“And so, when I found out that I was sick, I almost went out of my mind from wrath; I choked from wrath ...I thought: and here’s the end; therefore, there’s no more use in pitying, there’s nothing to grieve about, nothing to expect...The lid! ... But for all that I have borne—can it be that there’s no paying back for it? Can it be that there’s no justice in the world? Can it be that I can’t even feast myself with revenge?—for that I have never known love; that of family life I know only by hearsay; that, like a disgustin’, nasty little dog, they call me near, pat me and then with a boot over the head—get out!—that they made me over, from a human being, equal to all of them, no more foolish than all those I’ve met; made me over into a floor mop, some sort of a sewer pipe for their filthy pleasures? ...Ugh! ... Is it possible that for all of this I must take even such a disease with gratitude as well? ... Or am I a slave? ... A dumb object? ... A pack horse? ... And so, Platonov, it was just then that I resolved to infect them all: young, old, poor, rich, handsome, hideous—all, all, all! ...” Platonov, who had already long since put his plate away from him, was looking at her with astonishment, and even more—almost with horror. He, who had seen in life much of the painful, the filthy, at times even of the bloody—he grew frightened with an animal fright before this intensity of enormous, unvented hatred. Coming to himself, he said: “One great writer tells of such a case. The Prussians conquered the French and lorded it over them in every possible way: shot the men, violated the women, pillaged the houses, burned down the fields...And so one handsome woman—a Frenchwoman, very handsome,—having become infected, began out of spite to infect all the Germans who happened to fall into her embraces. She made ill whole hundreds, perhaps even thousands...And when she was dying in a hospital, she recalled this with joy and with pride...[25] But then, those were enemies, trampling upon her fatherland and slaughtering her brothers...But you, you, Jennechka! ...” [25] This story is Lit. No. 29, by Guy de Maupassant.—Trans. “But I—all, just all! Tell me, Sergei Ivanovich, only tell me on your conscience: if you were to find in the street a child, whom some one had dishonoured, had abused...well, let’s say, had stuck its eyes out, cut its ears off—and then you were to find out that this man is at this minute walking past you, and that only God alone, if only He exists, is looking at you this minute from heaven—what would you do?” “Don’t know,” answered Platonov, dully and downcast; but he paled, and his fingers underneath the table convulsively clenched into fists, “Perhaps I would kill him...”