"Well, you see, she means to fix a time and place for a mutual explanation, the relics of your sentimentalising.
You've been coquetting with her for twenty years and have trained her to the most ridiculous habits.
But don't trouble yourself, it's quite different now. She keeps saying herself that she's only beginning now to 'have her eyes opened.'
I told her in so many words that all this friendship of yours is nothing but a mutual pouring forth of sloppiness.
She told me lots, my boy. Foo! what a flunkey's place you've been filling all this time.
I positively blushed for you."
"I filling a flunkey's place?" cried Stepan Trofimovitch, unable to restrain himself.
"Worse, you've been a parasite, that is, a voluntary flunkey too lazy to work, while you've an appetite for money.
She, too, understands all that now. It's awful the things she's been telling me about you, anyway.
I did laugh, my boy, over your letters to her; shameful and disgusting.
But you're all so depraved, so depraved!
There's always something depraving in charity—you're a good example of it!"
"She showed you my letters!"
"All; though, of course, one couldn't read them all.
Foo, what a lot of paper you've covered! I believe there are more than two thousand letters there. And do you know, old chap, I believe there was one moment when she'd have been ready to marry you.
You let slip your chance in the silliest way.
Of course, I'm speaking from your point of view, though, anyway, it would have been better than now when you've almost been married to 'cover another man's sins,' like a buffoon, for a jest, for money."
"For money!
She, she says it was for money!" Stepan Trofimovitch wailed in anguish.
"What else, then?
But, of course, I stood up for you.
That's your only line of defence, you know.
She sees for herself that you needed money like every one else, and that from that point of view maybe you were right.
I proved to her as clear as twice two makes four that it was a mutual bargain. She was a capitalist and you were a sentimental buffoon in her service.
She's not angry about the money, though you have milked her like a goat.
She's only in a rage at having believed in you for twenty years, at your having so taken her in over these noble sentiments, and made her tell lies for so long.
She never will admit that she told lies of herself, but you'll catch it the more for that.
I can't make out how it was you didn't see that you'd have to have a day of reckoning.
For after all you had some sense.
I advised her yesterday to put you in an almshouse, a genteel one, don't disturb yourself; there'll be nothing humiliating; I believe that's what she'll do.
Do you remember your last letter to me, three weeks ago?"
"Can you have shown her that?" cried Stepan Trofimovitch, leaping up in horror.
"Rather!
First thing.
The one in which you told me she was exploiting you, envious of your talent; oh, yes, and that about 'other men's sins.'
You have got a conceit though, my boy!
How I did laugh.
As a rule your letters are very tedious. You write a horrible style.
I often don't read them at all, and I've one lying about to this day, unopened. I'll send it to you to-morrow.
But that one, that last letter of yours was the tiptop of perfection!
How I did laugh! Oh, how I laughed!"
"Monster, monster!" wailed Stepan Trofimovitch.
"Foo, damn it all, there's no talking to you.
I say, you're getting huffy again as you were last Thursday."
Stepan Trofimovitch drew himself up, menacingly.
"How dare you speak to me in such language?"
"What language?
It's simple and clear."
"Tell me, you monster, are you my son or not?"
"You know that best.