ut
of the office and wandering about the town, Nevyrazimov would have gone
home to his lodging, and in his lodging it was even grayer and more
depressing than in the office.... Even supposing he were to spend
that day pleasantly and with comfort, what had he beyond? Nothing but
the same gray walls, the same stop-gap duty and complimentary
letters....

Nevyrazimov stood still in the middle of the office and sank into
thought. The yearning for a new, better life gnawed at his heart with an
intolerable ache. He had a passionate longing to find himself suddenly
in the street, to mingle with the living crowd, to take part in the
solemn festivity for the sake of which all those bells were clashing
and those carriages were rumbling. He longed for what he had known in
childhood--the family circle, the festive faces of his own people, the
white cloth, light, warmth...! He thought of the carriage in which
the lady had just driven by, the overcoat in which the head clerk was
so smart, the gold chain that adorned the secretary's chest....
He thought of a warm bed, of the Stanislav order, of new boots, of
a uniform without holes in the elbows.... He thought of all those
things because he had none of them.

"Shall I steal?" he thought. "Even if stealing is an easy matter,
hiding is what's difficult. Men run away to America, they say, with what
they've stolen, but the devil knows where that blessed America is. One
must have education even to steal, it seems."

The bells died down. He heard only a distant noise of carriages and
Paramon's cough, while his depression and anger grew more and more
intense and unbearable. The clock in the office struck half-past twelve.

"Shall I write a secret report? Proshkin did, and he rose rapidly."

Nevyrazimov sat down at his table and pondered. The lamp in which the
kerosene had quite run dry was smoking violently and threatening to go
out. The stray cockroach was still running about the table and had found
no resting-place.

"One can always send in a secret report, but how is one to make it up?
I should want to make all sorts of innuendoes and insinuations, like
Proshkin, and I can't do it. If I made up anything I should be the first
to get into trouble for it. I'm an ass, damn my soul!"

And Nevyrazimov, racking his brain for a means of escape from his
hopeless position, stared at the rough copy he had written. The letter
was written to a man whom he feared and hated with his whole soul, a