Any one who has lived in the country in winter and knows those long dreary, still evenings when even the dogs are too bored to bark and even the clocks seem weary of ticking, and any one who on such evenings has been troubled by awakening conscience and has moved restlessly about, trying now to smother his conscience, now to interpret it, will understand the distraction and the pleasure my wife’s voice gave me as it sounded in the snug little room, telling me I was a bad man.  I did not understand what was wanted of me by my conscience, and my wife, translating it in her feminine way, made clear to me in the meaning of my agitation.  As often before in the moments of intense uneasiness, I guessed that the whole secret lay, not in the starving peasants, but in my not being the sort of a man I ought to be.

My wife got up with an effort and came up to me.

“Pavel Andreitch,” she said, smiling mournfully, “forgive me, I don’t believe you:  you are not going away, but I will ask you one more favour.  Call this”—­she pointed to her papers—­“self-deception, feminine logic, a mistake, as you like; but do not hinder me.  It’s all that is left me in life.”  She turned away and paused.  “Before this I had nothing.  I have wasted my youth in fighting with you.  Now I have caught at this and am living; I am happy....  It seems to me that I have found in this a means of justifying my existence.”

“Natalie, you are a good woman, a woman of ideas,” I said, looking at my wife enthusiastically, “and everything you say and do is intelligent and fine.”

I walked about the room to conceal my emotion.

“Natalie,” I went on a minute later, “before I go away, I beg of you as a special favour, help me to do something for the starving peasants!”

“What can I do?” said my wife, shrugging her shoulders.  “Here’s the subscription list.”

She rummaged among the papers and found the subscription list.

“Subscribe some money,” she said, and from her tone I could see that she did not attach great importance to her subscription list; “that is the only way in which you can take part in the work.”

I took the list and wrote:  “Anonymous, 5,000.”

In this “anonymous” there was something wrong, false, conceited, but I only realized that when I noticed that my wife flushed very red and hurriedly thrust the list into the heap of papers.  We both felt ashamed; I felt that I must at all costs efface this clumsiness at once, or else I should feel ashamed afterwards, in the train and at Petersburg.  But how efface it?  What was I to say?

“I fully approve of what you are doing, Natalie,” I said genuinely, “and I wish you every success.  But allow me at parting to give you one piece of advice, Natalie; be on your guard with Sobol, and with your assistants generally, and don’t trust them blindly.  I don’t say they are not honest, but they are not gentlefolks; they are people with no ideas, no ideals, no faith, with no aim in life, no definite principles, and the whole object of their life is comprised in the rouble.  Rouble, rouble, rouble!” I sighed.  “They are fond of getting money easily, for nothing, and in that respect the better educated they are the more they are to be dreaded.”