gainst an acquaintance, he has
assiduously disseminated it, he has heard it--that same calumny--from
the mouth of another acquaintance--and _has believed it himself_.

Oh, how contented, how good even at this moment is that nice,
highly-promising young man.

February, 1878.

THE RULE OF LIFE

"If you desire thoroughly to mortify and even to injure an opponent,"
said an old swindler to me, "reproach him with the very defect or vice
of which you feel conscious in yourself.--Fly into a rage ... and
reproach him!

"In the first place, that makes other people think that you do not
possess that vice.

"In the second place, your wrath may even be sincere.... You may profit
by the reproaches of your own conscience.

"If, for example, you are a renegade, reproach your adversary with
having no convictions!

"If you yourself are a lackey in soul, say to him with reproof that he
is a lackey ... the lackey of civilisation, of Europe, of socialism!"

"You may even say, the lackey of non-lackeyism!" I remarked.

"You may do that also," chimed in the old rascal.

February, 1878.

THE END OF THE WORLD

A DREAM

It seems to me as though I am somewhere in Russia, in the wilds, in a
plain country house.

The chamber is large, low-ceiled, with three windows; the walls are
smeared with white paint; there is no furniture. In front of the house
is a bare plain; gradually descending, it recedes into the distance; the
grey, monotoned sky hangs over it like a canopy.

I am not alone; half a score of men are with me in the room. All plain
folk, plainly clad; they are pacing up and down in silence, as though by
stealth. They avoid one another, and yet they are incessantly exchanging
uneasy glances.

Not one of them knows why he has got into this house, or who the men are
with him. On all faces there is disquiet and melancholy ... all, in
turn, approach the windows and gaze attentively about them, as though
expecting something from without.

Then again they set to roaming up and down. Among us a lad of short
stature is running about; from time to time he screams in a shrill,
monotonous voice: "Daddy, I'm afraid!"--This shrill cry makes me sick at
heart--and I also begin to be afraid.... Of what? I myself do not know.
Only I feel that a great, great calamity is on its way, and is drawing
near.

And the little lad keeps screaming. Akh, if I could only get away from
here! How stifling it is! How oppressive!...