Gnekker and the young ladies talk fugues, counterpoint, singers, pianists, Bach and Brahms, while my wife smiles sympathetically, fearing to be suspected of musical ignorance.
'How splendid,' she mutters. 'Really? You don't say!'
Gnekker eats solidly away, making his solid jokes and lending a patronizing ear to the young ladies' observations. Evincing an occasional desire to speak bad French, he finds it necessary for some reason to dub me Votre Excellence at such times.
Dut I'm morose. They're as uneasy with me, obviously, as I am with them. I had never come up against class hatred before, but that's what plagues me now, or something like it. I seek only the bad in Gnekker, I find it soon enough, and suffer agonies at the thought of someone outside my o^n circle as suitor for my daughter's hand. His presence affects me badly in another way too. When I'm on my o^n or with people I like, I don't brood on my o^n virtues as a rule— or, ifl do, I find them as trifling as ifI'd only spent one day in academic life. But when I'm with someone like Gnekker, my merits loom before me like some great mountain with its summit lost in cloud, while do^n on the foothills squirm Gnekkers scarce visible to the naked eye.
After lunch I go into my study and light my only pipe of the day, a relic of my bad old habit of puffing away morning noon and night. While I smoke my wife comes in and sits do^n for a talk. As in the mornings, I know what we're going to talk about in advance.
'You and I must have a serious talk, Nicholas,' she begins. 'About Liza, I mean—. Why won't you put your mind to it?'
'To what?'
'You pretend you don't see anything, but that's wrong, one mustn't be so off-hand. Gnekker has intentions towards Liza—what do you say about it?'
'That he's a bad man I can't say because I don't know him. That I don't like him I've told you a thousand times already.'
'Oh, this is impossible, really '
She stands up and walks about in agitation.
'You can't adopt that attitude to a serious step,' says she. 'With a daughter's happiness at stake, one must put all personal considerations aside. All right, I know you don't like him—but if we tum him down now and break it off, what guarantee have you that Liza won't hold it against us for the rest of her life? There aren't too many young men about these days, heaven knows, and another one may not come along. He's very much in love with Liza, and she obviously likes him. He hasn't got a proper job, of course, but that can't be helped. He'll get fixed up somewhere in time, God willing. He's of good family and he's well off.'
'How do you know?'
'He said so himself. His father has a large house in Kharkov and an estate near by. What it comes to, Nicholas, is that you must definitely visit Kharkov.'
'What for?' 'You can go into things there—you know some of the local professors, and they'll help you. I'd go myself, but I'm a woman and I can't '
'I shan't go to Kharkov,' I say gloomily.
My wife takes fright, and an anguished expression appears on her face.
'For God's sake, Nicholas,' she begs between sobs. 'For God's sake, take this burden from me—I'm in agony.'
The sight of her causes me suffering.
'All right then, Varya,' I say tenderly. 'All right, I'll run downwn to Kharkov if you like and do what you want.'
She presses her handkerchief to her eyes and goes off to cry in her room while I'm left on my o^n.
Somewhat later a lamp is brought in. Arm-chairs and lampshade throw on walls and floor the familiar shadows of which I have long since tired. Watching them, I feel as if night had fallen and my da^fted insomnia had started already. I lie on the bed, I get up and pace the room, then lie do^n again.
As a rule my nervous excitement reaches its highest pitch in the late afternoon. I begin crying for no good reason, and bury my head in the pillow—afraid of someone coming in, afraid of dying suddenly, ashamed of my tears, and altogether in the most unbearable state of mind. No longer, I feel, can I bear the sight of my lamp, of my books, of the shadows on the floor, nor can I endure the voices ringing in the drawing-room. Some force, unseen and inscrutable, is thrusting me roughly out of my home, and I leap up, quickly dress and slip into the street, heedful to elude the attention of my family. Where shall I go?
The answer to that question has been in my mind for some time—to Katya's.
III
As a rule she's lying on a Turkish divan or sofa, reading. Seeing me, she idly lifts her head, sits up and stretches out her hand.
'You're always lying do^n,' I say after pausing for breath. 'That's bad for you, you should be doing something.'
'Eh?'
'You should be doing something, I say.'
'Doing what ? A woman can only do menial work or go on the stage.' 'Well then, go on the stage if you can't do the other kind of work.'
She says nothing.
'You ought to get married,' I say, halfjoking.
'There's no one to marry—no point in it either.'
'You can't go on like this.'
'Without a husband? A lot that matters—I could have as many men as I liked if I wanted.'
'That's not very nice, Katya.'
'What isn't?'
'What you just said.'
'Come on,' says Katya, noting my distress and wishing to remove the bad impression. 'Now, come with me—there you are.'
She takes me into a small, extremely comfortable room.
'There you are,' she says, pointing to the desk. 'I arranged this for you, you can work here. Come here every day and bring your work— they only interrupt you at home. You will work here, won't you?'
To avoid the offence of a refusal, I reply that I will indeed, and that I like the room very much. Then we both sit downwn in that comfortable room and start talking.
Warmth, comfort, a congenial presence—instead of pleasure, as of old, these things now evoke in me only a strong urge to complain and grouse. I'll somehow feel better, it seems, if I fuss and grumble.
'Things are in a bad way, my dear,' I begin with a sigh. 'Very bad '
'What is?'
'Well, it's like this, my dear. The greatest, the most sacred right of kings is the right of pardon, and I've always felt like a king because I've availed myself of this right up to the limit. I've neverjudged, I've been indulgent, I've gladly forgiven all and sundry. Where others protested or waxed indignant, I merely advised or persuaded. Throughout my life my sole concern has been to make my company tolerable to my family, students, colleagues and servants. This attitude to others has had a fo^ative influence on those around me, I know. But now I'm a king no longer. Something is going on inside me—some process fit only for slaves. Day and night evil thoughts haunt me, feelings hitherto unfamiliar have settled in my heart—hatred, scorn, indignation, outrage, fear. I've grown excessively severe, exacting, irritable, disagreeable, suspicious. What once provoked me to an extra joke and a jolly laugh, no more—even those things depress my spirits now. And my sense of logic has changed too. Where once I despised only money,
I now harbour malice against rich people, asif they were at fault—not against their money. Where once I hated violence and tyranny, I now hate those who employ violence, as if they alone were to blame—and not the rest of us for our inability to educate each other. What's the meaning of this? If these new thoughts and new feelings proceed from changed convictions, then where did this change come from? Has the world gro^n worse? And I better? Or was I blind before, and apathetic? Now, if the change derives from a general decline in my physical and intellectual powers—and I am ill, after all, I do lose weight every day— then my situation's pathetic, for my new thoughts must be abno^al and morbid. I should be ashamed of them, make little of them '