"Yes, it is, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, just what you need; the very thing
you're yearning for, though you don't realize it yourself. I am not at all
opposed to the present woman movement, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. The
development of woman, and even the political emancipation of woman in the
near future--that's my ideal. I've a daughter myself, Dmitri Fyodorovitch,
people don't know that side of me. I wrote a letter to the author,
Shtchedrin, on that subject. He has taught me so much, so much about the
vocation of woman. So last year I sent him an anonymous letter of two
lines: 'I kiss and embrace you, my teacher, for the modern woman.
Persevere.' And I signed myself, 'A Mother.' I thought of signing myself
'A contemporary Mother,' and hesitated, but I stuck to the simple
'Mother'; there's more moral beauty in that, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. And the
word 'contemporary' might have reminded him of '_The Contemporary_'--a
painful recollection owing to the censorship.... Good Heavens, what is the
matter!"

"Madam!" cried Mitya, jumping up at last, clasping his hands before her in
helpless entreaty. "You will make me weep if you delay what you have so
generously--"

"Oh, do weep, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, do weep! That's a noble feeling ...
such a path lies open before you! Tears will ease your heart, and later on
you will return rejoicing. You will hasten to me from Siberia on purpose
to share your joy with me--"

"But allow me, too!" Mitya cried suddenly. "For the last time I entreat
you, tell me, can I have the sum you promised me to-day, if not, when may
I come for it?"

"What sum, Dmitri Fyodorovitch?"

"The three thousand you promised me ... that you so generously--"

"Three thousand? Roubles? Oh, no, I haven't got three thousand," Madame
Hohlakov announced with serene amazement. Mitya was stupefied.

"Why, you said just now ... you said ... you said it was as good as in my
hands--"

"Oh, no, you misunderstood me, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. In that case you
misunderstood me. I was talking of the gold-mines. It's true I promised
you more, infinitely more than three thousand, I remember it all now, but
I was referring to the gold-mines."

"But the money? The three thousand?" Mitya exclaimed, awkwardly.

"Oh, if you meant money, I haven't any. I haven't a penny, Dmitri
Fyodorovitch. I'm quarreling with my steward about it, and I've just
borrowed five hundred roubles from Miuesov, myself. No, no, I've no money.
And, do you know, Dmitri F