Colonel Nicolai Yegorovitch Svarogitsch who lived in the little town
awaited the arrival of his son, a student at the Moscow Polytechnic.
The latter was under the surveillance of the police and had been
expelled from Moscow as a suspected person. It was thought that he was
in league with revolutionists. Yourii Svarogitsch had already written
to his parents informing them of his arrest, his six months'
imprisonment, and his expulsion from the capital, so that they were
prepared for his return. Though Nicolai Yegorovitch looked upon the
whole thing as a piece of boyish folly, he was really much grieved, for
he was very fond of his son, whom he received with open arms, avoiding
any allusion to this painful subject. For two whole days Yourii had
travelled third-class, and owing to the bad air, the stench, and the
cries of children, he got no sleep at all. He was utterly exhausted,
and had no sooner greeted his father and his sister Ludmilla (who was
always called Lialia) than he lay down on her bed, and fell asleep.
He did not wake until evening, when the sun was near the horizon, and
its slanting rays, falling through the panes, threw rosy squares upon
the wall. In the next room there was a clatter of spoons and glasses;
he could hear Lialia's merry laugh, and also a man's voice both
pleasant and refined which he did not know. At first it seemed to him
as if he were still in the railway-carriage and heard the noise of the
train, the rattle of the window-panes and the voices of travellers in
the next compartment. But he quickly remembered where he was, and sat
bolt upright on the bed. "Yes, here I am," he yawned, as, frowning, he
thrust his fingers through his thick, stubborn black hair.
It then occurred to him that he need never have come home. He had been
allowed to choose where he would stay. Why, then, did he return to his
parents? That he could not explain. He believed, or wished to believe,
that he had fixed upon the most likely place that had occurred to him.
But this was not the case at all. Yourii had never had to work for a
living; his father kept him supplied with funds, and the prospect of
being alone and without means among strangers seemed terrible to him.
He was ashamed of such a feeling, and loth to admit it to himself. Now,
however, he thought that he had made a mistake. His parents could never
understand the whole story, nor form any opinion regarding it; that was
quite plain. Then again, the material question would arise, the many
useless years that he had cost his father--it all made a mutually
cordial, straightforward understanding impossible. Moreover, in this
little town, which he had not seen for two years, he would find it
dreadfully dull. He looked upon all the inhabitants of petty provincial
towns as narrow-minded folk, incapable of being interested in, or even
of understanding those philosophical and political questions which for
him were the only really important things of life.