The inspector went away.
“That means tomorrow morning,” thought Svetlogoúb. “They always behave like that. Tomorrow morning I shall not be … no, it is impossible! It’s a dream!”
But the watchman came in—the real, familiar watchman—and brought two pens, an inkstand, a packet of notepaper, and some blue envelopes, and moved the stool to the table. All this was reality, and not a dream.
“I must not think … only not think. Yes, I will write to Mother,” thought Svetlogoúb, and sat down on the stool and at once began.
“My own dear!” he wrote, and burst into tears. “Forgive me—forgive me all the grief I have caused you. Whether I was deluded or not, I could not act otherwise. I only ask you to forgive me!”—“But I have already written this. … Well, anyhow, there is no time to alter it now.”—“Do not sorrow on my account,” he continued. “A little sooner or a little later, is it not all the same? I am not frightened, nor do I repent of what I have done. I could not act otherwise. Only do you forgive me! And do not be angry with them—neither with those with whom I worked nor with those who are executing me. Neither the former nor the latter could act otherwise. Forgive them, for they know not what they do! I dare not say these words about myself, but they are in my soul, and lift me up and calm me. Forgive me! I kiss your dear, wrinkled, old hands!”
Two tears fell one after another and spread on the paper.
“I am crying, not with grief or fear, but with deep emotion before the most solemn moment of my life, and because I love you. Do not reproach my friends, but love them—especially Próhorof, because he was the cause of my death. It is so joyful to love one who is not exactly guilty, but whom one might reproach and hate! To learn to love a man of that kind—an enemy—is such happiness! Tell Natásha that her love was my