same time such incredible
skinflints, so avaricious, so keen over property, and, in fact, the
more socialistic, the more extreme they are, the keener they are over
property... why is it? Can that, too, come from sentimentalism?" I
don't know whether there is any truth in this observation of Stepan
Trofimovitch's. I only know that Petrusha had somehow got wind of the
sale of the woods and the rest of it, and that Stepan Trofimovitch was
aware of the fact. I happened, too, to read some of Petrusha's letters
to his father. He wrote extremely rarely, once a year, or even less
often. Only recently, to inform him of his approaching visit, he had
sent two letters, one almost immediately after the other. All his
letters were short, dry, consisting only of instructions, and as the
father and son had, since their meeting in Petersburg, adopted the
fashionable "thou" and "thee," Petrusha's letters had a striking
resemblance to the missives that used to be sent by landowners of the
old school from the town to their serfs whom they had left in charge of
their estates. And now suddenly this eight thousand which would solve
the difficulty would be wafted to him by Varvara Petrovna's proposition.
And at the same time she made him distinctly feel that it never could
be wafted to him from anywhere else. Of course Stepan Trofimovitch
consented.

He sent for me directly she had gone and shut himself up for the whole
day, admitting no one else. He cried, of course, talked well and talked
a great deal, contradicted himself continually, made a casual pun, and
was much pleased with it. Then he had a slight attack of his "summer
cholera"--everything in fact followed the usual course. Then he brought
out the portrait of his German bride, now twenty years deceased, and
began plaintively appealing to her: "Will you forgive me?" In fact he
seemed somehow distracted. Our grief led us to get a little drunk. He
soon fell into a sweet sleep, however. Next morning he tied his cravat
in masterly fashion, dressed with care, and went frequently to look at
himself in the glass. He sprinkled his handkerchief with scent, only a
slight dash of it, however, and as soon as he saw Varvara Petrovna out
of the window he hurriedly took another handkerchief and hid the scented
one under the pillow.

"Excellent!" Varvara Petrovna approved, on receiving his consent. "In
the first place you show a fine decision, and secondly you've listened
to the voice of reason, to