more, she was very nearly successful. ... As 
 for the old man, Anna Andreyevna had succeeded in bringing 
 him away, and had forced him to believe her simply by telling 
 him that she was bringing him to me. All this I learned later ; 
 the mere statement that the letter was in my hands extinguished 
 in his timid heart the last doubts of the fact — so great were his 
 love and respect for me ! 
 
 I may remark, too, that Anna Andreyevna herself never for 
 a moment doubted that I still had the letter and had not let it 
 go out of my hands ; her great mistake was that she had a 
 wrong conception of my character and was synically reckoning 
 on my innocence, my good-nature, and even my sentimentahty ; 
 
 497
 
 and, on the other hand, she imagined that even if I had made 
 up my mind to give up the letter, to Katerina Nikolaevna for 
 instance, I should only do so under special conditions, and she 
 made haste to anticipate those conditions by the suddenness, 
 the unexpectedness of her master-stroke. 
 
 And, finally, Lambert confirmed her in all this. I have mentioned 
 already that Lambert's position at this time was most critical ; 
 the traitor would have liked above everything to lure me from 
 Anna Andreyevna so that with him I might sell the letter to 
 Mme. Ahmakov, which he, for some reason, considered a more 
 profitable course ; but since nothing would induce me to give up 
 the document till the last moment, he decided, at any rate, to 
 act with Anna Andreyevna also, that he might not risk losing 
 everything, and therefore he did his utmost to force his services 
 on her till the very last hour, and I know that he even offered 
 to procure a priest, if necessary . . . but Anna Andreyevna 
 had asked him, with a contemptuous smile, not to suggest this. 
 Lambert struck her as horribly coarse, and aroused her utmost 
 aversion ; but to be on the safe side she still accepted his 
 services, as a spy for instance. By the way, I do not know for 
 certain to this day whether they bought over Pyotr Ippolitovitch, 
 my landlord, and whether he got anything at all from them for 
 his services, or whether he simply worked for them for the joy 
 of intrigue ; but that he acted as a spy upon me, and that his 
 wife did also, I know for a fact. 
 
 The reader will understand now that though I was to some 
 extent forewarned, yet I could not have guessed that the next 
 day, or the day after, I should find the old prince in my lodgings 
 and in such circumstances. Indeed, I never could have con- 
 ceived of such audacity from Anna Andreyevna. One may talk 
 freely and hint at anything one likes, but to decide, to act, and 
 to carry things out — ^well, that really is character 1 
 
 To continue. 
 
 I waked up late in the morning. I slept an exceptionally sound 
 and dreamless sleep, as I remember with wonder, so that I waked 
 up next morning feeling unusually confident again, ae though 
 nothing had happened the day before. I intended not going 
 fixst to mother's but straight to the church of the cemetery, wit h 
 
 498
 
 the idea of returning to mother's after the ceremony and remain- 
 ing the rest of the day. I was firmly convinced that in any case 
 I should meet him sooner or later at mother's. 
 
 Neither Alphonsine nor the landlord had been at the flat for 
 a long time. I would not on any account question the landlady, 
 and, indeed, I made up my mind to cut off all relations with 
 them for the future, and even to give up my lodgings as soon 
 as I could ; and so, as soon as my coffee had been brought, I 
 put the hook on the door again. But suddenly there was a 
 knock at the door, and to my surprise it turned out to be 
 Trishatov. 
 
 I opened the door at once and, delighted to see him, asked 
 him to come in, but he refused. 
 
 " I will only say two words from the door ... or, perhaps, 
 I will come in, for I fancy one must talk in a whisper here ; only. 
 I won't sit down. You are looking at my horrid coat : Lambert 
 took my great-coat." 
 
 He was, in fact, wearing a wretched old great-coat, which did 
 not fit him. He stood before me without taking off his hat, 
 a gloomy, dejected figure, with his hands in his pockets. 
 
 " I won't sit down, I won't sit down. Listen, Dolgoruky, 
 I know nothing in detail, but I know that Lambert is preparing 
 some treachery against you at once, and you won't escape it — 
 and that's certain. And so be careful • I was told by that 
 pock-marked fellow, do you remember him ? But he did not 
 tell me anything more about it, so I can't tell you. I've only 
 come to warn you — good-bye." 
 
 " But sit- down, dear Trishatov ; though I'm in a hurry I'm 
 so glad to see you. ..." I cried. 
 
 " I won't sit down, I won't sit down ; but I shall remember 
 you were glad to see me. Oh, Dolgoruky, why deceive others ? 
 I've consciously of my ovm free will consented to ever}' .sort of 
 abomination, to tb'ngs so vile, that I can't speak of them before 
 you. Now we are at the pock-marked fellow's. Good-bye. 
 I am not worthy to sit down Avith you." 
 
 " Nonsense, Trishatov, dear. ..." 
 
 " No, you see, Dolgoruky, I keep a bold face before every 
 one, and I'm going to have a rollicking time. I shall soon have 
 a better fur coat than my old one, and shall be driving a fast 
 trotter. But I shall know in ray own mind that I did not sit 
 down in your room, because I judge myself unworthy, because 
 I'm low compared with you. It will always be nice for me to 
 
 499
 
 remember that when I'm in the midst of disgraceful debauchery. 
 Good-bye, good-bye. And I won't give you my hand ; why, 
 Alphonsine won't take my hand. And please don't follow me 
 or come to see me, that's a compact between us." 
 
 The strange boy turned and went out. I had no time then, 
 but I made up my mind to seek him out as soon as I had settled 
 our affairs. 
 
 I won't describe the rest of that morning, though there is a 
 great deal that might be recalled. Versilov was not at the 
 funeral service in the church, and I fancy from their faces I 
 could have gathered that they did not expect him there. Mother 
 prayed devoutly and seemed entirely absorbed in the service ; 
 there were only Liza and Tatyana Pavlovna by the coffin. But 
 I will describe nothing, nothing. After the burial we all returned 
 and sat down to a meal, and again I gathered by their faces that 
 he was not expected to it. When we rose from the table, I went 
 up to mother, embraced her and congratulated her on her birth- 
 day ; Liza did the same after me. 
 
 " Listen, brother," Liza whispered to me on the sly ; " they 
 are expecting him." 
 
 *' I guessed so, Liza. I see it." 
 
 " He's certainly coming." 
 
 " So they must have heard something positive," I thought, 
 but I didn't ask any question. Though I'm not going to describe 
 my feelings, all this mystery began to weigh like a stone 
 upon my heart again in spite of my confident mood. We all 
 settled down in the drawing-room, near mother, at the round 
 table. Oh, how I liked being with her then, and looking at 
 her ! Mother suddenly asked me to read something out of the 
 Gospel. I read a chapter from St. Luke. She did not weep, 
 and was not even very sorrowful, but her face had never seemed 
 to me so full of spiritual meaning. There was the light of 
 thought in her gentle eyes, but I could not trace in them any 
 sign that she expected something with apprehension. The 
 conversation never flagged ; we recalled many reminiscences of 
 Makar Ivanovitch ; Tatyana Pavlovna, too, told us many things 
 about him of which I had no idea before. And, in fact, it 
 would make an interesting chapter if it were all written 
 down. Even Tatyana Pavlovna луоге quite a different air from 
 usual : she was very gentle, very affectionate, and, what is more, 
 also very quiet, though she talked a good deal to distract mother's 
 miad. But one detail I remember well : mother was sitting 
 
 500
 
 on the sofa, and on a special round table on her left there lay, 
 apparently put there for some purpose, a plain antique ikon, 
 with halos on the heads of the saints, of which there were two. 
 This ikon had belonged to Makar Ivanovitch — I knew that, and 
 knew also that the old man had never parted from it, and looked 
 upon it with superstitious reverence. Tatyana Pavlovna glanced 
 at it several times. 
 
 " Listen, Sofia," she said, suddenly changing the conversation ; 
 " instead of the ikon's lying down, would it not be better to stand 
 it up on the table against the wall, and to light the lamp before 
 it?" 
 
 " No, better as it is," said mother. 
 
 " I dare say you're right ; it might seem making too much 
 fuss. . . ." 
 
 I did not understand at the time, but this ikon had long 
 ago been verbally bequeathed by Makar Ivanovitch to Audrey 
 Petrovitch, and mother was preparing to give it to him now. 
 
 It was five o'clock in the afternoon ; we were still talking 
 when I noticed a sudden quiver in mother's face ; she drew 
 herself up quickly and began listening, while Tatyana PavlovTia, 
 who Avas speaking at the time, went on talking without noticing 
 anything. I at once turned to the door, and an instant later 
 saw Andrey Petrovitch in the doorway. He had come in by 
 the back stairs, through the kitchen and the passage, and mother 
 was the only one of us who had heard his footsteps. Now I 
 will describe the whole of the insane scene that followed, word 
 by word, and gesture by gesture ; it \\'as brief. 
 
 To begin with, I did not, at the first glance anyway, observe 
 the slightest change in his face. He was dressed as always, 
 that is almost foppishly ; in his hand was a small but expensive 
 nosegay of fresh flowers. He went up and handed it to mother 
 with a smile ; she was looking at him Avith frightened perplexity, 
 but she took the nosegay, and a faint flush at once glowed on 
 her pale cheeks, and there was a gleam of pleasure in her eyes. 
 
 " I knew you would take it like that, Sonia," he said. As 
 we all got up when he came in, he took Liza's easy-chair, which 
 was on the left of mother, and sat down in it without noticing 
 he was taking her seat. And so he was quite close to the little 
 table on which the ikon was lying. 
 
 " Good evening to you all ; I felt I must bring you this nosegay 
 on your birthday, Sonia, and so I did not go to the funeral, as 
 I could not come to the grave with a nosegay ; and you didn't 
 
 501
 
 expect гае at the funeral, I know. The old man certainly won't 
 be angry at these flowers, for he bequeathed us joy himself, 
 didn't he ? I believe he's here somewhere in the room." 
 
 Mother looked at him strangely ; Tatyana Pavlovna seemed 
 to wince. 
 
 " Who's here in the room ? " she asked. 
 
 " Makar Ivanovitch. Never mind. You know that the man 
 who is not entirely a believer in these marvels is always more 
 prone to superstition. . . . But I had better tell you about the 
 nosegay : how I succeeded in bringing it I don't know. Three 
 times on the way I had a longing to throw it in the snow and 
 trample on it." 
 
 Mother shuddered. 
 
 " A terrible longing. You must have pity on me and my 
 poor head, Sonia. I longed to, because they are too beautiful. 
 Is there any object in the world more beautiful than a flower ? 
 I carried it, with snow and frost all round. Our frost and flowers 
 — such an incongruity ! I wasn't thinking of that though, I 
 simply longed to crush it because it was so lovely. Sonia, 
 though I'm disappearing again now, I shall soon come back, 
 for I believe I shall be afraid. If I am afraid, who will heal me 
 of my terrors, where can I find an angel like Sonia ? . . . What 
 is this ikon you've got here ? Ah, Makar Ivanovitch's, I 
 remember. It belonged to his family, his ancestors ; he would 
 never part from it ; I know, I remember he left it to me ; I 
 quite remember . . . and I fancy it's an unorthodox one. Let 
 me have a look at it." 
 
 He took up the ikon, carried it to the light and looked at it 
 intently, but, after holding it a few seconds only, laid it on the 
 table before him< I was astonished, but all his strange speech 
 was uttered so quickly that I had not time to reflect upon it. 
 All I remember is that a sick feeUng of dread began to clutch 
 at ray heart. Mother's alarm had passed into perplexity and 
 compassion ; she looked on him as some one, above all, to be 
 pitied ; it had sometimes happened in the past that he had 
 talked almost as strangely as now. Liza, for some reason, 
 became suddenly very pale, and strangely made a sign to me 
 with a motion of her head towards him. But most frightened 
 of all was Tatyana Pavlovna. 
 
 " What's the matter with you, Audrey Petrovitch darling ? " 
 she inquired cautiously. 
 
 " I really don't know, Tatyana Pavlovna dear, what's the 
 
 502
 
 matter with me. Don't be uneasy, I still remember that you 
 are Tatyana Pavlovna, and that you are dear. But I've only 
 come for a minute though ; I should like to say something nice 
 to Sonia, and I keep trying to find the right word, though my 
 heart is full of words, which I don't know how to utter ; yes, 
 really, all such strange words somehow. Do you know I feel 
 as though I were split in two " — he looked round at us all with 
 a terribly serious face and with perfectly genuine candour. 
 " Yes, I am really split in two mentally, and I'm horribly afraid 
 of it. It's just as though one's second self were standing beside 
 one ; one is sensible and rational oneself, but the other self is 
 impelled to do something perfectly senseless, and sometimes 
 very funny ; and suddenly you notice that you are longing to 
 do that amusing thing, goodness knows why ; that is you want 
 to, as it were, against your will; though you fight against it 
 with all ycDur might, you want to. I once knew a doctor 
 who suddenly began whistling in church, at his father's funeral. 
 I really was afraid to come to the funeral to-day, because, 
 for some reason, I w&a possessed by a firm conviction that 
 I should begin to whistle or laugh in church, like that 
 unfortunate doctor, who came to rather a bad end. . . . 
 Ani I really don't know why, but I've been haunted by the 
 thought of that doctor all day ; I am so haunted by him that 
 I can't shake him ofiE. Do you know, Sonia, here I've taken 
 up the ikon again " (he had picked it up and was turning it about 
 in his hand), "and do you know, I have a dreadful longing now, 
 this very second, to smash it against the stove, against this 
 comer I am sure it would break into two halves — neither more 
 nor loss." 
 
 What was most striking was that he said this without the 
 slightest trace of affectation or whimsical caprice ; he spoke 
 quite simply, but that made it all the more terrible ; and he 
 seemed really frightened of something ; I noticed suddenly that 
 his hands were trembling a little. 
 
 " Audrey Petrovitch ! " cried mother, clasping her hands. 
 " Let the ikon alone, let it alone, Audrey Petrovitch, let it 
 alone, put it down ! " cried Tatyana Pavlovna, jumping up. 
 " Undress and go to bed. Arkady, run for the doctor ! " 
 
 " But . . . but what a fuss you're making," he said gently, 
 scrutinising us all intently. Then he suddenly put both elbows 
 on the table and leaned his head in his hands. 
 
 " I'm scaring you, but I tell you what, my friends, try to 
 
 503
 
 comfort me a little, sit down again, and all be calm, if only for 
 a minute ! Sonia, I did not come to talk of this at all ; I came 
 to tell you something, but it was quite different. Good-bye, 
 Sonia, I'm going off on my wanderings again, ae I have left you 
 several times before . . . but, no doubt, I shall come back 
 to you again one day — ^in that sense you are inevitable. To 
 whom should I come back, when all is over? Beheve, Sonia, 
 that I've come to you now as to an angel, and not as to an 
 enemy ; how could you be an enemy to me, how could you be 
 an enemy ! Don't imagine that I came to break this ikon, 
 for do you know, Sonia, I am still longing to break it all the 
 same. . . ." 
 
 When Tatyana Pavlovna had cried out " Let the ikon alone," 
 she had snatched it out of his hands and was holding it in hers. 
 Suddenly, at his last word, he jumped up impulsively, snatched 
 the ikon in a flash from Tatyana's hands, and with a ferocious 
 swing smashed it with all his might against the corner of the 
 tiled stove. The ikon was broken into two pieces. . . . He 
 turned to us and his pale face suddenly flushed red, almost 
 purple, and every feature in his face quivered and worked. 
 
 " Don't take it for a symbol, Sonia ; it's not as Makar's 
 legacy I have broken it, but only to break something . . . 
 and, anyTvay, I shall come back to you, my last angel ! You 
 may take it as a symbol, though ; of course it must have been 
 so! . . ." 
 
 And with sudden haste he went out of the room, going again 
 through the kitchen (where he had left his fur coat and cap). 
 I won't attempt to describe what happened to mother : in 
 mortal terror she stood clasping her hands above her, and she 
 suddenly screamed after him : 
 
 " Andrey Petrovitch, come back, if only to say good-bye, 
 dear ! " 
 
 " He'll come, Sofia, he'll come ! Don't worry yourself 1 " 
 Tatyana shrieked, trembling all over in a terrible rage, a really 
 brutal rage. " Why, you heard he promised to come back 
 himself I Let him go and amuse himself for the last time, the 
 fool. He's getting old — and who'll nurse him when he's 
 bedridden except you, his old mu^e 1 Why, he teUs you so 
 himself, he's not ashamed. . . ." 
 
 As for us, Liza was in a swoon ; I would have run after him, 
 but I rushed to mother. I threw my arms round her and held 
 her tight. Lukerya ran in with a glass of water for Liza, but 
 
 504
 
 mother soon came to herself, she sank on the sofa, hid her face 
 in her hands, and began crying. 
 
 " But . . . but you'd better run after him," Tatyana 
 Pavlovna shouted suddenly with all her might, as though she 
 had suddenly waked up, " Go along ... go along . . . 
 overtake him, don't leave hira for a minute, go along, go 
 along ! " She pulled me forcibly away from mother. " Oh, 
 I shall run myself." 
 
 " Arkasha, oh, run after him, make haste 1 " mother cried 
 suddenly, too. 
 
 I ran off, full speed, through the kitchen and through the 
 yard, but there was no sign .of him anywhere. In the distan-je 
 I saw black shadows in the darkness ; I ran after them and 
 examined each passer-by carefully as I overtook them. So 
 I ran on to the cross-roads. 
 
 " People are not angry with the insane," suddenly flashed 
 through my mind, " but Tatyana was wild with rage at him, 
 so he's not mad at all. . . ." Oh, it seemed to me all the time 
 that it was symbolic, and that he was bent on putting an end 
 to everything as he did to the ikon, and showing that to us, to 
 mother, and all. But that second self was unmistakably beside 
 him, too ; of that there could be no doubt. . . , 
 
 He was nowhere to be found, however, and I could not run 
 to him. It was difficult to believe that he would have simply 
 gone home. Suddenly an idea flashed upon me and I rushed 
 o£f to Anna Andreyevna. 
 
 Anna Andreyevna had just returned, and I was shown up at 
 once. I went in, controlling myself as far as I could. Without 
 sitting down, I at once described to her the scene which had 
 just taken place, that is the " second self." I shall never forget 
 the greedy but pitilessly composed and self-complacent curiosity 
 with which she listened, also standing, and I shall never forgive 
 her for it. 
 
 " Where is he ? Perhaps you know ? " I ended, insistently. 
 *' Tatyana Pavlovna sent me to you yesterday. . . ," 
 
 " I sent for you, too, yesterday. Yesterday he was at Xsarskoe 
 Syelo ; he came to see me, too. And now " (she looked at her 
 watch), " now it is seven o'clock. ... So he's pretty sure to 
 be at home." 
 
 505
 
 " I see that you know all about it — so tell me, tell me," I 
 cried. 
 
 " I know a good deal ; but I don't know everything. Of 
 course, there's no reason to conceal it from you. . . ." She 
 scanned me with a strange glance, smiling and as though 
 deliberating. " Yesterday morning, in answer to her letter, 
 he made Kateritna Nikolaevna a formal ofifer of marriage." 
 
 " That's false," I said, opening my eyes wide. 
 
 " The letter went through my hands ; I took it to her myself, 
 unopened. This time he behaved ' chivalrously ' and concealed 
 nothing from me." 
 
 " Anna Andre j'evna, I can't understand it ! " 
 
 " Of course, it's hard to understand it, but it's like a gambler 
 who stakes his last crown, while he has a loaded pistol ready in 
 his pocket — that's what his offer amoxmts to. It's ten to one 
 she won't accept his offer ; but still he's reckoning on that 
 tenth chance, and I confess that's very curious ; I imagine, 
 though, that it may be a case of frenzy, that ' second self,' as 
 you said so well just now." 
 
 " And you laugh ? And am I really to believe that the letter 
 was given through you ? Why, you are the fiancee of her 
 father ? Spare me, Anna Andreyevna ! " 
 
 " He asked me to sacrifice my future to his happiness, though 
 he didn't really ask ; it was all done rather silently. I simply 
 read it all in his eyes. Oh, my goodness, what will he do next ! 
 Why, he went to Konigsberg to ask your mother's leave to marry 
 Katerina Nikolaevna's step-daughter. That's very like his 
 pitching on me for his go-between and confidante yesterday." 
 
 She was rather pale. But her calmness was only exaggerated 
 sarcasm. Oh, I forgave her much then, as I began to grasp the 
 position. For a minute I pondered ; she waited in silence, 
 
 " Do you know," I laughed suddenly, " you delivered the 
 letter because there was not the slightest risk for you, because 
 there's no chance of a marriage, but what of him ? Of her, too 1 
 Of course she will reject his offer and then . . . what may not 
 happen then ? Where is he now, Anna Andreyevna ? " I cried. 
 " Every minute is precious now, any minute there may be 
 trouble ! " 
 
 " He's at home. I have told you so. In the letter to Katerina 
 Nikolaevna, which I delivered, he asked her in any case to grant 
 him an interview in his lodgings to-day at seven o'clock this 
 evening. She promised." 
 
 506
 
 ** She's going to his lodging ? How can that be ? " 
 
 " Why not, the lodging is Darya Onisimovna's ; they might 
 very well meet there as her guests. ..." 
 
 " But she's afraid of him. ... He may kill her." 
 
 Anna Andreyevna only smiled. 
 
 " In spite of the terror which I detected in her myself, Katerina 
 Nikolaevna has always from the first cherished a certain reve- 
 rence and admiration for the nobility of Andrey Petrovitch's 
 principles and the loftiness of his mind. She is trusting herself 
 to him this once, so ая to have done with him for ever. In his 
 letter he gave her the most solemn and chivalrous promise that 
 she should have nothing to fear. ... In short, I don't remember 
 the words of the letter, but she trusted herself ... so to speak, 
 for the last time . . . and so to speak, responding with the 
 same heroic feeUngs. There may have been a sort of chivalrous 
 rivalry on both sides." 
 
 " But the second self, the second self ! " I exclaimed ; " besides, 
 he's out of his mind ! " 
 
 " Yesterday, when she gave her promise to grant him an 
 interview, Katerina Nikolaevna probably did not conceive of 
 the possibility of that." 
 
 I suddenly turned and was rushing out ... to him, to them, 
 of course ! But from the next room I ran back for a second. 
 
 " Fiut, perhaps, that is just what would suit you, that he 
 should kill her ! " I cried, and ran out of the house. 
 
 I was shaking all over, as though in a fit, but I went into the 
 lodging quietly, through the kitchen, and asked in a whisper to 
 see Darya Onisimovna ; she came out at once and fastened a 
 gaze of intense curiosity upon me. 
 
 " His honour . . . he's not at home." 
 
 But in a rapid whisper I explained, bluntly and exactly, that 
 I knew all about it from Anna Andreyevna, and that I had just 
 come from her. 
 
 "Darya Onisimovna, where are they ? " 
 
 " They are in the room where you sat the day before yesterday, 
 at the table." 
 
 " Darya Onisimovna, let me go in 1 " 
 
 " That's impossible ! " 
 
 " Not in there, but in the next room. Darya Onisimovna, 
 Anna Andreyevna wishes it, perhaps ; if she didn't wish it, she 
 wouldn't have told me herself. They won't hear me . . . she 
 wishes it herself. ..." 
 
 507
 
 " And if she doesn't wish it ? " said Darya Onisimovna, her 
 eyes still riveted upon me. 
 
 " Darya Onisimovna, I remember your Olya ; let me in." 
 
 Her lips and chin suddenly began to quiver. 
 
 " Dear friend . . . for Olya's sake , . . for the sake of your 
 feeling . . . don't desert Anna Andreyevna. My dear ! you 
 won't desert her, will you ? You won't desert her ? " 
 
 " No, I won't ! " 
 
 " Give me your solemn promise, you won't rush out upon 
 them, and won't call out if I hide you in there ? " 
 
 " I swear on my honour, Darya Onisimovna." 
 
 She took me by my coat, led me into a dark room — next to the 
 one where they were sitting — guided me, almost noiselessly, over 
 the soft carpet to the doorway, stationed me at the curtain that 
 hung over it, and lifting the curtain a fraction of an inch showed 
 me them both. 
 
 I remained ; she went away. Of course, I remained. I 
 knew that I was eavesdropping, spying on other people's secrets, 
 but I remained. How could I help remaining with the thought 
 of the ' second self ' in my mind 1 Why, he had smashed the 
 ikon before my eyes ! 
 
 They were sitting facing one another at the table at which 
 we had yesterday drunk to his " resurrection." I got a good 
 view of their faces. She was wearing a simple black dress, and 
 was as beautiful and apparently calm as always. He was speak- 
 ing ; she was listening with intense and sympathetic attention. 
 Perhaps there was some trace of timidity in her, too. He was 
 terribly excited. I had come in the middle of their conversation, 
 and so for some time I could make nothing of it. I remember 
 she suddenly asked : 
 
 " And I was the cause ? " 
 
 " No, I was the cause," he answered ; " and you were only 
 innocently guilty. You know that there are the innocently 
 guilty. Those are generally the most unpardonable crimes, and 
 they almost always bring their punishment," he added, L.ughing 
 strangely. " And I actually thought for a moment that I had 
 forgotten you and could laugh at my stupid passion . . . but 
 you know that. What is he to me, though, that man you're 
 going to marry ? Yesterday I made you an offer, forgive me 
 
 508
 
 for it ; it was absurd and yet I had no alternative but that. . . . 
 What could I have done but that absurd thing ? I don't know. . . ." 
 
 As he said this, he laughed hopelessly, suddenly lifting his 
 eyes to her ; till then he had looked away a»S he talked. If I 
 had been in her place, I should have been ^frightened at that 
 laugh, I felt that. He suddenly got up from his chair. 
 
 " Tell me, how could you consent to come here ? " he asked 
 suddenly, as though remembering the real point. " My invita» 
 tion and my whole letter was absurd. . . . Stay, I can quite 
 imagine how it came to pass that you consented to come, but — 
 why did you come ? that's the question. Can you have come 
 simply from fear ? " 
 
 " I came to see you," she said, looking at him with timid 
 caution. Both were silent for half a minute. Versilov sank 
 back in his chair, and in a voice soft but almost trembling and 
 full of intense feeling began : 
 
 " It's so terribly long since I've seen you, Katerina Nikolaevna, 
 so long that I scarcely thought it possible I should ever be sitting 
 beside you again as I now am, looking into уош: face and listening 
 to your voice. . . . For two years we've not seen each other, 
 for two years we've not talked. I never thought to speak to 
 you again. But so be it, what is past is past, and what is will 
 vanish like smoke to-morrow — so be it ! I assent because there 
 is no alternative again, but don't let your coming be in vain," 
 he added suddenly, almost imploringly ; " since you have shown 
 me this charity and have come, don't let it be in vain ; answer 
 me one question ! " 
 
 " What question ? " 
 
 " You know we shall never see each other again, and what is 
 it to you ? Tell me the truth for once, and answer me one 
 question which sensible people never ask. Did you ever love 
 me, or was I . . . mistaken ? " 
 
 She flushed crimson. 
 
 " I did love you," she brought out. 
 
 I expected she would say that. Oh, always truthful, always 
 sincere, always honest ! 
 
 " And now ? " he went on. 
 
 " I don't love you now." 
 
 " And you are laughing ? " 
 
 " No, I laughed just now by accident, because I knew you 
 would ask. ' And now.' And I smiled at that, because when 
 one guesses right one always does smile. ..." 
 
 509
 
 It seemed quite strange to me ; I had never seen her so much 
 on her guard, almost timid, indeed, and embarrassed. 
 
 His eyes devoured her. 
 
 " I know that you don't love me . . . and — you don't love 
 me at all ? " 
 
 " Perhaps not at all. I don't love you," she added firmly, 
 without smiling or flushing. " Yes, I did love you, but not for 
 long. I very soon got over it." 
 
 " I know, I know, you saw that it was not what you wanted, 
 but . . . what do you want ? Explain that once more. . . ." 
 
 " Have I ever explained that to you ? What do I want ? 
 Why, I'm the most ordinary woman ; I'm a peaceful person. 
 I Uke ... I like cheerful people." 
 
 " Cheerful ? " 
 
 " You see, I don't know even how to talk to you. I believe 
 that if you could have loved me less, I should have loved you 
 then," she smiled timidly again. The most absolute sincerity 
 was transparent in her answer ; and was it possible she did 
 not realise that her answer was the most final summing up of 
 their relations, explaining everything. Oh, how well he must have 
 xmderstood that ! But he looked at her and smiled strangely. 
 
 " Is Buring a cheerful person 1 " he went on, questioning 
 her. 
 
 " He ought not to trouble you at all," she answered with some 
 haste. " I'm marrjring him simply because with him I shall 
 be most at peace. My whole heart remains in my own keeping." 
 
 " They say that you have grown fond of society, of the fashion- 
 able world again ? " 
 
 " Not fond of it. I know that there is just the same disorderhness 
 in good society as everywhere else ; but the outer forms are 
 still attractive, so that if one lives only to pass the time, one 
 can do it better there than anywhere." 
 
 " I've often heard the word ' disorderliness ' of late ; you 
 used to be afraid of my disorderhness, too — chains, ideas, and 
 imbeciUties ! " 
 
 " No, it was not quite that, . . ." 
 
 " What then, for God's sake tell me all, frankly." 
 
 " Well, I'll tell you frankly, for I look on you as a man of 
 great intellect. ... I always felt there was something ridiculous 
 about you." When she had said this she suddenly flushed 
 crimson, as though she feared she had said something fearfully 
 indiscreet, 
 
 510
 
 " For what you have just said I can forgive you a great deal," 
 he commented strangely. 
 
 " I hadn't finished," she said hurriedly, still flushing. " It's 
 I who am ridiculous to talk to you like a fool." 
 
 " No, you are not ridiculous, you are only a depraved, worldly 
 woman," he said, turning horribly white. " I did not finish 
 either, when I asked you why you had come. Would you like 
 me to finish ? There is a document, a letter in existence, and 
 you're awfully afraid of it, because if that letter comes into 
 your father's hands, he may curse you, and cut you out of his 
 will. You're afraid of that letter, and you've come for that 
 letter," he brought out. He was shaking all over, and his teeth 
 were almost chattering. She listened to him with a despondent 
 and pained expression of face. 
 
 " I know that you can do all sorts of things to harm me," she 
 said, as if warding ofi his words, " but I have come not so much 
 to persuade you not to persecute me, as to see you yourself. 
 I've been wanting to meet you very much for a long time. But 
 I find you just the same as ever," she added suddenly, as though 
 carried away by a special and striking thought, and even by 
 some strange sudden emotion. 
 
 " Did you hope to see me different, after my letter about 
 your depravity ? Tell me, did you come here without any 
 fear ? " 
 
 " I came because I once loved you ; but do you know, I beg 
 you not to threaten me, please, with anjrthing. While we are 
 now together, don't remind me of my evil thoughts and feelings. 
 If you could talk to me of something else I should be very glad. 
 Let threats come afterwards ; but it should be different now. . . 
 I came really to see you for a minute and to hear you. Oh, well, 
 if you can't help it, kill me straight off, only don't threaten me 
 and don't torture yourself before me," she concluded, looking 
 at him in strange exj)ectation, as though she really thought he 
 might kill her. He got up from his seat again, and looking at 
 her with glowing eyes, said resolutely : 
 
 " While you are here you will suffer not the slightest annoy- 
 ance." 
 
 " Oh yes, your word of honour," she said, smiling. 
 
 " No, not only because I gave my word of honoiu: in my letter, 
 but because I want to think of you all night. . . ." 
 
 " To torture yourself ? " 
 
 " I picture you in my mind whenever I'm alone. I do nothin/j 
 
 511
 
 but talk to you. I go into some squalid, dirty hole, and as a 
 contrast you appear to me at once. But you always laugh at 
 me as you do now. ..." He said this as though he were 
 beside himself. . . . 
 
 " I have never laughed at you, never ! " she exclaimed in a 
 voice full of feeling, and with a look of the greatest compassion 
 in her face. " In coming here I tried my utmost to do it so 
 that you should have no reason to be mortified," she added 
 suddenly. " I came here to tell you that I almost love you. 
 . . . Forgive me, perhaps I used the wrong words," she went 
 on hurriedly. 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 " How is it you cannot dissemble ? Why is it you are such 
 a simple creature ? Why is it you're not like all the rest ? . . . 
 Why, how can you tell a man you are turning away that you 
 ' almost love him ' ? " 
 
 " It's only that I could not express myself," she put in 
 hurriedly. " I used the wrong words ; it's because I've always 
 felt abashed and imable to talk to you from the first time I 
 met you, and if I used the wrong words, saying that I almost 
 love you, in my thought it was almost so — so that's why I said 
 so, though I love you with that . . . well, with that general 
 love with which one loves every one and which one is never 
 ashamed to own. . . ." 
 
 He listened in silence, fixing his glowing eyes upon her. 
 
 " I am ofif ending you, of course," he went on, as though beside 
 himself. "This must really be what they call passion. . . . 
 All I know is that in your presence I am done for, in your absence, 
 too. It's just the same whether you are there or not, wherever 
 you may be you are always before me. I know, too, that I can 
 hate you intensely, more than I can love you. But I've long 
 given up thinking about anj^hing now — it's all the same to me. 
 I am only sorry I should love a woman like you." 
 
 His voice broke ; he went on, as it were, gasping for breath. 
 
 " What is it to you ? You think it wild of me to talk like 
 that ! " He smiled a pale smile. " I beKeve, if only that would 
 charm you, I would be ready to stand for thirty years like a 
 post on one leg. ... I see you are sorry for me ; your face 
 says ' I would love you if I could but I can't. . . .' Yes ? Never 
 mind, I've no pride. I'm ready to take any charity from vou 
 like a beggar — do you hear, any ... a beggar has no pride." 
 She got up and went to him. " Dear friend," she said, with 
 
 512
 
 inexpressible feeling in her face, touching his shoulder with her 
 hand, " I can't hear you talk Цке that ! I shall think of you 
 all my life as some one most precious, great-hearted, as some 
 thing most sacred of all that I respect and love. Audrey Petro 
 vitch, vmderstand what I say. Why, it's not for nothing I've 
 come here now, dear friend . . . dear to me then and now : 
 I shall never forget how deeply you stirred my mind when first 
 we met. Let us part as friends, and you will be for me the 
 most earnest and dearest thought in my whole life." 
 
 " Let us part and then I will love you ; I will love you — only 
 let us part. Listen," he brought out, perfectly white, " grant 
 me one charity more : don't love me, don't live with me, let 
 us never meet ; I will be your slave if you summon me, and I 
 will vanish at once if you don't want to see me, or hear me 
 only . . . only don't marry anyone ! " 
 
 It sent a pang to my heart to hear those words. That naively 
 humiliating entreaty was the more pitiful, the more heartrending 
 for being so flagrant and impossible. Yes, indeed, he was asking 
 charity ! Could he imagine she would consent ? Yet he had 
 humbled himself to put it to the test ; he had tried entreating 
 her ! This depth of spiritual degradation was insufferable to 
 watch. Every feature in her face seemed suddenly distorted 
 with pain, but before she had time to utter a word, he suddenly 
 realised what he had done. 
 
 " I will strangle you," he said suddenly, in a strange distorted 
 voice unlike his own. 
 
 But she answered him strangely, too, and she, too, spoke in 
 a different voice, unlike her own. 
 
 " If I granted you charity," she said with sudden firmness, 
 " you would punish me for it afterwards worse than you threaten 
 me now, for you лvould never forget that you stood before me 
 as a beggar. ... I can't listen to threats from you ! " she added, 
 looking at him with indignation, almost defiance. 
 
 " ' Threats from you,' you mean — from such a beggar. I was 
 joking," he said softly, smiling. "I won't touch you, don't be 
 afraid, go away . . . and I'll do my utmost to send you that 
 letter — only go ; go ! I wrote you a stupid letter, and you 
 answered my stupid letter in kind by coming ; we are quits. This 
 is your way." He pointed towards the door. (She was moving 
 towards the room in which I was standing behind the curtain.) 
 " Forgive me if you can," she said, stopping iii the doorway. 
 " What if we meet some day quite friends and recall this
 
 scene \nth laughter ? " he said suddenly, but his face was 
 quivering all over like the face of a man in convulsions. 
 
 " Oh, od grant we may ! " she cried, clasping her hands, 
 though she watched his face timidly, ae though trying to guesvS 
 what he meant. 
 
 "Go along. Much sense we have, the pair of us, but you 
 . . . Oh, you are one of my own kind ! I wrote you a mad 
 letter, and you agreed to come to tell me that ' you almost 
 love me.' Yes, we are possessed by the same madness ! Be 
 always as mad, don't change, and we shall meet as friends — 
 that I predict, that I swear ! " 
 
 " And then I shall certainly love you, for I feel that even 
 now ! " The woman in her could not resist flinging those last 
 words to him from the doorway. 
 
 She went out. With noiseless haste I went into the kitchen, 
 and scarcely glancing at Darya Onisimovna, who was waiting 
 for me, I went down the back staircase and across the yard into 
 the street, but I had only time to see her get into the sledge 
 that was waiting for her at the steps. I ran down the street. 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 I BAN to Lambert. Oh, how I should have liked to give я show of 
 logic to my behaviour, and to find some trace of common s^nse 
 in my actions that evening and all that night ; but even now, 
 when I can reflect on it all, I am utterly unable to present my 
 conduct in any clear and logical connection. It was a case of 
 feeling, or rather a perfect chaos of feelings, in the midst of which 
 I was naturally bound to go astray. It is true there was one 
 dominant feeling, which mastered me completely and over- 
 whelmed all the others, but . . .' need I confess to it ? Especi- 
 ally as I am not certain. . . . 
 
 I ran to Lambert, beside myself of course. I positively 
 scared Alphonsine and him for the first minute. I have always 
 noticed that even the most profligate, most degraded Frenchmen 
 rae in their domestic life extremely given to a sort of bourgeois 
 routine, a sort of very prosaic daily ceremonial of life established 
 once and for ever. Lambert quickly realised, however, that 
 something had hapi)ened, and was delighted that I had come to 
 
 54
 
 him at last, and that I was in his clutches. He had been think- 
 ing of nothing else day and night ! Oh, how badly he needed 
 me ! And behold now, when he had lost all hope, I had suddenly 
 appeared of my own accord, and in such a frantic state — just 
 in the state which suited him. 
 
 "Lambert, wine ! " I cried : " let's drink, let's have a jolly 
 time. Alphonsine, where's your guitar ? " 
 
 I won't describe the scene, it's unnecessary. We drank, and 
 I told him all about it, everything. He listened greedily. I 
 openly of my own accord suggested a plot, a general flare-up. 
 To begin with, we were by letter to ask Katerina Nikolaevna to 
 come to us. . . . 
 
 " That's possible," Lambert assented, gloating over every 
 word I said. 
 
 Secondly, we must send a copy of the "document" in full, 
 that she might see at once that she was not being deceived. 
 
 " That's right, that's what we must do ! " Lambert agreed, 
 continually exchanging glances with Alphonsine. 
 
 Thirdly, Lambert must ask her to come, writing as though he 
 were an unknown person and had just arrived from Moscftw, 
 and I must bring Versilov. 
 
 " And we might have Versilov, too," Lambert assented. 
 
 " Not might, but must ! " I cried. " It's essential ! It's for 
 his sake it's all being done ! " I explained, taking one sip after 
 another from my glass. (We were all three drinking, while I 
 believe I really drank the whole bottle of champagne, while they 
 only made a show of drinking.) " Versilov and I will sit in the 
 next room " — (Lambort would have to take the next room !) — 
 " and suddenly when she had agreed to everything — to paying the 
 cash, and to his other demands too, for all women were abject 
 creatures, then Versilov and I would come in and convict her 
 of being abject, and Versilov, seeing what a horrid woman 
 she was, would at once be cured, and reject her with scorn. 
 Only we ought to have Biiring too, that he might see her 
 put to shame." 
 
 " No, we don't want Biiring," Lambert observed. 
 
 " We do, we do," I yelled again : " you don't know anything 
 about it, Lambert, for you are a fool ! On the contrary, let it 
 make a scandal in fashionable society, it will be our revenge 
 on fashionable society, and upon her, and let her be punished 1 
 Lambert, she will give you an lOU. ... I don't want money, 
 I don't care a damn for money, but you can stoop to pick it up 
 
 515
 
 and stuff it in your pocket, and my curse with it, but I shall 
 crush her ! " 
 
 " Yes, yes," Lambert kept approving, "you are right there." 
 
 He kept exchanging glances with Alphonsine. 
 
 " Lambert, she has an awful reverence for Versilov : I saw 
 that for certain just now," I babbled to him. 
 
 " It's a good thing you did peep and see it all. I should never 
 have thought that you would have made such a good spy and that 
 you had so much sense ! " He said this to flatter me. 
 
 " That's a lie, Frenchman ; I'm not a spy, but I have plenty of 
 sense ! And do you know, Lambert, she loves him, really ! " 
 I went on making desperate efforts to express myself. " But she 
 won't marry him because Buring's an officer in the guards, and 
 Versilov is only a noble-hearted man, and a friend of humanity : 
 to their thinking a comic person and nothing else ! Oh, she 
 understands his passion and gloats over it, flirts, is carried away 
 by it, but won't marry him ! She's a woman, she's a serpent ! 
 Every woman is a serpent, and every serpent is a woman ! He 
 must be cured ; we must tear the scales off his eyes ; let him see 
 what she is and be cured. I will bring him to you, Lambert ! " 
 
 " Just so," Lambert kept repeating, fifling up my glass every 
 minute. 
 
 He was in a perfect tremble of anxiety to avoid contradicting^ 
 or offending me and to make me go on drinking. It was so coarse 
 and obvious that even at the time I could not help noticing it. 
 But nothing could have made me go away ; I kept drinking and 
 talking, and was desperately anxious to give full expression to 
 what I was feeling. When Lambert brought in another bottle, 
 Alphonsine was playing some Spanish air on the guitar ; I was 
 almost in tears. 
 
 " Lambert, do you know everything ? " I exclaimed with 
 intense feeling. " That man must be saved, for he's spell-bound 
 ... by sorcery. If she were to marry him, he would spurn 
 her from him the day after the wedding . . . for that does happen 
 sometimes. For such a wild outrageous love is like a fit, like 
 a deadly noose, like an illness, and — as soon as it is gratified — 
 the scales fall from the eyes at once and the opposite feeling 
 comes — loathing and hatred, the desire to strangle, to crush. 
 Do you know the story of Avisage, Lambert ? Have you 
 read it ? 
 
 " No, I don't remember : a novel ? " muttered Lambert. 
 
 " Oh, you know nothing. Lambert, you're fearfully, fearfully 
 
 516
 
 ignorant . . . but I don't care a damn for that. It's no matter. 
 Oh, he loves mother, he kissed her portrait ; he'fl spurn that 
 woman next morning and come back to mother of himself ; but 
 then it will be too late, so we must save him now. ..." 
 
 In the end I began crying bitterly, but I still went on talking 
 and drank a fearful quantity of champagne. It Avas most charac- 
 teristic of Lambert that all that evening he did not once ask 
 about the " document " : where it was, that I should show it, 
 should put it on the table. What would have been more natural 
 than to inquire about it, since we were planning to take action ? 
 Another point : we kept saying that we must do " this," that we 
 certainly would do " this," but of the place, the time and manner 
 — we did not say a word ! He only assented to all I said and kept 
 looking at Alphonsine, that was all ! Of course, I was incapable 
 of reflecting on ti)at at the time, but I remember it. 
 
 I ended by falling asleep on his sofa without undressing. I 
 slept a long time and waked up very late. I remember that 
 after waking I lay for a long time on the sofa, as it were petrified, 
 trying to reflect and remember, and pretending that I was still 
 asleep. But it appeared that Lambert was not in the room, he 
 had gone out. It was past nine o'clock, the stove had been heated 
 and was crackling exactly as it had done when I found myself 
 the first time at Lambert's after that night. But Alphonsine 
 was behind the screen keeping guard on me ; I noticed it at once, 
 for she had twice peeped out and glanced at me, but each time 
 I shut my eyes and pretended to be asleep. I did this because 
 I was overwhelmed and wanted to think over my position. I 
 felt with horror all the ineptitude and loathsomeness of my 
 confession to Lambert, my plotting with him, the blunder I had 
 made in running to him ! But, thank God, the letter was still 
 in my keeping ; it was still sewn up in my side pocket ; I felt 
 with my hand — it was there ! So all I had to do was to get up 
 and run away, I need not care what Lambert thought of me 
 afterwards. Lambert was not worth it. 
 
 But I was ashamed of myself ! I was my own judge, and — 
 my God, what was there in my heart ! But there's no need to 
 describe that hellish, insufferable feeling, and that consciousness 
 of filth and vileness. But yet I must confess it, for I feel the 
 time has come. It must be recorded in my story. So let it be 
 known that I meant to shame her, and planned to be almost 
 a \vitness of her yielding to Lambert's demands — oh, the base- 
 ness ! — not for the sake of saving Versilov in his madness and 
 
 517
 
 bringing him back to mother, but because . . . perhaps because I 
 was myself in love and jealous ! Jealous of whom : of Biiring, 
 of Versilov ? Of anyone she might look at, or talk to at a ball, 
 while I should be standing in a comer ashamed of myself. . . , 
 Oh, the hideousness of it ! 
 
 In short, I don't know of whom I was jealous on her account ; 
 but all I felt and knew the evening before was that as certainly 
 as twice two make four, she was lost to me, that that woman 
 would spurn me and laugh at me for falseness and absurdity ! 
 She was truthful and honest, while I — I was a spy, using letters 
 to threaten her ! 
 
 All this I have kept hidden in my heart ever since, but now the 
 day has come and I make up ray account, but, again, for the last 
 time. Perhaps fully half, or perhaps even seventy- five per cent, 
 of what I am saying is a libel upon myself ! That night I 
 hated her in a kind of delirium, and afterwards like- a drunken 
 rowdy. I have said already that it was a chaos of feelings and 
 sensations in which I could distinguish nothing clearly myself. 
 But still I have had to confess it, for though only a part of what I 
 felt, it was certainly present. 
 
 With an overpowering sense of disgust, and a firm determina- 
 tion to cancel all that had happened, I suddenly jumped up 
 from the sofa ; but as I jumped up, Alphonsine instantly popped 
 out. I seized my overcoat and cap and told her to tell Lambert 
 that I had been raving the evening before, that I had slandered 
 a woman, that I had been joking, and that Lambert must not 
 dare come near me again. . . . All this I expressed in a blunder- 
 ing fashion, talking hurriedly in French, and, of course, anything 
 but clearly, but. to my surprise, Alphonsine understood everything 
 perfectly ; and what was most surprising of all, she seemed posi- 
 tively relieved at something. 
 
 " Oui, out," she said approvingly, " c'est une honte ! Une 
 dame. . . . Oh, vous etre genereux, vous ! Soyez tranquille, je 
 ferai voir raison й Lambert. . . ." 
 
 So that I was even at that moment puzzled to explain the 
 sudden change in her attitude, and consequently I suppose in 
 Lambert's. I went away, however, saying nothing ; all was in 
 confusion within me, and I was hardly capable of reasoning. 
 On, afterwards I could explain it all, but then it was too late ! 
 Oh, what a hellish plot it was ! I will pause here and explain it 
 beforehand, as otherwise it will b.^ impossible for the reader to 
 understand it. 
 
 518
 
 The fact was that at my very first interview with Lambert, 
 when I was thawing in his lodging, I had muttered to him like 
 a fool that the letter was sewn up in my pocket ; then I had 
 suddenly fallen asleep for a time on the sofa in the comer, and 
 Lambert had promptly felt my pocket and was convinced that 
 there was a piece of paper sewn up in it. Several times after- 
 wards he made sure that the paper was still there ; when we were 
 dining, for instance, at the " Tatar's," I remember that he 
 several times put his arms round my waist on purpose. Grasp- 
 ing the importance of the letter he made a separate plan of his 
 own of which I had no suspicion at all. I, like a fool, imagined 
 all the time that he urged me to come home so persistently to 
 get me to join his gang and to act only in concert with him, but, 
 alas ! he invited me with quite a different object ! He wanted 
 to make me dead drunk, and when I was stretched snoring and 
 unconscious, to rip open my pocket and take possession of the 
 letter. This was precisely what he and Alphonsine had done 
 that night ; Alphonsine had unpicked the pocket, taking out 
 the letter, her letter, the document I had brought from Moscow, 
 they had taken a piece of plain note paper the same size, put it in 
 the pocket and sewn it up again, as if nothing had happened, 
 so that I might notice no difference. Alphonsine had sewn it up. 
 And I, up to the very end, for another day and a half — still 
 went on believing that I was in possession of the secret, and that 
 Katerina Nikolaevena's fate was still in my hands. 
 
 A last word : that theft of the letter was the cause of every- 
 thing and of all the other disasters that followed. 
 
 8 
 
 The last twenty-four hours of my story have come and I am at 
 the end ! 
 
 It was, I believe, about half-past ten, when excited, and, as far 
 aa I remember, strangely absent-minded, but with a firm deter- 
 mination in my heart, I dragged myself to my lodgings. I 
 was not in a hurry, I knew how I was going to act. And scarcely 
 had I stepped into the passage when I realised at once that a 
 new calamity had occurred, and an extraordinary complication 
 had arisen : the old prince had just been brought from Tsarskoe- 
 Syelo and was in the flat ; with him was Anna Andreyevna ! 
 
 He had been put not in my room but in the two rooms next to 
 
 519
 
 mine that had been occupied by my landlord and his wife. The 
 day before, as it appeared, some changes and improvements had 
 been made in the room, but only of the most superficial kind. 
 The landlord and his wife had moved into the little room of the 
 whimsical lodger marked with small-pox whom I have mentioned 
 already, and that individual had been temporarily banished, I 
 don't know where. 
 
 I was met by the landlord, who at once whisked into my room. 
 He looked less sure of his ground than he had done the evening 
 before, but was in an unusual state of excitement, so to say, 
 at the climax of the affair. I said nothing to him, but, moving 
 aside into a corner and clutching my head in my hands, I stood 
 so for a moment. He thought for the first moment that I was 
 " putting it on," but at last his fortitude gave way, and he could 
 not help being scared. 
 
 " Can anything be wrong ? " he muttered. " I've been wait- 
 ing for you to ask," he added, seeing I did not answer, " whether 
 you preferred that door to be opened so that you may have 
 direct access to the prince's rooms . . . instead of going by 
 the passage ? " He pointed to the door at the side always 
 locked, which led to the landlord's rooms, now the old prince's 
 apartments. 
 
 " Look here, Pyotr Ippolitovitch," I turned to him with a stem 
 air, " I humbly beg you to go to Anna Andre ye vna and ask her 
 to come here at once to discuss the situation. Have they been 
 here long ? " 
 
 " Going on for an hour." 
 
 " Go and fetch her then." 
 
 He went and brought the strange reply " that Anna Andrey- 
 evna and Prince Nikolay Ivanitch were impatiently expecting 
 me in the next room " ; so Anna .\ndreyevna would not come. 
 I smoothed out my coat, which was creased from sleeping in it 
 that night, brushed it, washed, combed my hair ; I did all this 
 dehberately, realising how necessary it was to. be careful, and I 
 went in to the old prince. 
 
 The prince was sitting on the sofa at a round table, and Anna 
 Andreyevna in another corner, at another table covered with a 
 cloth, on which the landlady's samovar, polished as it had never 
 been before, was boiling for tea. I walked in with the same 
 stem look on my face, and the old man instantly noticed this 
 and winced, and the smile on his face was instantly replaced by a 
 look of terror ; but I could not keep it up, I instantly laughed 
 
 520
 
 and held out my hands to him ; the poor old fellow simply flung 
 himself into my arms. 
 
 I realised unmistakably at once the condition of the man I 
 had to deal with. To begin with, it was as clear as twice two 
 make four that in the interval since I had seen him last they had 
 turned the old man, till lately almost hale, and to some extent 
 rational, and not altogether without will-power, into a sort of 
 mummy, a scared and mistrustful child. I may add, he quite 
 knew why they had brought him here, and everything had been 
 done as I have explained already. He was suddenly shocked, 
 crushed, and overwhelmed by being told of his daughter's 
 treachery and of a possible madhouse. He had allowed himself 
 to be carried off, so scared that he hardl.y knew what he was doing ; 
 he was told that I was in possession of the secret and that I had 
 the proof that would establish the fact conclusively. I may 
 mention at once : it was just that proof that would establish 
 the fact which he dreaded more than anything in the world. 
 He was expecting me to go in to him with a sort of death sentence 
 in my face and a document in my hand, and was inimensely 
 delighted that I was ready meanwhile to laugh and chatter of 
 other thmgs. While we were embracing he shed tears. I must 
 confess I shed a tear also ; I felt suddenly very sorry for him. 
 Alphonsine's little lap-dog broke into a bark as shrill as a bell, 
 and made dashes at me from the sofa. He had not parted from 
 this tiny dog since he had had it and even slept with it. 
 
 " 0Л je disais, qu'il a du cosur!" he exclaimed, indicating 
 me to Anna Andreyevna. 
 
 " But how much stronger you look, prince, how well and fresh 
 and strong you look ! " I observed. Alas ! It was just the 
 opposite : he looked like a mummy and I only said it to cheer 
 him up ! 
 
 " N'est-cepas, u'est-cepas ? " he repeated joyfully. " Oh, I've 
 regained my health wonderfully." 
 
 " But drink your tea, and if you'U give me a cup I'll drink 
 some with you." 
 
 "That's delightful ! 'Let us drink the cup that cheers ' . . . 
 or how does it go, that's in some poem. Arma Andreyevna, give 
 him some tea ; il prend toujoura par les sentiments. . . . Give 
 us some tea, my dear." 
 
 Anna Andreyevna poured out the tea, but suddenly turning to 
 me began with extreme solemnity : 
 
 " Arkady Makarovitch, we both, my benefactor, Prince 
 
 521
 
 Nikolay Ivanitch and I, have taken refuge with you. I consider 
 that we have come to you, to you alone, and we both beg of you 
 to shelter us. Remember that the whole fate of this saintly, 
 this noble and injured man, is in your hands ... we await the 
 decision, and count upon the justice of your heart ! " 
 
 But she could not go on ; the old prince was reduced to terror 
 and almost trembling with alarm. 
 
 " Apres, apres, n^est-ce pas, chere amie," he kept repeating, 
 holding out his hands to her. 
 
 I cannot express how disagreeably her outburst impressed me. 
 I made no response but a chilly and dignified bow ; then I sat 
 down to the table, and with undisguised intention began talking 
 of other things, of various trifles, laughing and making jokes. . . . 
 The old man was evidently grateful to me and was enthusiastically 
 delighted ; but enthusiastic as his gaiety was, it was evidently 
 insincere and might any moment have been followed by abso- 
 lute dejection : that was clear from the first glance. 
 
 " Cher enfant, I hear you've been ill. . . . Ah, pardon, I hear 
 you've been busy with spiritualism all this time." 
 
 " I never thought of such a thing," I said smiling. 
 
 " No ? who was it told me about spiritualism ? " 
 
 " It was your landlord here, Pyotr Ippolitovitch," Anna Andrey- 
 evna explained, " he's a very amusing man and knows a great 
 many anecdotes ; shall I ask him in ? " 
 
 "Out, out, il est charmant . . . he knows anecdotes, but better 
 send for him later. We'll send for him and he'll tell us stories, 
 mais apres. Only fancy, they were laying the table just now 
 and he said : ' Don't be uneasy, it won't fly about, we are not 
 spiritualists.' Is it possible that the tables fly about among the 
 spiritualists ? " 
 
 " I really don't know, they say so, they say they jump right 
 off the ground." 
 
 " Mais c'est terrible ce que tu dis," he looked at me in alarm. 
 
 "Oh, don't be uneasy, of course that's nonsense." 
 
 " That's what I say too. Nastasya Stepanovna Salomeyev . . . 
 you know her, of course ... oh no, you don't know her . . 
 would you believe it she believes in spiritualism, too ; and only 
 fancy, chere enfant," he turned to Anna Andreyevna, " I said 
 to her, there are tables in the Ministry of Finance and eight 
 pairs of clerks' hands are lying on them, writing all the while, 
 so why is it the tables don't dance there ? Fancy if they sud- 
 denly all began dancing ! The revolt of the tables in the 
 
 522
 
 Ministry of Finance or popular education — that's the laet 
 straw." 
 
 " What charming things you say, prince, just as you always 
 did," I exclaimed, trying to laugh as genuinely as possible. 
 
 " N'est-ce pas ? Je ne parle ров trop, mats je dis bien." 
 
 " I will bring Pyotr Ippolitovitch," Anna Andreyevna said, 
 getting up. There was a gleam of pleasure in her face : she was 
 relieved at seeing how affectionate I was with the old prince. 
 But she had hardly gone out when the old man's face changed 
 instantly. He looked hurriedly at the door, glanced about him, 
 and stooping towards me from the sofa, whispered to me in a 
 fiightened voice : 
 
 " Cher ami ! Oh, if I could see them both here together ! 
 Oh, cher enfant f " 
 
 " Prince, don't distress yourself, , . ." 
 
 " Yes, yes, but . . . we'll reconcile them^ n'est-ce pas ? It's 
 a foolish petty quarrel between two most estimable women, 
 n'est-ce pas ? You are my only hope. . . . We'll set everything 
 straight here ; and what a queer place this is," he looked about 
 him almost fearfully ; " and that landlord, you know . . . he's 
 got such a face. , . . Tell me ! He's not dangerous ? " 
 
 " The landlord ? Oh no, how could he be dangerous ? " 
 
 " C'est Qa. So much the better. // semble qu'il est bete, ce 
 gentilhomme. Cher enfant, for Christ's sake don't tell Anna 
 Andreyevna that I'm afraid of everything here ; I praised eyery- 
 thing from the first moment, I praised the landlord too. Listen, 
 do you know the story of what happened to Von Sohn — do 
 you remember ? " 
 
 " Well, what of it ? " 
 
 " Rien, Hen de tout. . . . Mais je suis libre ici, n'est-ce pas ? 
 What do you think, nothing could happen to me here ... of 
 the same sort ? " 
 
 " But I assure you, dear prince . , . upon my word ! " 
 
 " Mon ami, топ enfant!" he exclaimed suddenly, clasping 
 his hands before him, not seeking to disguise his alarm : "if 
 you really have something . . . some document ... in fact — 
 if you have something to say to me, don't say it ; for God's sake 
 don't say anything at all . . . put it off as long as you can, , . ." 
 
 He was on the point of throwing himself in my arms ; tears 
 were flowing down his face ; I cannot describe how it made my 
 heart ache ; the poor old man was like a pitiful frightened child 
 stolen from his home by gypsies and carried awa}' to live with 
 
 523
 
 strangers, but we were not allowed to embrace. The door opened 
 and Anna Andreyevna walked in, not with the landlord, but 
 with her brother, the kammer- junker. This new surprise 
 petrified me. I got up and was making for the deor. 
 
 " Arkady Makarovitch, allow me to introduce you," Aima 
 Andreyevna said aloud, so that I was compelled to stop. 
 
 " I know your brother too well already," I rapped out, laying 
 special emphasis on the word "too." 
 
 " Ah, that was a terrible blunder ! And I'm so sor-r-ry, 
 dear, and . . . Audrey Makarovitch," the young man began 
 lisping, coming up to me with an extraordinarily free-and-easy 
 air and seizing my hand, which I was incapable of withdraw- 
 ing, " it was all the fault of my Stepan ; he announced you so 
 stupidly that I mistook you for some one else : that was in 
 Moscow," he explained to his sister : " afterwards, I did every- 
 thing I could to look you up and explain, but I was ill, ask 
 her. Cher prince, nous dcvons etre amis пьете 'par droit de 
 naissance. . . ." 
 
 And the impudent young man had the effrontery to put his 
 arm round my shoulder, which was the height of familiarity. 
 I drew back, but overcome by embarrassment preferred to beat 
 a hasty retreat, without saying a word. Going back to my room 
 I sat down on my bed in uncertainty and agitation. I felt 
 suffocated by the atmosphere of intrigue, but I could not deal 
 Anna Andreyevna such a direct and crushing blow. I suddenly 
 felt that she, too, was dear to me, and that her position was an 
 awful one. 
 
 As I had expected, she came into my room herself, leaving 
 the prince with her brother, who immediately began telling 
 him some society scandal, as fresh as hot cakes, which at once 
 distracted the impressionable old man's attention and cheered 
 him up. I got up from the bed in silence, with a look of inquiry. 
 
 " I have told you everything, Arkady Makarovitch," she began 
 directly, " our fate is in your hands." 
 
 " But I told you beforehand that I cannot . . . the most 
 sacred duties prevent me doing what you desire. ..." 
 
 " Yes ? Is that your answer ? Well, let me perish, but what 
 of the old prince ? What do you expect ? Why, he'll be out of 
 his mind by the evening ! " 
 
 524
 
 " No, he'll go out of his mind if I show him the letter in which 
 his daughter writes to a lawyer about certifying him insane ! " 
 I cried with heat. "That's what would be too much for him. 
 Do you know he won't believe that letter, he's told me so 
 already ! " 
 
 I lied, saying he had said this of the letter ; but it was effective. 
 
 " He has said so already ? I thought so ! In that case I'm 
 lost. He's been crying already and asking to go home." 
 
 " Tell me, what's your plan exactly ? " I asked insistently. 
 She flushed from exasperated haughtiness, so to speak, but she 
 controlled herself : 
 
 " With that letter of his daughter's in our hands, we are 
 justified in the eyes of the world. I should send it at once to 
 Prince V.and to Boris Mihalovitch Pelistchev, the friends of his 
 childhood ; both persons highly respected and influential in 
 society, and I know that some years ago they were indignant with 
 the conduct of his greedy and merciless daughter. They will of 
 course reconcile him with his daughter at my request. I 
 shall insist on it myself ; but the position of affairs will be 
 completely changed. And my relations, too, the Fanariotovs, 
 will, I judge, make up their minds to support my rights ; but 
 what weighs most with me is his happiness : I want him to 
 understand and appreciate who is really devoted to him. Of 
 course I've always reckoned most on your influence with him, 
 Arkady INIakarovitch ; you are so fond of him. . . . And who 
 does care for him except you and me ? He has done nothing 
 but talk about you these last few days ; he was pining for you 
 ' his young friend. . . .' I need not say that for the rest of 
 my life my gratitude will be immeasured. . . ." 
 
 She was actually promising me a reward — money perhaps. 
 
 I interrupted her sharply. 
 
 " Whatever you say I cannot," I brought out with an air of 
 immovable determination. " I can only repay you with equal 
 frankness and explain my final decision : I shall, at the earliest 
 possible moment, put this fatal letter into Katerina Nikolaevna's 
 hands, but only on condition that all that has happened shall 
 not be made a scandal, and that she gives me her word before- 
 hand that she will not interfere with your happiness ; that's all 
 that I can do." 
 
 " That's impossible ! " she said, flushing all over. The mere 
 idea that Katerina Nikolaevna would spare her roused her to 
 indignation. 
 
 525
 
 " I shall not change, Anna Andreyevna.'' 
 
 " Perhaps you will change." 
 
 " You had better apply to Lambert ! " 
 
 " Arkady Makarovitch, you don't know what misery may 
 come from your obstinacy," she said with grim exasperation. 
 
 " Misery will follow, that's true . . . my head is going roimd. 
 I've had enough of you : I've made up my mind — and that's 
 the end of it. Only I beg you for God's sake don't bring your 
 brother in to me." 
 
 " But he is very anxious to make up for . . ." 
 
 " There is nothing to make up for ! I don't want it, I don't 
 wish for it, I don't wish for it ! " I exclaimed, clutching my 
 head. (Oh, perhaps I treated her too disdainfully then.) "Tell 
 me, though, where will the prince sleep to-night ? Surely not 
 here ? " 
 
 " He will stay the night here in your flat, and with you." 
 
 " I am moving into another lodging this evening." 
 
 And uttering these ruthless words I seized my cap and 
 began putting on my great-coat. Anna Andreye^^la watched 
 me in sullen silence. I felt sorry for her — oh, I felt sorry for 
 that proud girl ! But I rushed out of the flat, without leaving 
 her one word of hope. 
 
 I will try to be brief. My decision was taken beyond recall, 
 and I went straight to Tatyana Pavlovna. Alas ! A great 
 calamity might have been averted if I had only found her at 
 home ; but as though of design, I was pursued by ill-luck all 
 that day. I went of course to my mother's, in the first place 
 to see her, and secondly, because I reckoned certainly on meeting 
 Tatyana Pavlovna there. But she was not there either ; she 
 had only just gone away, while mother was lying down ill, and 
 Liza was left alone with her. Liza begged me not to go in, and 
 not to wake mother : " She has not slept all night, she's so 
 worried ; thank God she has fallen asleep at last." I embraced 
 Liza and said two or three words to her, telling her I had made 
 an immense and momentous resolution, and should carry it out 
 at once. She listened without particular surprise, as though to 
 the usual thing. Oh, they had all grown used by then to my 
 constantly repeated ' final resolutions,' and the feeble cancelling 
 of them afterwards. But this time, this time it would be a 
 
 526
 
 different matter. I went to the eating-house on the canal side 
 and sat down there to wait awhile in the certainty of finding 
 Tatyana Pavlovna afterwards. I must explain, though, why 
 I found it so necessary to see that lady. The fact is that I 
 wanted to send her at once to Katerina Nikolaevna, to ask her 
 to come back with her, meaning in Tatyana Pavlovna's presence 
 to return the letter, explaining everything once for all. In 
 short, I wanted nothing but what was fitting ; I wanted to put 
 myself right once and for all. At the same time I was quite 
 determined to put in a few words on behalf of Anna Andreyevna 
 and, if possible, to take Katerina Nikolaevna, together with 
 Tatyana Pavlovna (by way of a witness), back with me to see 
 the prince, there to reconcile the hostile ladies, to bring the old 
 prince back to life and . . . and ... in fact, in that little 
 group anjrway, to make every one happy on the spot, that very 
 day, so that there would be none left unhappy but Versilov and 
 mother. I could have no doubt of my success. From gratitude 
 for my restoration of the letter from which I should ask nothing 
 of her in return, Katerina Nikolaevna would not have refused 
 me such a request. Alas ! I still imagined I was in possession 
 of the document. Oh, what a stupid and ignominious position 
 I was in, though without suspecting it ! 
 
 It was getting quite dark, about four o'clock, when I called at 
 Tatyana Pavlovna's again. Marya aaiswered gruffly that she 
 had not come in. I remember very well now the strange look 
 Marya gave me from imder her brows ; but of courss it did not 
 strike me at the time. I was suddenly stung by another idea. 
 As I went down the stairs, from Tatyana Pavlovna's, vexed and 
 somewhat dejected, I thought of the poor old prince, who had 
 held out his hands to me that morning, and I suddenly reproached 
 myself bitterly for having deserted him, perhaps indeed from 
 feeling personally aggrieved. 
 
 I began uneasily imagining that something really very bad 
 might have happened in my absence, and hurriedly went home. 
 At home, however, all that had been happening was this. 
 
 When Anna Andreyevna had gone out of my room in a rage, 
 that morning, she had not yet lost heart ; I must mention that 
 she had already, that morning, sent to Lambert, then she sent 
 to him again, and as Lambert appeared to be still absent 
 from home, she finally dispatched her brother to look for him. 
 In face of my opposition the poor i:irl was resting her last hopes 
 on Lambert and his influence on me ; she expected him with 
 
 527
 
 impatience, and only wondered that after hovering round her 
 and never leaving her side till that day, he should now have 
 suddenly deserted her and vanished. Alas ! she could not 
 possibly have imagined that Lambert, being now in possession 
 of the document, had made entirely diflFerent plans, and so, of 
 course, was keeping out of the way and hiding from her on 
 purpose. 
 
 And so in her anxiety and growing uneasiness Anna 
 Andreyevna was scarcely capable of entertaining the old man : 
 his uneasiness was growing to threatening proportions, he kept 
 asking strange and timorous questions, he began looking sus- 
 piciously at her, and several times fell to weeping. Young 
 Versilov did not stay long. After he had gone Anna Andreyevna 
 was reduced to bringing in Pyotr Ippolitovitch, on whom she 
 was relying, but he did not please the old prince at all, and even 
 aroused his aversion. In fact the old prince, for some reason, 
 regarded Pyotr Ippolitovitch with increasing distrust and 
 suspicion. As ill-luck would have it, the landlord launched 
 again into a disquisition on spiritualism, and H escribed all sorts 
 of tricks which he said he had seen himself at seances. He 
 declared that one medium had, before the whole audience, cut 
 off people's heads, so that blood flowed, and every one saw it, 
 and afterwards put them back on their necks, and that they grew 
 on again, also in the sight of the whole audience, and all this 
 happened in the year eighteen hundred and fifty-nine. The 
 old prince was so frightened, and at the same time for some 
 reason was so indignant, that Anna Andreyevna was obliged 
 to get rid of the story-teller promptly ; fortunately, dinner 
 arrived, ordered expressly the evening before from somewhere 
 near (through Lambert and Alphonsine) from a remarkable 
 French cook who was out of a place, and wanted to find a 
 situation in a nobleman's family or a club. The dinner and the 
 champagne that accompanied it greatly cheered the old prince ; 
 he ate a great deal and was very jocose. After dinner he felt 
 heavy and drowsy, of course, and as he always took a nap after 
 dinner, Anna Andreyevna made up a bed for him. He kept 
 kissing her hand as he fell asleep and declaring that she was his 
 paradise, his hope, his houri, " his golden flower " — in fact he 
 dropped into the most Oriental expressions. At last he fell 
 asleep, and it was just then I came back. 
 
 Anna Andreyevna came in to me hurriedly, clasped her hands 
 before me and said, that not for her own sake, but for t'^e 
 
 528
 
 prince's she besought me not to go away, but to go in to him 
 as soon as he waked up. " He will be lost without you, he will 
 have a nervous attack ; I'm afraid he may break down before 
 night. . . ." She added that she herself would be compelled 
 to be away " possibly for a couple of hours, and so she would 
 be leaving the prince in my sole charge." I promised her 
 warmly that I would remain till the evening, and that when 
 the prince waked up I would do my very best to entertain him. 
 
 " And I will do my duty ! " she declared with energy. 
 
 She went out. I may add, anticipating events, that she went 
 out to look for Lambert herself ; this was her last hope ; she also 
 went to her brother's, and to her relations, the Fanariotovs' ; 
 it may well be understood what her state of mind must have 
 been when she ret timed. 
 
 The old prince waked up about an hour after her departure. 
 I heard him groan through the wall, and at once ran in to him ; 
 I found him sitting on the bed in his dressing-gown, but so 
 terrified by his isolation, the light of the solitary lamp, aud the 
 strange room, that when I went in he started, jumped up and 
 screamed. I flew up to him, and when he recognised me, he 
 began embracing me with tears of joy. 
 
 " I was told that you had moved into another lodging, that 
 you had taken fright, and run away." 
 
 " Who can have told you that ? " 
 
 " Who could ? You see I may have imagined it myself, or 
 some one may have told me. Only fancy, I've just had a dream : 
 an old man with a beard came in carrying an ikon, an ikon 
 broken in two, and all at once he said, ' So shall your life be 
 broken in two ! ' " 
 
 " Good heavens ! You must have heard from some one that 
 Versilov broke an ikon in two yesterday ? " 
 
 " N'est-ce раз ? I heard so, I heard so ! I heard from 
 Darya Onisimovna yesterday morning. She brought my 
 trunk here and the dog." 
 
 " And so you dreamed of it." 
 
 " Yes, I suppose so, and that old man kept shaking his finger 
 at me. Where is Anna Andreyevna ? " 
 
 " She'll be back directly." 
 
 " Where from ? Has she gone away, too ? " he exclaimed 
 piteously. 
 
 " No, no, she'll be here directly, and she asked me to stay 
 with you." 
 
 529
 
 " Out. And so our Andrey Petrovitch has gone off his head, 
 ' so rapidly and unerpectedly ! ' I always predicted that 
 that's how he'd end. Stay, my dear, . . ." 
 
 He suddenly clutched me by my coat, and drew me towards 
 him. 
 
 " The landlord," he whispered : " brought in some photographs 
 just now, horrid photographs of women, naked women in various 
 oriental poses, and began showing them me in a glass. ... I 
 admired them of course, though I did not hke them, but you 
 know that's just as they brought horrid women to that poor 
 fellow, so as to make him drimk more easily. . . ." 
 
 " Why, you are talking of Von Sohn, but that's enough, prince ! 
 The landlord's a fool and nothing more ! " 
 
 " A fool and nothing more ! С est топ opinion ! My dear, 
 rescue me from here if you can ! " He suddenly clasped his hands 
 before me. 
 
 " Prince, I will do everything I can ! I am entirely at your 
 service. . . . Dear prince, wait a little and perhaps I will put 
 everything right ! " 
 
 " N'est-ce pas ? We'll cut and run and we'll leave my trunk 
 here to look aa though we are coming back." 
 
 " Where should we ггт to ! And what of Anna Andreyevna? " 
 
 " No, no, we'll go with Anna Andreyevna. . . . Oh, топ cher, 
 there's a regular muddle in my head. . . . Stay : there in my 
 bag on the right, is Katya's portrait. I slipped it in on the 
 sly so that Anna Andreyevna, and still more, that Darya 
 Onisimovna should not notice it ; take it out, for goodness' sake 
 make haste, be careful, mind we are not caught. . . . Couldn't 
 you fasten the door with the hook ? " 
 
 I did in fact, find in the bag a photograph of Katerina 
 Nikolaevna in an oval frame. He took it in his hands, carried 
 it to the light, and tears suddenly flowed down his thin yellow 
 cheeks. 
 
 " G^est un ange, c'est un ange du del ! " he exclaimed : " I 
 never have been as good to her as I ought . . . and see what's 
 happened now ! Cher enfant, I don't believe a word of it, not 
 a word of it ! My dear, tell me : can you imagine, they are 
 wanting to put me in a madhouse ? Je die des chosea charmantes 
 et tout le monde fit . . . and all of a sudden they take a man 
 like that to a madhouse ! " 
 
 " That's never happened I " I cried, " that's a mistake. I 
 know her feelings."
 
 " You know her feelings, too ? That's splendid 1 My dear, 
 you've given me new life. How could they say things against 
 you ! My dear, fetch Katya here, and let them kiss each other 
 before me, and I will take them home, and we'll get rid of the 
 landlord ! " 
 
 Ho stood up, clasped his hands, and fell on his knees before 
 me. 
 
 " Cher" he whispered, shaking like a leaf in a sort of insane 
 terror : " My dear, tell me the whole truth : where will they 
 put me now ? " 
 
 " My God ! " I cried, raising him up, and making him sit on 
 the bed : " why you don't believe in me at last ; do you think 
 that I'm in the plot too ? I won't let anyone lay a finger on 
 you ! " 
 
 " C'est-^, don't let them," he faltered, clutching me tightly 
 by the elbow with both hands, and still trembling. " Don't let 
 anyone touch me ! And don't tell me lies yourself about anything 
 ... for will they take me away from here ? Listen, that 
 landlord, Ippolit or whatever his name is . . . isn't a doctor ? " 
 
 " A doctor ? " 
 
 " This . . . this isn't a madhouse, here, in this room 1 " 
 
 But at that instant the door opened, and Anna Andreyeyna 
 came in. She must have been listening at the door, and, could 
 not resist opening the door too suddenly — and the prince, who 
 started at every creak, shrieked, and flung himself on his face 
 on the pillow. Finally he had something like a fit, which ended 
 in sobs. 
 
 " See ? This is your doing," I said to her, pointing to the 
 old man. 
 
 " No, it's your doing ! *' she raised her voice harshly, " I 
 appeal to you for the last time, Arkady Makarovitch, will you 
 unmask the diaboUcal intrigue against i-his defenceless old man, 
 and sacrifice ' your mad and childish dreams of love,' to save 
 yoxur огип sister ? " 
 
 " I will save you all, but only in the way I told you this 
 morning ! I am running off again, and perhaps in an Ьош* 
 Katerina Nikolaevna will be here herself ! I will reconcile you 
 all, and you will all be happy ! " I exclaimed almost with 
 inspiration. 
 
 " Fetch her, fetch her here," cried the prince in a flutter. 
 " Take me to her ! I want to see Katya and to bless her," he 
 exclaimed, lifting up his hands and springing off the bed. 
 
 531
 
 " You see," I said to Anna Andreyevna, motioning towards 
 him : " you hear what he says : now at all events no ' document ' 
 will be any help to you." 
 
 " I see, but it might help to justify my conduct in the opinion 
 of the world, as it is, I'm disgraced ! Enough, my conscience 
 is clear. I am abandoned by everyone, even by my own 
 brother, who has taken fright at my failure. . . . But I will do 
 my duty and will remain by this unhappy man, to take care of 
 him and be his nurse ! " 
 
 But there was no time to be lost. I ran out of the room : " I 
 shall come back in an hour, and shall not come back alone," 
 I cried from the doorway. 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 1 
 
 At last I found Tatyana Pavlovna at home ! I at once ex- 
 plained everything to her — all about the " document," and 
 every detail of what was going on at my lodgings. Though she 
 quite imderstood the position, and might have fully grasped 
 what was happening in two words, yet the explanation took us, 
 1 believe, some ten minutes. I did the talking, I put aside all 
 shame and told her the whole truth. She sat in her chair silent 
 and immovable, drawing herself up straight as a knitting needle, 
 with her lips compressed, and her eyes fixed upon me. Listening 
 greedily. But when I finished she promptly jumped up from 
 her chair, and with such impetuosity that I jumped up too. 
 
 " Ach, you puppy ! So you really had that letter sewn up in 
 your pocket and it was sewn up there by that fool Mary a 
 Ivanovna ! Oh, you shameless villains ! So you came here 
 to conquer hearts and take the fashionable world by storm. 
 You wanted to revenge yourself on the devil knows who, 
 because you're an illegitimate son, eh ? " 
 
 " Tatyana Pavlovna, don't dare to abuse me ! " I cried. 
 " Perhaps you in your abuse have been the cause from the very 
 beginning of my vindictiveness here. Yes, I am an illegitimate 
 son, and perhaps I worked to revenge myself for being an 
 illegitimate son, and perhaps I did want tojevenge myself on the 
 devil knows who, the devil himself could scarcely find who 
 is gmlty ; but remember, I've cut oflE all connection with these 
 
 532
 
 villains, and have conquered my passions. I will lay the 
 document before her in silence and will go away without 
 even waiting for a word from her ; you'll be the witness 
 of it ! " 
 
 " Give me the letter, give me the letter, lay it on the table at 
 once ; but you are lying, perhaps." 
 
 " It's sewn up in my pocket. Marya Ivanovna sewed it up 
 herself ; and when I had a new coat made here I took it out of 
 the old one and sewed it up in the new coat ; here it is, feel it, 
 I'm not lying ! " 
 
 " Give it me, take it out," Tatyana Pavlovna stormed. 
 
 " Not on any account, I tell you again ; I will lay it before 
 her in your presence and will go away without waiting for a 
 single word ; but she must know and see with her eyes that it is 
 my doing, that I'm giving it up to her of my own accord, without 
 compulsion and without recompense." 
 
 " Showing off again ? You're in love, puppy, eh ? " 
 
 " You may say horrid things to me as much as you like, I've 
 deserved them, but I'm not offended. Oh, I may seem to her a 
 paltry boy who has been keeping watch on her and plotting 
 against her ; but let her recognise that I have conquered myself 
 and put her happiness above everything on earth ! Never mind, 
 Tatyana Pavlovna, never mind ! I keep crying to myself : 
 courage and hope ! What if this is my first step in life, anyway 
 it is ending well, it is ending honourably ! Aiid what if I do 
 love her," I went on fervently with flashing eyes ; "I am not 
 ashamed of it : mother is a heavenly angel, but she is an earthly 
 queen ! Versilov will go back to mother, and I've no cause 
 to be ashamed to face her ; you know I once heard what 
 Versilov and she were saying, I stood behind the curtain. . . . 
 Oh, we are all three possessed by the same madness. Oh, 
 do you know whose phrase that is ' possessed by the same 
 madness ' 1 They are his words, Andrey Petrovitch's ! But do 
 you know, perhaps there are more than three of ua possessed by 
 the same madness ? Yes, I don't mind betting, you're a fourth 
 — possessed by the same madness ! Shall I say it — I will bet 
 that you've been in love with Andrey Petrovitch all your life and 
 perhaps you are so still ..." 
 
 I repeat I was carried away by excitement and a sort of 
 happiness, but I could not finish ; she suddenly, with super- 
 human quickness, seized me by the hair and twice shook me 
 backwards and forwards with all her might. . . . Then she 
 
 533
 
 suddenly abandoned me and retreated into the comer, and hid 
 her face in her handkerchief. 
 
 " You young puppy ! Never dare say that to me again ! " 
 she brought out, crying. 
 
 All this was so un.expected, that I was naturally thunder- 
 struck. I stood gazing at her, not knowing what to do. 
 
 " Foo, you stupid ! Come here and give me a kiss, though 
 I am an old fool ! " she said suddenly, laughing and crying : 
 " and don't you dare, don't you ever dare to say that to me 
 again . . . but I love you and have always loved you . . . you 
 stupid." 
 
 I kissed her. I may mention in parenthesis that Tatyana 
 Pavlovna and I were friends from that time forward. 
 
 " But oh ! what am I doing ? " she said suddenly, slapping 
 herself on the forehead ; " but what were you saying : the old 
 prince is at your lodging ? But is it true 1 " 
 
 " I assure you he is." 
 
 "Oh, my goodness ! Ach, it makes me sick ! " she hurried 
 to and fro about the room. " And they are doing what they like 
 with him there ! Ech, is there nothing will frighten the fools 1 
 And ever since the morning ! Oh, oh, Anna Andreyevna. Oh, 
 oh, the пгш ! And she of course, Militrissa, knows nothing 
 about it." 
 
 " What Militrissa 1 " 
 
 " Why, your earthly queen, your ideal ! Ach, but what's to 
 be done now ? ". 
 
 " Tatyana Pavlovna," I cried, coming to myself, " we've been 
 talking nonsense and have forgotten what matters ; I ran out 
 to fetch Katerina Nikolaevna, and they're all waiting for me 
 there." 
 
 And I explained that I should give up the letter only on 
 condition that she promised to be reconciled to Anna Andreyevna 
 at once, and even agree to the marriage . . . 
 
 " Quite right, too," Tatyana Pavlovna interposed," and I've 
 said the same thing to her a hundred times. Why, he'll die 
 before the wedding — he won't be married anyhow, and if he 
 leaves money to Anna in his will, why their names are in it 
 as it is, and will remain there." 
 
 " Surely it's not only the money that Katerina Nikolaevna 
 cares about ? " 
 
 " No, she has been afraid all along that the letter was in 
 Anna's hands, and I was afraid of it, too ! We were keeping 
 
 534
 
 watch on her. The daughter did not want to give the old father 
 a shock, and the German, Btiring, certainty^ did feel anxious 
 about the money." 
 
 " And after that she can marry Btiring ? " 
 
 " Why, what's one to do with a Uttle fool ? It's a true saying, 
 a fool's a fool and will be a fool for ever. He gives her a certain 
 calm you see ; ' Since I must marry some one,' she said, ' I'll marry 
 him, he will suit me better than anyone ' ; she says ; but we 
 shall see afterwards how he suits her. One may tear one's hair 
 afterwards, but then it's too late." 
 
 " Then why do you allow it ? You are fond of her, aren't 
 you ? Why, you told her to her face you were in love with her ! " 
 
 " Yes, I am in love with her, and I love her more than all the 
 rest of you put together, but she's a senseless little fool all the 
 same." 
 
 " Well, run and fetch her now, and we will settle it all, and 
 take her to her father ourselves." 
 
 " But we can't, we can't, you little stupid ! That's just it ! 
 Ach, what are we to do I Ach, it makes me sick ! " She fell tn 
 rushing to and fro again, though she snatched up her shawl 
 " Ech, if only you had come to me four hours earlier, but now 
 it's eight o'clock, and she went oflf just now to the Pelistchevs' to 
 dinner, and afterwards she was going with them to the opera." 
 
 " Good heavens ! can't we run to the opera then . . . oh, no, 
 we can't. What will become of the old man now ? He may 
 die in the night ! " 
 
 " Listen, don't go there, but go to your mother's for the night, 
 and early to-morrow . . ." 
 
 " No, I won't desert the old man, whatever happens." 
 
 "Well, don't desert him ; you are right there. But do you 
 know I'll run round to her and leave a note ... I write in our 
 own words (she'll understand), that the document's here and 
 that she must be here at ten o'clock to-morrow morning — 
 punctually ! Don't worry yourself, she'll come, she'll obey me ; 
 and then we'll put everything right. And you run home, and 
 use all your little arts to please the old prince, put him to bed, 
 and perhaps he'll hold out till the morning 1 Don't frighten 
 Anna either, I am fond of her too ; you are unjust to her, 
 because you can't understand : she feels injured, she has been 
 injured from a child ; ach, you've all been a burden on me ! 
 Oh, don't forget, tell her from me, that I'll see to this business 
 myself, and with a good will, and tell her not to worry, and her 
 
 535
 
 pride shall not suffer. . . . You see of late we've done nothing 
 but quarrel — we've been spitting and scolding at one another ! 
 Come, run along. . . . But stay, show me your pocket again 
 ... is it true, is it true ? Oh, is it true ? Give me that letter 
 if only for the night, what is it to you ? Leave it, I won't eat it. 
 You may let it slip out of your hands in the night you know. . . . 
 You'll change your mind ? " 
 
 " Not for anything ! " I shouted. " Here, feel it, look at it, 
 but I won't leave it for anything ! " 
 
 " I see it's paper," she said, feeling it with her fingers. " Oh, 
 very well, go along, and I'll go round to her, maybe I'll look in 
 at the theatre, too, that was a good idea of yours ! But run 
 along, run along ! " 
 
 " Tatyana Pavlovna, wait a minute. How is mother ? " 
 
 " She's alive." 
 
 " And Andrey Petrovitch ? " 
 
 She waved her hand. 
 
 " He will come to himself ! " 
 
 I ran off, feeling cheered, and more hopeful, although I had not 
 been successful, as I had reckoned to be, but alas ! destiny had 
 decided otherwise, and there were other things in store for me — 
 there certainly is a fate in things. 
 
 2 
 
 From the stairs I heard a noise in my lodging, and the door of 
 the flat turned out to be open. At the door stood a servant in 
 livery whom I did not know. Pyotr Ippolitovitch and his wife 
 were both in the passage, too, looking scared and expectant. The 
 door into the prince's room was open, and I could hear within a 
 voice of thunder, which I could recognise at once — the voice of 
 Biiring. I had hardly taken two steps forward when I saw 
 the old prince trembling and in tears, led out into the passage by 
 Biiring and Baron R., the gentleman who had called on Versilov 
 about the duel. The prince was sobbing loudly, embracing and 
 kissing Biiring. Biiring was shouting at Anna Andreyevna, who 
 had followed the old prince into the passage. Biiring was 
 threatening her, and I believe stamped at her — in fact the 
 coarse German soldier came to the surface in spite of his aristo- 
 cratic breeding. It afterwards came out that he had somehow 
 got hold of the notion that Anna Andreyevna was guilty of 
 
 536
 
 something positively criminal, and certainly would have to 
 answer for her conduct before a court of law. In his ignorance 
 he exaggerated it as the ignorant commonly do, and so con- 
 sidered he had the right to be unceremonious in the extreme. He 
 had not yet got to the bottom of the business : he had been in- 
 formed of it by an anonymous letter (which I shall have to refer 
 to later) and he had rushed round in that state of fury in which 
 even the most sharp-witted people of his nationality are some- 
 times prepared to fight like brigands. Anna Andreyevna had 
 met all this outburst with the utmost dignity, but I missed that. 
 All I saw was that, after bringing the old man into the passage, 
 Biiring left him in the hands of Baron R., and rushing impetuously 
 back to her, shouted, probably in reply to some remark of hers : 
 
 " You're an intriguing adventuress, you're after his money ! 
 You've disgraced yourself in society and will answer for it in a 
 court of law ! . . ." 
 
 " You're taking advantage of an unfortunate invalid and 
 driving him to madness. . . . and you're shouting at me because 
 I'm a woman, and there's no one to defend me . . ." 
 
 " Oh, yes, you are his betrothed, a fine betrothed," Biiring 
 chuckled, with spiteful violence. 
 
 " Baron, Baron . . . chere enfant, je nous aime," wailed the 
 prince, stretching out his hands towards Anna Andreyevna. 
 
 " Go along, prince, go along, there's been a plot against you, and 
 maybe your life was threatened," shouted Biiring. 
 
 " Qui, out, je comprends,fai compris au commencement . . ," 
 
 " Prince," Anna Andreyevna raised her voice. " You are 
 insulting me, and letting me be insulted ! " 
 
 " Gret along with you," Biiring shouted at her suddenly. 
 
 That I could not endure. 
 
 " Blackguard ! " I yelled at him : " Anna Andreyevna, I'm 
 here to defend you ! " 
 
 What happened then I cannot describe exactly, and will not 
 attempt to. The scene that followed was horrible and degrading. 
 I seemed suddenly to lose my reason. I believe I dashed up and 
 struck him, or at least gave him a violent push. He struck me 
 with all his might on my head so that I fell on the floor. When 
 I came to, I rushed after them do^vтl stairs. I remember that my 
 nose was bleeding. At the entrance a carriage was waiting for 
 them, and while they were getting the prince in, I ran up, and in 
 spite of the lackey, who pushed me back I rushed at Biiring 
 again. At this point the police turned up, I don't know how. 
 
 537
 
 Burmg seized me by the collar and in a threatening voice ordered 
 the police to take me into custody. I shouted that he ought to 
 come with me, that we might make our affirmation together, 
 and that they dare not take me almost from my own lodging. 
 But as it had all happened in the street and not in the flat, and 
 as I shouted and fought Ике a drunken man, and as Biiring was 
 wearing his uniform, the policeman took me. But flying into a 
 perfect frenzy, I believe at that point I struck the policeman too. 
 Then I remember two of them suddenly appeared and carried 
 me off. I faintly remember they took me to a room full of 
 tobacco smoke, with all sorts of people standing and sitting about 
 in it waiting and writing ; here too I went on shouting, and 
 insisting on making a statement. But things had gone beyond 
 that, and were comphcated by violence and resisting the poUce, 
 besides I looked absolutely disreputable. Some one shouted at 
 me angrily. Meanwhile the policeman charging me with fighting 
 was describing the colonel . . . 
 
 " What's your name ? " some one shouted to me. 
 
 " Dolgoruky," I yelled. 
 
 " Prince Dolgoruky ? " 
 
 Beside myself, I answered by a very coarse word of abuse, 
 and then . . . then I remember they dragged me to a very 
 dark Uttle room, set apart for drunkards. Oh, I'm not com- 
 plaining. Readers will have seen of late in the newspapers 
 a complaint made by a gentleman who was kept all night 
 under arrest, tied up, and in a room set apart for drunkards, 
 but I believe he was quite innocent while I had done something. 
 I threw myself on the common bed which I shared with two un- 
 conscious sleepers. My head ached, my temples throbbed, and 
 so did my heart. I must have been unconscious, and I beheve I 
 was delirious. I only remember waking up in the middle of the 
 night, and sitting on the bed. I remembered everything at once 
 and understood it in all its bearings, and, with my elbow propped 
 on my knees and my head in my hands, I sank into profound 
 meditation. 
 
 Oh, I am not going to describe my feelings, and there is no time 
 to do it, but I will note one thing only : perhaps I never spent 
 moments more consolatory to my soul than those moments of 
 reflection in the middle of the night on that prison bed. This 
 will perhaps strike the reader as strange, and he may be incUned 
 to set it down to brag and the desire to be original — and yet it 
 was just as I have said. It was one of those minutes which 
 
 538
 
 come perhaps to every one, but only come once in a lifetime. 
 At such moments men decide their fate, define their point of 
 view, and say to themselves once and for all : " That's where the 
 truth Ues, and that is the path to take to attain it." Yes, those 
 moments were the hght of my soul. Insulted by haughty 
 Biiring and expecting to be insulted next day by that aristo- 
 cratic lady, I knew that I could revenge myself on them, but I 
 decided not to revenge myself. I decided, in spite of every 
 temptation, that I would not produce the '.etter, and publish it to 
 the whole world (the idea had been floating in my mind) ; I 
 repeated to myself that next day I would put that letter before 
 her, and, if need be, instead of gratitude, would bear her ironical 
 smile, but in any case I would not say a word but would go away 
 from her for ever. . . . There is no need to enlarge on this, 
 however. What would happen next day here, how I should be 
 brought before the authorities, and what they would do with me 
 — ^I almost forgot to think about. I crossed myself with love in 
 my heart, lay down on the bed, and fell into a sound childlike 
 sleep. 
 
 I waked up late, when it was daylight. I found myself alone in 
 the room. I sat down to wait in silence and waited about an 
 hour ; it must have been about nine o'clock when I was suddenly 
 summoned. I might go into greater detail but it is not worth 
 while, for all this is now irrelevant ; I need only record what 
 matters. I must note, however, that to my great astonishment 
 I was treated with unexpected courtesy ; I was questioned, I 
 answered, and I was at once allowed to depart. I went out in 
 silence, and to my satisfaction saw in their faces some surprise 
 at a man who was able to keep up his dignity even in such cir- 
 cumstances. If I had not noticed that, I should not have 
 recorded it. Tatyana Pavlovna was waiting for me at the 
 entrance. I will explain in a couple of words why I was let off so 
 easily. 
 
 Early in the morning, by eight o'clock perhaps, Tatyana 
 Pavlovna had flown round to my lodging, that is to Pyotr 
 IppoUtovitch's, expecting to find the old prince still there, and 
 she heard at once of all the horrors of the previous day, 
 above all that I had been arrested. She instantly rushed 
 off to Katerina Nikolaevna (who on returning from the 
 theatre the evening before had had an interview with the father 
 who had been restored to her). Tatyana Pavlovna waked her 
 up, alarmed her and insisted that I should be at once released. 
 
 539
 
 With a note from her she flew at once to Buring's and demanded 
 from him forthwith another note, to the proper authorities, with 
 an urgent request from Biiring himself that I should be released, 
 as I had been arrested through a misunderstanding. With this 
 note she presented herself to the prison and her request was 
 respectfully granted. 
 
 Now I will go on" with my story. 
 
 Tatyana Pavlovna pounced on me, put me in a sledge, and took 
 me home with her, she immediately ordered the samovar, and 
 washed and brushed me herself in the kitchen. In the kitchen 
 she told me in a loud voice that at half-past eleven Katerina 
 Nikolaevna would come herself — as they had agreed that morn- 
 ing — to meet me. Marya overheard this. A few minutes later 
 she brought in the samovar, and two minutes later, when Tatyana 
 Pavlovna called her, she did not answer ; it appeared that she 
 had gone out for something. I beg the reader to make special 
 note of this ; it was about a quarter to ten I believe. Though 
 Tatyana Pavlovna was angry at her disappearance without 
 asking leave, she only thought she had gone out to the shop, 
 and immediately forgot about it. And, indeed, we had no 
 thoughts to spare for it, we talked away without ceasing, for we 
 had plenty to talk about, so that I, at least, scarcely noticed 
 Marya 's disappearance ; I beg the reader to make a note of that. 
 
 As for me, I was in a sort of delirium, I pom-ed out my feelings, 
 and above all we were expecting Katerina Nikolaevna, and the 
 thought that in an Ьош" I should meet her at last, and at such a 
 turning-point in my life, made me tremble and quiver. At last, 
 when 1 had drunk two cups of tea, Tatyana Pavlovna suddenly 
 stood up, took a pair of scissors from the table, and said : 
 
 " Let me have your pocket, I must take out the letter, we can't 
 unpick it when she's here." 
 
 " Yes," I exclaimed and unbuttoned my coat. 
 
 " What a muddle it's in ! who sewed it up ? " 
 
 " I did, I did, Tatyana Pavlovna." 
 
 " Well, I can see you did. Come, here it is. . . ." 
 
 We took it out . , . the old envelope was the same, but inside 
 was a blank sheet of paper. 
 
 '■ What's this ? " cried Tatyana Pavlovna, turning it roimd 
 and round ..." what's the matter with you ? " 
 
 540
 
 But I was standing pale and speechless . . . and I suddenly 
 sank helplessly into a chair. I really almost fainted. 
 
 " What does it mean ? " wailed Tat у ana Pavlovna. " Where 
 is your letter ? " 
 
 " Lambert ! " I jumped up suddenly, slapping myself on the 
 forehead as I guessed. 
 
 With breathless haste I explained to her — the night at 
 Lambert's and our plot ; I had, however, confessed that to 
 her the night before. 
 
 " They've stolen it, they've stolen it ! " I cried, stamping on 
 the floor and clutching at my hair. 
 
 " That's terrible ! " cried Tatyana Pavlovna, grasping what 
 had happened. 
 
 " What time is it ? " 
 
 It was about eleven. 
 
 " Ech, there's no Marya ! . . . Marya, Marya f " 
 
 " What is it, mistress ? " Marya responded from the kitchen. 
 
 " Are you here ? What are we to do now ! I will fly to her. 
 . . . Ah, slow coach, slow coach ! " 
 
 " And I to Lambert," I yelled, " and I wiH strangle him if 
 need be." 
 
 " Mistress," Marya piped suddenly from the kitchen, " here's 
 a person asking for you very particularly." 
 
 But before she had time to finish, the person burst in from the 
 kitchen, making a great outcry and lamentation. It was 
 Alphonsine. I will not describe the scene in detail ; the scene 
 was a fraud and a deception, but I must say Alphonsine acted 
 it splendidly. With tears of repentance and with violent gesticu- 
 lations she babbled (in French, of coiu*se), that she had unpicked 
 the letter herself, that it was now in Lambert's hands, and that 
 Lambert, together with that " brigand," cet homme noir, meant 
 to entice Mme. la generate to shoot her, immediately within an 
 hour . . . that she knew all this from them, and that she had 
 suddenly taken fright because she saw they had a pistol, le 
 pistolet, and now she had rushed off to us, that we might go, 
 might save, might warn. . . . That cet homme noir. . . ." 
 
 In fact, it all sounded very probable, the very stupidity of 
 some of Alphonsine's expressions only increased its apparent 
 truthfulness. 
 
 " What homme noir ? " cried Tatyana Pavlovna. 
 
 " Tien, j'ai ovblie son пот. . . Un homme affreux. . . Tien*, 
 Versilov." 
 
 541
 
 " Versilov, it cannot be," I cried ! 
 
 " Oh, yes, it can ! " wailed Tatyana Pavlovna : " come, tell 
 us my good woman without dancing about, don't wave your arms 
 about ; what do they want ? Explain, my good woman ; I 
 don't believe they mean to shoot her." 
 
 " My good woman " did explain as follows (N.B. — ^it was all a 
 lie, I must remind the reader again) : Versilov was to sit at the 
 door and when she went in Lambert was to show her cette lettre, 
 
 then Versilov was to rush in and they would Oh ! tie 
 
 feront leur vengeance ! that she, Alphonsine, was afraid there 
 would be trouble, because she had had a share in the business 
 herself, cette dame, la genirale would certainly come at once, 
 at once, because they had sent her a copy of the letter, and she 
 would see at once that they really had the letter, and would go 
 to interview them, but only Lambert had written the letter, so 
 she knew nothing about Versilov ; and Lambert had introduced 
 himself as a stranger who had come from a lady in Moscow, 
 une dame de Moscou (N.B. — Marie Ivanovna !) 
 
 ." Ach, I feel sick ! Ach, I feel sick ! " exclaimed Tatyana 
 Pavlovna. 
 
 " Sauvez la, sauvez la f" cried Alphonsine. 
 
 Oh, of course there was something inconsistent, even at first 
 sight, in this mad story, but there was no time to think it over, 
 for in essentials it sounded very probable. Of course, one might 
 still suppose, and with the greatest likelihood, that Katerina 
 Nikolaevna, on receiving Lambert's summons, would come first 
 to Tatyana Pavlovna's to discuss the matter with us ; and on 
 the other hand, this might not happen, and she might go straight 
 to him, and then — she was lost ! It was difficult to believe that 
 she would rush off to a stranger like Lambert at the first sum- 
 mons ; yet, again, this might somehow happen, after seeing the 
 copy and satisfying herself that they really had her letter, and 
 then there would be disaster anyway ! Above all, we had no 
 time even to reflect. 
 
 " Versilov will murder her ! if he has stooped to make use 
 of Lambert he'll murder her ! It's the second self," I cried. 
 
 " Ah that ' second self ' ! " cried Tatyana Pavlovna, wringing 
 her hands. " Well, this is no use," she said decidedly, " take 
 your cap and coat and quick march together. Lead us straight 
 to them, my good woman. Ach, it's a long way. Marya, 
 Marya, if Katerina Nikolaevna comes, tell her I shall be back 
 directly and make her sit and wait for me, and if she does not 
 
 542
 
 want to wait, lock the door and keep her by force. Tell her I 
 told her to. A hundred roubles for you, Marya, if you deserve 
 it." 
 
 We ran down stairs. No doubt nothing better could have 
 been suggested, for, in any case, the chief scene of danger was in 
 Lambert's lodging, and if Katerina Nikolaevna did really come 
 first to Tatyana Pavlovna's lodgings, Marya could always detain 
 her. Yet after she had called a sledge, Tatyana Pavlovna 
 changed her mind. 
 
 " You go with her," she bade me, leaving me with Alphonsine 
 " and if need be, die there, do you understand ? I'll follow you 
 directly, but first I'll whisk round to her, maybe I shall find her, 
 for say what you like, I feel suspicious ! " 
 
 And she flew off to Katerina Nikolaevna. 
 
 Alphonsine and I went our way towards Lambert's. I urged 
 on the driver and continued to question Alphonsine, but she con- 
 fined herself to exclamations, and finally took refuge in tears. 
 But God saved and preserved us all when everything was hanging 
 on a thread. We had not driven a quarter of the way when I 
 suddenly heard a shout behind me ; some one was calling me by 
 my name. I looked roimd — Trishatov was driving after us in 
 another sledge. 
 
 " Where are you going," he shouted in alarm, " and with her, 
 with Alphonsine ? " 
 
 " Trishatov," I cried, " you told the truth, there is trouble I 
 I am going to that scoundrel, Lambert's ! Let's go together, 
 the more the better ! " 
 
 " Turn back, turn back at once," shoulted Trishatov, " Lam- 
 bert's deceiving you, and Alphonsine 's deceiving you. The 
 pock-marked fellow sent me ; they are not at home, I met 
 Versilov and Lambert just now ; they were driving to Tatyana 
 Pavlovna's . . they're there now. . . ." 
 
 I stopped the driver and jumped out to join Trishatov. To this 
 day I don't know how I could make up my mind so quickly, but 
 I beUeved him at once, and made up my mind. Alphonsine 
 raised a terrible outcry, but we did not trouble ourselves about 
 her, and I don't know whether she followed us or went home, 
 anyway, I did not see her again. 
 
 In the sledge, Trishatov told me breathlessly that there was 
 some sort of plot on foot, that Lambert had been plotting with 
 the pock-marked man, but that the latter had betrayed him at 
 the last moment, and had sent Trishatov to Tatyana Pavlovna's 
 
 543
 
 to warn her not to believe Lambert and Alphonsine. Trishatov 
 added that he knew nothing more, and that the pock-marked 
 gentleman had told him nothing more, for he had been in a hurry 
 himself, and it had all been settled in haste. " I saw you 
 driving," Trishatov went on, " and drove after you." 
 
 It was clear, of course, that this pock-marked individual also 
 knew the whole story, since he had sent Trishatov straight to 
 Tatyana Pavlovna's, but that was another mystery. But to 
 avoid a muddle I will, before describing the catastrophe, explain 
 the actual fact, and for the last time anticipate the order of 
 events. 
 
 After stealing the letter Lambert at once got into commimica- 
 tion with Versilov. How Versilov could have brought himself 
 to join Lambert — I won't discuss for the time ; that will come 
 later ; what was chiefly responsible was the " second self ! " 
 After joining Versilov, Lambert still had to entice Katerina 
 Nikolaevna as cunningly as he could. Versilov assured him at 
 once that she would not come. But ever since the day before 
 yesterday, when I met him in the street in the evening, broke off 
 all relations with him, and told him that I should give back the 
 letter at Tatyana Pavlovna's lodgings and in her presence — 
 Lambert had arranged to keep a watch on Tatyana Pavlovna's 
 lodgings ; Marya was bought over as a spy. Marya was given 
 twenty roubles, and after the theft of the letter, Lambert visited 
 Marya a second time, settling with her finally, and promising 
 to pay her two hundred roubles for her services. 
 
 That was why Marya had rushed from the flat and galloped off 
 in a sledge to Lambert's, with the news, as soon as she heard 
 that Katerina Nikolaevna was to be at Tatyana Pavlovna's at 
 half -past eleven, and that I, too, should be present. This was 
 just the information she was to bring Lambert ; that was pre- 
 cisely the duty assigned her. Versilov happened to be with 
 Lambert at that very moment. In one moment Versilov had 
 devised the diabolical plan. They say that madmen are at times 
 extraordinarily cunning. 
 
 The plot was to lure both of us, Tatyana and me, out 
 of the flat at all costs, if only for a quarter of an hour, 
 but before Katerina Nikolaevna arrived. Then they meant 
 to wait in the street, and as soon as Tatyana Pavlovna and 
 
 544
 
 I had come out, to run into the flat, which ]\Iarya was 
 to open to them, and there to aлvait Katerina Nikolaevna. 
 Alphonsine, meantime was to do her utmost to detain us where 
 and how she pleased. Katerina Nikolaevna would be sure to 
 come, as she promised, at half-past eleven, so that sho would 
 certainly be there long before we could be back. (Of course, 
 Katerina Nikolae\aia had received no summons from Lambert. 
 Alphonsine had told us a lie and Versilov had invented the story 
 in all its details, and Alphonsijie had simply played the part of 
 the frightened traitor.) Of course, it was a risk, but they pri^b- 
 ably reasoned ihat if it answered all would be лусП, if it failed 
 nothing would have been lost, for the document would still be 
 in their possession. But it did answer and could not possibly 
 have failed to do so, for we could not but follow Alphonsine on 
 the barest supposition that what she said might be true. I 
 repeat again ; there л\аз no time to reflect. 
 
 We ran with Trishatov into the kitchen and found Marj'ain a 
 fright. She was horrified to notice that when she let Versilov 
 and Lambert in, that the latter had a revolver in his hand. 
 Though she had taken money, the revolver had not entered into 
 her calculations. She was bewildered and rushed at me as soon 
 as she saw me. 
 
 The lady has come and they've got a pistol ! " 
 
 " Trishatov, stay here in the kitchen," 1 said, "and as soon 
 as I shout, run as quickly as you can to help me." 
 
 Marya opened the door in the passage^ and I slipped into 
 Tatyana Pa vlovaia's bedroom — into the tin}' cupboard uf a room 
 in which there was only space for Tatyana I'avloNTia's bed. and 
 in whicli (^nce I had already accidentally played the eavcs- 
 drop]K'r. I sat down on the bed and at once found a peephole 
 for myself in the curtain. 
 
 There was already a noise in the room and they were talking 
 loudly ; I may mention that Katerina Nikolaevna arrived at the 
 flat just a minute after them. I heard the noise and talk from 
 the kitchen ; Lambert was shouting. She Avas sitting on the 
 sofa, and he was standing before her shouting like a fool. Now 
 I know why he lo.st his head so stupidlv : he was in a hurry and 
 afraid they л\оиЫ be discovered. 1 will explain later \\ho it 
 
 54э
 
 was he feared. The letter was in his hand. But Versilov was 
 not in the room. I was ready to rush in at the first sign of 
 danger. I record only the gist of the conversation, perhaps a 
 good deal I don't remember correctly, but I was too much excited 
 to remember with perfect accuracy. 
 
 " This letter's worth thirty thousand roubles, and you are 
 surprised ! It's worth a hundred thousand, and I only ask 
 thirty ! " Lambert said in a loud voice, terribly excited. 
 
 Though Katerina Nikolaevna was evidently frightened, she 
 looked at him with a sort of contemptuous wonder. 
 
 " I see that a trap has been laid for me, and I don't under- 
 stand it," she said : " but if only that letter is really in your 
 hands." .... 
 
 "But here it is, see for yourself ! Isn't that it ? An lOU for 
 thirty thousand and not a farthing less ! " Lambert interrupted 
 her. 
 
 " I've no money." 
 
 " Write an lOU — here's paper. Then go and get the 
 money, and I will wait a week — no more. . . . Give me the 
 money and then I will give you back the lOU and give you 
 the letter." 
 
 " You take such a strange tone. You are making a mistake. 
 That letter will be taken from you, if I go to-day and lodge a 
 complaint." 
 
 " To whom ? Ha-ha-ha ? What of the scandal, and we shall 
 show the letter to the prince ! Where are they going to find it ? 
 I don't keep the document at my lodging. I shall show it to 
 your father through a third person. Don't be obstinate, 
 madam, be thankful that I'm not asking much, any other man 
 would ask fpr something else besides . . . you know what . . . 
 which many a pretty woman would not refuse in such trying 
 circvmistances, that's what I mean . . . ha-ha-ha ! Vous Hea 
 belle, vous ! " 
 
 Katerina Nikolaevna rose impetuously, tiu-ned crimson — and 
 spat in his face. Then she turned quickly towards the door. 
 It was at this point that the fool, Lambert, pulled out the re- 
 volver. 
 
 Like an imimaginative fool he had put blind faith in the effect 
 of the document ; his chief error lay in not distinguishing what 
 sort of woman he had to deal with, because, ал I have said 
 already, he thought every one was as mean in their feelings as 
 he was. He angered her from the first word by his rudeness, 
 
 546
 
 though perhaps otherwise she might not have declined to con- 
 sider the question of payment, 
 
 " Don't stir ! " he yelled, furious at her spitting at him, 
 clutching her by the shoulder, and showing her the revolver — 
 simply, of course, to frighten her. She uttered a shriek and 
 sank on the sofa. I burst into the room ; but, at the same instant, 
 Versilov ran in at the other door. (He had been standing outside 
 the door waiting.) In a flash he had snatched the revolver from 
 Lambert, and with all his might hit him on the head with it. 
 Lambert staggered and fell senseless ; the blood streamed from 
 his head upon the carpet. 
 
 She saw Versilov, turned suddenly as white as a sheet, gazed 
 at him for some moments immovable with indescribable horror, 
 and fell into a swoon. He rushed to her. It all flashes before 
 my eyes as I write. I remember with what terror I saw his 
 flushed almost purple face and his bloodshot eyes. I believe 
 that though he saw me in the room he did not recognise me. 
 He caught her as she fell unconscious, and with amazing ease 
 lifted her up in his arms, as though she were a feather, and began 
 aimlessly carrying her about the room like a baby. It was a 
 tiny room, but he paced to and fro from corner to corner, evi- 
 dently with no idea why he was doing so. In one instant he 
 had lost his reason. He kept gazing at her, at her face. I ran 
 after him ; what I was most afraid of was the revolver, which he 
 seemed to have forgotten in his right hand, and was holding close 
 to her head. But he pushed me away, once with his elbow, and 
 the second time with his foot. I wanted to shout to Trishatov, 
 but I was afraid of irritating the madman. At last I drew back 
 the curtain and began entreating him to put her on the bed. He 
 went up and laid her down on it, stood over her, and gazed a1> her 
 face ; and, suddenly bending down, kissed her twice on her 
 pale lips. Oh, I realised at last that this was a man utterly 
 beside himself. He suddenly waved the revolver over her, but, 
 as though realising, tiu-ned the revolver and aimed it at her face. 
 I instantly seized his arm and shouted to Trishatov. I remember 
 we both struggled with him, but he succeeded in pulling away 
 his arm and firing at himself. He would have shot her and then 
 himself, but since we would not let him get at her, he pressed 
 the revolver against his heart ; I succeeded, however, in pushing 
 his arm upwards, and the bullet struck him in the shoulder. At 
 that instant Tatyana Pavlovna burst into the room shrieking ; 
 but he was already lying sensel&ss on the carpet beside Lambert. 
 
 547
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 CONCLUSION 
 
 1 
 
 Almost six months have passed since that scene, much has 
 happened, much has completely changed, and a new life has 
 begun for me since then. . . . But I must settle what I have 
 left doubtful in my story. 
 
 To me at least, the first question at the time, and long after- 
 wards was : how Versilov could have brought himself to act in 
 concert with a man like Lambert, and what were his objects in 
 doing so ? Little by little, I have arrived at an explanation of a 
 sort ; to my thinking, at those moments, that is, all that last 
 day and the day before, Versilov can have had no definite aim, 
 and I believe, indeed, he did not reflect on the matter at all, but 
 acted under the influence of a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. 
 But the theory of actual madness I cannot accept, especially as 
 he is not in the least mad now. But the " second self " I do 
 accept unquestionably. What is a second self exactly ? 
 The second self, according to a medical book, written by 
 an expert, which I purposely read afterwards, is nothing 
 else than the first stage of serious mental derangement, 
 which may lead to something very bad. And in that scene 
 at my mother's, Versilov himself had with strange frankness 
 described the " duality " of his will and feelings. But I 
 repeat again : though that scene at mother's and that broken 
 ikon were undoubtedly partly due to the influence of a real 
 "second self," yet I have ever since been haimted by the fancy 
 that there was in it an element of a sort of vindictive symbolism, 
 a sort of resentment against the expectations of those women, a 
 sort of angry revolt against their rights and their criticism. 
 And so hand in hand with the " second self " he broke the ikon, 
 as though to say " that's how your expectations will be 
 shattered ! " In fact, even though the " second self " did come 
 in, it was partly simply a whim. . . . But all this is only my 
 theory ; it would be hard to decide for certain. 
 
 It is true that in spite of bis adoration for Katerina Nikolaevna, 
 he had a deep-rooted and perfectly genuine disbelief in her 
 
 548
 
 moral qualities. I really believe that he waited outside the 
 door then, to see her humiliated before Lambert. But did he 
 desire it, if even he waited for it 1 Again I repeat : I firmly 
 believe that he had no desire, no intention even. He simply 
 wanted to be there, to rush in afterwards, to say something, 
 perhaps to insult, perhaps even to kill her. . . . Anything might 
 happen then ; but when he came with Lambert he had no idea 
 what would happen. I may add that the revolver was Lambert's 
 and that he himself came unarmed. Seeing her proud dignity, 
 and above all, exasperated by Lambert's blackguardliness in 
 threatening her, he dashed in — and only then went mad. Did 
 he mean to shoot her at that instant ? In my opinion he did not 
 know what he was doing, but he certainly would have shot her if 
 we had not thrust aside his hand. 
 
 His wound proved to be not a fatal one, and it healed, but he 
 was ill in bed rather a long time, at mother's, of course. 
 
 Now as I am writing these lines it is the middle of May, an 
 exquisite spring day, and our windows are open. Mother is 
 sitting beside him : he strokes her cheeks and hair and gazes into 
 her face with tender emotion. Oh, this is only the half of the 
 old Versilov, he never leaves mother's side now, and will never 
 leave her again. He has even gained the "gift of tears," as 
 Makar Ivanovitch, of precious memory, said in his story about 
 the merchant. I fancy, however, that Versilov has a long life 
 before him. With us he is perfectly good-natured and candid 
 as a child, though he never loses his sense of proportion and self- 
 control, and does not talk too freely. All his intellect and 
 his moral nature have remained vmchanged, though all his ideal 
 side has become more marked. I may say frankly that I have 
 never loved him so much as now, and I regret that I have neither 
 time nor space to say more about him. 
 
 I will, however, tell one recent anecdote about him (and 
 there are many). He had quite recovered by Lent, and in the 
 sixth week declared that he would fast and take the sacrament. 
 He had not taken the sacrament for thirty years or more I believe. 
 Mother was delighted ; they began preparing Lenten dishes, 
 rather expensive, dainty ones, however. In the next room I 
 heard him on Monday and Tuesday chanting to himself " The 
 Bridegroom cometh," and he was delighted with the verses and 
 the chant. He spoke beautifully of reUgion several times during 
 those days ; but on Wednesday the fast suddenly came to an end. 
 Something suddenly irritated him, some " amusing contrast," 
 
 549
 
 as he expressed it, laughing ; he disliked something in the exterior 
 of the priest, in the surroundings ; whatever it was, he returned 
 and said with a gentle smile : " My friends, I love God, but I am 
 not fitted for that." The same day roast beef was served at 
 dinner. 
 
 But I know that even now mother often sits beside him, and 
 in a low voice, with a gentle smile, begins to talk to him of the 
 most abstract subjects : now she has somehow grown daring 
 with him, but how this has come to pass I don't know^ She sits 
 beside him and speaks to him usually in a whisper. He listens 
 with a smile, strokes her hair, kisses her hand, and there is the 
 light of perfect happiness in his face. He sometimes has attacks 
 that are almost like hysterics. Then he takes, her photograph, 
 the one he kissed that evening, gazes at it with tears, kisses it, 
 recalls the past, gathers iis all round him, but at such moments 
 he says little. . . , 
 
 Katerina Nikolaevna he seems to have completely for- 
 gotten and has never once mentioned. Nothing has been said 
 of marriage with my mother so far, either. They did think of 
 taking him abroad for the summer ; but Tatyana Pavlovna 
 strongly opposed it, and he did not desire it himself. They will 
 spend the summer at a villa, in some country place in the neigh- 
 boiuhood of Petersburg. By the way we are all still hiding at the 
 expense of Tatyana Pavlovna. One thing I will add : I am 
 dreadfully sorry that I have several times in this narrative 
 allowed myself to take up a disrespectful and superior attitude 
 in regard to Versilov. But as I wrote I imagined myself precisely 
 at each of the moments I was describing. As I finish my narra- 
 tive and write the last lines, I suddenly feel by the very process 
 of recalling and recording, I have re-educated myself. I regret a 
 great deal I have wTitten, especially the tone of certain sentences 
 and pages, but I will not cross them out or correct a single word. 
 
 I have stated that he never says one word of Katerina Niko- 
 laevna ; but I really believe that he is quite cured of his passion. 
 Of her 1 never speak except sometimes to Tatyana Pavlovna, 
 and then in secret. Katerina Nikolaevna is now abroad ; I 
 saw her before she went away, and visited her several times. 
 Since she has been abroad I have received two letters from her, 
 and have answered them. But of what was in her letter and 
 what we discussed I will say nothing ; that is another story, a 
 quite new story, and perhaps it is still in the future ; indeed 
 there are some things of which I say nothing even to Tatyana 
 
 550
 
 Pavloviia, but enough of that. I will only add that she is not 
 married, and that she is travelling with the Pelistchevs. Her 
 father is dead and she is the richest of widows. At this moment 
 ehe is in Paris. 
 
 Her rupture with Buring took place very quickly, and as it 
 were of itself, that is, extremely naturally. I will describe it, 
 however. 
 
 On the morning of that terrible scene, the pock-marked man 
 to whom Trishatov and his tall friend had gone over, succeeded 
 in letting Buring know of the proposed crime. This was how it 
 happened. Lambert still tried to pursuade him to work with 
 him, and, when he gained possession of the letter, he told him 
 all the details of the undertaking, up to the very last moment, 
 that is, when Versilov suggested the trick to get rid of Tatyana 
 Pavlovna. But at the last moment the pock-marked man, who 
 had more sense than the rest, and foresaw the possibility of a 
 serious crime being committed, preferred to betray Lambert. 
 He reckoned upon Buring's gratitude as something more secure 
 than the fantastic plan made by Lambert, who was clumsy and 
 hotheaded, and by Versilov, who was almost mad with passion. 
 All this I learned afterwards from Trishatov. I know nothing, 
 by the way, of Lambert's relations with the pock-marked man, 
 and I cannot imderstand why Lambert could not have acted 
 without him. A question of far more interest for me is why 
 Lambert needed Versilov when, having the letter in his possession, 
 he might perfectly well have dispensed with the latter's assistance. 
 The answer is clear to me now. Versilov was of use to Lambert 
 from his knowledge of all the circumstances ; moreover, if their 
 plans miscarried, or some accident happened, Lambert reckoned 
 on throwing all responsibility on Versilov. And since the latter 
 did not want money, Lambert thought his help very opportune. 
 
 But Buring did not arrive in time. When he reached the 
 scene of action an hour later, Tatyana Pavlovna's flat wore a 
 very different aspect. Five minutes after Versilov had fallen 
 on the carpet, covered with blood, Lambert, whom we all 
 believed to be dead, raised his head and got up. He looked 
 about him with amazement, q\iickly grasped the position, went 
 into the kitchen without saying a word, put on his coat, and 
 disappeared for ever. The document he left on the table. I 
 have heard that he was not seriously ill but only slightly indis- 
 posed afterwards ; the blow from the revolver had stunned him 
 and drawn blood, but bad done no further harm. 
 
 551
 
 Meanwhile Trishatov had run for the doctor ; but before the 
 doctor arrived, Versilov, too, returned to consciousness, though 
 before that Tatyana Pavlovna succeeded in bringing Katerina 
 Nikolaevna to herself and taking her home. And so when 
 Buring ran in upon us he found in Tatyana Pavlovna's flat only 
 me, the doctor, Versilov, and my mother, who had been fetched 
 by Trishatov, and though still ill, had come in haste, beside 
 herself with anxiety. Buring stared at us with amazement, and 
 as soon as he learned that Katerina Nikolaevna had gone home 
 he went off to see her without saying another word to us. 
 
 He was perturbed ; he saw clearly that now scandal and 
 gossip луеге almost inevitable. The affair did not make any great 
 scandal, however. The pistol-shot could not be concealed, it is 
 true ; but the chief facts remained almost imknown. All that 
 was discovered by the investigation that was made was that a 
 certain V., a man passionately in love, though almost fifty and 
 with a famil}^ had declared his feelings to the young lady, a 
 person worthy of the highest respect, who did not share his 
 sentiments, and in a sudden access of madness had shot himself. 
 Nothing more than this came out, and in that form the story even 
 got into the papers, no names being mentioned but only initials. 
 I Imow that Lambert was not troubled in any way. 
 
 Nevertheless Biiring was alarmed. To make matters worse he 
 chanced to learn of the interview between Katerina Nikolaevna 
 and Versilov two days before the catastrophe. This enraged 
 him, and he rather incautiously ventured to observe to Katerina 
 Nikolaevna that after that he луаз not surprised that such 
 extraordinary adventiures could happen to her. Katerina 
 Nikolae\^la refused him on the spot, without anger, but without 
 hesitation. All her preconceived ideas of the judiciousness of 
 marrying such a man vanished like smoke. Possibly she had seen 
 tlirough him long before, and perhaps the shock she had been 
 exposed to had changed some of her views and feelings. But of 
 that again I will say nothing. I will only add that Lambert 
 made his escape to Moscow, and that I have heard he got into 
 trouble over something there. Trishatov 1 have lost sight of since 
 that day, though I am still trying to track him ; he vanished 
 after the death of his friend " le grand dadais,'' who shot 
 himself. 
 
 552
 
 I have mentioned the death of the old prince Nikolay Ivnno- 
 vitch. The good-natured, kindly old man died not hjag after 
 his advcntiu'c. His death took place, however, quite a month 
 later in liis bed at night, from a stroke. I never saw him again 
 after the day he луая in my flat. I was told that during that 
 month he became far more rational, more tender in his manner 
 even, he ceased to be apprehensive, shed no more tears, and 
 did not once utter a word about Anna .\ndxeyevna. All his 
 affection was centred on his daughter. On one occasion, a week 
 before his death, Katerina Nikolaevna suggested inviting me 
 to entertain him, but he actually frowned : I simply state this 
 fact without trying to explain it. His estate turned out to be 
 in good order at his death, and he left a very cotisidcral)le fortune 
 as well. A third of this fortune was by his will divided between 
 his innumerable goddaughters ; but it struck every one as 
 strange, that there was ш) mention of Anna Andreycvna in his 
 will at all ; her name was omitted. But I know for a fact that a 
 few days before his death, the old man summoned his daughter 
 and his friends, Pelistchev and Prince V., and instructed Katerina 
 NikolaevTia, in view of the possibility of his speedy decease, to 
 set aside out of his fortune sixty thousand roubles for Anna 
 Andreyevna. He expressed his wishes briefly, clearly and 
 preci.sely, iiot indulging in a single exclamation or explanation. 
 After his death, and when his affairs м'сге put in order, 
 Katerina Nikolaevma, through her lawyer, informed Anna 
 Andreyevna that the sixty thousand roubles were at her dis- 
 posal ; but drily, with no unnecessary words, Anna Andreyevna 
 declined the money ; she refused to accept it in spite of every 
 assurance that this had been the old prince's desire. The 
 money still lies waitiing for her, and Katerina Nikolaevna still 
 hopes to induce her to change her mind ; but this will never 
 happen, of that I am positive, for I am now one of Anna Andre- 
 yevna's closest and most intimate friends. Her refusal made 
 rather a stir, and people talked about it. Her aunt, Madame 
 Fa'iariotov, who had been anoyed at first by her scandalous 
 affair with the old prince, suddenly took a different view of it, 
 and, after she refused the money, made her a .solemn a.ssurance 
 of her respect. Her brother, on the other hand, quarrelled with 
 
 553
 
 her finally on account of it. But though I often go to see Anna 
 Andreyevna, I cannot say that we ever discuss an3rthing very 
 intimate ; we never refer to the past ; she is very glad to see 
 me, but talks to me chiefly of abstract subjects. Among other 
 things, she has told me that she is firmly resolved to go into a 
 convent ; that was not long ago ; but I don't believe this, and 
 look upon it simply as an expression of bitterness. 
 
 But what is really tragic is what I have to tell of my sister 
 Liza's fate. That is real unhappiness. What are all my failures 
 beside her bitter lot ? It began with Prince Sergay Petrovitch's 
 dying in the hospital before his trial. He died before Prince 
 Nikolay Ivanovitch, Liza was left to face the world with her 
 unborn child. She did not shed tears and was outwardly calm, 
 she became gentle and resigned ; but all her old fire seemed to 
 have vanished for ever. She helped mother meekly, nursed 
 Andrey Petrovitch through his illness, but became very silent and 
 never seemed to notice anyone or anything, as though nothing 
 mattered to her, as though she were simply passing by. When 
 Versilov was better, she began to sleep a great deal. I used to 
 take her books, but she did not read ; she became terribly thin. 
 I did not dare to try to comfort her, though I often went in to 
 her intending to ; but in her presence I could not approach her, 
 and I found no words to speak to her. It went on like this 
 till something terrible happened : she fell down our stairs ; 
 she did not fall far, only three steps, but it brought on a mis- 
 carriage, and she was ill all the rest of the winter. Now she is 
 on her feet again, but her health has been shaken and it will be a 
 long time before she is strong. She is still dreamy and silent 
 with us, but she has begun to talk with mother a little. These 
 last few days we have had bright, clear spring sunshine, and I 
 am all the while inwardly recalling that sunny morning last 
 autumn, when she and I walked along the street, both fuJl of 
 joy and hope and love for one another. Alas, what has happened 
 since then ? I don't complain, for me a new life has begun, but 
 for her ? Her future is a problem, and I cannot look at her even 
 now without pain. 
 
 Three weeks ago I did succeed, however, in interesting her 
 with news of Vassin. He was released at last and is now at 
 liberty. That judicious person gave, so I am told, the most 
 precise explanation and the most interesting information which 
 completely cleared his character in the eyes of those on whom 
 his fate depended. Moreover his celebrated manuscript turned 
 
 554
 
 out to be no more than a translation from the French, upon 
 which he had intended to write an article for a magazine. He is 
 now in the X. province, and his stepfather, Stebelkov, is still in 
 prison on the same charge, which I hear grows more extensive 
 and complicated as it goes on. Liza heard the news of Vassin 
 with a strange smile, and even observed that that was just what 
 was sure to have happened to him. But she was evidently 
 pleased, no doubt that Prince Sergay's action had not brought 
 worse harm to Vassin. Of Dergatchev and his friends I have 
 nothing to say here. 
 
 I have finished. Perhaps some reader may care to know : 
 what has become of my " idea," and what is the new life that is 
 beginning for me now, to which I refer so mysteriously ? But 
 that new life, that new way which is opening before me is my 
 " idea," the same as before, though in such a dififerent form, that 
 it could hardly be recognised. But I cannot enter into that in 
 this story, that is something quite different. My old 'life has 
 passed away completely, and the new is just beginning. But I 
 will add one essential matter : Tatyana Pavlovna, a true and 
 dear friend to me, pesters me almost every day with exhorta- 
 tions to enter the university : " When you've taken your 
 degree," she says, " then you can consider the position, but now 
 you must finish уошг studies." I must confess I am considering 
 her suggestion, but I don't know how I shall decide. Among 
 other objections I have urged that I have not the right to con- 
 tinue my studies, as it is my duty now to work to maintain mother 
 and Liza ; but she offers to undertake this, and she says her means 
 are sufficient to do so all the time I am at the university. I have 
 determined at last to ask the advice of some one. Looking about 
 me, I have chosen that some one carefully and critically. I have 
 fixed on Nikolay Semyonovitch, my former tutor in Moscow, the 
 husband of Marie Ivanovna. Not so much that I need advice 
 about anything, but I feel an irresistible longing to hear the 
 opinion of this outsider, who is a rather coldly egoistic, but 
 undoubtedly clever man. I have sent him my whole manu- 
 script, asking him to keep it secret from every one, especially 
 Tatyana Pavlovna, because I have not shown it to any one so 
 far. The manuscript came back to me a fortnight later, and with 
 it a rather long letter. From this letter I make a few extracts, 
 as I find in them a certain general view and something that may 
 be explanatory. Here are the extracts. 
 
 555
 
 " , . , You could never have employed your leisure time more 
 profitably, my ever precious Arkady Makarovitch, than in 
 writing this autobiography ! You have given yourself, so to say, 
 an imtlinching account of your first stormy, perilous steps on 
 the path of life. I quite believe that you may by this exposition 
 have to a great extent ' re-educated yourself,' to use your own 
 expression. I shall not, of course, venture upon the smallest 
 criticism : though every page makes one reflect . . . for instance, 
 the circumstance, that you so long and so obstinately retained 
 possession of the ' document ' — is highly characteristic. . . . 
 But that is only one remark out of hundreds, which I permitted 
 myself. I greatly appreciate also, the fact of your deciding to 
 confide to me, and apparently to me alone, ' the secret of your 
 idea,' to use уошг own expression. But your request that I 
 should give you my opinion on that ' idea ' I must res ilutely 
 refuse : to begin with, it would be out of place in a letter, and 
 secondly, I am not prepared to give an answer off-hand ; I must 
 ruminate upon it further. I will only observe that your ' idea ' 
 is distinguished by originality, whereas young men of the present 
 generation, for the most part, throw themselves into ready-made 
 ideas, of which there is always an ample provision, and which are 
 a source of danger. Your idea, for instance, did at any rate save 
 you for the time from the ideas of Messrs. Dergatchev and Co., 
 certainly less origmal than yours. Finally I am absolutely in 
 agreement with that honoured lady, Tatyana Pavlovna, whom I 
 had till now failed to esteem as she deserves, though I know her 
 personally. Her plan that you should enter the university will 
 be of the greatest possible benefit for you. Study and hfe will 
 imdoubtcdly in three or four years widen the horizon of your 
 ideas and aspirations, and if after the university you still desire 
 to return to yoiu- ' idea,' there will be nothing to prevent it. 
 
 " Now allow me, though you have not requested it, to give 
 you frankly some thoughts and impressions that have occurred to 
 my mind while perusing yoiu: extremely candid ' autobiography.' 
 Yes, I agree with Audrey Petrovitch, that one might well feel 
 anxiety about you and your solitary youth. And there are more 
 than a few lads like you, and there really is always a danger of 
 their talents leading them astray, either into secret sensuality, or 
 
 556
 
 a latent desire for lawlessness. But this thirst for lawlessness 
 proceeds most frequently, perhaps, from a latent craving for 
 discipline and ' seemliness ' — (I am using your own words). 
 Youth is pure, just because it is youth. Perhaps in these pre- 
 cocious impulses of madness, there lie concealed a craving for 
 discipline and a search for truth, and whose fault is it that some 
 young people of to-day see that truth and that discipline in such 
 stupid and ridiculous things, that one cannot imagine how they 
 can believe in them ! I may mention, b}' the way, that in the 
 recent past, a generation ago at most, such interesting lads were 
 not so much to be pitied, for in those days they almost always 
 ended by successfully attaching themselves to our most highly 
 cultivated class and merging into it and even if they did at the 
 onset recognise their own lack of order and consistency, the lack 
 of nobility even in their family surroundings, the lack of an 
 ancestral tradition, and of fine finished forms of social life, it 
 was a gain for them, for they consciously strove towards all this 
 and thereby learned to prize it. Nowadays the position is 
 somewhat different, for there is scarcely anything the ycwmg can 
 attach themselves to. 
 
 " I will explain by comparison, or, so to say, by analogy. If I 
 had been a Russian novelist and had talent I should certainly 
 have chosen my heroes from the old nobility, because only in 
 that type of cultivated Russian is it possible to find at least 
 that outward semblance of fine order and aesthetic beauty so 
 necessary in a novel to produce an artistic effect on the reader. 
 I am not joking when I say this, although lam not a nobleman 
 myself, as you are indeed aware. Pushkin selected the subject for 
 his future novels from the 'Traditions of the Russian Family,' 
 and believe me that everything beautiful we have had so far is 
 to be found therein. Everything that has been brought to some 
 sort of perfection, anyway. I don't say this because I am 
 accepting unconditionally the truth and justness of that beauty ; 
 but at least there were completely worked out forms of honour 
 and duty which have never existed anj^v'here in Russia except 
 in the nobility, even in the most rudimentary shape. 1 speak as 
 a calm man seeking calm. 
 
 " Whether that honour was a good thing, and whether that 
 duty was a true one — is a secondary question. What to my mind 
 is of most consequence is the finality of the forms and the 
 existence of some sort of order, not prescribed from above, but 
 developed from within. Good heavens, what matters most of all 
 
 557
 
 for us ie to have any sort of order of our own ! All hopes for the 
 future and, so to say, restfulness of outlook lie in our having 
 something at last built up, instead of this everlasting destruction, 
 instead of chips flying in all directions, rubbish and disorder 
 which has led to nothing for two hundred years. 
 
 " Don't accuse me of Slavophilism ; I only say this from 
 misanthropy, for my heart is heavy ! Something is happening 
 to us to-day and in the recent past, the very opposite of what I 
 have imagined above. It is not that the worthless attach them- 
 selves to the highest stratum of society, but, on the contrary, 
 with light-hearted haste, fragments are torn from what is fine 
 and noble and thrown into one mass with the lawless and the 
 envious. And there have been many instances of fathers and 
 heads of what have been cultured families, laughing at what their 
 children perhaps would have liked to beUeve in. What is more, 
 they eagerly display to their children their spiteful pleasure at 
 the sudden licence to be dishonest, which they have all at once 
 deduced, wholesale, from something, I am not speaking of the 
 true progressives, dear Arkady Makarovitch, but only of that 
 rabble, so numerous it seems, of whom it has been said ' grattez 
 le Russe et vous verrez le Tatare,' and believe me there are by 
 no means so many true liberals, true and noble friends of 
 humanity among us, as we have imagined. 
 
 " But all this is theorising ; let us come back to our sup- 
 posed noveUst. The position of our novelist in this case would 
 be perfectly definite ; he could not write in any other form but 
 the historical, for there is no fine type in our day, and if there 
 were remnants of it left the}' would not, according to the pre- 
 valent ideas of the day, have retained their beauty. Oh ! and 
 in historical form it is possible to depict a multitude of extremely 
 attractive and consolatory details ! It is possible so to fascinate 
 the reader indeed that he will take the historical picture for 
 the possible and the actual. Such a work, if executed with 
 great talent, would belong not so much to Russian literature as to 
 Russian history. 
 
 " It would be a picture artistically worked out of the Russian 
 ideal, having a real existence so long as it was not guessed that it 
 was an ideal. The grandson of those heroes who have been de- 
 picted in a picture of a Russian family of the upper middle culti- 
 vated class dvuring three generations, side by side with and in 
 connection with Russian history — that descendant of his fore- 
 fathers would not be depicted in his modem type except in a 
 
 558
 
 somewhat misanthropic solitary and distinct!}' melancholy 
 aspect. He is even bound to appear a somewhat strange tigure, 
 so that the reader might from the first glance recognise him as one 
 retreating from the field of action, and might be convinced there 
 was no field of action left for him. A little further and even that 
 misanthrope, that grandson of heroes, will disappear entirely ; 
 new characters will appear, unknown to us as yet, and a new 
 ideal ; but what sort of characters ? If they are without 
 beauty, then the Russian novel is impossible in the future. But 
 alas ! will the novel be the only thing impossible ? 
 
 " I will not pursue this further, but will hasten back to your 
 manuscript. Consider, for instance, both the families of M. 
 Versilov (for this once I will ventuxe to be quite open). I won't 
 enlarge on Andrey Petrovitch him.self ; but he is anyway of a 
 good old family. He is a nobleman of ancient lineage, and at 
 the same time a Parisian communard. He is a true poet and 
 loves Russia, yet denies her absolutely. He is without any sort 
 of religion, but yet almost ready to die for something indefinite, 
 to which he cannot give a name, but in which he fervently believes, 
 like a number of Russian adherents of European civilisation of 
 the Petersburg period of Russian history. But enough of him. 
 As for his legitimate family, I won't discuss his son, and indeed, 
 he is not worthy of the honour. All who have eyes know what 
 upstarts like that come to in Russia, and what they bring others 
 to as well. Then his daughter, x\nna Andreycvna — she is surely 
 a girl of strong character ? A figure on the scale of the Mother 
 Abbess Mitrofania, not that I mean to predict anything criminal 
 — which would be unjust on my part. 
 
 " If you can assure me, Arkady Makarovitch, that that family 
 is an exceptional phenomenon it will rejoice my heart. But 
 would it not be on the contrary a truer conclusion, that a multi- 
 tude of unquestionably aristocratic Russian families are with 
 irresistible force passing in masses into exceptional families and 
 mingling with them in the general lawlessness and chaos. A 
 typical example of such an exceptional family is sketched by you 
 in your manuscript. Yes, Arkady Makarovitch, you are a 
 member of an exceptional familij, in contrary distinction to the 
 aristocratic types who have had such a very different childhood 
 and adolescence from yours. 
 
 '" I must say I should not like to be a novelist whose hero comes 
 of an exceptional famil}' ! 
 
 " To describe him is an ungrateful task and can have no 
 
 559
 
 beauty of form. Moreover these types are in any case transitory-, 
 and so a novel about them cannot have artistic finish. One may 
 make serious mistakes, exaggerations, misjudgments. In any 
 case, one would have to guess too much. But what is the writer 
 to do who doesn't want to confine himself to the historical form, 
 and is possessed by a longing for the present ? To guess . , . 
 and make mistakes. 
 
 " But such an autobiography as yoiu-s might serve as material 
 for a future work of art, for a future picture of a lawless epoch 
 already passed. Oh, when the angry strife of the day has passed, 
 and the future has come, then a future artist will discover 
 beautiful forms for depicting past lawlessness and chaos. Then 
 such autobiographies as j'ours — so long as they are sincere — will 
 be of use and provide material in spite of their chaotic and for- 
 tuitous character . . . they will preserve at any rate some faith- 
 ful traits by which one may guess what may have lain hidden 
 in the heart of some raw youth of that troubled time — a know- 
 ledge not altogether valueless since from raw youths are made up 
 the generations." 
 
 560
 
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