_In any case, I should like to warn my readers against the temptation of seeing only Russian traits in this novel. The portrait of Peredonov is an expression of the all-human inclination towards evil, of the almost disinterested tendency of a perverse human soul to depart from the common course of universal life directed by one omnipotent Will; and, taking vengeance upon the world for its own grievous loneliness, to bring into the world evil and abomination, to mutilate the given reality and to defile the beautiful dreams of humanity._ _This inclination towards evil, raging in the hearts of mankind in all latitudes and longitudes, invests itself only outwardly with an appearance of selfish expedience. A soul marred by this tragic affliction, that of a morose separation from the world, is borne along by a sovereign justice, which rules worlds and hearts, upon disastrous paths, towards madness and towards death._ _The afflicted soul does not rejoice at its gains, to such a degree visionary, to such a degree worthless. A foreboding of ultimate destruction torments it with a gnawing sadness._ _Where then, in what blessed land, is not man tormented with this agonising sadness, these true tokens of the same morose and sombre affliction? The Russian "khandra" and the English spleen are the expression of one and the same malady of the spirit. Even in more noble souls, these harsh visitors, so familiar to both Englishmen and Russians, have been created by the omnipotent Will not without a beneficent design. They incessantly remind the soul, succumbing in the life struggle, that the enemy is near, cunning and strong._ _I would be glad if my new readers should appraise not only the detestable sinfulness and perversity of a soul warped by the force of evil, but also the great yearning of this soul--the evil evil atones to a certain degree in this truly human feeling; and in this feeling the afflicted man also communes with each one of us._ _This novel will not be accepted by you in condemnation of my country--my country has not a few enchantments, which make her beloved not only by her own, but also by the observant stranger. Perhaps the attentive reader will find even in this sombre novel certain reflections of enchanting Russian nature, and of the live Russian soul._ _FEODOR SOLOGUB_ _January_ 1916 CHAPTER I After Mass the members of the congregation scattered to their homes. A few stopped to talk under the old maples and lindens near the white stone walls, within the enclosure. All were in holiday dress and looked at one another cheerily. It appeared as if the inhabitants of this town lived peacefully and amicably--even happily. But it was only in appearance. Peredonov, a schoolmaster in the _gymnasia_, stood among his friends, and as he looked at them gravely out of his small, stealthy eyes, across the golden rims of his spectacles, he remarked: