wall of his barn to pieces at night and carried off twenty sacks of rye.  When the gentleman heard that such a crime had been committed, he sent a telegram to the Governor and another to the police captain, another to the investigating magistrate!...  Of course, every one is afraid of a man who is fond of litigation.  The authorities were in a flutter and there was a general hubbub.  Two villages were searched.”

“Excuse me, Ivan Ivanitch,” I said.  “Twenty sacks of rye were stolen from me, and it was I who telegraphed to the Governor.  I telegraphed to Petersburg, too.  But it was by no means out of love for litigation, as you are pleased to express it, and not because I bore them a grudge.  I look at every subject from the point of view of principle.  From the point of view of the law, theft is the same whether a man is hungry or not.”

“Yes, yes...” muttered Ivan Ivanitch in confusion.  “Of course...  To be sure, yes.”

Natalya Gavrilovna blushed.

“There are people...” she said and stopped; she made an effort to seem indifferent, but she could not keep it up, and looked into my eyes with the hatred that I know so well.  “There are people,” she said, “for whom famine and human suffering exist simply that they may vent their hateful and despicable temperaments upon them.”

I was confused and shrugged my shoulders.

“I meant to say generally,” she went on, “that there are people who are quite indifferent and completely devoid of all feeling of sympathy, yet who do not pass human suffering by, but insist on meddling for fear people should be able to do without them.  Nothing is sacred for their vanity.”

“There are people,” I said softly, “who have an angelic character, but who express their glorious ideas in such a form that it is difficult to distinguish the angel from an Odessa market-woman.”

I must confess it was not happily expressed.

My wife looked at me as though it cost her a great effort to hold her tongue.  Her sudden outburst, and then her inappropriate eloquence on the subject of my desire to help the famine-stricken peasants, were, to say the least, out of place; when I had invited her to come upstairs I had expected quite a different attitude to me and my intentions.  I cannot say definitely what I had expected, but I had been agreeably agitated by the expectation.  Now I saw that to go on speaking about the famine would be difficult and perhaps stupid.

“Yes...”  Ivan Ivanitch muttered inappropriately.  “Burov, the merchant, must have four hundred thousand at least.  I said to him:  ’Hand over one or two thousand to the famine.  You can’t take it with you when you die, anyway.’  He was offended.  But we all have to die, you know.  Death is not a potato.”

A silence followed again.

“So there’s nothing left for me but to reconcile myself to loneliness,” I sighed.  “One cannot fight single-handed.  Well, I will try single-handed.  Let us hope that my campaign against the famine will be more successful than my campaign against indifference.”