en
every desire I feel. I have absolutely nothing to hide; I am absolutely,
in the fullest meaning of the word, a well-intentioned man. I am humble,
I am ready to adapt myself to circumstances; I want little; I want to
do the good that lies nearest, to be even a little use. But no! I never
succeed. What does it mean? What hinders me from living and working like
others?... I am only dreaming of it now. But no sooner do I get into
any definite position when fate throws the dice from me. I have come to
dread it--my destiny.... Why is it so? Explain this enigma to me!'

'An enigma!' repeated Lezhnyov. 'Yes, that's true; you have always been
an enigma for me. Even in our young days, when, after some trifling
prank, you would suddenly speak as though you were pierced to the heart,
and then you would begin again... well you know what I mean... even then
I did not understand. That is why I grew apart from you.... You have so
much power, such unwearying striving after the ideal.'

'Words, all words! There was nothing done!' Rudin broke in.

'Nothing done! What is there to do?'

'What is there to do! To keep an old blind woman and all her family
by one's work, as, do you remember, Mihail, Pryazhentsov did... That's
doing something.'

'Yes, but a good word--is also something done.'

Rudin looked at Lezhnyov without speaking and faintly shook his head.

Lezhnyov wanted to say something, and he passed his hand over his face.

'And so you are going to your country place?' he asked at last

'Yes.'

'There you have some property left?'

'Something is left me there. Two souls and a half. It is a corner to
die in. You are thinking perhaps at this moment: "Even now he cannot do
without fine words!" Words indeed have been my ruin; they have consumed
me, and to the end I cannot be free of them. But what I have said was
not mere words. These white hairs, brother, these wrinkles, these
ragged elbows--they are not mere words. You have always been hard on me,
Mihail, and you were right; but now is not a time to be hard, when all
is over, when there's no oil left in the lamp, and the lamp itself is
broken, and the wick is just smouldering out. Death, brother, should
reconcile at last...'

Lezhnyov jumped up.

'Rudin!' he cried, 'why do you speak like that to me? How have I
deserved it from you? Am I such a judge, and what kind of a man should
I be, if at the sight of your hollow cheeks and wrinkles, "mere words"
could occur to my