Book 1 Chapter 18 Afterwards

So he gave her what seemed to him a liberal amount, considering
his and her station. On the day of his departure, after dinner,
he went out and waited for her at the side entrance. She flushed
up when she saw him and wished to pass by, directing his
attention to the open door of the maids' room by a look, but he
stopped her.

"I have come to say good-bye," he said, crumbling in his hand an
envelope with a 100-rouble note inside. "There, I . . . "

She guessed what he meant, knit her brows, and shaking her head
pushed his hand away.

"Take it; oh, you must!" he stammered, and thrust the envelope
into the bib of her apron and ran back to his room, groaning and
frowning as if he had hurt himself. And for a long time he went
up and down writhing as in pain, and even stamping and groaning
aloud as he thought of this last scene. "But what else could I
have done? Is it not what happens to every one? And if every one
does the same . . . well I suppose it can't be helped." In this
way he tried to get peace of mind, but in vain. The recollection
of what had passed burned his conscience. In his soul--in the
very depths of his soul--he knew that he had acted in a base,
cruel, cowardly manner, and that the knowledge of this act of his
must prevent him, not only from finding fault with any one else,
but even from looking straight into other people's eyes; not to
mention the impossibility of considering himself a splendid,
noble, high-minded fellow, as he did and had to do to go on
living his life boldly and merrily. There was only one solution
of the problem--i.e., not to think about it. He succeeded in doing
so. The life he was now entering upon, the new surroundings, new
friends, the war, all helped him to forget. And the longer he
lived, the less he thought about it, until at last he forgot it
completely.