and that all of us wealthy individuals would thereafter be able to
sit in our drawing-rooms, and eat our five-course dinners, and ride
in our carriages to theatres and assemblies, and be no longer annoyed
with such sights as I had seen at the Lyapinsky house.

Having concocted this plan, I wrote an article on the subject; and
before sending it to the printer, I went to some acquaintances, from
whom I hoped for sympathy. I said the same thing to every one whom I
met that day (and I applied chiefly to the rich), and nearly the same
that I afterwards printed in my memoir; proposed to take advantage of
the census to inquire into the wretchedness of Moscow, and to succor
it, both by deeds and money, and to do it in such a manner that there
should be no poor people in Moscow, and so that we rich ones might be
able, with a quiet conscience, to enjoy the blessings of life to
which we were accustomed. All listened to me attentively and
seriously, but nevertheless the same identical thing happened with
every one of them without exception. No sooner did my hearers
comprehend the question, than they seemed to feel awkward and
somewhat mortified. They seemed to be ashamed, and principally on my
account, because I was talking nonsense, and nonsense which it was
impossible to openly characterize as such. Some external cause
appeared to compel my hearers to be forbearing with this nonsense of
mine.

"Ah, yes! of course. That would be very good," they said to me. "It
is a self-understood thing that it is impossible not to sympathize
with this. Yes, your idea is a capital one. I have thought of that
myself, but . . . we are so indifferent, as a rule, that you can
hardly count on much success . . . however, so far as I am concerned,
I am, of course, ready to assist."