He left his goloshes in the hall, and, without taking off his long, heavy fur coat, went into the study.  There he sat down before the table, and, before taking up the pen, for three minutes he pondered, shading his eyes with his hand as though from the sun—­exactly as his son did when he was out of humour.  His face was sad, thoughtful, with that look of resignation which I have only seen on the faces of the old and religious.  I stood behind him, gazed at his bald head and at the hollow at the nape of his neck, and it was clear as daylight to me that this weak old man was now in my power.  There was not a soul in the flat except my enemy and me.  I had only to use a little physical violence, then snatch his watch to disguise the object of the crime, and to get off by the back way, and I should have gained infinitely more than I could have imagined possible when I took up the part of a footman.  I thought that I could hardly get a better opportunity.  But instead of acting, I looked quite unconcernedly, first at his bald patch and then at his fur, and calmly meditated on this man’s relation to his only son, and on the fact that people spoiled by power and wealth probably don’t want to die. . . .

“Have you been long in my son’s service?” he asked, writing a large hand on the paper.

“Three months, your High Excellency.”

He finished the letter and stood up.  I still had time.  I urged myself on and clenched my fists, trying to wring out of my soul some trace of my former hatred; I recalled what a passionate, implacable, obstinate hate I had felt for him only a little while before. . . .  But it is difficult to strike a match against a crumbling stone.  The sad old face and the cold glitter of his stars roused in me nothing but petty, cheap, unnecessary thoughts of the transitoriness of everything earthly, of the nearness of death. . . .

“Good-day, brother,” said the old man.  He put on his cap and went out.

There could be no doubt about it:  I had undergone a change; I had become different.  To convince myself, I began to recall the past, but at once I felt uneasy, as though I had accidentally peeped into a dark, damp corner.  I remembered my comrades and friends, and my first thought was how I should blush in confusion if ever I met any of them.  What was I now?  What had I to think of and to do?  Where was I to go?  What was I living for?

I could make nothing of it.  I only knew one thing—­that I must make haste to pack my things and be off.  Before the old man’s visit my position as a flunkey had a meaning; now it was absurd.  Tears dropped into my open portmanteau; I felt insufferably sad; but how I longed to live!  I was ready to embrace and include in my short life every possibility open to man.  I wanted to speak, to read, and to hammer in some big factory, and to stand on watch, and to plough.  I yearned for the Nevsky Prospect, for the sea and the fields—­ for every place to which my imagination travelled.  When Zinaida Fyodorovna came in, I rushed to open the door for her, and with peculiar tenderness took off her fur coat.  The last time!