He vividly remembered what he had seen that evening at Muridov’s, and he was in an insufferable anguish of loathing and misery.  Kirilin and Atchmianov were loathsome, but they were only continuing what he had begun; they were his accomplices and his disciples.  This young weak woman had trusted him more than a brother, and he had deprived her of her husband, of her friends and of her country, and had brought her here—­to the heat, to fever, and to boredom; and from day to day she was bound to reflect, like a mirror, his idleness, his viciousness and falsity—­and that was all she had had to fill her weak, listless, pitiable life.  Then he had grown sick of her, had begun to hate her, but had not had the pluck to abandon her, and he had tried to entangle her more and more closely in a web of lies. . . .  These men had done the rest.

Laevsky sat at the table, then got up and went to the window; at one minute he put out the candle and then he lighted it again.  He cursed himself aloud, wept and wailed, and asked forgiveness; several times he ran to the table in despair, and wrote: 

“Mother!”

Except his mother, he had no relations or near friends; but how could his mother help him?  And where was she?  He had an impulse to run to Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, to fall at her feet, to kiss her hands and feet, to beg her forgiveness; but she was his victim, and he was afraid of her as though she were dead.

“My life is ruined,” he repeated, rubbing his hands.  “Why am I still alive, my God! . . .”

He had cast out of heaven his dim star; it had fallen, and its track was lost in the darkness of night.  It would never return to the sky again, because life was given only once and never came a second time.  If he could have turned back the days and years of the past, he would have replaced the falsity with truth, the idleness with work, the boredom with happiness; he would have given back purity to those whom he had robbed of it.  He would have found God and goodness, but that was as impossible as to put back the fallen star into the sky, and because it was impossible he was in despair.

When the storm was over, he sat by the open window and thought calmly of what was before him.  Von Koren would most likely kill him.  The man’s clear, cold theory of life justified the destruction of the rotten and the useless; if it changed at the crucial moment, it would be the hatred and the repugnance that Laevsky inspired in him that would save him.  If he missed his aim or, in mockery of his hated opponent, only wounded him, or fired in the air, what could he do then?  Where could he go?

“Go to Petersburg?” Laevsky asked himself.  But that would mean beginning over again the old life which he cursed.  And the man who seeks salvation in change of place like a migrating bird would find nothing anywhere, for all the world is alike to him.  Seek salvation in men?  In whom and how?  Samoylenko’s kindness and generosity could no more save him than the deacon’s laughter or Von Koren’s hatred.  He must look for salvation in himself alone, and if there were no finding it, why waste time?  He must kill himself, that was all. . . .