“When we moved to Moscow, this gentleman — his name was Troukhatchevsky — came to my house. It was in the morning. I received him. In former times we had been very familiar. He tried, by various advances, to re-establish the familiarity, but I was determined¹ to keep him at a distance, and soon he gave it up. He displeased² me extremely. At the first glance I saw that he was a filthy³ debauche. I was jealous of him, even before he had seen my wife. But, strange thing! some occult fatal power kept me from repulsing⁴ him and sending him away, and, on the contrary, induced me to suffer this approach. What could have been simpler than to talk with him a few minutes, and then dismiss him coldly without introducing him to my wife? But no, as if on purpose, I turned the conversation upon his skill as a violinist, and he answered that, contrary to what I had heard, he now played the violin more than formerly⁵. He remembered that I used to play. I answered that I had abandoned music, but that my wife played very well.

“Singular thing! Why, in the important events of our life, in those in which a man’s fate is decided⁶,— as mine was decided in that moment,— why in these events is there neither a past nor a future? My relations with Troukhatchevsky the first day, at the first hour, were such as they might still have been after all that has happened. I was conscious that some frightful⁷ misfortune must result from the presence of this man, and, in spite of that, I could not help being amiable⁸ to him. I introduced him to my wife. She was pleased with him. In the beginning, I suppose, because of the pleasure of the violin playing, which she adored. She had even hired for that purpose a violinist from the theatre. But when she cast a glance at me, she understood my feelings, and

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