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No one had expected him. It turned out that he was retiring in unpleasant circumstances; he had hoped to receive the Alexander ribbon, and they had presented him with a snuff-box. Discontented with the government, which had failed to appreciate his talents, and with Petersburg society, which had shown him little sympathy, and did not share his indignation, he determined to settle in the country, and devote himself to the management of his property. He arrived alone. His son, Mihail Semyonitch, arrived later, in the holidays for the New Year. My stepfather was scarcely ever out of Semyon Matveitch’s room; he still stood high in his good graces. He left me in peace; he had no time for me then… Semyon Matveitch had taken it into his head to start a paper factory. Mr. Ratsch had no knowledge whatever of manufacturing work, and Semyon Matveitch was aware of the fact; but then my stepfather was an active man (the favourite expression just then), an ‘Araktcheev!’ That was just what Semyon Matveitch used to call him–‘my Araktcheev!’ ‘That’s all I want,’ Semyon Matveitch maintained; ‘if there is zeal, I myself will direct it.’ In the midst of his numerous occupations–he had to superintend the factory, the estate, the foundation of a counting-house, the drawing up of counting-house regulations, the creation of new offices and duties–Semyon Matveitch still had time to attend to me.

I was summoned one evening to the drawing-room, and set to play the piano. Semyon Matveitch cared for music even less than his brother; he praised and thanked me, however, and next day I was invited to dine at the master’s table. After dinner Semyon Matveitch had rather a long conversation with me, asked me questions, laughed at some of my replies, though there was, I remember, nothing amusing in them, and stared at me so strangely… I felt uncomfortable. I did not like his eyes, I did not like their open expression, their clear glance…. It always seemed to me that this very openness concealed something evil, that under that clear brilliance it was dark within in his soul. ‘You shall not be my reader,’ Semyon Matveitch announced to me at last, prinking and setting himself to rights in a repulsive way. ‘I am, thank God, not blind yet, and can read myself; but coffee will taste better to me from your little hands, and I shall listen to your playing with pleasure.’ From that day I always went over to the big house to dinner, and sometimes remained in the drawing-room till evening. I too, like my stepfather, was in favour: it was not a source of joy for me. Semyon Matveitch, I am bound to own, showed me a certain respect, but in the man there was, I felt it, something that repelled and alarmed me. And that ‘something’ showed itself not in words, but in his eyes, in those wicked eyes, and in his laugh. He never spoke to me of my father, of his brother, and it seemed to me that he avoided the subject, not because he did not want to excite ambitious ideas or pretensions in me, but from another cause, to which I could not give a definite shape, but which made me blush and feel bewildered…. Towards Christmas came his son, Mihail Semyonitch.

Ah, I feel I cannot go on as I have begun; these memories are too painful. Especially now I cannot tell my story calmly…. But what is the use of concealment? I loved Michel, and he loved me.

How it came to pass–I am not going to describe that either. From the very evening when he came into the drawing-room–I was at the piano, playing a sonata of Weber’s when he came in–handsome and slender, in a velvet coat lined with sheepskin and high gaiters, just as he was, straight from the frost outside, and shaking his snow-sprinkled, sable cap, before he had greeted his father, glanced swiftly at me, and wondered–I knew that from that evening I could never forget him–I could never forget that good, young face. He began to speak… and his voice went straight to my heart…. A manly and soft voice, and in every sound such a true, honest nature!