f
course, he has no settled position, but that can't be helped. Please
God, in time he will get one. He is of good family and well off."

"Where did you learn that?"

"He told us so. His father has a large house in Harkov and an estate in
the neighbourhood. In short, Nikolay Stepanovitch, you absolutely must
go to Harkov."

"What for?"

"You will find out all about him there.... You know the professors
there; they will help you. I would go myself, but I am a woman. I
cannot...."

"I am not going to Harkov," I say morosely.

My wife is frightened, and a look of intense suffering comes into her
face.

"For God's sake, Nikolay Stepanovitch," she implores me, with tears in
her voice--"for God's sake, take this burden off me! I am so worried!"

It is painful for me to look at her.

"Very well, Varya," I say affectionately, "if you wish it, then
certainly I will go to Harkov and do all you want."

She presses her handkerchief to her eyes and goes off to her room to
cry, and I am left alone.

A little later lights are brought in. The armchair and the lamp-shade
cast familiar shadows that have long grown wearisome on the walls and on
the floor, and when I look at them I feel as though the night had come
and with it my accursed sleeplessness. I lie on my bed, then get up and
walk about the room, then lie down again. As a rule it is after dinner,
at the approach of evening, that my nervous excitement reaches its
highest pitch. For no reason I begin crying and burying my head in the
pillow. At such times I am afraid that some one may come in; I am afraid
of suddenly dying; I am ashamed of my tears, and altogether there is
something insufferable in my soul. I feel that I can no longer bear the
sight of my lamp, of my books, of the shadows on the floor. I cannot
bear the sound of the voices coming from the drawing-room. Some force
unseen, uncomprehended, is roughly thrusting me out of my flat. I leap
up hurriedly, dress, and cautiously, that my family may not notice, slip
out into the street. Where am I to go?

The answer to that question has long been ready in my brain. To Katya.

III

As a rule she is lying on the sofa or in a lounge-chair reading. Seeing
me, she raises her head languidly, sits up, and shakes hands.

"You are always lying down," I say, after pausing and taking breath.
"That's not good for you. You ought to occupy yourself with something."

"What?"

"I say you ought to occupy yourself in some