“You are a rag,” I could not refrain from saying to Groholsky.

“Yes, I am a man of weak character.⁠ ⁠… That is quite true. I was born so. Do you know how I came into the world? My late papa cruelly oppressed a certain little clerk⁠—it was awful how he treated him! He poisoned his life. Well⁠ ⁠… and my late mama was tenderhearted. She came from the people, she was of the working class.⁠ ⁠… She took that little clerk to her heart from pity.⁠ ⁠… Well⁠ ⁠… and so I came into the world.⁠ ⁠… The son of the ill-treated clerk. How could I have a strong will? Where was I to get it from? But that’s the second bell.⁠ ⁠… Goodbye. Come and see us again, but don’t tell Ivan Petrovitch what I have said about him.”

I pressed Groholsky’s hand, and got into the train. He bowed towards the carriage, and went to the water-barrel⁠—I suppose he was thirsty!

It was twelve o’clock at night.

Mitya Kuldarov, with excited face and ruffled hair, flew into his parents’ flat, and hurriedly ran through all the rooms. His parents had already gone to bed. His sister was in bed, finishing the last page of a novel. His schoolboy brothers were asleep.

“Where have you come from?” cried his parents in amazement. “What is the matter with you?”

“Oh, don’t ask! I never expected it; no, I never expected it! It’s⁠ ⁠… it’s positively incredible!”

Mitya laughed and sank into an armchair, so overcome by happiness that he could not stand on his legs.

“It’s incredible! You can’t imagine! Look!”

His sister jumped out of bed and, throwing a quilt round her, went in to her brother. The schoolboys woke up.

“What’s the matter? You don’t look like yourself!”