e tenderly on my
forehead and on my hand, and says:

"Good-morning, papa; are you quite well?"

As a child she was very fond of ice-cream, and I used often to take
her to a confectioner's. Ice-cream was for her the type of everything
delightful. If she wanted to praise me she would say: "You are as nice
as cream, papa." We used to call one of her little fingers "pistachio
ice," the next, "cream ice," the third "raspberry," and so on. Usually
when she came in to say good-morning to me I used to sit her on my knee,
kiss her little fingers, and say:

"Creamy ice... pistachio... lemon...."

And now, from old habit, I kiss Liza's fingers and mutter: "Pistachio...
cream... lemon..." but the effect is utterly different. I am cold as
ice and I am ashamed. When my daughter comes in to me and touches my
forehead with her lips I start as though a bee had stung me on the
head, give a forced smile, and turn my face away. Ever since I have been
suffering from sleeplessness, a question sticks in my brain like a nail.
My daughter often sees me, an old man and a distinguished man, blush
painfully at being in debt to my footman; she sees how often anxiety
over petty debts forces me to lay aside my work and to walk u p and down
the room for hours together, thinking; but why is it she never comes to
me in secret to whisper in my ear: "Father, here is my watch, here
are my bracelets, my earrings, my dresses.... Pawn them all; you want
money..."? How is it that, seeing how her mother and I are placed in a
false position and do our utmost to hide our poverty from people, she
does not give up her expensive pleasure of music lessons? I would
not accept her watch nor her bracelets, nor the sacrifice of her
lessons--God forbid! That isn't what I want.

I think at the same time of my son, the officer at Warsaw. He is a
clever, honest, and sober fellow. But that is not enough for me. I think
if I had an old father, and if I knew there were moments when he was
put to shame by his poverty, I should give up my officer's commission
to somebody else, and should go out to earn my living as a workman. Such
thoughts about my children poison me. What is the use of them? It is
only a narrow-minded or embittered man who can harbour evil thoughts
about ordinary people because they are not heroes. But enough of that!

At a quarter to ten I have to go and give a lecture to my dear boys. I
dress and walk along the road which I have known for thirty years,