. . . No, it will never, never come
back to me again! Even now she writes to me: if you will let me, I will
show you her letters. But I am not what I was; I am ruined; I am no
longer worthy of her. . . . Yes, I am ruined for ever. Je suis casse.
There's no energy in me, no pride, nothing--nor even any rank. . . .
[Footnote: Blagorodstva, noble birth, nobility.] Yes, I am ruined;
and no one will ever appreciate my sufferings. Every one is indifferent.
I am a lost man. Never any chance for me to rise, because I have fallen
morally . . . into the mire--I have fallen. . . ."
At this moment there was evident in his words a genuine, deep despair:
he did not look at me, but sat motionless.
"Why are you in such despair?" I asked.
"Because I am abominable. This life has degraded me, all that was in me,
all is crushed out. It is not by pride that I hold out, but by
abjectness: there's no dignite dans le malheur. I am humiliated every
moment; I endure it all; I got myself into this abasement. This mire has
soiled me. I myself have become coarse; I have forgotten what I used to
know; I can't speak French any more; I am conscious that I am base and
low. I cannot tear myself away from these surroundings, indeed I cannot.
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