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believe it. Le diable n’existe point.* You’d better remain
anonymous,’ they advised me. What use is a letter of thanks
if it’s anonymous? I laughed with the men at the newspaper
office; ‘It’s reactionary to believe in God in our days,’ I said,
‘but I am the devil, so I may be believed in.’ ‘We quite under-
stand that,’ they said. ‘Who doesn’t believe in the devil? Yet
it won’t do, it might injure our reputation. As a joke, if you
like.’ But I thought as a joke it wouldn’t be very witty. So it
wasn’t printed. And do you know, I have felt sore about it to
this day. My best feelings, gratitude, for instance, are liter-
ally denied me simply from my social position.’
* The devil does not exist.
‘Philosophical reflections again?’ Ivan snarled malig-
nantly.
‘God preserve me from it, but one can’t help complaining
sometimes. I am a slandered man. You upbraid me every
moment with being stupid. One can see you are young. My
dear fellow, intelligence isn’t the only thing! I have natu-
rally a kind and merry heart. ‘I also write vaudevilles of all
sorts.’ You seem to take me for Hlestakov grown old, but
my fate is a far more serious one. Before time was, by some
decree which I could never make out, I was predestined
‘to deny’ and yet I am genuinely good-hearted and not at
all inclined to negation. ‘No, you must go and deny, with-
out denial there’s no criticism and what would a journal be
without a column of criticism?’ Without criticism it would
be nothing but one ‘hosannah.’ But nothing but hosannah
is not enough for life, the hosannah must be tried in the
crucible of doubt and so on, in the same style. But I don’t

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