e
of high school. If you could only see how much careful attention, how
much tender care Anna Markovna expends that her daughter may not
somehow, accidentally, find out about her profession. And everything is
for Birdie, everything is for the sake of Birdie. And she herself dare
not even converse before her, is afraid of her lexicon of a bawd and an
erstwhile prostitute, looks into her eyes, holds herself servilely,
like an old servant, like a foolish, doting nurse, like an old,
faithful, mange-eaten poodle. It is long since time for her to retire
to rest, because she has money, and because her occupation is both
arduous and troublesome, and because her years are already venerable.
But no and no; one more extra thousand is needed, and then more and
more--everything for Birdie. And so Birdie has horses, Birdie has an
English governess, Birdie is every year taken abroad, Birdie has
diamonds worth forty thousand--the devil knows whose they are, these
diamonds? And it isn't that I am merely convinced, but I know well,
that for the happiness of this same Birdie, nay, not even for her
happiness, but, let us suppose that Birdie gets a hangnail on her
little finger--well then, in order that this hangnail might pass
away--imagine for a second the possibility of such a state of
things!--Anna Markovna, without the quiver of an eyelash, will sell
into corruption our sisters and daughters, will infect all of us and
our sons with syphilis. What? A monster, you will say? But I will say
that she is moved by the same grand, unreasoning, blind, egoistical
love for which we call our mothers sainted women."

"Go easy around the curves!" remarked Boris Sobashnikov through his
teeth.

"Pardon me: I was not comparing people, but merely generalizing on the
first source of emotion. I might have brought out as an example the
self-denying love of animal-mothers as well. But I see that I have
started on a tedious matter. Better let's drop it."

"No, you finish," protested Lichonin. "I feel that you have a massive
thought."

"And a very simple one. The other day a professor asked me if I am not
observing the life here with some literary aims. And all I wanted to
say was, that I can see, but precisely can not observe. Here I have
given you Simeon and the bawd for example. I do not know myself why,
but I feel that in them lurks some terrible, insuperable actuality of
life, but either to tell it, or to show it, I can not. Here is
necessary the g