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On reaching home he lay down on his sofa and put the quilt over him to stop his shivering. The cardboard hat-boxes, the wicker baskets, and the other rubbish, reminded him that he had not a room of his own, that he had no refuge in which he could get away from his mother, from her visitors, and from the voices that were floating up from the “general room.” The satchel and the books lying about in the corners reminded him of the examination he had missed. . . . For some reason there came into his mind, quite inappropriately, Mentone, where he had lived with his father when he was seven years old; he thought of Biarritz and two little English girls with whom he ran about on the sand. . . . He tried to recall to his memory the colour of the sky, the sea, the height of the waves, and his mood at the time, but he could not succeed. The English girls flitted before his imagination as though they were living; all the rest was a medley of images that floated away in confusion. . . .

“No; it’s cold here,” thought Volodya. He got up, put on his overcoat, and went into the “general room.”

There they were drinking tea. There were three people at the samovar: maman; an old lady with tortoiseshell pince-nez, who gave music lessons; and Avgustin Mihalitch, an elderly and very stout Frenchman, who was employed at a perfumery factory.

“I have had no dinner to-day,” said maman. “I ought to send the maid to buy some bread.”

“Dunyasha!” shouted the Frenchman.

It appeared that the maid had been sent out somewhere by the lady of the house.

“Oh, that’s of no consequence,” said the Frenchman, with a broad smile. “I will go for some bread myself at once. Oh, it’s nothing.”

He laid his strong, pungent cigar in a conspicuous place, put on his hat and went out. After he had gone away maman began telling the music teacher how she had been staying at the Shumihins’, and how warmly they welcomed her.

“Lili Shumihin is a relation of mine, you know,” she said. “Her late husband, General Shumihin, was a cousin of my husband. And she was a Baroness Kolb by birth. . . .”

“Maman, that’s false!” said Volodya irritably. “Why tell lies?”

He knew perfectly well that what his mother said was true; in what she was saying about General Shumihin and about Baroness Kolb there was not a word of lying, but nevertheless he felt that she was lying. There was a suggestion of falsehood in her manner of speaking, in the expression of her face, in her eyes, in everything.

“You are lying,” repeated Volodya; and he brought his fist down on the table with such force that all the crockery shook and maman‘s tea was spilt over. “Why do you talk about generals and baronesses? It’s all lies!”

The music teacher was disconcerted, and coughed into her handkerchief, affecting to sneeze, and maman began to cry.

“Where can I go?” thought Volodya.

He had been in the street already; he was ashamed to go to his schoolfellows. Again, quite incongruously, he remembered the two little English girls. . . . He paced up and down the “general room,” and went into Avgustin Mihalitch’s room. Here there was a strong smell of ethereal oils and glycerine soap. On the table, in the window, and even on the chairs, there were a number of bottles, glasses, and wineglasses containing fluids of various colours. Volodya took up from the table a newspaper, opened it and read the title Figaro. . . There was a strong and pleasant scent about the paper. Then he took a revolver from the table. . . .

“There, there! Don’t take any notice of it.” The music teacher was comforting maman in the next room. “He is young! Young people of his age never restrain themselves. One must resign oneself to that.”

“No, Yevgenya Andreyevna; he’s too spoilt,” said maman in a singsong voice. “He has no one in authority over him, and I am weak and can do nothing. Oh, I am unhappy!”

Volodya put the muzzle of the revolver to his mouth, felt something like a trigger or spring, and pressed it with his finger. . . . Then felt something else projecting, and once more pressed it. Taking the muzzle out of his mouth, he wiped it with the lapel of his coat, looked at the lock. He had never in his life taken a weapon in his hand before. . . .

“I believe one ought to raise this . . .” he reflected. “Yes, it seems so.”

Avgustin Mihalitch went into the “general room,” and with a laugh began telling them about something. Volodya put the muzzle in his mouth again, pressed it with his teeth, and pressed something with his fingers. There was a sound of a shot. . . . Something hit Volodya in the back of his head with terrible violence, and he fell on the table with his face downwards among the bottles and glasses. Then he saw his father, as in Mentone, in a top-hat with a wide black band on it, wearing mourning for some lady, suddenly seize him by both hands, and they fell headlong into a very deep, dark pit.

Then everything was blurred and vanished.