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The misunderstanding that had arisen between Liza and me lasted a whole week–and there is nothing surprising in that: it has been my lot to be a witness of misunderstandings that have lasted for years and years. Who was it said, by the way, that truth alone is powerful? Falsehood is just as living as truth, if not more so. To be sure, I recollect that even during that week I felt from time to time an uneasy gnawing astir within me … but solitary people like me, I say again, are as incapable of understanding what is going on within them as what is taking place before their eyes. And, besides, is love a natural feeling? Is it natural for man to love? Love is a sickness; and for sickness there is no law. Granting that there was at times an unpleasant pang in my heart; well, everything inside me was turned upside down. And how is one to know in such circumstances, what is all right and what is all wrong? and what is the cause, and what the significance, of each separate symptom? But, be that as it may, all these misconceptions, presentiments, and hopes were shattered in the following manner.

One day–it was in the morning about twelve o’clock–I had hardly entered Mr. Ozhogin’s hall, when I heard an unfamiliar, mellow voice in the drawing-room, the door opened, and a tall and slim man of five-and-twenty appeared in the doorway, escorted by the master of the house. He rapidly put on a military overcoat which lay on the slab, and took cordial leave of Kirilla Matveitch. As he brushed past me, he carelessly touched his foraging cap, and vanished with a clink of his spurs.

‘Who is that?’ I asked Ozhogin.

‘Prince N., ‘the latter responded, with a preoccupied face; ‘sent from Petersburg to collect recruits. But where are the servants?’ he went on in a tone of annoyance; ‘no one handed him his coat.’

We went into the drawing-room.

‘Has he been here long?’ I inquired.

‘Arrived yesterday evening, I’m told. I offered him a room here, but he refused. He seems a very nice fellow, though.’

‘Has he been long with you?’

‘About an hour. He asked me to introduce him to Olimpiada Nikitishna.’

‘And did you introduce him?’

‘Of course.’

‘And Lizaveta Kirillovna, too, did he …’

‘He made her acquaintance, too, of course.’

I was silent for a space.

‘Has he come here for long, do you know?’

‘Yes, I believe he has to be here for a fortnight.’

And Kirilla Matveitch hurried away to dress. I walked several times up and down the drawing-room. I don’t recollect that Prince N.’s arrival made any special impression on me at the time, except that feeling of hostility which usually possesses us on the appearance of any new person in our domestic circle. Possibly there was mingled with this feeling something too of the nature of envy–of a shy and obscure person from Moscow towards a brilliant officer from Petersburg. ‘The prince,’ I mused, ‘is an upstart from the capital; he’ll look down upon us….’ I had not seen him for more than an instant, but I had had time to perceive that he was good-looking, clever, and at his ease. After pacing the room for some time, I stopped at last before a looking-glass, pulled a comb out of my pocket, gave a picturesque carelessness to my hair, and, as sometimes happens, became suddenly absorbed in the contemplation of my own face. I remember my attention centred anxiously about my nose; the soft and undefined outlines of that feature afforded me no great satisfaction, when suddenly in the dark depths of the sloping mirror, which reflected almost the whole room, the door opened, and the slender figure of Liza appeared. I don’t know why I did not stir, and kept the same expression on my face. Liza craned her head forward, looked intently at me, and raising her eyebrows, biting her lips, and holding her breath as any one does who is glad at not being noticed, she cautiously drew back and stealthily drew the door to after her. The door creaked slightly. Liza started and stood rooted to the spot… I still kept from stirring … she pulled the handle again and vanished. There was no possibility of doubt: the expression of Liza’s face at the sight of my figure, that expression in which nothing could be detected except a desire to get away again successfully, to escape a disagreeable interview, the quick flash of delight I had time to catch in her eyes when she fancied she really had managed to creep away unnoticed–it all spoke too clearly; that girl did not love me. For a long, long while I could not take my eyes off that motionless, dumb door, which was once more a patch of white in the looking-glass. I tried to smile at my own long face–dropped my head, went home again, and flung myself on the sofa. I felt extraordinarily heavy at heart, so much so that I could not cry … and, besides, what was there to cry about…? ‘Is it possible?’ I repeated incessantly, lying, as though I were murdered, on my back with my hands folded on my breast–‘is it possible?’…Don’t you think that’s rather good, that ‘is it possible?’