In this clean room, the walls of which were covered with views of
Venice, and with a mirror hung between two windows, there was placed a
clean spring bedstead and a small table with water and matches. On a
large table near the mirror lay his open traveling-bag with toilet
articles and books which he brought with him; one Russian book on
criminology, one in German, and a third in English treating of the
same subject. He intended to read them in spare moments while
traveling through the villages, but as he looked on them now he felt
that his mind was far from these subjects. Something entirely
different occupied him.

In one corner of the room there stood an ancient arm-chair with
incrustations, and the sight of this chair standing in his mother's
bed-room suddenly raised in his soul an unexpected feeling. He
suddenly felt sorry for the house that would decay, the gardens which
would be neglected, the woods which would be cut down, and all the
cattle-houses, courts, stables, sheds, machinery, horses, cows which
had been accumulated with such effort, although not by him. At first
it seemed to him easy to abandon all that, but now he was loth to part
with it, as well as the land and one-half of the income which would be
so useful now. And immediately serviceable arguments come to his aid,
by which it appeared that it was not wise to give the land to the
peasants and destroy his estate.

"I have no right to own the land. And if I do not own the land, I
cannot keep the property intact. Besides, I will now go to Siberia,
and for that reason I need neither the house nor the estate,"
whispered one voice. "All that is true," whispered another voice, "but
you will not pass all your life in Siberia. If you should marry, you
may have children. And you must hand over the estate to them in the