“And I beg you, too, to remember,” I said, “on this very spot I besought you to understand me, to reflect, to decide with me how and for what we should live, and in answer you began talking about our forefathers, about my grandfather who wrote poems.  One tells you now that your only daughter is hopelessly ill, and you go on again about your forefathers, your traditions. . . .  And such frivolity in your old age, when death is close at hand, and you haven’t more than five or ten years left!”

“What have you come here for?” my father asked sternly, evidently offended at my reproaching him for his frivolity.

“I don’t know.  I love you, I am unutterably sorry that we are so far apart—­so you see I have come.  I love you still, but my sister has broken with you completely.  She does not forgive you, and will never forgive you now.  Your very name arouses her aversion for the past, for life.”

“And who is to blame for it?” cried my father.  “It’s your fault, you scoundrel!”

“Well, suppose it is my fault?” I said.  “I admit I have been to blame in many things, but why is it that this life of yours, which you think binding upon us, too—­why is it so dreary, so barren?  How is it that in not one of these houses you have been building for the last thirty years has there been anyone from whom I might have learnt how to live, so as not to be to blame?  There is not one honest man in the whole town!  These houses of yours are nests of damnation, where mothers and daughters are made away with, where children are tortured. . . .  My poor mother!” I went on in despair.  “My poor sister!  One has to stupefy oneself with vodka, with cards, with scandal; one must become a scoundrel, a hypocrite, or go on drawing plans for years and years, so as not to notice all the horrors that lie hidden in these houses.  Our town has existed for hundreds of years, and all that time it has not produced one man of service to our country—­not one.  You have stifled in the germ everything in the least living and bright.  It’s a town of shopkeepers, publicans, counting-house clerks, canting hypocrites; it’s a useless, unnecessary town, which not one soul would regret if it suddenly sank through the earth.”

“I don’t want to listen to you, you scoundrel!” said my father, and he took up his ruler from the table.  “You are drunk.  Don’t dare come and see your father in such a state!  I tell you for the last time, and you can repeat it to your depraved sister, that you’ll get nothing from me, either of you.  I have torn my disobedient children out of my heart, and if they suffer for their disobedience and obstinacy I do not pity them.  You can go whence you came.  It has pleased God to chastise me with you, but I will bear the trial with resignation, and, like Job, I will find consolation in my sufferings and in unremitting labour.  You must not cross my threshold till you have mended your ways.  I am a just man, all I tell you is for your benefit, and if you desire your own good you ought to remember all your life what I say and have said to you. . . .”