"_Nuka_, _golubtchik_, listen," I said in my most endearing tone, drawing my arm round his neck. "Your struggles for existence were but struggles for the sake of the struggle. You are not as other young men. You have succeeded; and the moment you win the prize is the moment for retiring gracefully, leaving it in the hands of him who needs it. Your fight was but a game I allowed you to play. You are rich." "Rich?" "Rich! Nearly all my life I have been a wealthy man. I own land in every part of Russia; I hold shares in all the most successful companies. I have kept this knowledge from you so that you might enjoy your riches more when you knew the truth." "Rich?" He repeated the word again in a dazed tone. "_Ach_, why did I not know this before?" "You had not succeeded. You had not had your experience, my son, my dearest Paul. But now your work is over, or rather your true work begins. Freed from the detestable routine of a newspaper office, you shall write your books and work out your ideas at leisure, and relieved from all material considerations." "_Da_, it would have been a beautiful ideal--once," he said; then added fiercely: "Rich? And I did not know it." "But you were the happier for your ignorance." "No, father. The struggle is too terrible. Often have I sat and wept. _Ish-lui_, time after time my book--destined as it was to success--came back to me from the publishers. And I could have produced it myself all along!" Pangs of remorse agitated me. Had my plan been, indeed, a failure? "But you have the pride of unhelped success." "And the bitter memories. And once--" He paused. "Once?" I said. "Once I loved a girl. She is dead now, so it doesn't matter. There were many and complicated obstacles to our union. With money they would have been overcome." "Poor boy!" I said wonderingly, for I knew nothing of this apparently new love episode. "Forgive me, my son, if I have acted mistakenly. Anyhow, from this moment your happiness is my sole care." "No," he said, with sudden determination. "It is too late now. You meant it for the best, _papasha_. But I do not want the money now. I have money of my own--and glory. Why should I give up what my own hands have won?" "Because I ask it of you, Paul; because I ask you to allow me to make reparation for the mischief I have done." "The truest reparation will be to let things go unrepaired," he said, with a touch of sarcasm. "I shall be happier as editor of this paper. What finer medium for my ideas than a great newspaper? What more potent lever to my hand for raising Holy Russia to a yet higher plane? No, father. Let bygones be bygones. Give my share of your wealth to a society for helping struggling talent. I struggle no longer. Leave me to go on in the path my pen has carved out."