"I have been ruined by an accursed
woman. That was because I could not do things in moderation--I was
powerless to stop myself in time, Satan tempted me, and drove me from
my senses, and bereft me of human prudence. Yes, truly I have sinned, I
have sinned! Yet how came I so to sin? To think that a dvorianin--yes,
a dvorianin--should be thrown into prison without process or trial! I
repeat, a dvorianin! Why was I not given time to go home and collect my
effects? Whereas now they are left with no one to look after them! My
dispatch-box, my dispatch-box! It contained my whole property, all that
my heart's blood and years of toil and want have been needed to acquire.
And now everything will be stolen, Athanasi Vassilievitch--everything
will be taken from me! My God!"

And, unable to stand against the torrent of grief which came rushing
over his heart once more, he sobbed aloud in tones which penetrated even
the thickness of the prison walls, and made dull echoes awake behind
them. Then, tearing off his satin tie, and seizing by the collar, the
smoked-grey-shot-with-flame-colour frockcoat, he stripped the latter
from his shoulders.

"Ah, Paul Ivanovitch," said the old man, "how even now the property
which you have acquired is blinding your eyes, and causing you to fail
to realise your terrible position!"

"Yes, my good friend and benefactor," wailed poor Chichikov
despairingly, and clasping Murazov by the knees. "Yet save me if you
can! The Prince is fond of you, and would do anything for your sake."

"No, Paul Ivanovitch; however much I might wish to save you, and however
much I might try to do so, I could not help you as you desire; for it is
to the power of an inexorable law, and not to the authority of any one
man, that you have rendered yourself subject."

"Satan tempted me, and has ended by making of me an outcast from the
human race!" Chichikov beat his head against the wall and struck the
table with his fist until the blood spurted from his hand. Yet neither
his head nor his hand seemed to be conscious of the least pain.

"Calm yourself, Paul Ivanovitch," said Murazov. "Calm yourself, and
consider how best you can make your peace with God. Think of your
miserable soul, and not of the judgment of man."

"I will, Athanasi Vassilievitch, I will. But what a fate is mine! Did
ever such a fate befall a man? To think of all the patience with which
I have gathered my kopecks, of all the toil and trouble which I have