"Have you read any of Goncharov's works?" 'The Frigate Palada.'" "That's a dull book. But really, Goncharov is the cleverest writer in Russia. I advise you to read his novel, 'Oblomov.' That is by far the truest and most daring book he wrote; in fact, it is the best book in Russian literature." Of Dickens' works he said: "They are rubbish, I assure you. But there is a most interesting thing running in the 'Nova Vremya,'-'The Temptation of St. Anthony.' You read it? Apparently you like all that pertains to the church, and 'The Temptation' ought to be a profitable subject for you." He brought me a bundle of papers containing the serial, and I read Flaubert's learned work. It reminded me of the innumerable lives of holy men, scraps of history told by the valuers, but it made no very deep impression on me. I much preferred the "Memoirs of Upilio Faimali, Tamer of Wild Beasts," which was printed alongside of it. When I acknowledged this fact to my stepfather, he remarked coolly: "That means that you are still too young to read such things? However, don't forget about that book." Sometimes he would sit with me for a long time without saying a word, just coughing and puffing out smoke continuously. His beautiful eyes burned painfully, and I looked at him furtively, and forgot that this man, who was dying so honestly and simply, without complaint, had once been so closely related to my mother, and had insulted her. I knew that he lived with some sort of seamstress, and thought of her with wonder and pity. How could she not shrink from embracing those lanky bones, from kissing that mouth which gave forth such an oppressive odor of putrescence? Just like "Good Business," my stepfather often uttered peculiarly characteristic sayings: "I love hounds; they are stupid, but I love them. They are very beautiful. Beautiful women are often stupid, too." I thought, not without pride: "Ah, if he had only known Queen Margot!" "People who live for a long time in the same house all have the same kind of face," was one of his sayings which I wrote down in my note-book. I listened for these sayings of his, as if they had been treats. It was pleasant to hear unusual, literary words used in a house where every one spoke a colorless language, which had hardened into well-worn, undiversified forms. My stepfather never spoke to me of my mother; he never even uttered her name. This pleased me, and aroused in me a feeling of sympathetic consideration for him. Once I asked him about God--I do not remember what brought up the subject. He looked at me, and said very calmly: "I don't know. I don't believe in God." I remembered Sitanov, and told my stepfather about him. Having listened attentively to me, he observed, still calmly: "He was in doubt; and those who are in doubt must believe in something. As for me, I simply do not believe----" "But is that possible?" "Why not? You can see for yourself I don't believe."