Chapter 25 - Page 2

and breathing into me the most terrible fictions.
A conversation which dated a long time back, with the brother of
Troukhatchevsky, I remembered at that moment, in a sort of ecstasy, and
it tore my heart as I connected it with the musician and my wife. Yes,
it was very long ago. The brother of Troukhatchevsky, answering my
questions as to whether he frequented disreputable houses, said that a
respectable man does not go where he may contract a disease, in a low
and unclean spot, when one can find an honest woman. And here he, his
brother, the musician, had found the honest woman. 'It is true that she
is no longer in her early youth. She has lost a tooth on one side, and
her face is slightly bloated,' thought I for Troukhatchevsky. 'But what
is to be done? One must profit by what one has.'

"'Yes, he is bound to take her for his mistress,' said I to myself
again; 'and besides, she is not dangerous.'

"'No, it is not possible' I rejoined in fright. 'Nothing, nothing of the
kind has happened, and there is no reason to suppose there has. Did she
not tell me that the very idea that I could be jealous of her because of
him was humiliating to her?' 'Yes, but she lied,' I cried, and all began
over again.

"There were only two travellers in my compartment: an old woman with her
husband, neither of them very talkative; and even they got out at one of
the stations, leaving me all alone. I was like a beast in a cage. Now I
jumped up and approached the window, now I began to walk back and forth,
staggering as if I hoped to make the train go faster by my efforts, and
the car with its seats and its windows trembled continually, as ours
does now."

And Posdnicheff rose abruptly, took a few steps, and sat down again.

"Oh, I am afraid, I am afraid of railway carriages. Fear seizes me. I
sat down again, and I said to myself: 'I must think of something else.
For instance, of the inn keeper at whose house I took tea.' And then, in
my imagination arose the dvornik, with his long beard, and his grandson,
a little fellow of the same age as my little Basile. My little Basile!
My little Basile! He will see the musician kiss his mother! What
thoughts will pass through his poor soul! But what does that matter to
her! She loves.

"And again it all began, the circle of the same thoughts. I suffered
so much that at last I did not know what to do with myself, and an idea
passed through my head that pleased me much,--to get out upon the rails,
throw myself under the cars, and thus finish everything. One thing
prevented me from doing so. It was pity! It was pity for myself, evoking
at the same time a hatred for her, for him, but not so much for him.
Toward him I felt a strange