into a fervent devotee of that life.  I loved the Russian people with poignant intensity; I loved their God and believed in Him, and in their language, their creative genius. . . .  And so on, and so on. . . .  I have been a Slavophile in my time, I used to pester Aksakov with letters, and I was a Ukrainophile, and an archaeologist, and a collector of specimens of peasant art. . . .  I was enthusiastic over ideas, people, events, places . . . my enthusiasm was endless!  Five years ago I was working for the abolition of private property; my last creed was non-resistance to evil.”

Sasha gave an abrupt sigh and began moving.  Liharev got up and went to her.

“Won’t you have some tea, dearie?” he asked tenderly.

“Drink it yourself,” the child answered rudely.  Liharev was disconcerted, and went back to the table with a guilty step.

“Then you have had a lively time,” said Mlle. Ilovaisky; “you have something to remember.”

“Well, yes, it’s all very lively when one sits over tea and chatters to a kind listener, but you should ask what that liveliness has cost me!  What price have I paid for the variety of my life?  You see, Madam, I have not held my convictions like a German doctor of philosophy, zierlichmaennerlich, I have not lived in solitude, but every conviction I have had has bound my back to the yoke, has torn my body to pieces.  Judge, for yourself.  I was wealthy like my brothers, but now I am a beggar.  In the delirium of my enthusiasm I smashed up my own fortune and my wife’s—­a heap of other people’s money.  Now I am forty-two, old age is close upon me, and I am homeless, like a dog that has dropped behind its waggon at night.  All my life I have not known what peace meant, my soul has been in continual agitation, distressed even by its hopes . . .  I have been wearied out with heavy irregular work, have endured privation, have five times been in prison, have dragged myself across the provinces of Archangel and of Tobolsk . . . it’s painful to think of it!  I have lived, but in my fever I have not even been conscious of the process of life itself.  Would you believe it, I don’t remember a single spring, I never noticed how my wife loved me, how my children were born.  What more can I tell you?  I have been a misfortune to all who have loved me. . . .  My mother has worn mourning for me all these fifteen years, while my proud brothers, who have had to wince, to blush, to bow their heads, to waste their money on my account, have come in the end to hate me like poison.”

Liharev got up and sat down again.