"Nuka, but this puts you finally into a career, does it not?"
"Certainly. That is why I accepted it, and I thought you would be glad."
"That is why you should have refused it. But I am glad all the same."
"I do not understand you, father."
"Nuka, golubtchik, listen," I said in my most endearing tone, drawing my arm round his neck. "Your struggles for existence were but struggles for the sake of the struggle. You are not as other young men. You have succeeded; and the moment you win the prize is the moment for retiring gracefully, leaving it in the hands of him who needs it. Your fight was but a game I allowed you to play. You are rich."
"Rich?"
"Rich! Nearly all my life I have been a wealthy man. I own land in every part of Russia; I hold shares in all the most successful companies. I have kept this knowledge from you so that you might enjoy your riches more when you knew the truth."
"Rich?" He repeated the word again in a dazed tone. "Ach, why did I not know this before?"
"You had not succeeded. You had not had your experience, my son, my dearest Paul. But now your work is over, or rather your true work begins. Freed from the detestable routine of a newspaper office, you shall write your books and work out your ideas at leisure, and relieved from all material considerations."
"Da, it would have been a beautiful ideal—once," he said; then added fiercely: "Rich? And I did not know it."