e　drawing…room　with　a　candle　and　invariably　drops　the　matchbox；　or　a　warped　cupboard　creaks；　or　the　burner　of　the　lamp　suddenly　begins　to　hum　　and　all　these　sounds；　for　some　reason；　excite　me。
  To　lie　awake　at　night　means　to　be　at　every　moment　conscious　of　being　abnormal；　and　so　I　look　forward　with　impatience　to　the　morning　and　the　day　when　I　have　a　right　to　be　awake。　Many　wearisome　hours　pass　before　the　cock　crows　in　the　yard。　He　is　my　first　bringer　of　good　tidings。　As　soon　as　he　crows　I　know　that　within　an　hour　the　porter　will　wake　up　below；　and；　coughing　angrily；　will　go　upstairs　to　fetch　something。　And　then　a　pale　light　will　begin　gradually　glimmering　at　the　windows；　voices　will　sound　in　the　street。　。　。　。
  The　day　begins　for　me　with　the　entrance　of　my　wife。　She　comes　in　to　me　in　her　petticoat；　before　she　has　done　her　hair；　but　after　she　has　washed；　smelling　of　flower…scented　eau…de…Cologne；　looking　as　though　she　had　come　in　by　chance。　Every　time　she　says　exactly　the　same　thing：　〃Excuse　me；　I　have　just　come　in　for　a　minute。　。　。　。　Have　you　had　a　bad　night　again？〃
  Then　she　puts　out　the　lamp；　sits　down　near　the　table；　and　begins　talking。　I　am　no　prophet；　but　I　know　what　she　will　talk　about。　Every　morning　it　is　exactly　the　same　thing。　Usually；　after　anxious　inquiries　concerning　my　health；　she　suddenly　mentions　our　son　who　is　an　officer　serving　at　Warsaw。　After　the　twentieth　of　each　month　we　send　him　fifty　roubles；　and　that　serves　as　the　chief　topic　of　our　conversation。
  〃Of　course　it　is　difficult　for　us；〃　my　wife　would　sigh；　〃but　until　he　is　completely　on　his　own　feet　it　is　our　duty　to　help　him。　The　boy　is　among　strangers；　his　pay　is　small。　。　。　。　However；　if　you　like；　next　month　we　won't　send　him　fifty；　but　forty。　What　do　you　think？〃
  Daily　experience　might　have　taught　my　wife　that　constantly　talking　of　our　expenses　does　not　reduce　them；　but　my　wife　refuses　to　learn　by　experience；　and　regularly　every　morning　discusses　our　officer　son；　and　tells　me　that　bread；　thank　God；　is　cheaper；　while　sugar　is　a　halfpenny　dearer　　with　a　tone　and　an　air　as　though　she　were　communicating　interesting　news。
  I　listen；　mechanically　assent；　and　probably　because　I　have　had　a　bad　night；　strange　and　inappropriate　thoughts　intrude　themselves　upon　me。　I　gaze　at　my　wife　and　wonder　like　a　child。　I　ask　myself　in　perplexity；　is　it　possible　that　this　old；　very　stout；　ungainly　woman；　with　her　dull　expression　of　petty　anxiety　and　alarm　about　daily　bread；　with　eyes　dimmed　by　continual　brooding　over　debts　and　money　difficulties；　who　can　talk　of　nothing　but　expenses　and　who　smiles　at　nothing　but　things　getting　cheaper　　is　it　possible　that　this　woman　is　no　other　than　the　slender　Varya　whom　I　fell　in　love　with　so　passionately　for　her　fine；　clear　intelligence；　for　her　pure　soul；　her　beauty；　and；　as　Othello　his　Desdemona；　for　her　〃sympathy〃　for　my　studies？　Could　that　woman　be　no　other　than　the　Varya　who　had　once　borne　me　a　son？
  I　look　with　strained　attention　into　the　face　of　this　flabby；　spiritless；　clumsy　old　woman；　seeking　in　her　my　Varya；　but　of　her　past　self　nothing　is　left　but　her　anxiety　over　my　health　and　her　manner　of　calling　my　salary　〃our　salary；〃　and　my　cap　〃our　cap。〃　It　is　painful　for　me　to　look　at　her；　and；　to　give　her　what　little　comfort　I　can；　I　let　her　say　what　she　likes；　and　say　nothing　even　when　she　passes　unjust　criticisms　on　other　people　or　pitches　into　me　for　not　having　a　private　practice　or　not　publishing　text…books。
  Our　conversation　always　ends　in　the　same　way。　My　wife　suddenly　remembers　with　dismay　that　I　have　not　had　my　tea。
  〃What　am　I　thinking　about；　sitting　here？〃　she　says；　getting　up。　〃The　samovar　has　been　on　the　table　ever　so　long；　and　here　I　stay　gossiping。　My　goodness！　how　forgetful　I　am　growing！〃
  She　goes　out　quickly；　and　stops　in　the　doorway　to　say：
  〃We　owe　Yegor　five　months'　wages。　Did　you　know　it？　You　mustn't　let　the　servants'　wages　run　on；　how　many　times　I　have　said　it！　It's　much　easier　to　pay　ten　roubles　a　month　than　fifty　roubles　every　five　months！〃
  As　she　goes　out；　she　stops　to　say：
  〃The　person　I　am　sorriest　for　is　our　Liza。　The　girl　studies　at　the　Conservatoire；　always　mixes　with　people　of　good　position；　and　goodness　knows　how　she　is　dressed。　Her　fur　coat　is　in　such　a　state　she　is　ashamed　to　show　herself　in　the　street。　If　she　were　somebody　else's　daughter　it　wouldn't　matter；　but　of　course　every　one　knows　that　her　father　is　a　distinguished　professor；　a　privy　councillor。〃
  And　having　reproached　me　with　my　rank　and　reputation；　she　goes　away　at　last。　That　is　how　my　day　begins。　It　does　not　improve　as　it　goes　on。
  As　I　am　drinking　my　tea；　my　Liza　comes　in　wearing　her　fur　coat　and　her　cap；　with　her　music　in　her　hand；　already　quite　ready　to　go　to　the　Conservatoire。　She　is　two…and…twenty。　She　looks　younger；　is　pretty；　and　rather　like　my　wife　in　her　young　days。　She　kisses　me　tenderly　on　my　forehead　and　on　my　hand；　and　says：
  〃Good…morning；　papa；　are　you　quite　well？〃
  As　a　child　she　was　very　fond　of　ice…cream；　and　I　used　often　to　take　her　to　a　confectioner's。　Ice…cream　was　for　her　the　type　of　everything　delightful。　If　she　wanted　to　praise　me　she　would　say：　〃You　are　as　nice　as　cream；　papa。〃　We　used　to　call　one　of　her　little　fingers　〃pistachio　ice；〃　the　next；　〃cream　ice；〃　the　third　〃raspberry；〃　and　so　on。　Usually　when　she　came　in　to　say　good…morning　to　me　I　used　to　sit　her　on　my　knee；　kiss　her　little　fingers；　and　say：
  〃Creamy　ice　。　。　。　pistachio　。　。　。　lemon。　。　。　。〃
  And　now；　from　old　habit；　I　kiss　Liza's　fingers　and　mutter：　〃Pistachio　。　。　。　cream　。　。　。　lemon。　。　。〃　but　the　effect　is　utterly　different。　I　am　cold　as　ice　and　I　am　ashamed。　When　my　daughter　comes　in　to　me　and　touches　my　forehead　with　her　lips　I　start　as　though　a　bee　had　stung　me　on　the　head；　give　a　forced　smile；　and　turn　my　face　away。　Ever　since　I　have　been　suffering　from　sleeplessness；　a　question　sticks　in　my　brain　like　a　nail。　My　daughter　often　sees　me；　an　old　man　and　a　distinguished　man；　blush　painfully　at　being　in　debt　to　my　footman；　she　sees　how　often　anxiety　over　petty　debts　forces　me　to　lay　aside　my　work　and　to　walk　u　p　and　down　the　room　for　hours　together；　thinking；　but　why　is　it　she　never　comes　to　me　in　secret　to　whisper　in　my　ear：　〃Father；　here　is　my　watch；　here　are　my　bracelets；　my　earrings；　my　dresses。　。　。　。　Pawn　them　all；　you　want　money　。　。　。〃？　How　is　it　that；　seeing　how　her　mother　and　I　are　placed　in　a　false　position　and　do　our　utmost　to　hide　our　poverty　from　people；　she　does　not　give　up　her　expensive　pleasure　of　music　lessons？　I　would　not　accept　her　watch　nor　her　bracelets；　nor　the　sacrifice　of　her　lessons　　God　forbid！　That　isn't　what　I　want。
  I　think　at　the　same　time　of　my　son；　the　officer　at　Warsaw。　He　is　a　clever；　honest；　and　sober　fellow。　But　that　is　not　enough　for　me。　I　think　if　I　had　an　old　father；　and　if　I　knew　there　were　moments　when　he　was　put　to　shame　by　his　poverty；　I　should　give　up　my　officer's　commission　to　somebody　else；　and　should　go　out　to　earn　my　living　as　a　workman。　Such　thoughts　about　my　children　poison　me。　What　is　the　use　of　them？　It　is　only　a　narrow…minded　or　embittered　man　who　can　harbour　evil　thoughts　about　ordinary　people　because　they　are　not　heroes。　But　enough　of　that！
  At　a　quarter　to　ten　I　have　to　go　and　give　a　lecture　to　my　dear　boys。　I　dress　and　walk　along　the　road　which　I　have　known　for　thirty　years；　and　which　has　its　history　for　me。　Here　is　the　big　grey　house　with　the　chemist's　shop；　at　this　point　there　used　to　stand　a　little　house；　and　in　it　was　a　beershop；　in　that　beershop　I　thought　out　my　thesis　and　wrote　my　first　love…letter　to　Varya。　I　wrote　it　in　pencil；　on　a　page　headed　〃Historia　morbi。〃　Here　there　is　a　grocer's　shop；　at　one　time　it　was　kept　by　a　little　Jew；　who　sold　me　cigarettes　on　credit；　then　by　a　fat　peasant　woman；　who　liked　the　students　because　〃every　one　of　them　has　a　mother〃；　now　there　is　a　red…haired　shopkeeper　sitting　in　it；　a　very　stolid　man　who　drinks　tea　from　a　copper　teapot。　And　here　are　the　gloomy　gates　of　the　University；　which　have　long　needed　doing　up；　I　see　the　bored　porter　in　his　sheep…skin；　the　broom；　the　drifts　of　snow。　。　。　。　On　a　boy　coming　fresh　from　the　provinces　and　imagining　that　the　temple　of　science　must　really　be　a　temple；　such　gates　cannot　make　a　healthy　impression。　Altogether　the　dilapidated　condition　of　the　University　buildings；　the　gloominess　of　the　corridors；　the　griminess　of　the　walls；　the　lack　of　light；　the　dejected　aspect　of　the　steps；　the　hat…stands　and　the　benches；　take　a　prominent　position　among　predisposing　causes　in　the　history　of　Russian　pessimism。　。　。　。　Here　is　our　garden　。　。　。　I　fancy　it　has　grown　neither　better　nor　worse　since　I　was　a　student。　I　don't　like　it。　It　would　be　far　more　sensible　if　there　were　tall　pines　and　fine　oaks　growing　here　instead　of　sickly…looking　lime…trees；　yellow　acacias；　and　skimpy　pollard　lilacs。　The　student　whose　state　of　mind　is　in　the　majority　of　cases　created　by　his　surroundings；　ought　in　the　place　where　he　is　studying　to　see　facing　him　at　every　turn　nothing　but　what　is　lofty；　strong　and　elegant。　。　。　。　God　preserve　him　from　gaunt　trees；　broken　windows；　grey　walls；　and　doors　covered　with　torn　American　leather！
  When　I　go　to　my　own　entrance　the　door　is　flung　wide　open；　and　I　am　met　by　my　colleague；　contemporary；　and