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I think about myself, about my wife, about Liza, Gnekker, the students, people in general; my thoughts are evil, petty, I am insincere with myself, and at such times my theory of life may be expressed in the words the celebrated Araktcheev said in one of his intimate letters: "Nothing good can exist in the world without evil, and there is more evil than good."
So on one occasion it happened that I stared a long time at Gnekker, and, a propos of nothing, I fired off: "An eagle may perchance swoop down below a cock, But never will the fowl soar upwards to the clouds..." And the most vexatious thing is that the fowl Gnekker shows himself much cleverer than the eagle professor.
"You might have waited till tomorrow," I say angrily, taking the telegram from the attendant. "Now I shall not get to sleep again." "I am sorry. Your light was burning, so I thought you were not asleep." I tear open the telegram and look first at the signature. From my wife. "What does she want?" "Gnekker was secretly married to Liza yesterday. Return."
I ought to have gone today to see some professors of my acquaintance, but I have neither strength nor inclination. The old corridor attendant comes in and asks whether I have brought my bed-linen. I detain him for five minutes, and put several questions to him about Gnekker, on whose account I have come here.
Their manners are, indeed, so rude that I cannot speak of them without distaste. They treat one another and the writers they criticize either with superfluous respect, at the sacrifice of their own dignity, or, on the contrary, with far more ruthlessness than I have shown in my notes and my thoughts in regard to my future son-in-law Gnekker.
The attendant turns out to be a native of Harkov; he knows the town like the fingers of his hand, but does not remember any household of the surname of Gnekker. I question him about the estate the same answer. The clock in the corridor strikes one, then two, then three.... These last months in which I am waiting for death seem much longer than the whole of my life.
I can never reconcile myself, for instance, to the expression of triumph on my wife's face every time Gnekker is in our company, nor can I reconcile myself to the bottles of Lafitte, port and sherry which are only brought out on his account, that he may see with his own eyes the liberal and luxurious way in which we live.
Gnekker and the young ladies talk of fugues, of counterpoint, of singers and pianists, of Bach and Brahms, while my wife, afraid of their suspecting her of ignorance of music, smiles to them sympathetically and mutters: "That's exquisite... really! You don't say so!..." Gnekker eats with solid dignity, jests with solid dignity, and condescendingly listens to the remarks of the young ladies.
I am on the lookout for nothing but bad qualities in Gnekker; I quickly find them, and am fretted at the thought that a man not of my circle is sitting here as my daughter's suitor. His presence has a bad influence on me in other ways, too.
As a rule, when I am alone or in the society of people I like, never think of my own achievements, or, if I do recall them, they seem to me as trivial as though I had only completed my studies yesterday; but in the presence of people like Gnekker my achievements in science seem to be a lofty mountain the top of which vanishes into the clouds, while at its foot Gnekkers are running about scarcely visible to the naked eye.
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