the explanation of such a step was to be found in
any prompting, however depraved, of the heart, in
love or passion.... One had but to glance at
the repulsive figure of the ‘man of God’
to dismiss such a notion entirely! No, Sophie
had remained pure; and to her all things were pure;
I could not understand what Sophie had done; but I
did not blame her, as, later on, I have not blamed
other girls who too have sacrificed everything for
what they thought the truth, for what they held to
be their vocation. I could not help regretting
that Sophie had chosen just that path; but
also I could not refuse her admiration, respect even.
In good earnest she had talked of self-sacrifice, of
abasement ... in her, words were not opposed
to acts. She had sought a leader, a guide, and
had found him, ... and, my God, what a guide!
Yes, she had lain down to be trampled, trodden under
foot.... In the process of time, a rumour reached
me that her family had succeeded at last in finding
out the lost sheep, and bringing her home. But
at home she did not live long, and died, like a ‘Sister
of Silence,’ without having spoken a word to
any one.
Peace to your heart, poor, enigmatic creature!
Vassily Nikititch is probably on his crazy wanderings
still; the iron health of such people is truly marvellous.
Perhaps, though, his epilepsy may have done for him.
... I am old and ill now, and my thoughts brood
oftenest upon death, every day coming nearer; rarely
I think of the past, rarely I turn the eyes of my
soul behind me. Only from time to time—in
winter, as I sit motionless before the glowing fire,
in summer, as I pace with slow tread along the shady
avenue—I recall past years, events, faces;
but it is not on my mature years nor on my youth that
my thoughts rest at such times. They either carry
me back to my earliest childhood, or to the first
years of boyhood. Now, for instance, I see myself
in the country with my stern and wrathful grandmother—I
was only twelve—and two figures rise up
before my imagination....
But I will begin my story consecutively, and in proper
order.
The old footman Filippitch came in, on tiptoe, as
usual, with a cravat tied up in a rosette, with tightly
compressed lips, ’lest his breath should be
smelt,’ with a grey tuft of hair standing up
in the very middle of his forehead. He came in,
bowed, and handed my grandmother on an iron tray a
large letter with an heraldic seal. My grandmother
put on her spectacles, read the letter through....
‘What is my lady pleased ...’ Filippitch
began timidly.
‘Imbecile! The man who brought the letter—is
he here?’
‘He is here, to be sure he is.... He is
sitting in the counting-house.’
