I have long wanted to commence my memoirs. A strange reason is compelling me to take up a pen. Some write their memoirs because there is much in them historically interesting, others because they wish by so doing to live the happy days of their youth once more, and yet others in order to sneer at and traduce persons long since dead, and to justify themselves before long-forgotten accusations. In my case it is not any one of these reasons. I am still young. I have not made history, nor have I seen how it is made. There is no reason for people to criticize me, and I have nothing concerning which I wish to justify myself. Once again to experience happiness? My happiness was so short-lived and its finale so terrible that to recall it does not afford me pleasure⁠ ⁠… no, far from it.

Why, then, does an unknown voice keep whispering of that happiness in my ear? Why, when I awake at night, do familiar scenes and forms pass before me in the darkness? And why, when one pale form appears, does his face blaze, his hands clench, and terror and fury arrest his breathing as on that day when I stood face to face with my mortal enemy?

I cannot rid myself of these recollections, and a strange thought has come into my head. Perhaps if I commit these recollections to paper I shall in this way settle accounts and finish with them.⁠ ⁠… Perhaps they will leave me, and allow me to die in peace. This is the strange reason which is compelling me to take up a pen. Perhaps somebody will read this diary, perhaps not; I care little. Therefore I do not apologize to any future readers either as regards style or the choice of subject upon which I am writing, a subject not in the least interesting to people accustomed to busy themselves in questions, if not of worldwide, at least of public interest. It is true, however, that I want one person to read these lines, but she will not condemn me. All that concerns me is precious to her. This person is my cousin.

Why today is she so long in coming? It is already three months since I came to myself after that day. The first face I saw was Sonia’s. And from that time she has spent every evening with me. It has become a kind of duty with her. She sits by my bed or beside a big armchair when I am strong enough to sit up, talks with me, and reads aloud from the newspapers or from books. She is much distressed because I leave it to her, and am indifferent as to what she reads.

“Look here, Andrei, there is a new story in the Viestnik Europa called ‘She thought it was otherwise.’ ”

“Very good, dear, we will have ‘She thought it was otherwise.’ ”

“It is a story by Mrs. Hay.”

And she commenced to read a long history of a Mr. Skripple and a Miss Gordon. After the first two pages she turned her big kind eyes on me, and said: “It is not a long one; the Viestnik always cuts the stories short.”

“All right, I will listen.”

And as she resumes her reading of the narrative concocted by Mrs. Hay, I look at her face bent over the book, and forget to listen to the edifying story. Sometimes in those places where, according to Mrs. Hay, I should laugh bitter tears choke me. Then she drops the book, and, looking at me in a searching, but timid, manner, places her hand on my forehead, and says:

“Andrei darling, again! Now, my dear boy, that will do. Don’t cry. It will all pass by and be forgotten⁠ ⁠…” just as a mother comforts a little child who has bumped and hurt his forehead. But my hurt will only pass away with my life, which, I feel, is little by little ebbing from my body; nevertheless, I calm down.

Oh, my darling cousin! How I appreciate your womanly caresses! May God bless you, and allow the black pages in the beginning of your life⁠—pages on which my name is written⁠—to be replaced by a radiant narrative of happiness! Only grant that this narrative will not resemble Mrs. Hay’s tiresome story.

A ring! At last! She has come, and will bring an atmosphere of freshness into my dark and stifling room, will break its silence with her quiet tender talk, and will lighten it with her beauty.

I do not remember my mother, and my father died when I was fourteen years old. My guardian, a distant relation, packed me off to one of the Petersburg gymnasia, where, after four years, I completed my studies and was absolutely free. My guardian, a man immersed in his own numerous affairs, confined his solicitude for me to an allowance sufficient, in his opinion, to keep me from want. It was not a very handsome income, but it entirely freed me from care as to earning my crust of bread, and allowed me to choose my path of life.

The choice had long been made. For four years I had loved before all else in the world to play with paints and pencils, and at the end of my term at the gymnasium I already drew quite well, so I had no difficulty in entering the Academy of Arts.

Had I talent? Now, when I shall never again stretch a canvas, I may without bias look upon myself as an artist. Yes, I had talent. And I say this not because of the criticisms of comrades and experts, not because I passed so quickly through the Academy, but because of the feeling which was in me, which made itself felt every time I commenced to work. No one who is not an artist can experience the painful but delicious excitement every time one approaches a new canvas for the first time. No one but an artist can experience the oblivion to all around when the soul is engrossed in.⁠ ⁠… Yes, I had talent, and I should have become no ordinary artist.

There they are, hanging on the walls⁠—my canvases, studies, and exercises, and unfinished pictures. And there she is.⁠ ⁠… I must ask my cousin to take her away into another room. Or, no⁠—I must have it hung exactly at the foot of my bed, so that she may all the time look at me with her sad glance, as if foreseeing execution. In a dark blue dress, with a dainty white cap, and a large tricoloured cockade on one side of it, and with her dark chestnut locks escaping from under its white frill in thick waves, she gazes at me as if alive. Oh, Charlotte, Charlotte! Ought I to bless or curse the hour when the thought first entered my head to paint you?

Bezsonow was always against it. When I first told him of my intention, he shrugged his shoulders, and smiled in a dissatisfied manner.

“You are mad people, you Russian painters,” said he. “Have you so little of your own about which to paint? Charlotte Corday! What have you got to do with Charlotte? Can you really transfer yourself to that time and those surroundings?”

Perhaps he was right.⁠ ⁠… Only, the figure of the French heroine so possessed me that I could not but take it for a picture. I decided to paint her full length, alone standing square before the spectators, with her eyes gazing ahead of her. She had already decided on her deed⁠—crime, but it is only discernible as yet on her face. The hand which will deal the fatal blow at present hangs helplessly, and shows up delicately in its whiteness against the dark blue cloth of her dress. A lace cape, fastened crossways, tints the delicate neck, along which tomorrow a line of blood will pass.⁠ ⁠… I remember how her image shaped itself in my mind.⁠ ⁠… I read her history in a sentimental and perhaps untruthful book by Lamartine; from out of the false pathos of the garrulous Frenchman, delighting in his verbosity and style, the clean figure of the girl⁠—a fanatic for the good cause⁠—stood out in clear relief. I read over and over again all that I could get hold of about her, studied her portraits, and decided to paint a picture.

The first picture, like a first love, takes entire possession of one. I carried about mentally the figure which I had formed; I thought out the minutest details, and reached such a stage that, by closing my eyes, I could clearly see the Charlotte I had decided to put to canvas.

But, having begun the picture with a happy feeling of fear and tremulous excitement, I at once met an unexpected and almost unsurmountable obstacle. I had no model.

Or, rather, strictly speaking, there were models. I chose the one which seemed to me the most suitable from amongst those acting as models in St. Petersburg, and started zealously to work. But, alas! how unlike was this Anna Ivanovna to the creation of my fancy, as it appeared before my closed eyes! Anna posed splendidly. For a whole hour she would sit motionless, never stirring, and conscientiously earned her rouble, very pleased that she might sit draped.

“Ah! How nice it is to pose like this!” she said, with a sigh, and a slight flush on her face at her first sitting⁠—“elsewhere⁠—”

She had only been a model for two months, and could not as yet accustom herself to sitting in the nude. Russian girls, it would seem, never can quite accustom themselves.

I painted her hand, shoulders, and pose; but when it came to her face, despair seized me. The small, plump, young face, with its slightly upturned nose, the kind grey eyes which gazed trustfully and somewhat dolefully from under very arched brows, shut out my vision. I could not transfer these nondescript features into that face. I wrestled with my Anna Ivanovna three or four days, then finally left her alone. There was no other model, and I decided to do what should never under any circumstances be done, to paint the face without a study⁠—from “out of my head,” as they say. I decided on this because I saw it as if living before me. But when work began, brushes went flying into the corner. Instead of a living face, a sort of sketch resulted, which possessed neither flesh nor blood.

I took the canvas from the easel and placed it in a corner, face to the wall. My failure surprised me greatly. I remember that I even tore my hair. It seemed to me that it was not worth living, to have thought out such a beautiful picture (and how beautiful it was in my imagination!), and not be able to paint it. I threw myself on my bed, and from grief and vexation tried to sleep. I remember that when I had already dropped asleep there was a ring at the door. The postman had brought me a letter from my cousin Sonia. She was rejoiced that I had thought out so big and difficult a task, and lamented that it was so difficult to find a model. “Would not I do when I leave the Institute? Wait a little, Andrei,” she wrote. “I will come to Petersburg, and you may paint ten Charlotte Cordays from me if you wish⁠ ⁠… if only there is a vestige of resemblance between me and that which you write now possesses your soul.⁠ ⁠…”

Sonia is not the least like Charlotte. She is incapable of inflicting a wound. She loves, rather, to heal them, and wondrously well she does it. And she would cure me⁠ ⁠… if it were possible.

In the evening I went round to Bezsonow.

I went into the room where he was sitting bent over his writing-table, which was littered with books, manuscripts, and cuttings from papers. His hand was travelling swiftly over the paper. He wrote very quickly, without making erasures, in a small, even, and florid hand. He gave me a rapid glance, and continued writing. A tenacious idea apparently possessed him, and he did not wish to stop his work until he had put it to paper. I sat down on a wide, low, and much-worn sofa (he slept on it), which stood in a dark corner of the room, and for some five minutes looked at him. His regular, cold profile was well known to me; I had often sketched it in my album, and had once painted a study from it. I have not got this study. He sent it to his mother. But this evening⁠—perhaps because I was sitting out of the light, and a lamp with a green-coloured shade showed him up in brilliant relief, or perhaps because my nerves were unstrung⁠—his face, for some reason, particularly attracted my attention. I looked at him and took in every detail of his head, and noted the smallest features which had hitherto escaped my notice. His head was indisputably the head of a strong man⁠—perhaps not very talented, but strong.

The quadrangular-shaped skull, almost without a break passing into a wide and powerful nape; the abrupt and prominent forehead; the brows drooping in the centre and contracting the skin into a vertical fold; the strong jaw and thin lips⁠—all appeared to me as something new today.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he suddenly asked, having laid down his pen, and turning his face to me.

“How did you know?”

“I felt it. It is not fancy. I have several times experienced a similar feeling.”

“I was looking at your face as a model. You have a very original-shaped head, Serge Vassilivich.”

“Really!” said he, with a short smile. “Well! and let it be original.”

“No; but, seriously, you are like someone⁠ ⁠… some famous⁠ ⁠…”

“Rogue or murderer?” he asked, not allowing me to finish. “I do not believe in Lavater.⁠ ⁠… Well⁠—and you? By your face I see that things are not going well. Won’t it work out?”

“No; things are not altogether right. I have given it up⁠—chucked it,” I replied in a despairing voice.

“Ah! as I thought. What is it? I suppose no model.”

“No, no, no. You know. Serge Vassilivich, how I have searched. But it is all so unlike what I want that I am simply in despair⁠—especially this Anna Ivanovna. She has absolutely worn me out. She has wiped out everything with her flat face. It even seems to me that the image itself is not as clear in my head as it used to be.”

“Then, it was clear?”

“Oh yes, absolutely. If it had been possible to paint it with my eyes blindfolded, really, I think nothing better would have been wanted. With my eyes shut, I can see her now, there”⁠—and I must have screwed up my eyes in a most ridiculous manner, because Bezsonow laughed loudly.

“Don’t laugh. Seriously, I am in despair,” I said.

He suddenly stopped laughing.

“If so, I’ll stop. But, really and honestly, I am sorry for you, although I cannot help laughing. But didn’t I tell you to have nothing to do with this subject?”

“And I have cast it aside.”

“And how much labour, loss of nervous energy, how much vain lamenting now! I knew that it would not work out; and not because I foresaw that you would not find a model, but because the subject is unsuitable. One must have it in one’s blood. One must be a descendant of those people who lived with Marat and Charlotte Corday, and those times. But what are you?⁠—the mildest of well-educated Russians, lethargic and weak. One must be capable of doing such a deed oneself. But you! Could you, if necessary, throw away your brushes and⁠—speaking figuratively⁠—take up a dagger? For you this would be about as possible as a trip to the moon.⁠ ⁠…”

“I have often argued with you about this, Serge Vassilivich, and apparently you will never convince me, nor I you. An artist is an artist precisely because he can place himself in another’s place. Was it necessary for Raphael to become the Blessed Virgin in order to paint the Madonna? It is absurd. Serge Vassilivich. However, I am beginning an argument, although I have said I don’t wish to argue with you.”

Bezsonow was going to say something, when he checked himself, and, with a gesture of the hand, said:

“Well, do as you like;” and, getting up from his chair at the table, began to pace from corner to corner of the room, making but little noise as he did so in his felt slippers.

“We will not quarrel about it. We will not irritate the sores of a secret heart, as somebody said somewhere.”

“I do not think that anybody ever said that.”

“Well, perhaps not; I usually misquote poetry.⁠ ⁠… What if we have the samovar in for consolation? It must be time.”

He went to the door and shouted out, as if drilling a company of soldiers: “Tea!”

I disliked this manner of his with servants. For some time neither of us said a word. I sat buried in the cushions of the sofa, and he continued to pace from corner to corner. He was apparently thinking over something⁠ ⁠… and, finally stopping before me, he said, in a businesslike tone:

“And if you had a model, would you try again?”

“Oh, of course,” I replied dismally; “but where will you find her?”

He again paced the room for a little while.

“Look here, Andrei Nicolaievich.⁠ ⁠… There is one person.”

“If she is somebody important, she will not pose.”

“No, she is not at all important⁠—not at all. But⁠ ⁠… and I have a very big ‘but’ in connection with this matter.”

“What kind of ‘but,’ Serge Vassilivich? If you are not joking⁠ ⁠…”

“Yes, yes; I am joking. It is impossible⁠ ⁠…”

“Serge Vassilivich⁠ ⁠…” I said, in an imploring tone.

“Listen to what I am going to say. You know that I have a high opinion of you,” he began, standing still in front of me. “We are almost of an age. I am two years older, but I have lived and gone through as much as it will take you ten years and more, probably, to learn. I am not a nice man. I am bad and⁠ ⁠… immoral, depraved” (he rapped out each word). “There are many who are more so than I, but I consider myself more guilty. I hate myself for it and for not being able to be the clean-minded man I should like to be⁠ ⁠… like you, for instance.”

“Of what sort of depravity and cleanness are you talking?” I asked.

“I call things by their proper names. I often envy you your peace and clear conscience. I envy you for being what you are.⁠ ⁠… But it is all the same⁠—impossible, impossible,” he said to himself angrily. “We will not talk about it.”

“If impossible, at least explain what or who I am,” I replied.

“Nothing⁠ ⁠… no one.⁠ ⁠… But, yes, I will tell you. Your cousin, Sophia Nicolaievna. She is not a very near cousin?”

“A second cousin,” I replied.

“Yes, a second cousin. She is your fiancée,” he said, in a positive tone.

“How do you know?” I exclaimed.

“I know. At first I guessed it, but now I know it. I found out from my mother. She wrote to me not long ago⁠—and, besides, remember where she is.⁠ ⁠… Surely you know that in a provincial town everyone knows everything! Is it true that she is your fiancée?”

“Well, we will allow it is so.”

“And from childhood? Your parents decided on it?”

“Yes, my parents arranged it. At first I regarded it as a joke, but now I see that it will take place. I did not want anyone to know this, and I am very sorry that you have found it out.”

“I envy you for having a fiancée,” he said quietly, his eyes taking on a faraway look, and he sighed deeply.

“I did not expect sentimentality from you. Serge Vassilivich.”

“Yes, and I envy you because you have a fiancée,” he repeated, not listening to me. “I envy you your cleanness, your expectations, your future happiness, your stock of as yet untouched love.”

He took me by the arm, made me get up from the sofa, and led me up to a looking-glass.

“Look at me and at yourself,” he said. “What are you? ‘Hyperion before the goat-footed Satyr,’ I am the goat-footed Satyr, and I am stronger than you. My bones are bigger and my health is naturally better. But compare us. Do you see this?”⁠—he lightly touched his hair, commencing to get thin about his temples. “Yes, my dear fellow, all this ardour of the soul wasted in the wilderness. Yes, and what ardour it is! Simply⁠ ⁠… filth.”

“Serge Vassilivich, let us get back to where we started. Why do you refuse to introduce me to the model?”

“Because she has taken part in this wasted ardour. I told you she is not an important person, and she most decidedly is not important⁠—on the lowest rung of the human ladder. Below it is the abyss into which she perhaps will soon fall. The abyss is final ruin. Yes, and she has irrevocably perished.”

“I am beginning to understand you. Serge Vassilivich.”

“Ah! Well, you see what kind of a ‘but’ it is.”

“You may keep that kind of a ‘but’ for yourself. Why do you consider it your duty to act as my guardian and protector?”

“I have said⁠—because I like you, because you are clean⁠—not only you, but both of you. You represent such a rarity, something fragrant and redolent of freshness. I envy you, and prize what I can see, even though I am but an outsider. And you wish me to spoil all this! No, don’t expect it.”

“What, then, does all this amount to, Serge Vassilivich? You cannot have much hope for the cleanness you have discovered in me if you fear such terrible consequences from a simple acquaintanceship with this woman.”

“Listen! I can give you this woman or not. I shall act as I think fit. I do not want to give her to you, and I shall not. Dixi.”

He sat down, whilst I excitedly walked about the room.

“And you think she is like?”

“Very. But, no, not very”⁠—he abruptly stopped⁠—“not at all like. Enough about her.”

I begged him, stormed, showed him the utter idiocy of the task he had taken upon himself of guarding my morals, but all in vain. He absolutely refused, and in conclusion said: “I have never said dixi twice.”

“I congratulate you on the fact,” I replied bitterly.

We talked only of trivialities over our tea, and then we parted.

For a whole fortnight I did nothing. I went to the Academy merely to paint the programme picture, a terrible Biblical study⁠—the turning of Lot’s wife into a pillar of salt. Everything was ready⁠—Lot and his family⁠—but the pillar! I could not imagine it⁠—whether to paint it as a sort of tombstone or a simple statue of Lot’s wife made of rock-salt.

Life dragged along wearily. I received two letters from Sonia. I read her pretty prattle about life in the Institute⁠—how she read secretly, evading the Argus-eyed class mistress⁠—and I added her letters to the others, bound up by a pink ribbon. I had kept this ribbon for fifteen years, and up to the present had not been able to make up my mind to throw it away. Why throw it away? With whom did it interfere? But what would Bezsonow have said had he seen this evidence of my sentimentality? Would he again have gone into raptures over my “cleanness,” or commenced to jeer?

However, it was no laughing matter which had vexed me. What was to be done? Give up the picture, or search again for a model?

An unexpected chance helped me. One day, as I was lying on my sofa, with a stupid translation of a French novel, and had lain there until my head ached and my brain reeled from stories of morgues, police detectives, and the resurrection of people who ought to have died twenty times over⁠—the door opened, and in came Helfreich.

Imagine a pair of thin, rather bandy legs, a huge body crushed by two humps, a pair of skinny arms, high hunched-up shoulders, expressive of a sort of perpetual doubt, and a young, pale, slightly bloated, but kind-expressioned face on a head thrown well back. He was an artist. Amateurs know his pictures well. Painted for the most part on one subject. His heroes were cats. He has painted sleeping cats, cats with birds, cats arching their backs, even a tipsy cat, with merry eyes, behind a glass of wine. In cats he had reached the acme of perfection, but he never tried anything else. If in the picture there were certain accessories besides the cats⁠—foliage, from out of which a pink-tipped nose with gold-coloured eyes and narrow pupils should appear, any drapery, a basket in which were a whole family of kittens with large transparent ears⁠—then he used to turn to me. And on this occasion he arrived with something wrapped up in dark blue paper. Having given me his white, bony hand, he put the parcel on the table and commenced to unwrap it.

“Cats again?” I asked.

“Again⁠ ⁠… You see, this one wants a little bit of carpet putting in⁠ ⁠… and in the other a corner of a sofa.”

He unrolled the paper and showed me two not big paintings. The figures of the cats were quite finished, but were painted on a background of white canvas.

“Either a sofa, or something of that sort.⁠ ⁠… Invent it yourself. I am sick of it.”

“Are you going to give up these cats soon, Simon Ivanovich?”

“Yes, I ought to. They are hindering me very much. But what will you? There is money in them! For this rubbish, two hundred roubles.”

And, spreading out his legs, he shrugged his already permanently hunched shoulders and threw out his hands, as if to express his astonishment that such rubbish found purchasers.

In two years he had obtained a reputation with his cats. Never before or since (with the exception of the late Huna) had there been such mastery in the depictment of cats of every possible age, colour, and condition. But, having devoted his attention exclusively to them, Helfreich had abandoned all else.

“Money, money⁠ ⁠…” he repeated musingly. “And why do I, a humpbacked devil, want so much money? And all the time I feel it is becoming harder and harder for me to take up regular work. I envy you, Andrei. For two years I have painted nothing but this trash.⁠ ⁠… Of course, I am very fond of cats, especially live cats. But I feel that it is sucking me drier and drier. And yet I have more talent than you, Andrei. What do you think?” he asked me in a good-natured tone.

“I don’t think,” I replied, smiling, “I know it.”

“And what about your Charlotte?”

I waved my hand.

“Bad?” he asked. “Show me⁠ ⁠…” and, seeing that I made no move, he went himself and rummaged about in the heap of old canvases lying in the corner of the room. Then he placed the reflector on the lamp, put my unfinished picture on the easel, and lighted it up. He said nothing for a long time, and then exclaimed:

“I understand you. This might turn out all right. Only it is Anna Ivanovna. Do you know why I came here? Come along with me.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere. For a walk. I am depressed, Andrei; afraid I shall again fall into sin.”

“What nonsense!”

“No, it is not nonsense. I feel that something is already gnawing away at me here” (he pointed to the lower part of his chest). “I would fain forget and sleep”⁠—he suddenly sang in a thin tenor⁠—“and I have come here so as not to be alone. Once it begins, it will last a fortnight, and then afterwards I am ill. And, finally, it is very bad for me with such a body.” And he turned himself round twice on his heels to show me both his humps.

“I tell you what,” I suggested; “come and stay with me as my guest!”

“It would be very nice. I will think about it. And now come along.”

I dressed, and we went out.

We long sauntered along in the Petersburg slush. It was autumn. A strong wind was blowing from the sea, and the Neva had risen. We walked along the Palace Quay. The angry river was foaming and whipping the granite parapets of the Quay with its waves. From out of the blackness in which the opposite side had become hidden there came occasional spurts of flame, quickly followed by a loud roar. The guns in the Fortress were firing. The water was rising.

“I should like it to rise still higher. I have never seen a flood, and it would be interesting,” said Helfreich.

We sat for a long time on the Quay, silently watching the stormy darkness.

“It will not rise any more,” said Helfreich at length; “the wind seems to be dying down. I am sorry I have not seen a flood.⁠ ⁠… Let us go.”

“Where?”

“Follow our noses⁠ ⁠… Come with me. I will take you to a place. Nature in a silly humour frightens me. Better to go and look at human folly.”

“Where is it? Senichka?”

“I know.⁠ ⁠… Izvoschik!” he called out.

We got in and started off. On the Fontanka, opposite some gaudily painted wooden gates, decorated with carved work, Helfreich stopped the izvoschik. We passed through a dirty yard between the two-storied wings of an old building. Two powerful reflector lamps threw brilliant rays of light into our faces. They hung on either side of a flight of steps leading to the entrance, old, but also plentifully decorated with different coloured woodwork, carved in the so-called Russian taste. In front and behind us people were going in the same direction as ourselves⁠—men in furs, women in long wraps of pretentiously costly material, silk-woven flowers on a plush ground, with boas round their necks, and white silk mufflers on their heads. All were making for the entrance, and, having gone up several steps of the staircase, were taking off their wraps, displaying for the most part pitiful attempts at luxurious toilettes, in which silk was half cotton, bronze took the place of gold, cut glass did substitute for brilliants and powder, carmine and terre de sienne took the place of freshness of face and brilliancy of eyes.

We took tickets at the booking-office, and passed into a whole suite of rooms furnished with little tables. The stifling atmosphere, reeking of strange fumes, seized me. Tobacco smoke mingled with the fumes of beer and cheap pomade. The crowd was a noisy one. Some were aimlessly wandering about, others were seated behind bottles at the little tables. There were men and women, and the expression on their faces was strange. They all pretended to be jovial, and were chatting away about something⁠—what, goodness knows! We sat down at one of the tables, and Helfreich ordered some tea. I stirred mine with a spoon and listened, as, just alongside me, a short fat brunette with a gipsy type of face, slowly, and with a tone of dignity in her voice which betrayed a strong German accent and some pride, replied to a query from the young man with whom she was sitting as to whether she often came here.

“I come here once a week. I cannot come oftener, because I have to go to other places. The day before yesterday I was at the German Club; yesterday at the Orpheus; today here; tomorrow at the Bolshoi Theatre; the day after tomorrow at the Prikazchick; then to the operetta and the Château de Fleurs.⁠ ⁠… Yes, I go somewhere every day, and so the time passes, ‘die ganze Woche.’⁠ ⁠…” And she proudly looked at her companion, who had already curled up at hearing so magnificent a programme of delights.

We got up, and began to stroll through the rooms. At the extreme end a wide door led into a hall for dancing. The windows had yellow silk blinds, the ceiling was a painted one; and there were rows of cane chairs along the walls; whilst in a corner of the hall there was a large white alcove, shell-shaped, in which the orchestra of fifteen men sat. The women, for the most part arm-in-arm, walked up and down the hall in pairs; the men sat on the chairs and watched them. The musicians were tuning their instruments. The face of the first violin seemed familiar to me.

“Is it you? Theodore Carlovich!” I asked, touching him on the shoulder.

Theodore Carlovich turned round towards me. My goodness! how flabby he had become! bloated and grey.

“Yes, it is I, Theodore Carlovich. And what do you want?”

“Don’t you remember me at the Gymnasium?⁠ ⁠… You used to come with your violin for the dancing lessons.⁠ ⁠…”

“Ach! yes. And now I sit here on a stool in a corner of the hall. I remember you.⁠ ⁠… You waltzed very well.”

“Have you been long here?”

“This is my third year.”

“Do you remember how you came early, and in the empty room played Ernst’s Elegy, and I listened?”

The musician’s bleary eyes glistened.

“You heard! you listened! I thought that no one heard. Yes, I could play once. Now I cannot. Here now, on all holidays. At the booths in the daytime, and nighttime here.⁠ ⁠…” He remained silent for a bit. “I have four boys and one girl,” he murmured quietly. “One of the boys finishes at the Anne Schule this year, and is going to the University. I cannot play Ernst’s Elegy.”

The leader waved his baton several times, and the small but loud orchestra broke into a deafening polka. The leader, having marked the time three or four times, joined with his squeaky violin in the general noise. Couples began to revolve whilst the orchestra thundered.

“Come on, Senia,” I said; “this is boring. Let’s go home and have some tea, and talk of something nice.”

“ ‘Of something nice?’ ” he inquired, with a smile. “All right; let’s go.”

We began to push our way through towards the exit, when suddenly Helfreich stopped.

“Look!” said he. “Bezsonow!”

I looked, and saw Bezsonow. He was sitting at a marble-topped table, on which stood bottles of wine, glasses, and something else. Bending over, his eyes sparkling, he was whispering something in an animated manner to a woman dressed in black silk sitting at the same table, but whose face I could not see. I could only note her well-made figure, delicate hands and neck, and her black hair smoothly done up on the top of her head.

“Thank Fate!” said Helfreich to me. “Do you know who she is? Rejoice! That is your Charlotte Corday.”

“She? Here!”

Bezsonow, holding a glass of wine in his hand, raising a pair of excited and very red eyes, saw me, and his face clearly expressed his dissatisfaction.

He got up from his place and came to us.

“You here? What has brought you here?”

“We came to look at you,” I replied, smiling; “and I am not sorry, because, because⁠—”

He caught my glance as it ran over his friend, and he abruptly interrupted me.

“Do not hope for this.⁠ ⁠… Helfreich has told you this.⁠ ⁠… But nothing will come of it. I will not allow it. I shall take her away.⁠ ⁠…” And, briskly going up to her, he said loudly:

“Nadejda Nicolaievna, let us go.”

She turned her head, and I saw for the first time her astonished face.

Yes, I saw her for the first time in this haunt. She was sitting here with this man who sometimes descended from his life of egoism and arrogant self-conceit to this debauchery. She was sitting behind an empty bottle. Her eyes were a little bloodshot, her pale face was worn, her dress was untidy and loud. Around us pressed a crowd of holidaymakers⁠—merchants despairing of the possibility of living without drinking, unfortunate shop-men spending their lives behind counters and getting away from their wretched thoughts only in these haunts of fallen women, and girls whose lips had only just touched the horrible cup, a few young milliners’ hands, and shop-girls.⁠ ⁠… I saw that she was falling into that abyss of which Bezsonow had spoken to me, if, indeed, she had not already fallen.

“Come along, come along, Nadejda Nicolaievna! Let us go,” exclaimed Bezsonow impatiently.

She rose, and looking at him with surprise, asked:

“Why? Where?”

“I don’t want to stop here.⁠ ⁠…”

“Well, then, you can go.⁠ ⁠… This, I think, is your friend and Helfreich.”

“Did you hear what I said? Listen, Nadia⁠ ⁠…” said Bezsonow roughly.

She knitted her brows and threw a look of hate at him.

“Who gave you the right to talk to me like this? Senichka, old boy, how are you?”

Simon took her hand and gave it a hearty squeeze.

“Look here, Bezsonow,” said he; “stop fooling. Go home if you want, or stay here; but Nadejda Nicolaievna will stay here with us. We have some business with her, and it is very important business. Nadejda Nicolaievna, allow me to introduce my friend, and his friend also,” pointing to the frowning Bezsonow, “and an artist.”

“How she loves pictures, Andrei!” suddenly said he to me in raptures. “Last year I took her to the Exhibition, and we saw your studies. Do you remember?”

“Remember?” she answered.

“Nadejda Nicolaievna!” said Bezsonow once again.

“Leave me alone.⁠ ⁠… Go where you like. I am going to stay here with Senia and this Mr.⁠ ⁠… Lopatin. I want to have a rest⁠ ⁠… from you⁠ ⁠…” she suddenly exclaimed, seeing that Bezsonow was going to say something more.

“I am sick of you. Leave me alone. Clear out!⁠ ⁠…”

He turned abruptly, and went off without saying a word to any of us.

“That’s better.⁠ ⁠… Now he has gone⁠ ⁠…” said Nadejda Nicolaievna, giving a deep sigh.

“Why do you sigh, Nadejda Nicolaievna?” asked Senichka.

“Why? Because what is allowable for all these cripples”⁠—with a movement of her head she indicated the crowd which surged around us⁠—“is not allowable for him.⁠ ⁠… Well, never mind; it is sickening and boring. No, not boring; it’s worse. There is no word for it. Senichka, treat me with something to drink.”

Simon looked at me plaintively.

“You see, Nadejda Nicolaievna, I should be glad to, but I cannot; he⁠ ⁠…”

“What about him? He can drink with us.”

“He will not stay.”

“Well, then, you.”

“He will not let me.”

“That’s bad.⁠ ⁠… Who can stop you?”

“I have given my word that I will obey him.”

Nadejda Nicolaievna looked at me closely.

“That’s it, is it?” she said. “Well, do as you like. If you don’t want to, you needn’t. I will drink by myself.⁠ ⁠…”

“Nadejda Nicolaievna,” I began, “forgive me that at our first meeting⁠ ⁠…”

I felt the crimson rush to my cheeks. She smiled and looked at me.

“Well, what?”

“That at our first meeting I ask you⁠ ⁠… not to do this, not to behave like this.⁠ ⁠… I wanted to ask you yet another favour.”

Her face took a mournful expression.

“Not to behave like this?” said she. “I am afraid that I cannot behave in any other way. I have lost the habit. Well, all right; so as to please you I will try. And the favour?”

With a lot of stuttering and mixing up of my words I confusedly explained to her the matter. She listened attentively, fixing her grey eyes straight on me. Either the strained attention with which she listened to my words or something else gave her glance a stern and almost cruel expression.

“All right,” she said at length. “I understand what you want. I will make my face like that.”

“That will not be necessary, Nadejda Nicolaievna; only your face.⁠ ⁠…”

“All right, all right. When shall I come?”

“Tomorrow at eleven o’clock, if possible.”

“So early? Well, that means I must get to bed now. Senichka, will you see me home?”

“Nadejda Nicolaievna,” said I, “we have not arranged about one thing: it cannot be done for nothing.”

“What! you will pay me?” she said; and I felt that there was a ring of wounded pride in her voice.

“Yes, pay; otherwise it is off,” said I decisively.

She threw a scornful, even insolent, glance at me; but almost immediately her face took on a thoughtful expression. We both kept silent. I felt awkward, whilst a faint flush showed on her cheeks, and her eyes glinted.

“All right,” she said; “pay. Give me what other models get. How much shall I get altogether for Charlotte, Senichka?”

“Sixty roubles, I should think,” he replied.

“And how long will it take to paint her?”

“A month.”

“Good, very good!” she exclaimed vivaciously. “I will try to earn your money. Thank you!”

She put out her thin hand and firmly pressed mine.

“He is spending the night with you?” she asked turning to me.

“Yes, yes, with me.”

“I will let him go directly he has seen me home.”

In half an hour’s time I was home, and five minutes later Helfreich returned. We undressed, laid down, and put out the candles. I had already begun to doze.

“Are you asleep, Lopatin?” suddenly sounded Senichka’s voice through the darkness.

“No; why?”

“Because I would straight away give my left hand if only this woman was a good and pure one,” said he in an agitated voice.

“Why not the right hand?” I asked sleepily.

“Duffer! How would I be able to paint then?” he asked me seriously.

When I awoke the next day the grey morning was already looking in through the window.

Having glanced at the dimly lighted, pale, kind-looking face of Helfreich asleep on the couch, and having recalled the evening before, and that I had a model for my picture, I turned over on my side and again lapsed into a light early morning slumber.

“Lopatin!” resounded a voice. I heard it in my sleep. It accorded with my dream, and I did not awake, but somebody touched me on the shoulder.

“Lopatin! wake up!” said the voice.

I jumped to my feet and saw Bezsonow.

“Is that you. Serge Vassilivich?”

“Yes; you did not expect me so early?” said he quietly. “Speak softer; I do not want to wake up the hunchback.”

“What do you want?”

“Dress, wash, and I will tell you. We will go into the other room. Let him sleep.”

I collected my clothes under my arm, and, picking up my boots, went to dress in the studio. Bezsonow was very pale.

“You apparently did not sleep last night?” I asked.

“No, I slept; but I got up very early and worked. Tell them to give us tea, and we will talk. By the way, show me your picture.”

“Not worth while now. Serge Vassilivich. But wait a bit; I shall soon finish it in its corrected and proper form. Perhaps it is displeasing that I have gone contrary to your wishes, but you would not believe how glad I am that I shall finish it, and that this has happened. Anyone better than Nadejda Nicolaievna I could not wish for.”

“I shall not allow you to paint her,” said he dully.

“Serge Vassilivich, you have apparently come here to quarrel with me.”

“I will not allow her to be with you every day, to spend whole hours with you.⁠ ⁠… I will not allow her.”

“Have you such power? How can you forbid her? How can you forbid me?” I asked, feeling my temper rising.

“Power⁠ ⁠… power.⁠ ⁠… A few words will be sufficient. I will remind her what she is. I will tell her what sort of person you are; I will tell her of your cousin, Sophy Michailovna.⁠ ⁠…”

“I will not allow you to make mention of my cousin.⁠ ⁠… If you have any right to this woman⁠—even if it is true what you have told me of her; even if she has fallen; if tens of others have the same right as you to her⁠—you may have a right to her, but you have no right to my cousin. I forbid you to mention anything about my cousin to her! Do you hear me?”

I felt that there was a threatening ring in my voice. He was beginning to exasperate me.

“Oho! you are showing your claws! I did not know you had any. Very well; you are right. I have no rights whatever to Sophy Michailovna. I will not dare to take her name in vain. But this other⁠ ⁠… this⁠ ⁠…”

In his excitement he several times paced from corner to corner of the room. I saw that he was seriously upset. I did not know what was to be done with him. In our last conversation he had in words and tone expressed such undisguised contempt for this woman, and now⁠ ⁠… surely?⁠ ⁠…

“Serge Vassilivich,” I said, “you love her!”

He stopped short, looked at me in a strange manner, and abruptly said:

“No.”

“Well, then, what’s the matter with you? Why have you raised this storm? I cannot believe that you are consumed with the rescuing of my soul from the claws of this imaginary devil?”

“That’s my business,” said he. “But, remember, by hook or by crook I shall stop you.⁠ ⁠… I shall not allow it. Do you hear?” he cried out hotly.

I felt the blood rush to my head. In the corner where I was standing at this moment there was a heap of odds and ends⁠—canvases, brushes, a broken easel, and there was also a stick with a sharp iron tip, on to which a large umbrella was screwed for summer work. By chance I had taken this lance into my hand, and when Bezsonow said, “I will not allow,” I drove the sharp end with all my might into the floor. The piece of iron went a vershok12 into the wood.

I did not say a word, but Bezsonow looked at me with puzzled and, it seemed to me, even frightened eyes.

“Goodbye,” said he; “I am going. You are over-irritated.”

I had already succeeded in cooling down.

“Wait a moment,” said I; “stop.”

“No, I cannot. Au revoir.”

He went. With an effort I pulled the lance out of the floor, and I remember I felt with my finger the slightly warm, bright piece of iron. For the first time it entered my head that this was an awful weapon, with which it would be easy to kill a man outright.

Helfreich went off to the Academy, and I waited calmly for my model. I put on an entirely new canvas, and made all the necessary preparations.

I cannot say that I thought then only of my picture. I recalled the evening before, with its strange setting, such as I had never previously seen, and the unexpected and, for me, happy meeting with this strange woman⁠—this fallen woman, who at once attracted all my sympathy⁠—and the strange behaviour of Bezsonow.⁠ ⁠… What does he want from me? Is he really not in love with her? If not, why this contemptuous attitude towards her? Could he not surely save her?

I thought of all this as my hand travelled over the canvas with the charcoal. Again and again I made sketches of the pose in which I wanted to place Nadejda Nicolaievna, only to wipe them out one after another.

Punctually at eleven o’clock the bell rang. A minute later she appeared for the first time on the threshold of my room. Oh, how well I remember her pale face when, in agitation and shamefacedly (yes, shame had replaced her yesterday’s expression), she stood silently at the door! She literally did not dare to come into this room where she afterwards found happiness, the sole bright ray in her life, and⁠ ⁠… destruction⁠—but not that destruction of which Bezsonow spoke.⁠ ⁠… I cannot write about this. I will wait a little and get calm.

Sonia does not know I am writing these bitter pages. She sits every day, as of old, near my bed or armchair. My other friend also often comes⁠—my poor old hunchback. He has grown very thin, and has wasted away, and for the most part keeps silent. Sonia says he is working stubbornly. God grant him happiness and success!

She came, as she promised, punctually at eleven o’clock. She entered timidly, bashfully answered my greeting, and, without saying another word, sat down in an armchair standing in a corner of the studio.

“You are very punctual, Nadejda Nicolaievna,” I said, squeezing some paints on to a palette.

She glanced at me, but did not reply.

“I do not know how to thank you for agreeing to sit,” I continued, feeling myself turning red from confusion. I wanted to say something quite different to her. I had been so long unable to find a model that I had quite given up the picture.

“Are there really none at the Academy?” she asked.

“Yes, there are, only not suitable. Look at this face.”

I took the picture of Anna Ivanovna from amongst the bundle of rubbish lying on the table, and handed it to her. She looked at it, and smiled faintly.

“Yes; she is not what you want,” said she. “That is not Charlotte Corday.”

“You know the history of Charlotte Corday?” I asked.

She glanced at me with a strange expression of surprise, mixed with some bitterness of feeling.

“Why should I not know?” she asked. “I have been to school. I have forgotten much now, leading this kind of life; but, for all that, I remember some things, and such things as the story of Charlotte Corday it is impossible to forget.”

“Where were you at school, Nadejda Nicolaievna?”

“Why do you want to know? If possible, let us begin.”

Her tone suddenly changed. She spoke these words jerkily and gloomily, as she had spoken the night before to Bezsonow.

I said nothing. Having got out of a cupboard the dark-blue dress long ago made by me, the cap, and all the accessories of the costume of Charlotte Corday, I begged her to go into the next room and change. I had scarcely got everything ready when she came back. Before me stood my picture!

“Ah, my goodness, gracious me!” I exclaimed, with enthusiasm. “How grand it is! Tell me, Nadejda Nicolaievna, have we not seen each other before? Otherwise it is impossible to explain it. I pictured this subject to myself just exactly as you look now. I think I have seen you somewhere. Your face must unconsciously have impressed itself on my memory.⁠ ⁠… Tell me, where have I seen you?”

“Where could you have seen me?” she asked in return. “I do not know; I never met you before last night. Begin, please. Put me as you want me; paint.” I begged her to stand, arranged the folds of the dress, lightly touched her hands, giving to them that helpless position which I always pictured to myself, and went to the easel.

She stood before me.⁠ ⁠… She stands before me now, there on the canvas.⁠ ⁠… She is looking at me as if alive. She has the same sorrowful and thoughtful expression, the same tokens of death on the pale face as on that morning. I wiped off all the charcoal from the canvas, and rapidly sketched in Nadejda Nicolaievna. Then I began to paint. Never before or since have I worked so quickly and successfully. The time flew by unnoticed, and only after an hour, when glancing at my model’s face, I noticed that she was on the point of falling from fatigue.

“Forgive, forgive me⁠ ⁠…” I said, leading her down from the dais on which she was standing, and sitting her in a chair. “I have quite worn you out.”

“Never mind,” she replied, pale, but smiling. “If one earns one’s living, one must suffer a little. I am glad that you were so engrossed. May I look?” said she, nodding her head towards the picture, the face of which she could not see.

“Of course, of course!”

“Oh, what a daub!” she cried. “I have never before seen the beginning of an artist’s work. But how interesting!⁠ ⁠… And, do you know, even in this mess I see what it will be.⁠ ⁠… You have thought out a good picture, Andrei Nicolaievich. I will try to do all to make it a success⁠ ⁠… so far as it depends on me.”

“What can you do?”

“I told you yesterday.⁠ ⁠… I will put on the expression. It will make the work easier.⁠ ⁠…”

She quickly went to her place, raised her head, dropped her white hands, and on her face was reflected all that I had dreamt of for my picture. Determination and longing, pride and fear, love and hate⁠ ⁠… all were there.

“Like that?” she asked. “If like that, then I will stand as long as you like.”

“I do not want anything better, Nadejda Nicolaievna; but, surely, it will be difficult for you to keep up that expression for long. Thank you. We will see. It is still far from that.⁠ ⁠… May I ask you to have lunch with me?”

She refused for a long time, but at last consented.

My faithful old nurse, Agatha Alexeievna, brought in the lunch, and we for the first time sat at table together. How often did this happen afterwards!⁠ ⁠… Nadejda Nicolaievna ate little and kept silent. She was evidently embarrassed. I poured her out a glass of wine; she drank it off almost at a gulp. The crimson played on her pallid cheeks.

“Tell me,” she suddenly asked, “have you known Bezsonow long?”

I did not expect this question. Recalling all that had passed between me and Bezsonow about her, I felt confused.

“Why do you blush? But never mind; only answer my question.”

“A long time, since childhood.”

“Is he a good man?”

“Yes, in my opinion he is a good man. He is honourable, and works hard. He is very talented. He behaves very well to his mother.”

“He has a mother? Where is she?”

“In ⸻. She has a little house there. He sends her money, and sometimes goes there himself. I have never seen a mother more in love with her son.”

“Why does he not bring her here?”

“Apparently she does not want to come.⁠ ⁠… But I do not know.⁠ ⁠… She has her house there, and is accustomed to the place.”

“That is not true,” said Nadejda Nicolaievna musingly. “He will not bring his mother here because he thinks she will be in the way. I do not know, but only think so.⁠ ⁠… She embarrasses him. She is a provincial, the widow of some small chinovnik.13 She would shock him.”

She pronounced the “shock” bitterly and deliberately.

“I do not like the man, Andrei Nicolaievich,” she said.

“Why? He is, all the same, a good fellow.”

“I do not like him.⁠ ⁠… I am afraid of him.⁠ ⁠… Well, never mind; let us get to work.”

She went to her place. The short autumn day was drawing to a close.

I worked up to twilight, giving Nadejda Nicolaievna a rest now and then, and only when the paints began to become mingled in their colours, and the model standing before me on the dais had already become merged in the darkness, did I lay down my brushes.⁠ ⁠… Nadejda Nicolaievna changed her dress and went.

The same day in the evening I moved Simon Ivanovich to my room. He lived in the Sadovaia Street, in a huge house filled from top to bottom with people, and occupying almost an entire block between three streets. The most aristocratic part of the house faced the Sadovaia, and was taken up with furnished rooms in the possession of a retired Captain Grum-Skjebitski, who rented out his quite large, but somewhat dirty, rooms to budding artists, the wealthier class of students and musicians. These formed the preponderating element of those lodging with the stern Captain, who was severely solicitous for the good name of what he called his “hotel.”

I went up the iron staircase and entered the passage. From the first door came fleeting passages by a violin; a little farther on a cello was booming away; at the end of the corridor a piano was thundering. I knocked at Helfreich’s door.

“Come in!” he called in a high voice.

He was sitting on the floor, and was packing his household goods into a huge case. A trunk, already corded, lay near it. Simon Ivanovich was stowing away things into the case without any attempt at system. At the bottom he had placed a pillow, on it a lamp, which had been taken to pieces and wrapped in paper; then followed a small leather cushion, boots, a bundle of studies, a box of paints, books, and all sorts of odds and ends. Alongside the case sat a huge ginger-coloured cat, which gazed into its master’s eyes. This cat, according to Helfreich, was always on duty for him.

“I am ready, Andrei,” said Helfreich. “I am very glad you have come to fetch me. Tell me, was there a sitting today? Did she come?”

“Yes, yes; she came, Senia⁠ ⁠…” I replied, with triumph in my heart. “Do you remember in the night you said something about giving your left hand?”

“Well?” said he, sitting on the case and smiling.

“I understand you a little now, Senia.⁠ ⁠…”

“Ah! Look here, Andrei, Andrei! help her out of it! I cannot. I am a stupid, humpbacked devil. You yourself well know that I cannot even drag through life, bearing only my own burden, without outside help⁠—without you, for instance⁠—and how could I support another? I am myself in want of rescue from darkness, of someone to take me, make me work, keep my money, paint baskets, couches, and all the setting for my cats. Ah, Andrei, Andrei! What should I do without you?”

And in an unexpected burst of tenderness Senichka suddenly jumped up from the case, ran towards me, seized my hands, and pressed his head to my chest. His soft silky hair touched my lips. Then he just as quickly left me, ran to the corner of the room (I have a strong suspicion that the dear chap brushed away a tear), and sat himself down in an armchair standing in the corner in the shadow.

“Well, you see, I am not fit for that. But you⁠ ⁠… you⁠—it is different. Take her out of it, Andrei.”

I said nothing.

“There was yet another who could have done so,” continued Simon Ivanovich, “but he was unwilling.”

“Bezsonow?” I inquired.

“Yes, Bezsonow.”

“Has he known her long, Senichka?”

“A long time⁠—longer than I have. He is a man whose brain is nothing but compartments and drawers. He will open one, take out a ticket, read what is on it, and act in accordance. That is the way in which he saw this case. He sees a fallen woman, and immediately he refers to his brain (the compartments are alphabetically arranged), opens the drawer, and reads: ‘They never return.’ ”

Simon Ivanovich said no more, but, resting his chin in his hand, thoughtfully looked straight ahead into space.

“Tell me how they got to know each other. What are the extraordinary relations between them?”

“Afterwards, Andrei; I will not begin now. And perhaps she will tell you herself. Not ‘perhaps,’ but for certain she will. You are that sort of man⁠ ⁠…” said Simon smilingly. “Come along; I must settle with the Captain.”

“Have you any money?”

“Yes, yes. The cats save me.”

He went into the passage, called out something to a servant, and a minute later the Captain himself appeared. He was a sturdy, thickset old man, very fresh-looking, with a smooth, clean-shaven face. Coming into the room, he bowed affectedly, and gave his hand to Helfreich; he made the same silent deep bow to me.

“What does the gentleman require?” he inquired courteously.

“I am leaving you, Captain.”

“That is your business,” he replied, elevating his shoulders. “I have been very pleased with you, sir. I am glad when well-behaved and well-educated people patronize my hotel.⁠ ⁠… The gentleman’s friend is also an artist?” he inquired, turning towards me with a second and very exaggerated bow. “Allow me to recommend myself: Captain Grum-Skjebitski, an old soldier.”

I put out my hand and gave him my name.

“Mr. Lopatin!” exclaimed the Captain, his face assuming an expression of respectful astonishment. “It is a famous name. I have heard it from all students at the Academy. Very happy to make your acquaintance. I wish you the fame of Semiradsky and Mateik.⁠ ⁠… Where are you going to?” the Captain inquired of Helfreich.

“To him⁠ ⁠…” replied Helfreich, smiling confusedly.

“Although you are taking an excellent lodger from me, I do not regret it. Friendship has that right⁠ ⁠…” said the Captain, again bowing. “In a minute I will bring my book.⁠ ⁠…”

He went out, holding his head well up, with a somewhat military gait.

“Where did he serve?” I asked Senia.

“I don’t know; I only know he is not a Russian Captain. I found that out from his passport. He is simply dvorianin Kesari Grum-Skjebitski. He tells everyone in confidence that he was in the Polish Rebellion. There is an old musket hanging on the wall of his room.”

The Captain brought his book and accounts. Having referred to them for two or three minutes, he informed Helfreich of the amount owing for his board and lodging up to the end of the month. Simon Ivanovich settled, and we parted on very friendly terms. When they had taken out all his belongings, Simon Ivanovich took the ginger-coloured cat under his arm. It had for some time been rubbing itself against his leg, holding its tail high and stiff like a stick, every now and then giving a short mew (probably the desolate look of the room alarmed it), and off we started.

Another three or four sittings passed by. Nadejda Nicolaievna used to come to me at ten or eleven o’clock, and remain until it was dark. Time and again I begged her to stay and have dinner with us, but as soon as the sitting was ended she invariably hurried off into the next room, changed the dark blue dress for her black dress, and left.

Her face changed greatly during these few days. A melancholy and wistful expression became noticeable about her mouth and in the depths of her grey eyes. She seldom spoke to me, and only brightened up a little when Helfreich, who continued⁠—in spite of my efforts to make him take up something seriously⁠—to paint one cat after another, sat in the studio at his easel. Besides his ginger model, some five or six cats of various ages, sex, and colour appeared from somewhere in our flat, which Agatha Alexeievna invariably fed, although she waged a never-ending war with them, consisting principally in taking several of them up under her arm and throwing them out on to the backstairs. But the cats used to mew piteously at the door, and the soft heart of our faithful domestic could not withstand such appeals; the door would open, and the models again take possession of our flat.

How dearly I remember those long quiet sittings! The picture was nearing completion, and an indefinable feeling of depression was gradually stealing into my heart. I felt that when Nadejda Nicolaievna ceased to be necessary for me as a model we should part. I recalled my conversation with Helfreich on the day he came to live with me. Often when I looked at her pale, melancholy face, his words, “Ah, Andrei, Andrei, take her out of it,” would ring in my ears.

Take her out of it! I knew almost nothing about her. I did not even know where she lived. She had left her old address, to which Helfreich escorted her the evening after our first meeting, and was living in another lodging, but where neither Senia nor I could discover. Neither of us knew her surname.

I remember once I asked her it at a sitting, when Helfreich was absent. He had gone that morning to the Academy (I made him go, if only rarely, to the study class), and we spent the whole day alone. Nadejda Nicolaievna was a little brighter than usual, and a little more talkative. Encouraged by this, I dared to say:

“Nadejda Nicolaievna, even now I do not know your surname.”

She took no apparent notice of my question. An almost imperceptible shadow crossed her face, and for a second her lips compressed, as if something had taken her by surprise; then she went on talking. She spoke of Helfreich, and I saw that she was thinking of what to say in order to direct my attention and evade my question. Finally she stopped.

“Nadejda Nicolaievna,” I said, “tell me why you do not trust me. Have I ever shown even⁠ ⁠…”

“Stop!” she replied sadly. “I not trust you! Nonsense.⁠ ⁠… Why should I not trust you? What harm can you do me?”

“Why do you⁠ ⁠…”

“Because it is not necessary. Paint, paint; it will soon be dark,” she said, trying to speak more brightly. “Simon Ivanovich will soon be here, and what will you be able to show him? You have done almost nothing today. We spend the whole time in talking.”

“It will be all right.⁠ ⁠… I am tired.⁠ ⁠… If you like, get down and rest a little.”

She came down and sat on a stool which stood in the corner. I sat at the other end of the room. I had a wild longing to talk with her and question her, but I felt it was becoming more difhcult with every sitting. I noted how she sat, bending forward and holding her knees with her hands, and her lowered eyes fixed on some spot on the floor. One of Senia’s cats was rubbing against her dress, and looking up in a friendly way into her face, purring quietly and kindly. She seemed to have become frozen in this pose.⁠ ⁠… What was happening in that proud and unhappy soul?

Proud! Yes, it was no idle word which my pen has torn from me. At that time I already felt that her ruin had come from her refusal to bend. Perhaps, had she made some concession, she would have lived like the rest, would have been an interesting girl “with inscrutable eyes”; then she would have married and have become engulfed in the sea of a colourless existence side by side with her husband, occupied in some unusually important business in some service. She would have become a lady of fashion, have had her jour fixe, have educated her children (son at the Gymnasium and daughter at the Institute); she would have dabbled in “good works,” and, going along the path ordained by the Almighty, would have given her husband an opportunity of making public on the next day in the Novoe Vremia his “deep affliction.” But she had gone off the track. What had compelled her to leave the mapped-out life of a “decent woman”? I did not know, and tormentingly endeavoured to read the reason in her face. But it remained immobile. Her eyes were all the time fixed on one spot.

“I have had a rest, Andrei Nicolaievich,” she said, suddenly raising her head.

I got up, looked at her, then at the canvas, and answered:

“I cannot work any more today, Nadejda Nicolaievna.”

She glanced at me, seemed about to say something, but refrained, and without a word went out of the room to dress. I remember I threw myself into an armchair and covered my face with my hands. An unintelligible longing feeling filled me; a vague expectancy of something unknown and terrible; a passionate longing to do something for which I could not account, and a tenderness towards this unfortunate being, together with a timorous feeling which possessed me in her presence⁠—all this fused into one suffocating impression, and I do not remember how long I sat buried in almost complete oblivion.

When I came to myself she was standing before me, eady dressed in her own clothes.

“Au revoir.”

I rose and gave her my hand.

“Wait a little.⁠ ⁠… I want to say something to you.”

“What is it?” she asked anxiously.

“A great, great deal, Nadejda Nicolaievna.⁠ ⁠… Sit down, for goodness’ sake, for a little, if only for once not as a model.”

“Not as a model? What else can I be to you? God grant that if not a model, I may not be for you what I have been⁠ ⁠… what I am,” she added hurriedly. “Goodbye. Will you soon finish the picture, Andrei Nicolaievich?” she asked at the door.

“I don’t know.⁠ ⁠… I think I shall have to ask you to come to me for another two or three weeks.”

She remained silent, as if unable to make up her mind to say what she wanted to say.

“Do you want something, Nadejda Nicolaievna?”

“Do any of your friends want a⁠ ⁠…” she stammered.

“A model⁠ ⁠… ?” I interrupted. “I will try to arrange it. I will do all I can, Nadejda Nicolaievna.”

“Thank you. Goodbye.”

I had barely stretched out my hand, when the bell rang. She turned pale, and sat down on a chair. Bezsonow came in.

He entered with a free and jaunty air. He seemed at first to have grown thinner the few days we had not seen each other, but after a few minutes I changed my opinion. He greeted me merrily, bowed to Nadejda Nicolaievna, who remained seated in her chair, and spoke with great animation.

“I have come to have a look. Your work interests me very much. I want to find out if you really can do anything now when you have a model better than which you cannot want.”

He shot a glance at Nadejda Nicolaievna. She remained seated as before. I expected and wanted her to go, but she remained as if transfixed to her chair, and did not take her eyes off Bezsonow.

“That’s true,” I replied. “I do not want a better model. I am very grateful to Nadejda Nicolaievna for sitting to me.”

Saying this, I moved the easel from the wall and placed it as it ought to be.

“May I look?” said he.

He devoured the picture with his eyes. I saw that it astonished him, and my author’s pride was pleasantly tickled.

Nadejda Nicolaievna suddenly rose.

“Au revoir!” she said dully.

Bezsonow turned round impetuously, and made several steps towards her.

“Where are you off to, Nadejda Nicolaievna? I have not seen you for so long, and when I meet you almost by chance you apparently run away from me. Stop a little longer, if only five minutes more. We will go together and I will escort you home. I have not been able to find you. At your old lodging they told me you had left the town. I knew that wasn’t true. I tried at the Inquiry Bureau, but they had not your address. I meant to ask again tomorrow, hoping that by this time they had your address, but now, of course, it is not necessary. You will tell us where you live, and I will see you home.”

He spoke quickly and with a tenderness in his tone quite new and strange to me. How different this tone from that in which he had spoken to Nadejda Nicolaievna the evening I and Helfreich had chanced upon them.

“It is not necessary, Serge Vassilivich, thank you,” replied Nadejda Nicolaievna. “I can get home by myself. I do not want any escort, and⁠ ⁠… with you,” she added quietly, “I have nothing to talk about.”

He made a movement of the hand as if he wished to say something, but only a strange sort of noise came from his lips. I saw that he was restraining himself.⁠ ⁠… He made several paces, and then, turning towards her, said quietly:

“Go!⁠ ⁠… If you do not need me, so much the better for both of us⁠ ⁠… perhaps for all three.⁠ ⁠…”

She went, giving my hand a slight squeeze, and we were left alone. Soon Helfreich arrived. I asked Bezsonow to stay and dine with us. He did not answer at first, occupied with some thought, then suddenly remembered himself and said:

“Dine? Thank you.⁠ ⁠… I have not been here for a long time. I wanted to have a talk with you today.”

And he did. At the beginning of dinner, he, for the most part, was silent or gave disjointed replies to Senichka, who talked without ceasing about his cats, which he must certainly give up, and about the necessity of taking up serious work; but afterwards, perhaps under the influence of two glasses of wine, Helfreich’s spirits infected him, and I must say that I never saw him so animated and eloquent as he was at that dinner and on that evening. Towards the end he entirely monopolized the conversation, and read us whole lectures on Foreign and Home politics. Two years of “leader” writing on every conceivable kind of question had made him capable of talking with absolute freedom on all those matters about which Helfreich and I, engaged in our studies, knew little.

“Simon Ivanovich,” said I, when Bezsonow left, “I am sure Bezsonow knows Nadejda Nicolaievna’s surname.”

“How do you know?” inquired Helfreich. I told him of what had happened before he came in. “Why did you not ask him? But I understand, I know myself.⁠ ⁠…”

Why, indeed, had I not asked Bezsonow? Even now I cannot answer that question. Then I knew nothing of the relations between him and Nadejda Nicolaievna; but even then an uncomfortable premonition filled me of something unusual and mysterious which was to take place between these two persons. I wanted to stop Bezsonow in his impassioned speech about opportunism; I wanted to interrupt his dissertation as to whether capitalism was spreading in Russia or not, but every time the word died away on my tongue.

I told Helfreich this. I told him that I did not myself know what it was which prevented me from talking of her. There was something between them. I did not know what.⁠ ⁠…

Senichka said nothing as he paced the room; then, going up to the dark window and gazing into the black space, replied:

“But I know. He despised her, and now he is beginning to love her. Because, you see.⁠ ⁠… Oh! what a hard, egotistical and jealous heart this man has, Andrei!” he exclaimed, turning towards me and waving his arms. “Beware, Andrei!⁠ ⁠…”

Jealous heart? Jealous.⁠ ⁠… Of what can it be jealous?

From the Diary of Bezsonow.⁠—Yesterday Lopatin and Helfreich met with me Nadia. Against my wish they became acquainted. This morning I went to Lopatin, and tried to stop their coming together, but could do nothing. They will see each other, will sit together for several hours every day, and I know how it will end.

I am trying hard to answer the question why I am taking such an interest in all this? Is it not all the same to me? Granted that I have known Lopatin many years, and sincerely sympathize with this talented youth. I do not wish him ill, but an intimacy with a fallen woman, who has passed through fire and water, is⁠—a catastrophe, especially for such a pure nature as his. I have known this woman, comparatively speaking, for a long time. I knew her when she was already what she is. I must confess to myself that there was a time when I had a feeling for her, and when I was attracted by her not altogether ordinary appearance and, as I thought, her uncommon personality. I thought of her more than I should have done. But I quickly conquered myself. Knowing already for a long time that it is easier “for a camel to go through the eye of a needle” than for a woman who has tasted of this poison to return to a normal and honourable life, and watching the woman myself, I convinced myself that there were no guarantees in her that could make her an exception to the general rule, and with sorrow at heart I decided to leave her to her fate. Nevertheless, I continued to see her. I shall never forgive myself for the mistake I made that evening when Lopatin came to complain of his failure. I made a blunder when I told him that I knew of somebody who would make a good model. I do not understand why Helfreich never mentioned this to him. He has known her as long, if not longer, than I have.

My indiscretion and garrulity today have ruined the whole affair. I should have been milder. I even drew this softhearted man out of himself. He seized a kind of lance and drove it into the floor with such force that the windowpanes rattled and I, seeing that he was irritated to the last degree, had to leave.

I have not seen Lopatin for several days. Yesterday I met Helfreich in the street and cautiously led the conversation on to his friend.

She goes there every day; the picture is progressing rapidly. How does she behave? Modestly, with dignity. Never says a word. Dresses in black, and poorly. Takes money for her sittings. Well, and Lopatin is very pleased at having found such a model. At first he was very lively, but now he is inclined to be thoughtful.

“I do not know, Bezsonow, why you are so interested in all this,” said the hunchback to me in conclusion. “You have never done anything for this woman, and there was a time when you could have easily saved her.⁠ ⁠… Now, of course, it is too late⁠ ⁠… that is too late for you⁠ ⁠…”

Too late for you!⁠ ⁠… Too late for you!⁠ ⁠… What did he mean to say by this? Was it not that, if too late for me, it is not too late for his friend? Fools!

Nonsense! And this Helfreich, who considers himself his friend, who knows better than I Lopatin’s relations with his cousin-fiancée⁠—and yet cannot he understand what troubles they are preparing? They will not save this woman. Lopatin will break a loving girl’s heart and his own.

I feel that I must, that I am in duty bound to do something. I will go to Lopatin tomorrow, and try to prove to him how far he has gone. And today I will go to her.

I have been, but did not find her in. She has gone no one knows where. They told me she had sold all her clothes. I tried to find her, but, notwithstanding the Inquiry Bureau and the efforts of the dvorniks, I could not find a trace of her. Tomorrow I will go and see Lopatin.

I must abandon my former tactics. I have made a mistake with Lopatin. I thought from his softness of manner that I could adopt an authoritative tone with him. I must say that our former relations to a certain degree justified this opinion. I must, without touching him, work on this woman. There was a time she seemed to be a little interested in me. I think that if I make a certain amount of effort I shall separate them. Perhaps I shall reawaken in her the old feeling, and she will come to me!

Courting Nadejda Nicolaievna! The idea is a wild one, even to myself, but I will not stop before it. I feel that I have no right to permit the fall of Lopatin and the ruin of his whole life.

This woman is laughing at me. I appealed to her with all the tenderness of which I am capable. I even, perhaps, spoke with her in a manner humiliating to myself, but she went off only saying insulting, contemptuous words.

She has changed marvellously. Her pale face has taken on a certain impression of dignity not at all in keeping with her “calling.” She is modest and at the same time apparently proud. Of what is she proud? Looking intently at Lopatin’s face, I thought I should read there the story of his relations towards her, but I can see nothing in particular. He is somewhat agitated, but apparently only about his picture. It will be a magnificent bit of work. She stands on the canvas as if alive.

I hid my rage, and, not showing that I felt insulted, remained with Lopatin and Helfreich. We talked, and they listened attentively to my opinions on various matters in which I am at present engaged.

But what is to be done? Let the matter go as it is? Once I gave Lopatin my word not to drag his cousin, Sophy Michailovna, into this business. Of course I must keep my promise. But may I not write to my mother? She sees Sophy Michailovna, although not often, and can tell her. I shall not be breaking my word, and at the same time.⁠ ⁠…

No, and such a matter as this cannot be left to run its own course. I have no right to do so. I will compel this woman, no matter what the cost, to give up her prey.⁠ ⁠… It is only necessary to find out where she lives. Then I will talk with her⁠ ⁠… and now I will leave all this and go on with my work. In the empty and colourless grinding mill we call life there is only one real absolute happiness⁠—the satisfaction of the worker when buried in his labours. He forgets all the trivialities of life, and then, having completed his task, can say to himself with pride: “Yes, today I have done something beneficial and of use.”

Diary of Lopatin.⁠—Six days have passed since the meeting between Bezsonow and Nadejda Nicolaievna, and she has not been. She merely wrote a few lines in which she begged me to excuse her, and mentioned something about some business.

I showed the note to Helfreich, and we both decided that she is ill. We must find her at all costs. If we knew her name, we could find her address at an Inquiry Bureau, but neither I nor he knew it. It was useless to ask Bezsonow. I was in despair, but Simon Ivanovich promised me to hunt her out “even if she were at the bottom of the sea.” Getting up early the next morning, he dressed with as much care and determination as if he was starting on some dangerous expedition, and disappeared for the whole day.

Left alone, I tried to work, but the work wouldn’t go. I took a book from a shelf, and began to read. The words and ideas passed through my brain without conveying any impression. I made every effort to devote my whole attention, and yet could not get beyond a few pages.

I shut the book⁠—a clever and good book which a few days ago I had read, although with some difficulty, nevertheless with attraction and pleasure such as good reading always affords⁠—and went out to stroll through the town.

A half-conscious, vague hope of meeting, if not Nadejda Nicolaievna herself, at least someone who could give me a hint about her, was present the whole time, and all the time I looked closely at the passersby, and several times crossed over to the other side of the street when I saw a woman at all reminding me of her in appearance. But I met no one except Captain Grum-Skjebitski about four o’clock (it was the end of December, and already dark), who was walking along the Nevsky Prospect with a stately air of importance. It was very warm for the time of the year. The Captain was walking along in quite a smart fur, unbuttoned and opened about the neck. A flowered-silk tie with a bright tiepin showed out from the fur. The Captain’s tall hat shone as if polished, and in his hand, encased in a fashionable yellow glove with broad black stripes, he carried a big ivory-headed cane.

Seeing me, he smiled pleasantly in a patronizing way, and, making a gracious movement of the hand, came up to me.

“Glad to see you. Monsieur Lopatin,” said he. “A very agreeable meeting.”

He pressed my hand, and, in reply to my question as to his health, continued:

“Quite well, I thank you. Are you merely out for a stroll or hurrying somewhere? If the former is the correct case, will you not walk a little with me? I would willingly turn and go with you, but habit. Monsieur Lopatin! I go for a walk daily, and take the Nevsky twice up and down. It is a law of mine.”

I wanted to return home, and so turned and went with the Captain. He carried on a dignified conversation.

“This is the second pleasant rencontre today,” said he. “I came across Mr. Bezsonow also on the Nevsky, and learnt that he is also a friend of yours.”

“Wonderful, Captain! So you know Bezsonow, too?”

“Ask me whom I do not know!” replied the Captain, shrugging his shoulders. “When Mr. Bezsonow was a student he resided at my hotel. We were excellent friends, upon my word of honour. Who has not lived with me, Monsieur Lopatin? Many now well-known engineers, jurists, and authors know the Captain⁠—yes, very many famous people remember me.”

And with this the Captain politely bowed to someone who passed by rapidly with a preoccupied clever face. A look of perplexity was followed by a smile and a friendly nod of the head.

“He does not forget old friends, although he is now of high rank. That gentleman, Monsieur Lopatin, is the famous engineer, Petritseff. Also lived as student with me.”

“And Bezsonow?” I inquired.

“Bezsonow is a very nice gentleman. Has a certain weakness for les beaux yeux of the fair sex⁠ ⁠…” added the Captain, stooping towards my ear.

I felt my heart beat faster. It struck me that the Captain must know something also of Nadejda Nicolaievna.

The Captain again bowed to some acquaintance, and continued:

“Yes, if he had not been such a very nice young gentleman, we should have quarrelled, Monsieur Lopatin; but I remember my own youth; besides, an old soldier even now is not indifferent to les beaux yeux.”

He gave me a sidelong glance and winked, whilst his shrivelled-up little eyes became somewhat oily.

“Captain,” I began, “I⁠—I am very glad that you know Bezsonow.⁠ ⁠… I, you understand, did not know this.”

“He only lived with me for a very short time.”

“Was he acquainted⁠ ⁠…”

I suddenly became ashamed of myself. Something held my tongue, ready to utter the name of Nadejda Nicolaievna. I looked at the Captain. His eyes, which had suddenly changed their expression, were fixed intently on me. At this moment he resembled a vulture.

“But you probably do not know. Forgive me,” I finished confusedly.

He looked at me, assumed a most unconcerned air, and flourished his stick.

“Yes, an old soldier has something to remember⁠ ⁠…” he continued, as if I had asked him nothing. “I am in my sixtieth,” he added, mournfully shaking his head. “I must confess that I envy you, Monsieur Lopatin, but only your youth.”

“Where did you serve. Captain?” I inquired, remembering Helfreich’s words.

The Captain once more became quite changed. His face became preternaturally serious. He glanced to the right and left, looked behind him, and, bending down so close that his moustache even brushed against my ear, whispered:

“Between ourselves, as gentlemen! You see before you, Monsieur Lopatin, a warrior of Miekoff and Opatoff.” And he stepped back a pace and looked at me in a manner which seemed to demand astonishment on my part. I made an effort to assume an expression suitable to the occasion.

“This is the secret which I confide only to my most intimate friends⁠ ⁠…” added the Captain, as again he bent down and again jumped back from me, regarding me with a triumphant look.

There was nothing left but to thank him for his confidence, and part as we had reached the “Police” bridge.

I was angry with myself. I had almost mentioned Nadejda Nicolaievna’s name to this man, whom I did not trust in the least.

When I arrived home, Alexeievna informed me that “our cat man” had not yet returned. She served dinner and stood at the door, her face expressing keenest sympathy at my lack of appetite.

“What has happened, Andrei Nicolaievich, that she does not come?” she asked.

“She must be ill, Alexeievna.”

She shook her head, and, sighing deeply, went off to the kitchen to bring me my tea. It was long since I had dined without Helfreich, and I was very lonely.

After dinner they brought me a letter from Sonia.

I have never hid anything from her. When I die⁠—which will be soon; even now death is not creeping stealthily towards me, but is advancing with a firm tread, the sound of which I hear clearly on sleepless nights when I am feeling worse, when I am racked with pain, and the past comes up before me⁠—when I die and she reads this diary, she will know that I have never, never lied to her. I have written to her all I have thought and felt, and only that which I have not myself suspected as being in my soul, or have not acknowledged even to myself, but perhaps vaguely felt, has not found a place in my long letters to her.

But she understood me. Although but nineteen, her sensitive, loving soul understood what I did not dare to confess to myself, what I have never once said to myself in actual words.

“You love her, Andrei. God grant you happiness.⁠ ⁠…”

I could not read further. A gigantic wave surged over me, overwhelmed me, and almost deprived me of consciousness. I leant back in the chair, and, holding the letter in my hand long, sat there motionless and with closed eyes, conscious only of this wave which was roaring and surging in my soul.

It was true. I loved her. I had not experienced this feeling up till now. I had described my attachment to my cousin as love. I was prepared in the course of a few years to become her husband, and perhaps should have been happy with her; I should not have believed it had anyone told me that I could love another woman. It seemed to me that my fate had been settled. “Here is thy wife,” had said the Lord to me, “and thou shalt have none other.” And in this I concurred, undisturbed for the future, and assured in my choice. To love another woman seemed to me an unnecessary and unworthy caprice.

And then came this strange, unhappy being, with her broken life and all her suffering in her eyes. Pity first possessed me; indignation against the man who had expressed his contempt for her made me still more inclined to take her part, and then⁠ ⁠… Then, I do not know how it happened⁠ ⁠… but Sonia was right. I loved her with the distraction and passion of the first love of a man who has reached twenty-five years of age without knowing love. I longed to snatch her from the horrors which were tormenting her, to take her in my arms somewhere far, far away, to fondle and press her to my heart, so that she might forget, so as to bring a smile on her suffering face.⁠ ⁠… And Sonia had said all this in one line of her letter.⁠ ⁠…

“Do not think of me. I do not want to say, forget me entirely, but only that you should not think of my suffering. I will not commence to complain of a broken heart⁠—and do you know why? Because it is not at all broken. I have been accustomed to look upon you as a brother and future husband. The first was real; the second, I think, people thought of and arranged for us. I love you above all others in this world. I need not have written this, because you yourself know it, but when I read your last three letters and told myself the truth about you and Nadejda Nicolaievna⁠—believe me, dear, I experienced not one atom of grief. I understood that I am a sister for you, and not a wife; I understood this from my own joy at your happiness⁠—joy mingled with fear for you. I do not hide this fear, but God grant that you may save her, and be happy, and make her happy.

“From what you have written me of Nadejda Nicolaievna, I think she is worthy of your love.⁠ ⁠…”

I read these lines, and a new joyous feeling gradually took possession of me. I did not share Sonia’s fears. What and why should I fear? How or when this happened I do not know, but I believe in Nadejda Nicolaievna. All her past life, of which I did not know, her fall⁠—the only thing I knew of in her life⁠—appeared to me as some accident, unreal, some mistake of Fate, for which Nadejda Nicolaievna was not herself to blame. Something had rushed at her, surrounded her, knocked her off her feet, and thrown her in the mud, and I would lift her out of this mire, would clasp her to my heart, and there calm this life so full of suffering.

A sudden furious ring made me jump, I do not know why, and not waiting for Alexeievna, shuffling along in her slippers to open the door, I rushed to it and pushed back the bolt. The door flew open, and Simon Ivanovich seized me with both hands, danced about, and cried out in a radiant, squeaky voice:

“Andrei, I have brought her, have brought her, brought her!⁠ ⁠…”

Behind him stood a dark figure. I rushed to her, seized her trembling hands, and commenced to kiss them madly, not listening to what she was saying in an agitated voice as she strove to restrain her sobbing.

We three long sat together on that, for me, memorable evening. We talked, joked, laughed; Nadejda Nicolaievna was calm, and even merry. I did not ask Helfreich where and how he found her, and he himself did not say a word about it. Between us nothing was said which hinted at what I had thought and felt before her arrival. I cannot say it was modesty or indecision on my part which kept me silent. It was simply I felt it unnecessary and superfluous. I feared to alarm her wounded soul. I had never been so talkative and merry. Helfreich displayed a kind of noisy enthusiasm, appeared radiant, chattered without ceasing, and sometimes compelled Nadejda Nicolaievna to laugh at his sallies. Alexeievna laid the cloth and brought in the samovar. When she had done so she stood in the doorway, and, resting one cheek on her hand, she looked at us all for a few minutes, and at Nadejda Nicolaievna, as she made the tea and did the hostess.

“Do you want anything, Alexeievna?” I asked.

“Nothing, my dear; I only want to look at you⁠ ⁠… and you are offended!” she said. “An old woman may not even stand for a minute. I was looking to see how the young lady would act as mistress. She does it very well.”

Nadejda Nicolaievna bowed her head.

“See how well. Formerly only men came to you, who poured out the tea and did everything. Excuse me for saying so, Andrei Nicolaievich, but even I, to tell you the truth, missed there being no woman about.”

She turned, and with short steps went along the passage. Our gaiety came to an end. Nadejda Nicolaievna got up and commenced to pace the room. My picture stood in the corner. These last several days I had not gone near it, and the colours had dried. Nadejda Nicolaievna looked at the picture for some time, and then, turning to me, said with a smile:

“Well, now we shall soon finish it. I will not give you any more of these breaks. It will be ready long before the Exhibition opens.”

“How like you it is!” broke in Senichka.

She suddenly stopped still, as if some sudden thought prevented her speaking, and, with a frown on her face, went away from the picture.

“Nadejda Nicolaievna, what is the matter? Frowning again?” I said.

“Nothing in particular, Andrei Nicolaievich.⁠ ⁠… I really am very like this picture. It has come into my mind that many will recognize me⁠—too many.⁠ ⁠… I can see how it will be.⁠ ⁠…”

She sighed, and the tears welled in her eyes.

“I am thinking of how many stories, questions, you will have to hear,” she continued. “Who is she? Where did he find her? And even people who know will ask who I am, where did I come from.⁠ ⁠…”

“Nadejda Nicolaievna.⁠ ⁠…”

“You have not been ashamed of me. Andrei Nicolaievich, you and dear old Senichka; you have treated me as a human being.⁠ ⁠… The first time for three years. And I could not believe it. Do you know why I left you? I thought (forgive me for thinking it)⁠—I thought that you were like the rest.

“The picture was coming to an end; you had been polite and delicate with me, and I have got unaccustomed to such treatment, and did not trust myself. I did not wish to get a blow, because the blow would have been very painful, very painful to me.⁠ ⁠…”

She sat down in a big armchair, and pressed her handkerchief to her eyes.⁠ ⁠…

“Forgive me,” she continued. “I did not trust you, and waited with terror for the moment when you would look upon me in the way to which I have become too accustomed during these last three years, because during these three years no one has looked at me in any other way.⁠ ⁠…”

She stopped; her face twitched spasmodically, and her lips trembled. She gazed into the far corner of the room as if she saw something there.

“There was one, only one, who looked at me not like all those⁠ ⁠… and not like you.⁠ ⁠… But I⁠ ⁠…”

I and Helfreich listened to her with bated breath.

“But I killed him.⁠ ⁠…” she said in a scarcely audible tone, and a terrible access of despair seized her. A wail burst from her tortured breast, and a heartrending, childlike sobbing resounded through the room.

From the Diary of Bezsonow.⁠—I am waiting to see what will happen. I was there the other day, and saw them together. All the strength of will I possess was insufficient to enable me to continue wearing my mask of indifference and politeness. I felt that had I stayed there another quarter of an hour I should have thrown it off and revealed my true self. It is impossible to recognize this woman. I have known her for three years, and have become accustomed to see her as she has been these three years. Now I see the change which has taken place in her, and I do not understand her, and do not know whether this change is genuine, or whether it is only a role being played by one accustomed to deceive herself and other contemptible beings.

I do not in the least understand their relations. I do not even know whether she has become his mistress. For some reason I do not think so, and if I am right she is more clever than I thought. What is her object? To become his wife?

I have read over these lines, and I see that all I have written is incorrect, except that she has altered. I myself three years ago saw something unusual in her, rarely met amongst women in her position. I myself almost took on the role of rescuer which Lopatin is now magnanimously playing. But I was more experienced then than she is now. I knew that nothing would come of it, and gave it up without even trying to do anything. Her character, besides the ordinary obstacles in this respect, possessed one peculiarity⁠—her fearful stubbornness and impudence. I saw that she would wash her hands of everything, and oppose my first attempt, and I did not make this attempt.

Has Lopatin made it? I do not know. I only see that it is impossible to recognize this woman. I know for certain that she has abandoned her former mode of life. She has gone to some little room into which she does not allow either Helfreich or her rescuer to enter. She sits for him, and, in addition, does sewing. She lives very poorly. She is like the drunkard who has signed the pledge. Will she keep it? Will this sentimental artist, who has not seen life and knows nothing of it, help her to keep it?

Yesterday I wrote mother a long letter. She is sure to do all, as I imagine she will⁠—women love to meddle in such affairs⁠—and will tell everything to Sophy Michailovna. Perhaps that will save him.

Save him! Why should I worry about his salvation? It is the first time in my life that I have concerned myself so deeply in other people’s affairs. Is it not all the same to me what Lopatin does with this woman, whether he drags her out of the mire or sinks into it with her, and, in fruitless attempts, undoes his own life and casts aside his talents?

I am not accustomed to indulge in reflections or to dig into my soul; for the first time in my life I have been looking deeply into it and analyzing my feelings in detail. I do not understand what is taking place within me now, and what is compelling me to rouse myself. I thought (and now think) that it was only a disinterested desire to avert a great calamity from a man whom I like.⁠ ⁠… But upon analyzing my thoughts I see it is not altogether that. Why, in working to save him, do I think more of her? Why is it her face, once brazen and impudent, but now downcast and tender, which rises before me every minute? Why does she and not he fill my soul with a strange feeling which I cannot define, but in which unkind feelings predominate? Perhaps it is true that it is not so much that I wish to do him good as to do her⁠ ⁠…

What? Harm? No, I do not wish to do her harm, and yet I would like to tear her from him, to deprive her of his protection, in which lies, perhaps, her sole hope.

… Oh, surely it is not that I would like to stand in Lopatin’s place!

I must see her today. This business won’t let me work or live in peace. My work is being neglected, and these last two weeks I have not done as much as formerly I used to do in two days. I must put an end to it somehow, come to an understanding, and explain all to myself⁠ ⁠… and afterwards what?

Give her up? Never! All my pride rebels at the mere thought. I found her. I could have saved her, and would not. Now I would.

Diary of Lopatin.⁠—Helfreich ran for the doctor who lived on the same landing as ourselves. I brought water, and she quickly got over her hysterics. Nadejda Nicolaievna sat in a corner of the sofa to which I and Helfreich had carried her, and only now and then quietly sobbing. I was afraid of upsetting her, and went into the next room.

Unable to find the doctor, Simon Ivanovich came back, and found her already quiet.

She decided to go home, and he declared his intention of escorting her. She pressed my hand, looking straight into my eyes with her own full of tears, and I noted a kind of timid expression of gratitude on her face.

A week, another, a month passed. Our sittings continued. To tell the truth, I tried to draw them out. I do not know if she understood that I was doing it intentionally. I only know that she constantly hurried me on. She became much calmer, and occasionally, but rarely, was quite bright.

She told me her whole history. For a long time I wondered whether I would write it here or not. And I have decided to say nothing of it. Who knows into what hands this diary may fall? If I could know for certain that only Sonia and Helfreich would read it, I should not talk of Nadejda Nicolaievna’s past. They both know it well. I, as of old, have hid nothing from my cousin, and in my letters have written her the whole of Nadejda Nicolaievna’s long and bitter story. Helfreich heard it all from her herself. Consequently her history in my diary is not necessary for him. As for others⁠ ⁠… I do not want others to judge her. She told me her whole life. I was her judge, and forgave her all which, in the opinion of men, required forgiveness. I listened to her painful confession and narrative of her misfortunes, the most dreadful misfortunes, such as only a woman can experience, and it was not accusation which stirred in my soul, but the shame and humiliating feeling of a man who feels himself guilty of the evil about which they are speaking to him. The last episode in her history filled me with horror and pity. Her words the evening that Helfreich found her were no empty ones. She really had killed a man unintentionally. He had wished to save her, but could not. His weak hands were not strong enough to restrain her from the brink of the abyss, and, unable to restrain her, he had hurled himself instead into the pit. He shot himself. Dry-eyed and with a kind of set determination, she related to me the whole of this awful history, and I long thought over it. Can her crushed heart come once more to life? Can such terrible wounds heal? They did apparently heal. She became gradually calmer and calmer, and a smile was no longer a rarity. She used to come to me every day, and stayed to dinner. After dinner we three used to sit together for hours, and whatever the subject of conversation between Helfreich and myself, Nadejda Nicolaievna only occasionally put in a word.

I well remember one of these talks. Helfreich, without giving up his cats, had begun seriously to paint studies. Once he confessed that he was working so hard only because he had thought out a picture which he intended to paint, “perhaps in five, perhaps in ten years’ time.”

“Why so far ahead, Senichka?” I asked, with an involuntary smile at the important way in which he had announced his intention.

“Because it is a serious subject⁠—a matter of life, Andrei. Do you think that only tall people with straight backs and chests can think out serious subjects? Oh, you conceited hop-poles! Believe me,” continued he, with an air of assumed importance, “that between these humps of mine great ideas can reside, and in this long box (he struck himself on the head) great ideas are born.”

“This great idea⁠—is it a secret?” inquired Nadejda Nicolaievna.

He looked at us both, and after a moment’s pause said:

“No, it is not a secret. I will tell you. I have had this idea for a long time. Listen. Once upon a time Vladimir (Krasnoe Solnishko) became angry at the bold words of Ilia Murometz. He ordered him to be seized, taken away, and locked up in a deep vault, which was to be covered up with earth. They led the old Cossack away to death. But, as always happens, the Princess Evprakseiushka at that moment became ‘wise.’ She found out a way to Ilia, and used to send him bread each day, and water, and wax candles by the light of which to read the Gospel. And she sent him the Gospels.”

Senichka stopped and thought, and was silent for so long that at length I said:

“Well, Simon Ivanovich?”

“Well, that’s all. Of course, the Prince soon wanted the old Cossack. The Tatars came, and there was no one to save Kieff. Then Vladimir was sorry, bitterly regretted. Then Evprakseiushka sent people straightway to the deep vaults, and led out Ilia by the hand. Ilia did not bear malice, sat on a steed, and so on, routed the Tatars⁠—and that’s all.”

“But where’s the picture, Simon Ivanovich?”

Simon looked at me with an expression of exaggerated astonishment, and threw up his arms.

“Artist! Oh, artist! Oh, Lopatin, Andrei Lopatin! There are thirty, three hundred, three thousand pictures, if you want them, but I shall choose one only, and shall paint it. I shall die, but I shall paint it first! Cannot you see him sitting in the vault? Can you not see it as if real? Listen! the cave, vault, generally a burrow of some kind like the Kieff caves. The narrow approaches and the small niche in the wall. The dust and mildew, frightening and fantastic in the light of the wax candle. And Ilia sits on the steps, before him a desk, and on the desk there lies an old sacred book with thick, warped, yellowing leaves of parchment, inscribed with letters of black and red. The old Cossack is sitting in a shirt only, and is reading attentively, turning over the rebellious leaves of the book with his big, uncouth peasant’s hands, accustomed to the campaign and lance, to the sword and to the cudgel. These hands have laboured much, and, from the hard work which they have performed all his life, they are tremulous, and with difficulty turn over the leaves of the sacred book.⁠ ⁠… Eh, my friend,” suddenly said Helfreich in the middle of all this, “only one calamity: there were no such things as spectacles at that time. If there had been, Evprakseiushka would undoubtedly have sent him spectacles⁠—huge round ones with silver rims. Perhaps he was long-sighted from life on the steppe? What do you think?”

We both laughed. Helfreich looked at us, surprised, and then, as if understanding why we laughed, himself smiled. But the solemn spirit of his narrative again took hold of him, and he continued.

“I will not begin to tell you what his eyes were like; that will be hardest of all to paint. But I can see it all⁠—his eyes and lips. And so he sits and reads. He has opened the book at the description of the Sermon on the Mount, and he reads how, having received a blow, it is necessary to turn the other cheek. He reads this, and does not understand. Ilia has worked without ceasing all his life. He has destroyed a mighty number of Pechenegs and Tatars and brigands. He has conquered many knights of old. He has passed a century in valorous deeds and in artifices, so that evil should not befall Christianized Russ, and he believed in Christ, and prayed to Him, and believed that he was fulfilling Christ’s teaching. He did not know what was written in the book. And now he sits and ponders. ‘ “Whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.” How can this be? O Lord! is it good if they shall strike me, insult a woman, or touch a child, or if the pagans shall come and commence to rob and kill Thy servants, O Lord? Not to touch them! To let them kill and plunder? No, Lord, I cannot obey Thee. I will get astride a steed, lance in hand, and will go out to fight in Thy name, because I do not understand Thy wisdom. Thou hast put a voice into my soul, and I listen to it, and not to Thee!⁠ ⁠…’ And his hand trembles, and the yellow page with its red and black lettering trembles in it. The candle burns dimly; above it a thin black streak rising from the wick vanishes into the darkness, and only Ilia and his book⁠—only these two are lighted by this light.⁠ ⁠…”

Simon Ivanovich stopped and pondered, having thrown himself back into his chair with his eyes raised to the ceiling.

“Yes,” I said, after a long silence, “it is a good picture, Senichka. Only it is easier to narrate than to paint in oils on a canvas. How will you express all this?”

“I will, without a doubt; I will do this⁠—all this,” Senichka cried with warmth. “Yes, I will paint it. I will put this note of interrogation. Ilia and the Gospel! What is there common between them? For this book there is no greater sin than murder, and Ilia has killed all his life, and journeys on his war-steed all hung around with weapons of slaughter⁠—not murder, but execution, because he executes. And when this arsenal is insufficient, or he has not got it with him, he puts sand in his cap, and uses that as a weapon. And he is a saint. I saw him in Kieff.⁠ ⁠… He lies amongst them all, and justly so.”

“That is all right, Senichka, but I cannot help saying the paints will not express all this.”

“Why not? Bosh! And even if they do not, what harm? They will ask the question.⁠ ⁠… But wait, wait a minute,” broke in Senichka excitedly, seeing I wanted to say something. “You will say that the question is already put? Quite true! But that is little. It is necessary to put it every day, every hour, every second. People must not be allowed peace. And if I think that I shall succeed in making even ten people think of this question, I must paint this picture. I have long thought of it, but all these have prevented me.”

And he leant forward, and, bending down, picked up the ginger cat, which was sitting on the carpet near him, and had seemingly listened attentively to his speech, and placed it on his knee.

“Would you not surely do the same?” continued Senichka. “Your picture, surely, is it not the same question? Do you really know if this woman did right? You will make people think⁠—that’s the whole point. And, apart from the aesthetic feeling which every picture arouses, and which of itself is not worth much⁠—is not this the idea which animates our work?”

“Simon Ivanovich, my dear fellow,” said Nadejda Nicolaievna suddenly, “I never saw you like this before. I always knew that you had a most kind heart, but⁠ ⁠…”

“But you thought that I was a fool of a hunchback? Do you remember you called me that once?”

He looked at her, and, perhaps seeing the shadow on her face, added:

“Forgive me for recalling that. Those years must be wiped out of memory. All will go well. It is true, Andrei, is it not? All will go well?”

I nodded my head. I was very happy then: I saw that Nadejda Nicolaievna was little by little becoming calmer, and⁠—who knows?⁠—perhaps her life for the last three years will become for her nothing more than a distant recollection, not of years lived through, but only a vague and distressing dream, after which, having opened her eyes and seeing that the night is quiet and that all is as usual in the room, she rejoices that it was only a dream.

The winter passed. The sun rose higher and higher in the heavens, and with ever-increasing strength warmed the streets and roofs of St. Petersburg. Everywhere water was pouring down all the spouts; bits of ice with the noise of thunder came jumping out of them on to the pavements, or into the buckets put to catch them; droshkies appeared rattling along the roads, now bare of snow in places, with a familiar but strangely new sound to the ear.

I have finished my picture. A few more sittings, and it will be possible to take it to the Academy before the Court of Exhibition experts. Helfreich has congratulated me already on my success. Nadejda Nicolaievna is delighted. Looking at the picture and at her face, I often see an up to this time unfamiliar expression on it of quiet satisfaction. Sometimes she has been even gay, and has joked⁠—for the most part with Senichka, who is engrossed in the reading of numerous books which he says he must read for his picture, in looking at albums, at all sorts of antiquities, and in studying the Gospels. His cats have gone. Only the faithful ginger cat has stayed on, and even he lives in peace, almost undisturbed by his master, and uncalled upon to act as a model. Since our conversation about Ilia Murometz, Simon Ivanovich has only painted one cat picture, and, having sold it for a hundred and fifty roubles, considers himself assured of money for a long time⁠—the more so that he, to my great astonishment, is not the least embarrassed with his long stay in my flat, where living costs him nothing.

We three spent almost all our spare time together. Helfreich managed to get Nadejda Nicolaievna an enormous manuscript containing a scheme by some important person⁠—a scheme by which Russia must be loaded with benefits in a very short time⁠—and she has copied it out in a dainty large hand. As this benefiting of Russia demanded a large amount of thinking, the scheme has been amended and supplemented without end, and, it seems, has not even now been completed. Somebody is probably copying it now after Nadejda Nicolaievna!

At any rate, she had a little money. What she earned by copying, and the money she received from me for her sittings, sufficed her. She lived in the same little room to which she had changed when she hid from us. It was a narrow, low room, with one window looking out on to a blank wall. A bedstead, chest of drawers, two chairs, and a card-table, which did duty as a writing and dining table, made up its furniture. When we used to go and see her, Senichka would go to the kitchen and beg a stool for himself from the landlady. But we seldom visited her. The room, which nothing could induce Nadejda Nicolaievna to leave, was uninviting and gloomy, and we seldom went there. For the most part, we forgathered in my rooms, which were spacious and light.

I never once spoke to her of what was passing in my mind. I was calm and happy in the present. I understood that any incautious reference to her, perhaps still open, spiritual wounds would reflect painfully on her. I might lose her forever if I insisted now in carrying out my secret idea, wish, and hope. Perhaps I could not have behaved so quietly and restrained myself so long had not this hope been so strong. I firmly believed that after another six months, a year, or even two (I was not afraid of time), when she had become calm and restored to health, she would see around her a firm support on which she could lean and would become mine for life. I even did not hope, I actually knew she would be my wife.

I do not know if she used to see Bezsonow.⁠ ⁠… He came occasionally to me, upsetting our tranquillity and introducing an awkwardness into our conversation. Apparently he was calm, and looked upon Nadejda Nicolaievna with indifference. She did not talk to him, although she answered his questions and listened to his long dissertations on the most varied subjects. He was very well read and spoke well. Somehow it seemed to me that he was so talkative and instructive in order to hide from us something concealed behind the flow of speech which would not give him peace. Subsequently I knew that this was so, and that under his outward calm he was hiding the mortal ulcer which was killing him, just as that French priest of reputed invulnerability used to wear a red cloak in battles, so that the blood which used to pour from his wounds should not be seen. But when I found this out it was already too late.

For some reason he again went to live with the Captain. I went there once. His new room, like his old one, was all littered with books, newspapers, and papers, but it seemed to me that they all lay in great disorder and covered with dust, as if it was long since anyone had put a finger to work. I felt an intruder, and decided not to go any more to him. I asked him, by the way, whether he knew anything of the Captain, and was it true that he was a “hero of Miekoff and Opatoff.”

“He is inventing,” said Bezsonow. “He is really half a Pole. He became Orthodox long ago. I think he simply wishes to impress young fellows when he discloses this sham secret.”

I came away from Bezsonow. Soon afterwards two incidents opened my eyes to his behaviour.

First, Sonia wrote me a letter describing the plot between Bezsonow and his mother. The old lady used sometimes to go to the Institute on visiting days, remembering the interest which Sonia’s mother had taken in her and her son. According to my cousin, on this occasion she arrived in an agitated and mysterious state, and, after a few preliminary remarks, disclosed the reason of her visit. Serge Vassilivich had written to her all details of what was happening. He could not find words with which to paint the position of affairs as black as he wished. He had not asked his mother to inform Sonia of the contents of the letter, but the old woman herself, out of a feeling of gratitude, had decided to come and tell her everything in order to warn her so that she might act whilst it was yet possible to save me. The old lady was very surprised when she found out my cousin knew all. She was much upset. She, as an old woman, was ashamed to talk of such things to a young girl still at an Institute, but what was to be done? The unhappy Andrusha must be saved at all costs. If she were Sonia, she would leave the Institute at once and go to St. Petersburg in order to open my eyes.

“Serge Vassilivich,” wrote Sonia, “is playing some strange part in all this story. I do not believe he wrote all this to his mother without knowing that she would infallibly tell me all; and, I will go further, he hoped she would tell me.

“I will come to St. Petersburg, but only after the examinations. If you are agreeable, we will pass the summer somewhere together in a dacha, and I will do a little work, so that it will not be too hard for me when I begin my studies.”

This letter upset me, but when I received a second long anonymous epistle, it was more than I could stand.

In high-flown, florid sentences, the anonymous author warned me against the doleful fate of all young people who give themselves up blindly to their passions, not discriminating between the qualities and deficiencies of the being with whom they are intending to enter into alliance⁠—“the fetters of which are light and unnoticeable at the commencement, but which subsequently become converted into a heavy chain resembling that which unfortunate galley-slaves drag.” This was the style in which the unknown author of the latter expressed himself. “Believe the kindly meant word of an older and more experienced man, Mr. Lopatin.” Then followed a whole indictment against “Nadejda,” whose soul was characterized as “booty for the stove” (an expression from which I conclusively recognized the hand of the Captain). She was accused of a long life of vice which she could have left had she chosen, “because she has relatives, albeit very distant ones, who⁠—I am convinced of this⁠—would have rescued her from her fallen social position; but her natural bent is vicious; she preferred to wallow in the mire from which you, in vain hope to save her, and into which, without doubt, you will yourself fall, and lose your life and wonderful talent.” She was accused of the murder of a man, “also very correct, not distinguished by talents such as you possess, but a first-rate man, receiving fifty roubles a month salary, and having a prospective increase of salary which would have been sufficient for both to live on, because what could such a creature as this contemptible being rely on? However, her nature was such that she preferred to reject the marriage offers of this young man, Mr. Nikitin, so as to be free to continue her vile life.”

The letter was a very long one, and before I came to its end I had thrown it into the stove. That Bezsonow had had a share in this appeared to me undoubted. Why otherwise should the Captain bother about my soul’s salvation? All the blood rushed to my head, and my first impulse was to rush to Bezsonow. I do not know what I should have done to him. I did not bother about the Captain. This renegade hiding his treason had been talked over, bought over with drink perhaps, or frightened into it by some means. I seized my hat, and was already at the door, when I recovered myself. It would be better to calm down, and then decide upon what to do. I decided in this sense, and, whilst waiting for Nadejda Nicolaievna, tried to paint in some of the accessories of the picture, thinking by this means to calm myself down for work, but my brush jumped about the canvas, and my eyes did not see the paints. I dressed so as to go out and get a breath of fresh air. As I opened the door, I found Nadejda Nicolaievna standing in front of me, pale, breathless, with a terrified expression in her wide-opened eyes.

From Bezsonow’s Diary.⁠—Heartsick and longing! This sickness of heart is persecuting me, no matter where I am or what I may do in order to forget, to appease it by some means or other. My eyes have at last opened. A month has gone by, and in this month all has been settled. What has become of my boasted philosophic tranquillity? Where are my sleepless nights passed in work? I, the same I who prided myself on possessing character in our characterless time, have been crushed and destroyed by the storm which has rushed on me.⁠ ⁠… What storm? Is it really a storm? I despise myself. I despise myself for my former pride, which did not prevent me from giving way to an empty passion. I despise myself for having allowed this devil in the shape of a woman to take possession of my soul. Yes, if I believed in the supernatural, I could in no other way explain what has happened.

I have read over these lines.⁠ ⁠… What humiliating, pitiful wails! Oh, where art thou, my pride? Where is that strength of will which made it possible for me to break myself, and live, not as life willed, but as I wished to live? I have lowered myself to petty intrigue. I wrote to my mother, and she, without doubt, told all I wanted told to his cousin, and nothing has come of it; impatiently, I made an old fool write an illiterate letter to Lopatin⁠—and I know nothing will come of this. He will throw the letter into the fire, or, still worse, will show it to her, his mistress, and they will read it together, make fun of the illiterate effusions of the Captain’s soul, and will jeer at me because they will understand that no one but I could have urged the Captain to commit this idiotic act.

His mistress? Is she? The word was torn from me, but I do not know whether it is true. And if untrue? Is there still any hope for me? What makes me think that he has fallen in love with her, excepting vague suspicion roused by mad jealousy?

Three years ago everything was possible and easy. I lied in this very diary when I wrote that I gave her up because I saw it was impossible to save her. Or, if I did not lie, I deceived myself. It would have been easy to save her. It only meant bending down to pick her up, but I would not stoop. I understand this only now, when my heart is aching with love for her. Love! No, it is not love; it is more: it is a raging passion, a fire which is consuming me. How shall I extinguish it?

I will go to her. I will collect all my forces and speak calmly. Let her choose between him and me. I will only speak the truth. I will tell her that it is impossible to rely on this impressionable fellow, who today is thinking of her, and tomorrow will be engrossed with something else and will forget her. I will go! One way or the other this must come to an end. I am too worn out, and cannot.⁠ ⁠…

The same day.

I have been to her. I am going to him directly.

These are the last lines which will be written in this diary. Nothing can hold me back. I have no control over myself.⁠ ⁠…

Lopatin’s Notes.⁠—Why drag it out any longer? Is it not better to end my reminiscences in these hnes?

No, I will write them to the end. It is all the same; if I throw down my pen and this diary, that awful day will be lived by me a thousand times. For the thousandth time I am experiencing the horror and torment of conscience and the agony of loss; for the thousandth time the scene of which I am going to write now will pass before my eyes in all its details, and each detail will lie on my heart with fresh, awful emphasis. I will go on to the very end.

I led Nadejda Nicolaievna into the room. She could scarcely stand, and was trembling as if in a fever. She gazed at me all the time with the same frightened glance, and for the first minute could not utter a word. I sat her down and gave her some water.

“Andrei Nicolaievich, beware! Lock the door!⁠ ⁠… Let no one come in. He will be here in a minute.”

“Who? Bezsonow?”

“Lock the doors!” she gasped.

Rage possessed me. It was not sufficient to write anonymous letters; he had resorted to violence.

“What has he done to you? Where have you seen him? Calm yourself. Drink some more water, and tell me. Where did you see him?”

“He has been to see me.”

“For the first time?”

“No, not for the first time. He has been twice before. I did not want to tell you, so as not to upset you. I begged him to stop coming to me. I told him it distressed me to see him. He said nothing, and went, and for three weeks did not come near me. Today he came early, and waited until I had dressed.⁠ ⁠…”

She stopped. It was difficult for her to continue.

“Well, and further?”

“I have never seen him before like he was. He began by speaking quietly. He spoke of you. He said nothing bad about you, only that you were impressionable and fickle, and that I could not rely on you. He said straight out that you would throw me aside because you would tire of me.⁠ ⁠…”

She stopped and began to cry. Oh, never was I possessed with such love and pity for her. I took her cold hands and kissed them. I was madly happy. Words flowed without restraint from my lips. I told her I would love her for life, that she must be my wife, and that she would see and know that Bezsonow was wrong. I spoke a thousand senseless words⁠—words of delirious happiness for the most part, having no outward sense⁠—but she understood them. I saw her dear face, radiant with happiness, resting close to my heart. It was an entirely new, somewhat strange face⁠—not the face with a secret suffering writ on its features that I had been accustomed to see.

She laughed and cried, and kissed my hands, and pressed towards me. And at that moment the world held only us two. She spoke of her good fortune, and how she had loved me from the very first meeting, and had run away from me frightened at this love. She declared she was not worthy of me, that it terrified her that I should link my fate with hers, and she again embraced me, and again shed tears of joy and happiness. Finally she sobered down.

“But Bezsonow,” she said suddenly.

“Let Bezsonow come,” I replied. “What has Bezsonow got to do with us?”

“Wait; I will finish what I began to tell you of him. Yes, he spoke of you, then of himself. He said he was a far more hopeful support than you. He reminded me that three years ago I loved him and would have gone with him, and when I told him he was deceiving himself his whole pride blazed out, and he so lost control of himself that he rushed at me.⁠ ⁠… Wait, wait,” said Nadejda Nicolaievna, seizing me by the hand as I jumped to my feet; “he did not touch me.⁠ ⁠… I am sorry for him, Andrei Nicolaievich⁠ ⁠… he threw himself at my feet, this proud man. If only you had seen him!”

“What did you say to him?”

“What was there to say? I was silent. I could only tell him that I did not love him, and when he asked me if it was because I loved you, I told him the truth.⁠ ⁠… Then something strange came over him, which I could not understand. He rushed at me, clasped me to himself, and whispered ‘Goodbye, goodbye,’ and went to the door. I have never seen such an awful face. I fell into a chair. At the door he turned, and, smiling strangely, said, ‘But I shall see you with him,’ and his face was so awful.⁠ ⁠…”

Suddenly she stopped speaking and turned deadly pale, fixing her eyes on the door of the studio. I turned round. In the doorway stood Bezsonow.

“You did not expect me?” he said stammeringly. “I did not disturb you, and came in by the back entrance.”

I jumped to my feet and faced him. We stood for some time like this, measuring each other with our eyes. He was indeed a terrifying spectacle. He was white, his bloodshot eyes, full of raging hate, were fixed on me. He said nothing, but his thin lips trembled, and seemed to be whispering something. Suddenly a wave of pity for him swept over me.

“Serge Vassilivich, why did you come? If you want to talk to me, come along and calm yourself.”

“I am quite calm, Lopatin.⁠ ⁠… I am ill, but calm. I have already decided, and I have nothing to excite me.”

“Why have you come?”

“To say a few words to you. You imagine you will be happy with her?” With a wave of his hand, he pointed to Nadejda Nicolaievna. “You will not be happy! I will not allow it.”

“Leave this place,” said I, making tremendous efforts to speak quietly. “Go away⁠—go and rest. You yourself say you are unwell.”

“That’s my business. Listen to what I am going to tell you. I have made a mistake.⁠ ⁠… I am to blame. I love her. Give her to me.”

“He has gone out of his mind,” flashed through my mind.

“I cannot live without her,” he continued in a dull, hoarse voice. “I will not leave you until you say ‘Yes.’ ”

“Serge Vassilivich!”

“And you will say ‘Yes,’ or⁠ ⁠…”

I took him by the shoulders and turned him towards the door. He went quietly, but when we reached the door, instead of taking hold of the handle, he turned the key in the lock, then, with a sudden violent movement, threw me off and stood in a threatening pose. Nadejda Nicolaievna gave a shriek.

I saw him transfer the key from his right hand into his left, and put his right hand into his pocket. When he drew it out, something glistened in it which I had not time to name. But its sight terrified me. Not knowing what I was doing, I seized the lance standing in the corner, and when he pointed the revolver at Nadejda Nicolaievna, I rushed at him with a wild yell. Everything reverberated with a terrific report.⁠ ⁠…

Then the slaughter began.

I do not know how long I lay unconscious. When I came to I remembered nothing, only that I was lying on the floor, that I could see the ceiling through a strange dove-coloured mist, that I felt there was something in my chest preventing me from moving or speaking⁠—all this did not astonish me. It seemed to me that it was all a necessary part of some matter which had to be done, but what I could not in any way remember.

The picture! Yes. Charlotte Corday and Ilia Murometz.⁠ ⁠… He is sitting and reading, and she is turning the leaves for him and laughing wildly.⁠ ⁠… What nonsense!⁠ ⁠… It is not that; that is not the question about which Helfreich is speaking.

I make a movement, and feel great pain. Of course, that is as it should be⁠—otherwise is impossible.

Absolute quiet. A fly is buzzing in the air, and then bumps itself against the windowpane. The double windows have not yet been taken out, but through them comes the rattle of the droshkies passing along the street. The faint smoke clears away before my eyes⁠—a strange bluish smoke⁠—and I see clearly on the ceiling a coarsely modelled rosette round the hook for a candelabra. I think that this is a very strange ornament. I have never noticed it before. And somebody is touching my arm. I turn my head and see somebody’s hand⁠—a little soft white hand lying on the floor. I cannot get at it, and I am dreadfully sorry, because this is Nadia’s hand, whom I love more than anybody or anything else in the world.⁠ ⁠…

And suddenly a bright gleam of consciousness illuminates me, and in a flash I remember all that has happened.⁠ ⁠… He has killed her.

Impossible! Impossible! She is alive. She is only wounded. “Help! help!” I cry, but no sound is heard. Only a kind of gurgling in my chest which chokes me, and a rosy froth collects on my lips. He has killed me also.

Collecting my strength, I raised myself and looked at her face. Her eyes were closed and she was motionless. I felt how the very hair on my head moved. I wanted to become unconscious. I fell on her breast, and commenced to smother with kisses the face which but half an hour ago had been full of life and happiness, and had so confidingly snuggled to my heart. Now it was still and severe. The blood had already ceased to trickle from a little wound over one eye. She was dead.

When they burst open the door and Simon Ivanovich rushed towards me, I felt that I was at my last gasp. They lifted me up and placed me on the sofa. I saw how they took hold of her and carried her out. I wanted to cry out, to beg, implore them not to do it, but to leave her alongside me. But I could not cry out. I only noiselessly whispered whilst the doctor examined my chest, through which a bullet had passed.

They took him out. He lay with a severe and terrible face covered in blood, which had poured like a wave from a mortal wound on his head.

I am finishing now. What is there to add?

Sonia arrived almost immediately, summoned by a telegram from Simon Ivanovich. They have been treating me for a long time, and persistently continue to treat me. Sonia and Helfreich are convinced that I shall live. They want to take me abroad, and rely on this journey as on a mountain of stone.

But I feel I have only a few days more. My wound has closed, but my chest is being racked by another disease. I know I have consumption. And, thirdly, a still more terrible disease is helping it. I cannot for one minute forget Nadejda Nicolaievna and Bezsonow. The appalling details of that last day stand eternally before my mental gaze, and a voice without ceasing whispers into my ear that I have killed a man.

They did not try me. The case was quashed. It was recognized that I killed in self-defence.

But for the human conscience there are no written laws, no doctrine of irresponsibility, and I am suffering punishment for my crime. I shall not suffer it long. Soon the All-Merciful will forgive me, and we three will meet where our passions and sufferings will seem insignificant in the light of everlasting love.