“I can only come for one minute,” began the zoologist, taking off his goloshes in the passage, and already wishing he had not given way to his feelings and come in, uninvited.  “It is as though I were forcing myself on him,” he thought, “and that’s stupid.”

“Forgive me for disturbing you,” he said as he went into the room with Laevsky, “but I’m just going away, and I had an impulse to see you.  God knows whether we shall ever meet again.”

“I am very glad to see you. . . .  Please come in,” said Laevsky, and he awkwardly set chairs for his visitors as though he wanted to bar their way, and stood in the middle of the room, rubbing his hands.

“I should have done better to have left my audience in the street,” thought Von Koren, and he said firmly:  “Don’t remember evil against me, Ivan Andreitch.  To forget the past is, of course, impossible —­it is too painful, and I’ve not come here to apologise or to declare that I was not to blame.  I acted sincerely, and I have not changed my convictions since then. . . .  It is true that I see, to my great delight, that I was mistaken in regard to you, but it’s easy to make a false step even on a smooth road, and, in fact, it’s the natural human lot:  if one is not mistaken in the main, one is mistaken in the details.  Nobody knows the real truth.”

“No, no one knows the truth,” said Laevsky.

“Well, good-bye. . . .  God give you all happiness.”

Von Koren gave Laevsky his hand; the latter took it and bowed.

“Don’t remember evil against me,” said Von Koren.  “Give my greetings to your wife, and say I am very sorry not to say good-bye to her.”

“She is at home.”

Laevsky went to the door of the next room, and said: 

“Nadya, Nikolay Vassilitch wants to say goodbye to you.”

Nadyezhda Fyodorovna came in; she stopped near the doorway and looked shyly at the visitors.  There was a look of guilt and dismay on her face, and she held her hands like a schoolgirl receiving a scolding.

“I’m just going away, Nadyezhda Fyodorovna,” said Von Koren, “and have come to say good-bye.”

She held out her hand uncertainly, while Laevsky bowed.

“What pitiful figures they are, though!” thought Von Koren.  “The life they are living does not come easy to them.  I shall be in Moscow and Petersburg; can I send you anything?” he asked.

“Oh!” said Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, and she looked anxiously at her husband.  “I don’t think there’s anything. . . .”

“No, nothing . . .” said Laevsky, rubbing his hands.  “Our greetings.”

Von Koren did not know what he could or ought to say, though as he went in he thought he would say a very great deal that would be warm and good and important.  He shook hands with Laevsky and his wife in silence, and left them with a depressed feeling.

“What people!” said the deacon in a low voice, as he walked behind them.  “My God, what people!  Of a truth, the right hand of God has planted this vine!  Lord!  Lord!  One man vanquishes thousands and another tens of thousands.  Nikolay Vassilitch,” he said ecstatically, “let me tell you that to-day you have conquered the greatest of man’s enemies—­pride.”