kept hoping that the hour would come, and she would open her heart at
last, and I too should speak out, and both of us would be more at
ease.... But the daily little cares, her irresolute, shrinking temper,
illnesses, the presence of Mr. Ratsch, and most of all the eternal
question,--what is the use? and the relentless, unbroken flowing away of
time, of life.... All was ended as though by a clap of thunder, and the
words which would have loosed us from the burden of our secret--even the
last dying words of leave-taking--I was not destined to hear from my
mother! All that is left in my memory is Mr. Ratsch's calling, 'Susanna
Ivanovna, go, please, your mother wishes to give you her blessing!' and
then the pale hand stretched out from the heavy counterpane, the
agonised breathing, the dying eyes.... Oh, enough! enough!

With what horror, with what indignation and piteous curiosity I looked
next day, and on the day of the funeral, into the face of my father...
yes, my father! In my dead mother's writing-case were found his letters.
I fancied he looked a little pale and drawn... but no! Nothing was
stirring in that heart of stone. Exactly as before, he summoned me to
his room, a week later; exactly in the same voice he asked me to read:
'Si vous le voulez bien, les observations sur l'histoire de France de
Mably, a la page 74... la ou nous avons ete interrompus.' And he had
not even had my mother's portrait moved! On dismissing me, he did indeed
call me to him, and giving me his hand to kiss a second time, he
observed: 'Suzanne, la mort de votre mere vous a privee de votre appui
naturel; mais vous pourrez toujours compter sur ma protection,' but with
the other hand he gave me at once a slight push on the shoulder, and,
with the sharpening of the corners of the mouth habitual with him, he
added, 'Allez, mon enfant.' I longed to shriek at him: 'Why, but you
know you're my father!' but I said nothing and left the room.