I

How it has come about that I, who for almost two years have never thought seriously about anything, have suddenly commenced to reflect⁠—I cannot understand. It cannot be that man who has set me thinking, because I so often meet with men of his type that I am accustomed to their sermonizing.

Yes, they almost all, with the exception of the absolutely hardened or really clever ones, invariably talk about matters which are of no use to them or even me. First they ask my name and my age; then in the majority of cases, with an air of concern, they begin to ask, “Is it impossible for you to give up such a life?” At first this kind of thing used to upset me, but now I am accustomed to it. One becomes accustomed to a lot.

However, for the last fortnight, whenever I am quite alone and am not feeling gay⁠—that is, not drunk (because can I really be merry except when drunk?)⁠—I begin to think. And, however much I do not wish to think, I cannot help it. I cannot get away from depressing thoughts. There is only one way of forgetting⁠—to go out somewhere where there are plenty of people, where there is drunkenness and indecency. Then I too begin to drink and misbehave. My brain gets muddled, and I remember nothing.⁠ ⁠… Then it is⁠—easier. But why is it that this never happened before?⁠—not from the very first day I bid goodbye to everything? For more than two years I have lived here in this beastly room, always spending the time in the same way, frequenting the various restaurants and dancing-saloons, and all the time, if it has not really been gay, I at least have not thought so. But now⁠—it is quite, quite different.

How dull and stupid it all is! It is not because I go nowhere; I go nowhere simply because I don’t want to. I entangled myself in this life, I know my own road. In a copy of an illustrated paper which one of my “friends” brings me whenever there is something “spicy” in it, I once saw a picture. In the centre there was a pretty little girl with a doll, and around her there were two rows of figures. On the one side above they went from the child to the little schoolgirl, then the modest young girl, afterwards the mother of a family, and finally an honoured, respected old woman. On the other side, below⁠—was a shop-girl carrying a box, then me, me, and again me. First me⁠—like I am now, second me⁠—sweeping the streets with a broom, and third⁠—the same⁠—as an absolutely repulsive, loathsome old hag. However, I shall not let myself get to that stage. Another two or three years, if I can stand this life as long, and then into the canal. I can do this, I am not afraid.

But what a strange chap the man must be who drew this picture! Why does he take it for granted that a schoolgirl becomes a modest young lady, an honoured mother and grandmother? And I? I too can show off my French and German in the street! And I don’t think I have forgotten how to paint or draw flowers, and I remember “Calipso ne pouvait se consoler du départe d’Ulysse.” I remember Pushkin and Lermontoff, and all⁠—all. And the examinations and that momentous, awful time when I became a fool, a silly fool, and listened to all the passionate, silly speeches of that conceited fop, and how stupidly I enjoyed it, and all the lies and filth in the “best society” from which I came into this, where I now make an idiot of myself with vodka.⁠ ⁠… Yes, now I have begun even to drink vodka. “Horreur!” my cousin, Olga Nicolaievna, would say.

Yes, and is it not in reality “horreur”? But am I to blame in this matter? If I⁠—a seventeen-year-old girl, who for eight years had sat within four walls and had seen only other girls like myself and their different mammas⁠—had not met my “friend,” with his hair à la Capoul, but some other and good man⁠—then it would all have been different.

But what an absurd idea! Are there really any good people? Have I ever met any since or before my downfall? Can I believe that there are good people when of the scores I know there is not one whom I could not hate! Can I believe that they exist when amongst those I meet are husbands of young wives, children (almost children⁠—fourteen and fifteen years old) of “good family”! old men, bald, paralytic, half dead?

And finally, can I help hating and despising them, although I am myself a despicable and despised being, when amongst them are such persons as a certain young German with a monogram tattooed on his arm above the elbow? He explained to me that it was the initials of his fiancée. “Jetzt aber bist du meine liebe, allerliebste Liebchen,” said he, looking at me with oily eyes, and then read me verses from Heine, and unctuously explained that Heine was a great German poet, but that they had even greater poets in Germany⁠—Goethe and Schiller⁠—and that only such a great and gifted nation like the Germans could produce such poets.

How I longed to scratch his disgusting greasy face, with its white eyebrows and lashes! But instead I gulped down the glass of port wine he had poured out for me and forgot all.

Why should I think of the future when I know it so well? Why think of the past when there was nothing in it which could replace my present life? Yes, it is true. If I were asked today to return to those luxurious surroundings, to mingle amongst people with their beautifully dressed hair and elegant phrases, I would not! I should stay and die at my post.⁠ ⁠…

Yes, I have my post! I, too, am wanted, am necessary. Not long ago a young man came to me who talked everlastingly, and recited me a whole page he had learnt by heart out of some book, “That is what our philosopher⁠—a Russian philosopher⁠—says,” he explained. The philosopher said something very obscure but flattering for me to the effect that we are “the safety valves of public passions.”⁠ ⁠… Disgusting words! The philosopher himself is no doubt a beast, but worst of all this boy who repeated it.

However, not long ago, this same idea came into my mind. I was up before a magistrate, who fined me fifteen roubles for obscenity in a public place.

As he read his decision whilst all stood, I thought to myself: “Why do all this public look at me with such contempt? Granted that I carry on an unclean, loathsome trade, a most contemptible calling⁠—still, it is a calling! This judge also has a calling. And I think that we both⁠ ⁠…”

I don’t think of anything, I am conscious only that I drink, that I remember nothing, and get muddled. Everything gets mixed up in my head⁠—the disgusting saloon where I shall dance shamelessly tonight and this horrible room in which I can only live when I am drunk. My temples are throbbing, there is a ringing in my ears, everything is swimming in my head, and I am being carried away. I want to stop, to take hold of something, if only a straw, but there is nothing, not even a straw.

I lie! There is one! And not a straw, but something perhaps more hopeful. But I have sunk so low that I do not wish to stretch out my hand to seize this support.

It happened, I think, about the end of August. I remember it was a glorious autumn evening. I was strolling in the Summer Garden, and there became acquainted with this “support.” He did not appear to be anything extraordinary, excepting perhaps a certain good-natured talkativeness. He told me about almost all his affairs and friends. He was twenty-five, and his name was Ivan Ivanovich. As for the man himself, he was neither bad nor good. He chatted away with me as if I had been an old acquaintance, told me stories of his Chief, and pointed out to me any of those in his Department who happened to be in sight.

He left me, and I forgot all about him. About a month afterwards, however, he reappeared. He had grown thinner, and was moody and depressed. When he came in I was even a little frightened at the strange, forbidding-looking face.

“You don’t remember me?”

At that moment I remembered him, and said so.

He blushed.

“I thought perhaps you did not remember me, because you see so many⁠ ⁠…”

The conversation stopped abruptly. We sat on the sofa, I in one corner and he in the other, as if he had come for the first time to pay a call, sitting bolt upright, holding his tall hat in his hand. We sat like this for quite a time. Then he got up and bowed.

“Goodbye, Nadejda Nicolaievna,” he said with a sigh.

“How did you find out my name?” I exclaimed, flaring up. The name I went under was not Nadejda Nicolaievna, but Evgenia.

I shouted at Ivan Ivanovich so angrily that he became quite frightened.

“But I didn’t mean any harm, Nadejda Nicolaievna.⁠ ⁠… I have never wished or done harm to anyone.⁠ ⁠… But I know Peter Vassilovich of the police, who told me all about you. I meant to call you Evgenia, but my tongue slipped, and I called you by your real name.”

“And tell me why you have come here?”

He said nothing, and looked sorrowfully into my eyes.

“Why?” I repeated, getting more and more angry. “What interest do I possess for you? No, better not to come here. I will not start an acquaintanceship with you because I have no acquaintances. I know why you came! The policeman’s story interested you. You thought⁠—here is a rarity, an educated lady who has fallen into this kind of life.⁠ ⁠… You had visions of rescuing me? Clear out! I want nothing! Better to leave me to perish alone than⁠ ⁠…”

I chanced to glance at his face⁠—and stopped. I saw that every word was striking him like a blow. He said nothing, but his look alone made me stop.

“Goodbye, Nadejda Nicolaievna,” he said. “I am very sorry that I have hurt you and myself too. Goodbye.”

He put out his hand (I could not but take it), and slowly went out of the room. I heard him go down the staircase, and saw through the window how, with bowed head, he went across the courtyard with the same slow and tottering gait. At the gate of the yard he turned round, glanced up at my window, and disappeared.

And it is this man who can be my “support.” I have only to make a sign, and I can become a lawful wife. The lawful wife of a poor but wellborn man, and can even become a poor but wellborn mother, if only the Lord in His anger will yet send me a child.

II

Today Evsei Evsevich spoke to me:

“You will listen to me, Ivan Ivanovich⁠—what I, an old man, am going to say to you. You, my dear boy, have begun to behave stupidly. Take care that it does not reach the ears of the Chief!”

He went on talking for a long time (trying to speak of the very essence of the matter by roundabout means) about the service, the respect due to rank, of our Chief, about myself, and finally began to talk about my misfortune. We were sitting in a traktir,3 where Nadejda Nicolaievna and her friends often came.

Evsei Evsevich had long ago noticed, and had long ago drawn from me a number of details. I could not hold my stupid tongue, and let it all out, and even almost cried.

Evsei Evsevich got angry.

“Bah! you old woman, you tenderhearted old woman! A young man, a good official, you have started all this nonsense for such rubbish! Have done with her! What have you to do with her? It would be all right if she were a respectable, decent girl; but for, if I may say so⁠ ⁠…”

Evsei Evsevich even spat.

After this incident he often returned to the subject (Evsei Evsevich was sincerely grieved about and for me), but he no longer stormed at me, because he saw that it annoyed me. At the same time, he could not contain himself for long, and although he would try at first to talk in a roundabout way on the subject, eventually he would come to the one conclusion that it was necessary to have done with it, etc.

And I, strictly speaking, agree with what he says every day to me. How many times have I also thought that it was necessary to have done with it. Yes, how many times! And how many times after such thoughts have I gone out of the house, and my feet have borne me to that street.⁠ ⁠… And here she comes, berouged, with pencilled eyebrows, in a velvet shuba, and a dainty sealskin cap, straight towards me, and I cross to the other side, so that she shall not notice that I am following her. She goes up to the corner, then turns back, impudently, brazenly looking at the passersby, and sometimes talking with them. I follow behind her from the other side of the street, trying not to lose sight of her, and hopelessly I gaze at her little figure until some⁠ ⁠… blackguard goes up to her and speaks. She answers him, turns round, and goes with him⁠ ⁠… and I after them. If the road were strewn with sharp nails it could not be more painful for me. I go along hearing nothing, seeing nothing, except two figures.⁠ ⁠…

I do not look where I am going, and go along with my eyes starting out of my head, bumping against passersby, and meeting in return with reproofs, abuse, and pushes. Once I knocked a child over.⁠ ⁠…

They turn to the right, then to the left, they go through the little door into the yard. She first, then he. Almost always out of some strange politeness he gives her the way. Then I follow. Opposite her two windows, so familiar to me, there stands a shed with a hayloft. There is a small flight of iron steps leading up to the hayloft, ending with a small landing devoid of any railing. I sit down on this landing and gaze at the lowered white blinds.⁠ ⁠…

Today I was at my awful post, although there was a sharp frost. I became thoroughly benumbed. My feet lost all feeling, but still I stood there. Steam rose from my face, my moustaches and beard became frozen, my feet began to freeze. People kept passing through the courtyard, but did not notice me, and, talking loudly, used to pass by me. From the street came sounds of drunken singing (it was a gay street), interchange of abuse, the noise of the scrapers on the pavement as the dvorniks cleared it of snow. All these sounds rang in my ears, but I paid no attention to them or to the frost, which was biting my face and my benumbed legs. All this, the sounds, my feet, and the frost, seemed to be all far, far away from me. My legs were aching violently, but something inside me was aching even more violently. I have not the courage to go to her. Does she know that there is a man who would consider it happiness to sit with her in a room, and only look into her eyes, not even touching her hands? That there is a man who would hurl himself into the fire if it would help her to get out of the hell in which she lives, if she wanted to get out of it? But she does not wish.⁠ ⁠… And I, up to now, do not know why she does not wish. I cannot believe that she is spoilt to the very marrow of her bones. I cannot believe this because I know it is not so, because I know her, because I love her, love her.

A waiter went up to Ivan Ivanovich, who had placed his elbows on the table, and with his face buried in his arms, was shuddering from time to time, and touched him on the shoulder.

“Mr. Nikitin. You mustn’t sit like this.⁠ ⁠… In front of everyone.⁠ ⁠… The proprietor will make a fuss. Mr. Nikitin! Please get up. You must not act like this here.”

Ivan Ivanovich raised his head and looked at the waiter. He was not the least drunk, and the waiter understood this as soon as he saw his mournful face.

“It is nothing, Simon⁠—nothing. Give me a bottle of vodka.”

“What will you order with it?”

“What? A wineglass. And give me a big bottle. Here you are, pay for it all and take a couple of dvu-grivenniks4 for yourself. In an hour’s time send me home in an izvoschik.5 Do you know where I live?”

“I know.⁠ ⁠… Only, sir, what does it all mean?”

He evidently could not understand. It was the first experience of the kind in all his long career.

“No, wait a bit; better for me to do it.”

Ivan Ivanovich went out into the passage, put on his coat, and going out on to the street, turned in at a wine-vault in the low window of which, brilliantly lighted up by the gaslight, were bottles with various coloured labels, tastefully arranged in a layer of moss. A minute later he came out carrying two bottles, went to his lodging, which he had in some furnished rooms, and locked himself in.

III

I have again forgotten and again I am awake. Three weeks of incessant debauchery! How do I stand it? Today my head, bones, every part of my body is aching. Remorse, boredom, fruitless and tormenting arguing! If only someone would come!

As if in answer to my thought a ring at the door sounded. “Is Evgenia at home?” “At home; come in, please,” I heard the voice of the cook reply. Uneven, hurried steps resounded along the corridor, the door flew open, and through it appeared Ivan Ivanovich.

He was not at all like the timid, bashful man who had come to see me two months ago. His hat was on the side of his head, he wore a bright-coloured tie, and a self-assured, insolent expression. His gait was staggering, and he smelt strongly of liquor.

Nadejda Nicolaievna jumped up from her seat.

“How do you do?” he began. “I have come to see you.”

And he sat down on a chair near the door, without taking off his hat or overcoat. She said nothing and he said no more. Had he not been drunk she would have found something to say, but now she lost her presence of mind. Whilst she was thinking what to do, he again spoke.

“Nadia! See, I have come.⁠ ⁠… I have the right!” he suddenly shouted out, and drew himself up to his full height. His hat fell off, and his black hair fell in disorder on to his face, his eyes blazed. His whole appearance expressed such delirium that for a moment Nadejda Nicolaievna was frightened.

She tried to speak tenderly with him.

“Listen, Ivan Ivanovich, I shall be very pleased if you will come another time, only go home now. You have had too much to drink. Be a good fellow and go home. Come and see me when you are well.”

“She is frightened,” Ivan Ivanovich muttered half to himself, again sitting down on the chair⁠—tamed! “But why are you hunting me away?” he broke out again fiercely. “Why? I began to drink through you; I used to be sober! Why do you draw me to you, tell me?”

He wept. Drunken tears stifled him, trickled down his face, falling into his mouth contorted with sobbing. He could scarcely speak.

“Another woman would consider it a piece of fortune to be taken out of this hell. I would slave for you like a bullock. You would live without care, quietly and honourably. Tell me, what have I done to merit your hatred?”

Nadejda Nicolaievna kept silent.

“Why are you silent?” he yelled. “Speak, say something!⁠—anything you like, only say something. I am drunk⁠—that’s true.⁠ ⁠… I should not have come here if I were not. Do you know how afraid I am of you when I am sober? You can do what you like with me. Tell me to steal⁠—I’ll steal. Tell me to kill⁠—I’ll kill. Do you know this? Of course you know! You are clever and see everything. If you do not know it⁠ ⁠… Nadia, Nadia, my heart’s darling, pity me!”

And he threw himself on to his knees before her. But she sat motionless, resting against the wall, with her head thrown back and her hands behind her back. Her eyes were fixed on some faraway point. Did she see anything? Did she hear anything? What were her feelings at the sight of this man who had thrown himself at her feet and was imploring her love? Pity? Contempt? She wanted to pity him, but felt she could not. He only excited her aversion. And could he have excited any other feeling in this pitiful state?⁠—drunk, dirty, abjectly imploring?

He had already for some days past given up going to his work. He drank every day. Finding consolation in drink, he began to follow the object of his passion less, and sat all the time at home drinking and trying to muster up courage to go to her and tell her all. What he would say to her he did not himself know. “I will tell her everything, open my soul,” flashed through his fuddled head. At length he made up his mind, went and began to speak. Even through the mist of his drunkenness he realized that he was saying and doing things not at all calculated to inspire love towards him, but all the same, he went on speaking, feeling that with every word he was falling lower and lower, and drawing the noose tighter and tighter around his neck.

He spoke long and disjointedly. His speech became slower and slower, and finally his drunken, swollen eyelids closed, and with his head thrown back against the chair, he fell asleep.

Nadejda Nicolaievna remained in her former pose, vacantly gazing at the ceiling, drumming with her fingers on the wallpaper.

“Am I sorry for him? No. What can I do for him? Marry him? Dare I? Would it not be the same selling of myself? Yes⁠—no, it would be even worse!”

She did not know why it would be worse, but felt it.

“Now, I am at least frank. Anyone may strike me. Have I not suffered insults? But then, how would I be better? Would it not be the same depravity, only not less frank? There he sits asleep, his head hanging backwards. Mouth open, face pale as death. His clothes are all stained. He must have fallen down somewhere. How heavily he is breathing⁠ ⁠… sometimes even snoring.⁠ ⁠… Yes, but this will all pass, and he will become once more a decent, self-respecting man. No, it isn’t that. It seems to me that if I let this man get the upper hand of me he will torment me with recollections⁠ ⁠… and I could not endure it. No, I’ll stay what I am.⁠ ⁠… Yes, it won’t be for much longer.”

She threw a shawl around her shoulders and left the room, slamming the door behind her. Ivan Ivanovich woke from the noise, looked around him with unmeaning eyes, and feeling it uncomfortable to sleep on a chair, with difficulty staggered to the bed, fell on to it, and dropped off into a dead sleep. He awoke with his head aching, but sober, late in the evening, and, seeing where he was, fled.

I left the house not knowing where I was going. The weather was bad. The day gloomy and dull. A wet snow was falling on my face and hands. It would have been much better to stay indoors, but could I sit there with him? He is going absolutely to ruin. What can I do to keep him? Can I change my relations towards him? My whole soul, my whole inner being revolts and burns at the thought. I do not myself know why I do not wish to take advantage of this opportunity to have done with this awful life, to rid myself of this nightmare. If I were to marry him? A new life, new hopes.⁠ ⁠… Surely the feeling of pity which I nevertheless have for him would turn to love?

But no! Now he is ready to lick my hand, but afterwards will trample me underfoot and say: “And you still oppose me, contemptible creature! You despised me!”

Would he say this? I think so.

There is one means of salvation for me, an excellent one, on which I have long made up my mind, and to which I expect I shall eventually have recourse. But I think it is still too soon. I am too young, I feel too much that I am alive. I want to live, to breathe, to feel, hear, see. I want to be able, even if rarely, to see the sky and the Neva.

Here is the Quay. On the one side enormous buildings, and on the other⁠—the blackening, icebound Neva. The ice will soon move, and then the river will be blue. The park on the opposite side is becoming green. The islands, too, are becoming covered with foliage. Although it is a Petersburg spring, still, it is spring.

And suddenly I remembered my last happy spring. I was then a girl of seven years, and lived with my father and mother in the country in the steppe. They paid little heed to what I did, and I ran about where and as much as I chose. I remember in the beginning of March how the rivers rushed along the gullies, roaring with the melted snow, how the steppe became darker, how wonderful the air became, how moist and joyous. First the top of the mounds showed themselves with the short grass on them becoming green. Then afterwards the whole steppe became green, although drift snow still lay in the gullies and ravines. Rapidly, in a few days, literally as if they had sprung already freed from out of the earth, bunches of peonies grew up and on them, their gaudy bright crimson blooms. The larks began to sing.

Oh Lord! What have I done that even in this life I have been thrown into hell? Surely all that I go through is worse than any hell!

The stone steps lead straight down to a prorub.6 Something impelled me to go down these steps and look at the water. But is it too soon? Of course it is. I will wait a little.

All the same, it would be nice to stand on the slippery wet edge of the prorub. It would be so easy to slip in. It would only be cold.⁠ ⁠… One second⁠—and I should float under the ice down the river. A mad beating of the ice above with hands, feet, head, face. It would be interesting to know if daylight is visible through the ice.

I stood motionless over the prorub, and so long that I had got to the state when one thinks of nothing.

My feet had long been wet through, yet I did not move from the spot. It was not a cold wind, but it pierced right through me, so that I was shivering all over; but still I stood there. I do not know how long this would have lasted if somebody had not called out from the Quay:

“Heh, Madame! Lady!”

I did not turn round.

“Lady, please come back on to the pavement!”

Somebody behind me began to come down the steps. In addition to the shuffling of feet along the steps sprinkled with sand, I heard a sort of dull noise. I turned round. It was a gorodovoi, who had come down, and it was his sword I had heard. When he saw my face, the respectful expression on his face abruptly changed to one of coarse insolence. He came up to me and seized me by the shoulder.

“Get out of this, you! The likes of you are everywhere. You will be fool enough to throw yourself into the prorub, and then I shall lose my billet through you.”

He knew by my face what I am.

IV

All is the same as before. It is not possible to be one minute alone without being seized with melancholy. What shall I do so as to forget?

Annushka has brought me a letter. From whom? It is so long since I had had a latter from anyone.

“Madame Nadedja Nicolaievna,

“Although I thoroughly understand that I am nothing to you, I nevertheless believe that you are a nice girl and will not want to offend me. For the first and last time I beg you to come and see me, as today is my name-day. I have no relations, no friends. I implore you to come. I give you my word I will say nothing displeasing or offensive. Pity your devoted

“Ivan Nikitin.

“P.S.⁠—I cannot think of my recent behaviour in your rooms without shame. Come today at six o’clock. I enclose my address.⁠—I. N.”

What does this mean? He has had the courage to write to me. There is something behind it all. What does he want to do with me? Shall I go or not?

It is difficult to decide⁠—go or not? If he wants to lure me into a trap, either to kill me or⁠ ⁠… but if he kills me, all is ended.

I will go.

I will dress more plainly and modestly, wash the rouge and powder off my face. It will be more pleasing to him. I will do my hair more plainly. How my hair has fallen out! I did my hair, put on a black woollen dress, a black scarf, white collar and cuffs, and went to the glass to look at myself.

I almost cried out at seeing in it a woman not at all like the Evgenia who performs indecent dances so well at various cafés. It was not the impudent, berouged cocotte with smiling face, flash puffed-out chignon, and pencilled lashes. This draggled and suffering woman, pale-faced and melancholy-looking, with big black eyes and dark circles around them, is something quite new⁠—it is not I. But perhaps it is I. And that Evgenia whom all see and know is something strange, mocking me, pressing me, killing me.

And I really cried. I cried long and bitterly. They have assured me since babyhood that one feels easier after crying, but this cannot be true for all, because I do not feel easier, but worse. Every sob hurts me, every tear is a bitter one. To those who have still some hope of peace and of being cured such tears perhaps give relief; but what hope have I?

I dried my tears and started off.

I found the address without any difficulty, and the Finnish maidservant showed me Ivan Ivanovich’s door.

“May I come in?”

There was a sound in the room of a drawer being hurriedly shut. “Come in!” Ivan Ivanovich called out quickly. I entered. He was sitting at a writing-table and was sealing an envelope. He did not seem even to be glad to see me.

“How do you do, Ivan Ivanovich?” I said.

“How do you do, Nadejda Nicolaievna?” he replied, rising and putting out his hand. A gleam of tenderness flashed across his face when I put out my hand, but disappeared immediately. He was serious and even severe. “Thank you for coming.”

“Why did you ask me?” I inquired.

“My goodness, surely you know what it means to me to see you! But that is an unpleasant topic for you.”

We sat down and kept silent. The Finn maid brought a samovar. Ivan Ivanovich gave me some tea and sugar. Then he placed some jam, biscuits, sweets, and half a bottle of wine on the table.

“Forgive me for this ‘treat’ Nadejda Nicolaievna. Perhaps it is displeasing to you, but don’t be angry. Be kind, make and pour out the tea. Eat something⁠—there are the sweets and wine.”

I began to do the duties of hostess, and he sat opposite me so that his face was in the shade, and began to gaze at me. I felt his eyes fixed steadily on me, and felt that I was getting red.

For a moment I raised my eyes, but dropped them again directly because he continued to look me straight in the face. What does it mean? Surely the surroundings, the modest black dress, the absence of impudent people and stupid talk has not affected me so strongly that I have once more turned into a demure and confused girl, such as I was two years ago? I was annoyed, vexed with myself.

“Tell me, please, why are you poking your eyes out at me like that for?” I said, with an effort, but bravely.

Ivan Ivanovich jumped up and began to walk about the room.

“Nadejda Nicolaievna, don’t be common. Be just for an hour as you were when you arrived.”

“But I don’t understand why you have sent for me. Surely not merely to sit and look at me and say nothing.”

“Yes, Nadejda Nicolaievna, only for this. It at least does not give you any special annoyance, and it comforts me to look at you⁠—for the last time. It was so good of you to come in that dress. I did not expect that, and I am still more grateful to you for it.”

“But why for the last time, Ivan Ivanovich?”

“I am going away.”

“Where?”

“Far away, Nadejda Nicolaievna. It is not my name-day at all today. I don’t know why I wrote that. I simply wanted to see you once more. First, I meant to have gone out and waited until I met you, but afterwards I decided to beg you to come here. And you were good enough to come. God grant you happiness!”

“There is little happiness ahead for me, Ivan Ivanovich.”

“Yes, that is true, for you there is little happiness. But you know better than I what is ahead of you.⁠ ⁠…” His voice trembled. “I am better off,” he added, “because I am going away.” And his voice trembled still more.

I began to feel inexpressibly sorry for him. Was it just all the bad I had felt against him? Why had I pushed him away so coarsely and harshly? But now it was already too late for regrets.

I got up and began to put on my things. Ivan Ivanovich jumped up as if stung.

“You are going already?” he asked in an agitated voice.

“Yes, I must go.⁠ ⁠…”

“You must?⁠ ⁠… Again there? Nadejda Nicolaievna! Yes, better for me to kill you at once!”

He said this in a whisper, having seized me by the arm and looking at me with a troubled expression in his dilated eyes.

“Is it better? Tell me!”

“But you know, Ivan Ivanovich, that you will go to Siberia for it. And I don’t want that at all.”

“To Siberia!⁠ ⁠… And is it only out of fear of Siberia that I cannot kill you?⁠ ⁠… No, that is not why.⁠ ⁠… I cannot kill you because⁠ ⁠… but how can I kill you? How can I kill you?” he murmured chokingly,⁠ ⁠… “I⁠ ⁠…”

And he seized me, lifted me up as if I had been a child, crushing me in his embrace, and raining kisses on my face, lips, eyes, and hair. Then, just as suddenly as this had all happened, he put me down and said quickly:

“Well, go! go!⁠ ⁠… Forgive me, but it is the first and last time. Don’t be angry with me. Go, Nadejda Nicolaievna!”

“I am not angry, Ivan Ivanovich.⁠ ⁠…”

“Go! Go! Thank you for coming.”

He saw me to the door, and immediately afterwards locked it. I began to go down the staircase. I was feeling more depressed than before.

Let him go and forget me. I will stay and live out my time. Enough of sentimentality. I’ll go home.

I quickened my pace, and began to think of what dress I should wear and where to go in the evening. And so my romance has ended, a momentary halt on the slippery path! Now I shall go on without let or hindrance ever lower and lower.⁠ ⁠…

But if he means to shoot himself now! suddenly something cried out within me. I stopped as if transfixed. My eyes became dark, cold shivers ran down my back. I could not breathe.⁠ ⁠… Yes, he is at this moment killing himself! He slammed the drawer⁠—he was looking at a revolver. He had written a letter.⁠ ⁠… The last time.⁠ ⁠… Run! Perhaps I shall yet be in time. Oh God! stop him! God! leave him for me!

A mortal strange fear seized me. I rushed back as if possessed, tearing my way through passersby. I do not remember how I tore up the stairs. I only remember the vacant face of the Finn servant who let me in. I remember the long, dark corridor with its row of doors. I remember how I threw myself at his door; but as I seized the handle a shot resounded from inside. People rushed out from all sides, everything swam around me, people, corridor, doors, walls. And I fell⁠ ⁠… everything in my head also swam and disappeared.⁠ ⁠…