t of an invented story there are, no doubt, certain
proprieties to be observed for the sake of clearness and effect. A man
of imagination, however inexperienced in the art of narrative, has his
instinct to guide him in the choice of his words, and in the development
of the action. A grain of talent excuses many mistakes. But this is not
a work of imagination; I have no talent; my excuse for this undertaking
lies not in its art, but in its artlessness. Aware of my limitations and
strong in the sincerity of my purpose, I would not try (were I able) to
invent anything. I push my scruples so far that I would not even invent
a transition.

Dropping then Mr. Razumov's record at the point where Councillor
Mikulin's question "Where to?" comes in with the force of an insoluble
problem, I shall simply say that I made the acquaintance of these ladies
about six months before that time. By "these ladies" I mean, of course,
the mother and the sister of the unfortunate Haldin.

By what arguments he had induced his mother to sell their little
property and go abroad for an indefinite time, I cannot tell precisely.
I have an idea that Mrs. Haldin, at her son's wish, would have set fire
to her house and emigrated to the moon without any sign of surprise or
apprehension; and that Miss Haldin--Nathalie, caressingly Natalka--would
have given her assent to the scheme.

Their proud devotion to that young man became clear to me in a
very short time. Following his directions they went straight to
Switzerland--to Zurich--where they remained the best part of a year.
From Zurich, which they did not like, they came to Geneva. A friend
of mine in Lausanne, a lecturer in history at the University (he had
married a Russian lady, a distant connection of Mrs. Haldin's), wrote to
me suggesting I should call on these ladies. It was a very kindly
meant business suggestion. Miss Haldin wished to go through a course of
reading the best English authors with a competent teacher.

Mrs. Haldin received me very kindly. Her bad French, of which she was
smilingly conscious, did away with the formality of the first interview.
She was a tall woman in a black silk dress. A wide brow, regular
features, and delicately cut lips, testified to her past beauty. She sat
upright in an easy chair and in a rather weak, gentle voice told me that
her Natalka simply thirsted after knowledge. Her thin hands were lying
on her lap, her facial immobility had in it something monachal