"Uncle, you can help me. Not only help, but save me!" said Eugene. And the thought that he would disclose his secret to his uncle whom he did not respect, the thought that he would show himself in the worst light and humiliate himself before him, was pleasant. He felt himself to be despicable and guilty, and wished to punish himself.
"Speak, my dear fellow, you know how fond I am of you," said the uncle, evidently well content that there was a secret and that it was a shameful one, and that it would be communicated to him, and that he could be of use.
"First of all I must tell you that I am a wretch, a good-for-nothing, a scoundrel—a real scoundrel."
"Now what are you saying . . ." began his uncle, as if he were offended.
"What! Not a wretch when I,—Liza's husband, Liza's! One has only to know her purity, her love—and that I, her husband, want to be untrue to her with a peasant-woman!"
"How's that? Why do you want to—you have not been unfaithful to her?"
"Yes, at least just the same as being untrue, for it did not depend on me. I was ready to do so. I was hindered, or else I should . . . now. I do not know what I should have done . . ."
"But please, explain to me . . ."
"Well, it is like this. When I was a bachelor I was stupid enough to have relations with a woman here in our village. That is to say, I used to have meetings with her in the forest, in the field . . ."
"Was she pretty?" asked his uncle.