VIII.
THE HISTORY OF KARL IVÁNOVICH
Late in the evening preceding the day when Karl Ivánovich was for ever to leave us, he stood in his wadded gown and red cap near his bed and, bending over his portmanteau, packed his things with great care.
Toward the end Karl Ivánovich's bebaviour to us was exceedingly formal; he seemed to avoid all relations with us. Even now, when I entered the room, he looked at me askance, and again betook himself to his work. I lay down on my bed, and Karl Ivánovich, who formerly used to forbid it, said not a word to me, and the thought that he no longer would scold us, nor stop us, and that he had no business with us, vividly reminded me of the impending separation. I felt sad because he no longer loved us, and I wished to express this feeling to him.
"Permit me to help you, Karl Ivánovich," I said, approaching him.
He looked at me and again turned away, but in the cursory glance which he cast upon me I read not indifference, by which I explained his coldness, but genuine and concentrated sorrow.
"God sees everything and knows everything, and His holy will is in everything," he said, straightening himself out the full length of his stature, and drawing a deep breath. "Yes, Nikólenka," he continued, when he noticed the expression of sincere sympathy with which I was looking at him, "it has been my fate to be unhappy
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