Mark André ’s Reviews > The Insulted and the Injured > Status Update

A minute later we were all laughing as though we were crazy.

We shall have to win the right to our future happiness by further suffering; buy it with some new agonies. Suffering purifies everything.
Oh, Vanya, how much pain there is in the world!”

The prince calculated that the lapse of six months must have had some effect, that Natasha could no longer have the charm of novelty for his son and that he would now regard his proposed fiancee with a different feeling than he had done six months before. He was only partly right in his reckoning.

But no sooner had he heard her exclamation than an insane fury flashed in his eyes. He snatched up the locket, threw it violently on the floor, and started trampling it ...
“I curse you, I curse you, for ever and ever!” he shout­ed hoarsely, gasping for breath. “
“Good God!” cried the mother. “Her! My Natasha! Her darling face!... trampling on it! With his feet! Tyrant! You cruel, unfeeling, and arrogant man!”

The old man had a compelling impulse to quarrel, though he was made miserable by it himself.

It happens sometimes with the kindest but high-strung people that in spite of their kindliness they allow their own grief and anger to carry them away to a pitch of selfish delight in it, and they seek to express themselves at any cost, even that of wounding another— someone innocent and in most cases the one who is nearest and dearest to them.

Anna Andreyevna at once winked at me. He could not endure these mysterious signals; and while he tried not to look at us, his face showed quite clearly that he was well aware that Anna Andreyevna had just signalled to me about him.

It was a pale, thin child, not more than seven or eight, dressed in filthy rags; she had broken shoes on her little bare feet. She was trying to cover her shivering little body with a sort of aged semblance of a tiny dress, long outgrown. Her pale, sickly, wiasted face was turned towards us. She looked at us timidly and mutely, and held out her trembling little hand with a look of resigned dread of refusal.

And with a rapid, spontaneous movement of his hand he pointed to the foggy vista of the street, lighted by street-lamps dimly twinkling in the damp mist, to the dirty houses, to the wet and shining flagstones, to the cross, sullen, drenched figures that passed by, to all this picture, hemmed in by the dome of the Petersburg sky, black as though smudged with Indian ink.

Perhaps I’d better go into an asylum, or something,” I thought at last, “to have my brains shaken up in my head and rearranged anew, and then be cured again.” So I still had a thirst for life and a faith in it. But I remember that it made me laugh. “What should I have to do after the madhouse? Write novels again?
So I brooded despondently, and meanwhile time was passing.