obbed her
of all power of speech. In his greatcoat and with his stick still
in his hand, the doctor sat down beside her, and began in a soft,
tender half-whisper, which was utterly out of keeping with his
heavy, dignified figure:

"Olga! For the sake of your sorrow which I share. . . . Now, when
falsehood is criminal, I beseech you to tell me the truth. You have
always declared that the boy is my son. Is that the truth?"

Olga Ivanovna was silent.

"You have been the one attachment in my life," the doctor went on,
"and you cannot imagine how deeply my feeling is wounded by falsehood
. . . . Come, I entreat you, Olga, for once in your life, tell me the
truth. . . . At these moments one cannot lie. Tell me that Misha
is not my son. I am waiting."

"He is."

Olga Ivanovna's face could not be seen, but in her voice the doctor
could hear hesitation. He sighed.

"Even at such moments you can bring yourself to tell a lie," he
said in his ordinary voice. "There is nothing sacred to you! Do
listen, do understand me. . . . You have been the one only attachment
in my life. Yes, you were depraved, vulgar, but I have loved no one
else but you in my life. That trivial love, now that I am growing
old, is the one solitary bright spot in my memories. Why do you
darken it with deception? What is it for?"

"I don't understand you."

"Oh my God!" cried Tsvyetkov. "You are lying, you understand very
well!" he cried more loudly, and he began pacing about the drawing-room,
angrily waving his stick. "Or have you forgotten? Then I will remind
you! A father's rights to the boy are equally shared with me by
Petrov and Kurovsky the lawyer, who still make you an allowance for
their son's education, just as I do! Yes, indeed! I know all that
quite well! I forgive your lying in the past, what does it matter?
But now when you have grown older, at this moment when the boy is
dying, your lying stifles me! How sorry I am that I cannot speak,
how sorry I am!"

The doctor unbuttoned his overcoat, and still pacing about, said:

"Wretched woman! Even such moments have no effect on her! Even now
she lies as freely as nine years ago in the Hermitage Restaurant!
She is afraid if she tells me the truth I shall leave off giving
her money, she thinks that if she did not lie I should not love the
boy! You are lying! It's contemptible!"

The doctor rapped the floor with his stick, and cried:

"It's loathsome. Warped, corrupted creature! I must despi