so, what would be the best way to do it without a scandal, so that no one could accuse anyone and her father’s feelings would be spared, etc., etc.” They say Andronikov brought her to reason then and advised against it; and afterwards, when the prince had fully recovered, it was no longer possible to go back to the idea; but the letter stayed with Andronikov. And now he dies. Katerina Nikolaevna remembered at once about the letter. If it should be discovered among the deceased’s papers and get into the hands of the old prince, he would undoubtedly throw her out for good, disinherit her, and not give her a kopeck while he lived. The thought that his own daughter had no faith in his reason, and even wanted to declare him mad, would turn this lamb into a savage beast. While she, having become a widow, was left without any means, thanks to her gambler husband, and had only her father to count on; she fully hoped to get a new dowry from him as rich as the first one!
Kraft knew very little about the fate of this letter, but he observed that Andronikov “never tore up necessary papers” and, besides, was a man not only of broad intelligence, but also of “broad conscience.” (I even marveled then at such an extraordinarily independent view on the part of Kraft, who had so loved and respected Andronikov.) But all the same Kraft was certain that the compromising document had fallen into the hands of Versilov, through his closeness to Andronikov’s widow and daughters. It was known that they had presented Versilov at once and dutifully with all the papers the deceased had left behind. He also knew that Katerina Nikolaevna was informed that Versilov had the letter, and that this was what she feared, thinking that Versilov would at once go to the old prince with the letter; that, having returned from abroad, she had already searched for the letter in Petersburg, had visited the Andronikovs, and was now continuing to search, since the hope still remained in her that the letter was perhaps not with Versilov, and, in conclusion, that she had also gone to Moscow solely with that aim and had pleaded with Marya Ivanovna there to look among the papers she had kept. She had found out about Marya Ivanovna’s existence and her relations with the late Andronikov quite recently, on returning to Petersburg.
“Do you think she didn’t find it at Marya Ivanovna’s?” I asked, having a thought of my own.
“If Marya Ivanovna didn’t reveal anything even to you, then maybe she doesn’t have anything.”
“So you suppose that Versilov has the document?”
“Most likely he does. However, I don’t know, anything is possible,” he said with visible fatigue.
I stopped questioning him. What was the point? All the main things had become clear to me, in spite of this unworthy tangle; everything I was afraid of—had been confirmed.
“That’s all like dreams and delirium,” I said in profound sorrow, and took my hat.
“Is this man very dear to you?” Kraft asked with visible and great sympathy, which I read on his face at that moment.
“I anticipated,” I said, “that I wouldn’t learn the full story from you anyway. Mme. Akhmakov is the one remaining hope. I did have hope in her. Maybe I’ll go to see her, and maybe not.”
Kraft looked at me in some perplexity.
“Good-bye, Kraft! Why foist yourself on people who don’t want you? Isn’t it better to break with it all— eh?”
“And then where?” he asked somehow sternly and looking down.
“To yourself, to yourself! Break with it all and go to yourself !”
“To America?”
“To America! To yourself, to yourself alone! That’s the whole of ‘my idea,’ Kraft!” I said ecstatically.
He looked at me somehow curiously.
“And you have this place: ‘to yourself ’?”
“I do. Good-bye, Kraft. I thank you, and I’m sorry to have troubled you! In your place, since you’ve got such a Russia in your head, I’d send everybody to the devil: away with you, scheme, squabble among yourselves—what is it to me!”
“Stay a while,” he said suddenly, having already seen me to the front door.
I was a little surprised, went back, and sat down again. Kraft sat down facing me. We exchanged smiles of some sort, I can see it all as if it were now. I remember very well that I somehow wondered at him.
“What I like about you, Kraft, is that you’re such a polite man,” I said suddenly.
“Oh?”
“It’s because I’m rarely able to be polite myself, though I’d like to be able . . . But then, maybe it’s better that people insult us. At least they deliver us from the misfortune of loving them.”
“What time of day do you like best?” he asked, obviously not listening.
“What time? I don’t know. I don’t like sunset.”
“Oh?” he said with a sort of special curiosity, but at once lapsed into thought again.
“Are you going somewhere again?”
“Yes . . . I am.”
“Soon?”
“Soon.”
“Do you really need a revolver to get to Vilno?” I asked without the least second thought: it didn’t even enter my thoughts! I just asked, because the revolver flashed there, and I was at pains to find something to talk about.
He turned and looked intently at the revolver.
“No, I just do it out of habit.”
“If I had a revolver, I’d have hidden it somewhere under lock and key. You know, by God, it’s tempting! Maybe I don’t believe in epidemics of suicides, but if that sticks up in front of your eyes—really, there are moments when it
