“I must talk to you seriously, Nikolay Stepanovitch,” she begins.  “I mean about Liza....  Why don’t you pay attention to it?”

“To what?”

“You pretend to notice nothing.  But that is not right.  We can’t shirk responsibility....  Gnekker has intentions in regard to Liza....  What do you say?”

“That he is a bad man I can’t say, because I don’t know him, but that I don’t like him I have told you a thousand times already.”

“But you can’t... you can’t!”

She gets up and walks about in excitement.

“You can’t take up that attitude to a serious step,” she says.  “When it is a question of our daughter’s happiness we must lay aside all personal feeling.  I know you do not like him....  Very good... if we refuse him now, if we break it all off, how can you be sure that Liza will not have a grievance against us all her life?  Suitors are not plentiful nowadays, goodness knows, and it may happen that no other match will turn up....  He is very much in love with Liza, and she seems to like him....  Of course, he has no settled position, but that can’t be helped.  Please God, in time he will get one.  He is of good family and well off.”

“Where did you learn that?”

“He told us so.  His father has a large house in Harkov and an estate in the neighbourhood.  In short, Nikolay Stepanovitch, you absolutely must go to Harkov.”

“What for?”

“You will find out all about him there....  You know the professors there; they will help you.  I would go myself, but I am a woman.  I cannot....”

“I am not going to Harkov,” I say morosely.

My wife is frightened, and a look of intense suffering comes into her face.

“For God’s sake, Nikolay Stepanovitch,” she implores me, with tears in her voice—­“for God’s sake, take this burden off me!  I am so worried!”

It is painful for me to look at her.

“Very well, Varya,” I say affectionately, “if you wish it, then certainly I will go to Harkov and do all you want.”

She presses her handkerchief to her eyes and goes off to her room to cry, and I am left alone.

A little later lights are brought in.  The armchair and the lamp-shade cast familiar shadows that have long grown wearisome on the walls and on the floor, and when I look at them I feel as though the night had come and with it my accursed sleeplessness.  I lie on my bed, then get up and walk about the room, then lie down again.  As a rule it is after dinner, at the approach of evening, that my nervous excitement reaches its highest pitch.  For no reason I begin crying and burying my head in the pillow.  At such times I am afraid that some one may come in; I am afraid of suddenly dying; I am ashamed of my tears, and altogether there is something insufferable in my soul.  I feel that I can no longer bear the sight of my lamp, of my books, of the shadows on the floor.  I cannot bear the sound of the voices coming from the drawing-room.  Some force unseen, uncomprehended, is roughly thrusting me out of my flat.  I leap up hurriedly, dress, and cautiously, that my family may not notice, slip out into the street.  Where am I to go?