It was a grief to me to part from Pasinkov. Just before I left school, he had, after prolonged efforts and difficulties, after a correspondence often amusing, succeeded in obtaining his certificates of birth and baptism and his passport, and had entered the university. He still went on living at Winterkeller's expense; but instead of home-made jackets and breeches, he was provided now with ordinary attire, in return for lessons on various subjects, which he gave the younger pupils. Pasinkov was unchanged in his behaviour to me up to the end of my time at the school, though the difference in our ages began to be more noticeable, and I, I remember, grew jealous of some of his new student friends. His influence on me was most beneficial. It was a pity it did not last longer. To give a single instance: as a child I was in the habit of telling lies.... In Yakov's presence I could not bring my tongue to utter an untruth. What I particularly loved was walking alone with him, or pacing by his side up and down the room, listening while he, not looking at me, read poetry in his soft, intense voice. It positively seemed to me that we were slowly, gradually, getting away from the earth, and soaring away to some radiant, glorious land of mystery.... I remember one night. We were sitting together under the same lilac-bush; we were fond of that spot. All our companions were asleep; but we had softly got up, dressed, fumbling in the dark, and stealthily stepped out 'to dream.' It was fairly warm out of doors, but a fresh breeze blew now and then and made us huddle closer together. We talked, we talked a lot, and with much warmth—so much so, that we positively interrupted each other, though we did not argue. In the sky gleamed stars innumerable. Yakov raised his eyes, and pressing my hand he softly cried out:

'Above our heads The sky with the eternal stars.... Above the stars their Maker....'

A thrill of awe ran through me; I felt cold all over, and sank on his shoulder.... My heart was full.... Where are those raptures? Alas! where youth is.

In Petersburg I met Yakov again eight years after. I had only just been appointed to a position in the service, and some one had got him a little post in some department. Our meeting was most joyful. I shall never forget the moment when, sitting alone one day at home, I suddenly heard his voice in the passage....

How I started; with what throbbing at the heart I leaped up and flung myself on his neck, without giving him time to take off his fur overcoat and unfasten his scarf! How greedily I gazed at him through bright, involuntary tears of tenderness! He had grown a little older during those seven years; lines, delicate as if they had been traced by a needle, furrowed his brow here and there, his cheeks were a little more hollow, and his hair was thinner; but he had hardly more beard, and his smile was just the same as ever; and his laugh, a soft, inward, as it were breathless laugh, was the same too....

Mercy on us! what didn't we talk about that day! ... The favourite poems we read to one another! I began begging him to move and come and live with me, but he would not consent. He promised, however, to come every day to see me, and he kept his word.

In soul, too, Pasinkov was unchanged. He showed himself just the same idealist as I had always known him. However rudely life's chill, the bitter chill of experience, had closed in about him, the tender flower that had bloomed so early in my friend's heart had kept all its pure beauty untouched. There was no trace of sadness even, no trace even of melancholy in him; he was quiet, as he had always been, but everlastingly glad at heart.

In Petersburg he lived as in a wilderness, not thinking of the future, and knowing scarcely any one. I took him to the Zlotnitskys'. He used to go and see them rather often. Not being self-conscious, he was not shy, but in their house, as everywhere, he said very little; they liked him, however. Even the tedious old man, Tatiana Vassilievna's husband, was friendly to him, and both the silent girls were soon quite at home with him.

Sometimes he would arrive, bringing with him in the back pocket of his coat some book that had just come out, and for a long time would not make up his mind to read, but would keep stretching his neck out on one side, like a bird, looking about him as though inquiring, 'could he?' At last he would establish himself in a corner (he always liked sitting in corners), would pull out a book and set to reading, at first in a whisper, then louder and louder, occasionally interrupting himself with brief criticisms or exclamations. I noticed that Varvara was readier to sit by him and listen than her sister, though she certainly did not understand much; literature was not in her line. She would sit opposite Pasinkov, her chin in her hands, staring at him—not into his eyes, but into his whole face—and would not utter a syllable, but only heave a noisy, sudden sigh. Sometimes in the evenings we used to play forfeits, especially on Sundays and holidays. We were joined on these occasions by two plump, short young ladies, sisters, and distant relations of the Zlotnitskys, terribly given to giggling, and a few lads from the military school, very good-natured, quiet fellows. Pasinkov always used to sit beside Tatiana Vassilievna, and with her, judge what was to be done to the one who had to pay a forfeit.

Sophia did not like the kisses and such demonstrations, with which forfeits are often paid, while Varvara used to be cross if she had to look for anything or guess something. The young ladies giggled incessantly—laughter seemed to bubble up by some magic in them,—I sometimes felt positively irritated as I looked at them, but Pasinkov only smiled and shook his head. Old Zlotnitsky took no part in our games, and even looked at us rather disapprovingly from the door of his study. Only once, utterly unexpectedly, he came in to us, and proposed that whoever had next to pay a forfeit should waltz with him; we, of course, agreed. It happened to be Tatiana Vassilievna who had to pay the forfeit. She crimsoned all over, and was confused and abashed like a girl of fifteen; but her husband at once told Sophia to go to the piano, while he went up to his wife, and waltzed two rounds with her of the old-fashioned trois temps waltz. I remember how his bilious, gloomy face, with its never-smiling eyes, kept appearing and disappearing as he slowly turned round, his stern expression never relaxing. He waltzed with a long step and a hop, while his wife pattered rapidly with her feet, and huddled up with her face close to his chest, as though she were in terror. He led her to her place, bowed to her, went back to his room and shut the door. Sophia was just getting up, but Varvara asked her to go on, went up to Pasinkov, and holding out her hand, with an awkward smile, said, 'Will you like a turn?' Pasinkov was surprised, but he jumped up—he was always distinguished by the most delicate courtesy—and took Varvara by the waist, but he slipped down at the first step, and leaving hold of his partner at once, rolled right under the pedestal on which the parrot's cage was standing.... The cage fell, the parrot was frightened and shrieked, 'Present arms!' Every one laughed.... Zlotnitsky appeared at his study door, looked grimly at us, and slammed the door to. From that time forth, one had only to allude to this incident before Varvara, and she would go off into peals of laughter at once, and look at Pasinkov, as though anything cleverer than his behaviour on that occasion it was impossible to conceive.

Pasinkov was very fond of music. He used often to beg Sophia to play him something, and to sit on one side listening, and now and then humming in a thin voice the most pathetic passages. He was particularly fond of Schubert's Constellation. He used to declare that when he heard the air played he could always fancy that with the sounds long rays of azure light came pouring down from on high, straight upon him. To this day, whenever I look upon a cloudless sky at night, with the softly quivering stars, I always recall Schubert's melody and Pasinkov.... An excursion into the country comes back to my mind. We set out, a whole party of us, in two hired four-wheel carriages, to Pargolovo. I remember we took the carriages from the Vladimirsky; they were very old, and painted blue, with round springs, and a wide box-seat, and bundles of hay inside; the brown, broken-winded horses that drew us along at a slow trot were each lame in a different leg. We strolled a long while about the pinewoods round Pargolovo, drank milk out of earthenware pitchers, and ate wild strawberries and sugar. The weather was exquisite. Varvara did not care for long walks: she used soon to get tired; but this time she did not lag behind us. She took off her hat, her hair came down, her heavy features lighted up, and her cheeks were flushed. Meeting two peasant girls in the wood, she sat down suddenly on the ground, called them to her, did not patronise them, but made them sit down beside her. Sophia looked at them from some distance with a cold smile, and did not go up to them. She was walking with Asanov. Zlotnitsky observed that Varvara was a regular hen for sitting. Varvara got up and walked away. In the course of the walk she several times went up to Pasinkov, and said to him, 'Yakov Ivanitch, I want to tell you something,' but what she wanted to tell him—remained unknown.

But it's high time for me to get back to my story.

* * * * *

I was glad to see Pasinkov; but when I recalled what I had done the day before, I felt unutterably ashamed, and I hurriedly turned away to the wall again. After a brief pause, Yakov asked me if I were unwell.

'I'm quite well,' I answered through my teeth; 'only my head aches.'

Yakov made no reply, and took up a book. More than an hour passed by; I was just coming to the point of confessing everything to Yakov ... suddenly there was a ring at the outer bell of my flat.

The door on to the stairs was opened.... I listened.... Asanov was asking my servant if I were at home.

Pasinkov got up; he did not care for Asanov, and telling me in a whisper that he would go and lie down on my bed, he went into my bedroom.

A minute later Asanov entered.

From the very sight of his flushed face, from his brief, cool bow, I guessed that he had not come to me without some set purpose in his mind. 'What is going to happen?' I wondered.

'Sir,' he began, quickly seating himself in an armchair, 'I have come to you for you to settle a matter of doubt for me.'

'And that is?'

'That is: I wish to know whether you are an honest man.'

I flew into a rage. 'What's the meaning of that?' I demanded.

'I'll tell you what's the meaning of it,' he retorted, underlining as it were each word. 'Yesterday I showed you a pocket-book containing letters from a certain person to me.... To-day you repeated to that person, with reproach—with reproach, observe—some expressions from those letters, without having the slightest right to do so. I should like to know what explanation you can give of this?'

'And I should like to know what right you have to cross-examine me,' I answered, trembling with fury and inward shame.

'You chose to boast of your uncle, of your correspondence; I'd nothing to do with it. You've got all your letters all right, haven't you?'

'The letters are all right; but I was yesterday in a condition in which you could easily——'

'In short, sir,' I began, speaking intentionally as loud as I could, 'I beg you to leave me alone, do you hear? I don't want to know anything about it, and I'm not going to give you any explanation. You can go to that person for explanations!' I felt that my head was beginning to go round.

Asanov turned upon me a look to which he obviously tried to impart an air of scornful penetration, pulled his moustaches, and got up slowly.

'I know now what to think,' he observed; 'your face is the best evidence against you. But I must tell you that that's not the way honourable people behave.... To read a letter on the sly, and then to go and worry an honourable girl....'

'Will you go to the devil!' I shouted, stamping, 'and send me a second; I don't mean to talk to you.'

'Kindly refrain from telling me what to do,' Asanov retorted frigidly; 'but I certainly will send a second to you.'

He went away. I fell on the sofa and hid my face in my hands. Some one touched me on the shoulder; I moved my hands—before me was standing Pasinkov.

'What's this? is it true?' ... he asked me. 'You read another man's letter?'

I had not the strength to answer, but I nodded in assent.

Pasinkov went to the window, and standing with his back to me, said slowly: 'You read a letter from a girl to Asanov. Who was the girl?'

'Sophia Zlotnitsky,' I answered, as a prisoner on his trial answers the judge.

For a long while Pasinkov did not utter a word.

'Nothing but passion could to some extent excuse you,' he began at last. 'Are you in love then with the younger Zlotnitsky?'

'Yes.'

Pasinkov was silent again for a little.

'I thought so. And you went to her to-day and began reproaching her?...'

'Yes, yes, yes!...' I articulated desperately. 'Now you can despise me....'

Pasinkov walked a couple of times up and down the room.

'And she loves him?' he queried.

'She loves him....'

Pasinkov looked down, and gazed a long while at the floor without moving.

'Well, it must be set right,' he began, raising his head,' things can't be left like this.'

And he took up his hat.

'Where are you going?'

'To Asanov.'

I jumped up from the sofa.

'But I won't let you. Good heavens! how can you! what will he think?'

Pasinkov looked at me.

'Why, do you think it better to keep this folly up, to bring ruin on yourself, and disgrace on the girl?'

'But what are you going to say to Asanov?'

'I'll try and explain things to him, I'll tell him you beg his forgiveness ...'

'But I don't want to apologise to him!'

'You don't? Why, aren't you in fault?'

I looked at Pasinkov; the calm and severe, though mournful, expression of his face impressed me; it was new to me. I made no reply, and sat down on the sofa.

Pasinkov went out.

In what agonies of suspense I waited for his return! With what cruel slowness the time lingered by! At last he came back—late.

'Well?' I queried in a timid voice.

'Thank goodness!' he answered; 'it's all settled.'

'You have been at Asanov's?'

'Yes.'

'Well, and he?—made a great to-do, I suppose?' I articulated with an effort.

'No, I can't say that. I expected more ... He ... he's not such a vulgar fellow as I thought.'

'Well, and have you seen any one else besides?' I asked, after a brief pause.

'I've been at the Zlotnitskys'.'

'Ah!...' (My heart began to throb. I did not dare look Pasinkov in the face.) 'Well, and she?'

'Sophia Nikolaevna is a reasonable, kind-hearted girl.... Yes, she is a kind-hearted girl. She felt awkward at first, but she was soon at ease. But our whole conversation only lasted five minutes.'

'And you ... told her everything ... about me ... everything?'

'I told her what was necessary.'

'I shall never be able to go and see them again now!' I pronounced dejectedly....

'Why? No, you can go occasionally. On the contrary, you are absolutely bound to go and see them, so that nothing should be thought....'

'Ah, Yakov, you will despise me now!' I cried, hardly keeping back my tears.

'Me! Despise you? ...' (His affectionate eyes glowed with love.) 'Despise you ... silly fellow! Don't I see how hard it's been for you, how you're suffering?'

He held out his hand to me; I fell on his neck and broke into sobs.

After a few days, during which I noticed that Pasinkov was in very low spirits, I made up my mind at last to go to the Zlotnitskys'. What I felt, as I stepped into their drawing-room, it would be difficult to convey in words; I remember that I could hardly distinguish the persons in the room, and my voice failed me. Sophia was no less ill at ease; she obviously forced herself to address me, but her eyes avoided mine as mine did hers, and every movement she made, her whole being, expressed constraint, mingled ... why conceal the truth? with secret aversion. I tried, as far as possible, to spare her and myself from such painful sensations. This meeting was happily our last—before her marriage. A sudden change in my fortunes carried me off to the other end of Russia, and I bade a long farewell to Petersburg, to the Zlotnitsky family, and, what was most grievous of all for me, to dear Yakov Pasinkov.

II

Seven years had passed by. I don't think it necessary to relate all that happened to me during that period. I moved restlessly about over Russia, and made my way into the remotest wilds, and thank God I did! The wilds are not so much to be dreaded as some people suppose, and in the most hidden places, under the fallen twigs and rotting leaves in the very heart of the forest, spring up flowers of sweet fragrance.

One day in spring, as I was passing on some official duties through a small town in one of the outlying provinces of Eastern Russia, through the dim little window of my coach I saw standing before a shop in the square a man whose face struck me as exceedingly familiar. I looked attentively at the man, and to my great delight recognised him as Elisei, Pasinkov's servant.

I at once told the driver to stop, jumped out of the coach, and went up to Elisei.

'Hullo, friend!' I began, with difficulty concealing my excitement; 'are you here with your master?'

'Yes, I'm with my master,' he responded slowly, and then suddenly cried out: 'Why, sir, is it you? I didn't know you.'

'Are you here with Yakov Ivanitch?'

'Yes, sir, with him, to be sure ... whom else would I be with?'

'Take me to him quickly.'

'To be sure! to be sure! This way, please, this way ... we're stopping here at the tavern.' Elisei led me across the square, incessantly repeating—'Well, now, won't Yakov Ivanitch be pleased!'

This man, of Kalmuck extraction, and hideous, even savage appearance, but the kindest-hearted creature and by no means a fool, was passionately devoted to Pasinkov, and had been his servant for ten years.

'Is Yakov Ivanitch quite well?' I asked him.

Elisei turned his dusky, yellow little face to me.

'Ah, sir, he's in a poor way ... in a poor way, sir! You won't know his honour.... He's not long for this world, I'm afraid. That's how it is we've stopped here, or we had been going on to Odessa for his health.'

'Where do you come from?'

'From Siberia, sir.'

'From Siberia?'

'Yes, sir. Yakov Ivanitch was sent to a post out there. It was there his honour got his wound.'

'Do you mean to say he went into the military service?'

'Oh no, sir. He served in the civil service.'

'What a strange thing!' I thought.

Meanwhile we had reached the tavern, and Elisei ran on in front to announce me. During the first years of our separation, Pasinkov and I had written to each other pretty often, but his last letter had reached me four years before, and since then I had heard nothing of him.

'Please come up, sir!' Elisei shouted to me from the staircase; 'Yakov Ivanitch is very anxious to see you.'

I ran hurriedly up the tottering stairs, went into a dark little room—and my heart sank.... On a narrow bed, under a fur cloak, pale as a corpse, lay Pasinkov, and he was stretching out to me a bare, wasted hand. I rushed up to him and embraced him passionately.

'Yasha!' I cried at last; 'what's wrong with you?'

'Nothing,' he answered in a faint voice; 'I'm a bit feeble. What chance brought you here?'

I sat down on a chair beside Pasinkov's bed, and, never letting his hands out of my hands, I began gazing into his face. I recognised the features I loved; the expression of the eyes and the smile were unchanged; but what a wreck illness had made of him!

He noticed the impression he was making on me.

'It's three days since I shaved,' he observed; 'and, to be sure, I've not been combed and brushed, but except for that ... I'm not so bad.'

'Tell me, please, Yasha,' I began; 'what's this Elisei's been telling me ... you were wounded?'

'Ah! yes, it's quite a history,' he replied. 'I'll tell you it later. Yes, I was wounded, and only fancy what by?—an arrow.'

'An arrow?'

'Yes, an arrow; only not a mythological one, not Cupid's arrow, but a real arrow of very flexible wood, with a sharply-pointed tip at one end.... A very unpleasant sensation is produced by such an arrow, especially when it sticks in one's lungs.'

'But however did it come about? upon my word!...'

'I'll tell you how it happened. You know there always was a great deal of the absurd in my life. Do you remember my comical correspondence about getting my passport? Well, I was wounded in an absurd fashion too. And if you come to think of it, what self-respecting person in our enlightened century would permit himself to be wounded by an arrow? And not accidentally—observe—not at sports of any sort, but in a battle.'

'But you still don't tell me ...'

'All right, wait a minute,' he interrupted. 'You know that soon after you left Petersburg I was transferred to Novgorod. I was a good time at Novgorod, and I must own I was bored there, though even there I came across one creature....' (He sighed.) ... 'But no matter about that now; two years ago I got a capital little berth, some way off, it's true, in the Irkutsk province, but what of that! It seems as though my father and I were destined from birth to visit Siberia. A splendid country, Siberia! Rich, fertile—every one will tell you the same. I liked it very much there. The natives were put under my rule; they're a harmless lot of people; but as my ill-luck would have it, they took it into their heads, a dozen of them, not more, to smuggle in contraband goods. I was sent to arrest them. Arrest them I did, but one of them, crazy he must have been, thought fit to defend himself, and treated me to the arrow.... I almost died of it; however, I got all right again. Now, here I am going to get completely cured.... The government—God give them all good health!—have provided the cash.'

Pasinkov let his head fall back on the pillow, exhausted, and ceased speaking. A faint flush suffused his cheeks. He closed his eyes.

'He can't talk much,' Elisei, who had not left the room, murmured in an undertone.

A silence followed; nothing was heard but the sick man's painful breathing.

'But here,' he went on, opening his eyes, 'I've been stopping a fortnight in this little town.... I caught cold, I suppose. The district doctor here is attending me—you'll see him; he seems to know his business. I'm awfully glad it happened so, though, or how should we have met?' (And he took my hand. His hand, which had just before been cold as ice, was now burning hot.) 'Tell me something about yourself,' he began again, throwing the cloak back off his chest. 'You and I haven't seen each other since God knows when.'

I hastened to carry out his wish, so as not to let him talk, and started giving an account of myself. He listened to me at first with great attention, then asked for drink, and then began closing his eyes again and turning his head restlessly on the pillow. I advised him to have a little nap, adding that I should not go on further till he was well again, and that I should establish myself in a room beside him. 'It's very nasty here ...' Pasinkov was beginning, but I stopped his mouth, and went softly out. Elisei followed me.

'What is it, Elisei? Why, he's dying, isn't he?' I questioned the faithful servant.

Elisei simply made a gesture with his hand, and turned away.

Having dismissed my driver, and rapidly moved my things into the next room, I went to see whether Pasinkov was asleep. At the door I ran up against a tall man, very fat and heavily built. His face, pock-marked and puffy, expressed laziness—and nothing else; his tiny little eyes seemed, as it were, glued up, and his lips looked polished, as though he were just awake.

'Allow me to ask,' I questioned him, 'are you not the doctor?'

The fat man looked at me, seeming with an effort to lift his overhanging forehead with his eyebrows.

'Yes, sir,' he responded at last.

'Do me the favour, Mr. Doctor, won't you, please, to come this way into my room? Yakov Ivanitch, is, I believe, now asleep. I am a friend of his and should like to have a little talk with you about his illness, which makes me very uneasy.'

'Very good,' answered the doctor, with an expression which seemed to try and say, 'Why talk so much? I'd have come anyway,' and he followed me.

'Tell me, please,' I began, as soon as he had dropped into a chair, 'is my friend's condition serious? What do you think?'

'Yes,' answered the fat man, tranquilly.

'And...is it very serious?'

'Yes, it's serious.'

'So that he may...even die?'

'He may.'

I confess I looked almost with hatred at the fat man.

'Good heavens!' I began; 'we must take some steps, call a consultation, or something. You know we can't...Mercy on us!'

'A consultation?—quite possible; why not? It's possible. Call in Ivan Efremitch....'

The doctor spoke with difficulty, and sighed continually. His stomach heaved perceptibly when he spoke, as it were emphasising each word.

'Who is Ivan Efremitch?'

'The parish doctor.'

'Shouldn't we send to the chief town of the province? What do you think? There are sure to be good doctors there.'

'Well! you might.'

'And who is considered the best doctor there?'

'The best? There was a doctor Kolrabus there ... only I fancy he's been transferred somewhere else. Though I must own there's no need really to send.'

'Why so?'

'Even the best doctor will be of no use to your friend.'

'Why, is he so bad?'

'Yes, he's run down.' 'In what way precisely is he ill?'

'He received a wound.... The lungs were affected in consequence ... and then he's taken cold too, and fever was set up ... and so on. And there's no reserve force; a man can't get on, you know yourself, with no reserve force.'

We were both silent for a while.

'How about trying homoeopathy?...' said the fat man, with a sidelong glance at me.

'Homoeopathy? Why, you're an allopath, aren't you?'

'What of that? Do you think I don't understand homoeopathy? I understand it as well as the other! Why, the chemist here among us treats people homeopathically, and he has no learned degree whatever.'

'Oh,' I thought, 'it's a bad look-out!...'

'No, doctor,' I observed, 'you had better treat him according to your usual method.'

'As you please.'

The fat man got up and heaved a sigh.

'You are going to him? 'I asked.

'Yes, I must have a look at him.'

And he went out.

I did not follow him; to see him at the bedside of my poor, sick friend was more than I could stand. I called my man and gave him orders to drive at once to the chief town of the province, to inquire there for the best doctor, and to bring him without fail. There was a slight noise in the passage. I opened the door quickly.

The doctor was already coming out of Pasinkov's room.

'Well?' I questioned him in a whisper.

'It's all right. I have prescribed a mixture.'

'I have decided, doctor, to send to the chief town. I have no doubt of your skill, but as you're aware, two heads are better than one.'

'Well, that's very praiseworthy!' responded the fat man, and he began to descend the staircase. He was obviously tired of me.

I went in to Pasinkov.

'Have you seen the local Aesculapius?' he asked.

'Yes,' I answered.

'What I like about him,' remarked Pasinkov, 'is his astounding composure. A doctor ought to be phlegmatic, oughtn't he? It's so encouraging for the patient.'

I did not, of course, try to controvert this.

Towards the evening, Pasinkov, contrary to my expectations, seemed better. He asked Elisei to set the samovar, announced that he was going to regale me with tea, and drink a small cup himself, and he was noticeably more cheerful. I tried, though, not to let him talk, and seeing that he would not be quiet, I asked him if he would like me to read him something. 'Just as at Winterkeller's—do you remember?' he answered. 'If you will, I shall be delighted. What shall we read? Look, there are my books in the window.'...

I went to the window and took up the first book that my hand chanced upon....

'What is it?' he asked.

'Lermontov.'

'Ah, Lermontov! Excellent! Pushkin is greater, no doubt.... Do you remember: "Once more the storm-clouds gather close Above me in the perfect calm" ... or, "For the last time thy image sweet In thought I dare caress." Ah! marvellous! marvellous! But Lermontov's fine too. Well, I'll tell you what, dear boy: you take the book, open it by chance, and read what you find!'

I opened the book, and was disconcerted; I had chanced upon 'The Last Will.' I tried to turn over the page, but Pasinkov noticed my action and said hurriedly: 'No, no, no, read what turned up.'

There was no getting out of it; I read 'The Last Will.'

[Footnote: THE LAST WILL

Alone with thee, brother, I would wish to be; On earth, so they tell me, I have not long to stay, Soon you will go home: See that ... But nay! for my fate To speak the truth, no one Is very greatly troubled.

But if any one asks ...

Well, whoever may ask, Tell them that through the breast I was shot by a bullet; That I died honourably for the Tsar, That our doctors are not much good, And that to my native land I send a humble greeting.

My father and mother, hardly Will you find living.... I'll own I should be sorry That they should grieve for me.]

'Splendid thing!' said Pasinkov, directly I had finished the last verse. 'Splendid thing!

But, it's queer,' he added, after a brief pause, 'it's queer you should have chanced just on that.... Queer.'

I began to read another poem, but Pasinkov was not listening to me; he looked away, and twice he repeated again: 'Queer!'

I let the book drop on my knees.

'"There is a girl, their neighbour,"' he whispered, and turning to me he asked—'I say, do you remember Sophia Zlotnitsky?'

I turned red.

'I should think I did!'

'She was married, I suppose?...'

'To Asanov, long, long ago. I wrote to you about it.'

* * * * *

But if either of them is living, Say I am lazy about writing, That our regiment has been sent forward, And that they must not expect me home.

There is a girl, their neighbour.... As you remember, it's long Since we parted.... She will not Ask for me.... All the same, You tell her all the truth, Don't spare her empty heart— Let her weep a little.... It will not hurt her much!

'To be sure, to be sure, so you did. Did her father forgive her in the end?'

'He forgave her; but he would not receive Asanov.'

'Obstinate old fellow! Well, and are they supposed to be happy?'

'I don't know, really...I fancy they 're happy. They live in the country, in —— province. I've never seen them, though I have been through their parts.'

'And have they any children?'

'I think so.... By the way, Pasinkov?...' I began questioningly.

He glanced at me.

'Confess—do you remember, you were unwilling to answer my question at the time—did you tell her I cared for her?'

'I told her everything, the whole truth.... I always told her the truth. To be hypocritical with her would have been a sin!'

Pasinkov was silent for a while.

'Come, tell me,' he began again: 'did you soon get over caring for her, or not?'

'Not very soon, but I got over it. What's the good of sighing in vain?'

Pasinkov turned over, facing me.

'Well, I, brother,' he began—and his lips were quivering—'am no match for you there; I've not got over caring for her to this day.'

'What!' I cried in indescribable amazement; 'did you love her?'

'I loved her,' said Pasinkov slowly, and he put both hands behind his head. 'How I loved her, God only knows. I've never spoken of it to any one, to any one in the world, and I never meant to ... but there! "On earth, so they tell me, I have not long to stay." ... What does it matter?'

Pasinkov's unexpected avowal so utterly astonished me that I could positively say nothing. I could only wonder, 'Is it possible? how was it I never suspected it?'

'Yes,' he went on, as though speaking to himself, 'I loved her. I never ceased to love her even when I knew her heart was Asanov's. But how bitter it was for me to know that! If she had loved you, I should at least have rejoiced for you; but Asanov.... How did he make her care for him? It was just his luck! And change her feelings, cease to care, she could not! A true heart does not change....'

I recalled Asanov's visit after the fatal dinner, Pasinkov's intervention, and I could not help flinging up my hands in astonishment.

'You learnt it all from me, poor fellow!' I cried; 'and you undertook to go and see her then!'

'Yes,' Pasinkov began again; 'that explanation with her ... I shall never forget it.' It was then I found out, then I realised the meaning of the word I had chosen for myself long before: resignation. But still she has remained my constant dream, my ideal.... And he's to be pitied who lives without an ideal!'

I looked at Pasinkov; his eyes, fastened, as it were, on the distance, shone with feverish brilliance.

'I loved her,' he went on, 'I loved her, her, calm, true, unapproachable, incorruptible; when she went away, I was almost mad with grief.... Since then I have never cared for any one.'...

And suddenly turning, he pressed his face into the pillow, and began quietly weeping.

I jumped up, bent over him, and began trying to comfort him....

'It's no matter,' he said, raising his head and shaking back his hair; 'it's nothing; I felt a little bitter, a little sorry ... for myself, that is.... But it's all no matter. It's all the fault of those verses. Read me something else, more cheerful.'

I took up Lermontov and began hurriedly turning over the pages; but, as fate would have it, I kept coming across poems likely to agitate Pasinkov again. At last I read him 'The Gifts of Terek.'

'Jingling rhetoric!' said my poor friend, with the tone of a preceptor; 'but there are fine passages. Since I saw you, brother, I've tried my hand at poetry, and began one poem—"The Cup of Life"—but it didn't come off! It's for us, brother, to appreciate, not to create.... But I'm rather tired; I'll sleep a little—what do you say? What a splendid thing sleep is, come to think of it! All our life's a dream, and the best thing in it is dreaming too.'

'And poetry?' I queried.

'Poetry's a dream too, but a dream of paradise.'

Pasinkov closed his eyes.

I stood for a little while at his bedside. I did not think he would get to sleep quickly, but soon his breathing became more even and prolonged. I went away on tiptoe, turned into my own room, and lay down on the sofa. For a long while I mused on what Pasinkov had told me, recalled many things, wondered; at last I too fell asleep....

Some one touched me; I started up; before me stood Elisei.

'Come in to my master,' he said.

I got up at once.

'What's the matter with him?'

'He's delirious.'

'Delirious? And hasn't it ever been so before with him?'

'Yes, he was delirious last night, too; only to-day it is something terrible.'

I went to Pasinkov's room. He was not lying down, but sitting up in bed, his whole body bent forward. He was slowly gesticulating with his hands, smiling and talking, talking all the time in a weak, hollow voice, like the whispering of rushes. His eyes were wandering. The gloomy light of a night light, set on the floor, and shaded off by a book, lay, an unmoving patch on the ceiling; Pasinkov's face seemed paler than ever in the half darkness.

I went up to him, called him by his name—he did not answer. I began listening to his whispering: he was talking of Siberia, of its forests. From time to time there was sense in his ravings.

'What trees!' he whispered; 'right up to the sky. What frost on them! Silver ... snowdrifts.... And here are little tracks ... that's a hare's leaping, that's a white weasel... No, it's my father running with my papers. Here he is!... Here he is! Must go; the moon is shining. Must go, look for my papers.... Ah! A flower, a crimson flower—there's Sophia.... Oh, the bells are ringing, the frost is crackling.... Ah, no; it's the stupid bullfinches hopping in the bushes, whistling.... See, the redthroats! Cold.... Ah! here's Asanov.... Oh yes, of course, he's a cannon, a copper cannon, and his gun-carriage is green. That's how it is he's liked. Is it a star has fallen? No, it's an arrow flying.... Ah, how quickly, and straight into my heart!... Who shot it? You, Sonitchka?'

He bent his head and began muttering disconnected words. I glanced at Elisei; he was standing, his hands clasped behind his back, gazing ruefully at his master.

'Ah, brother, so you've become a practical person, eh?' he asked suddenly, turning upon me such a clear, such a fully conscious glance, that I could not help starting and was about to reply, but he went on at once: 'But I, brother, have not become a practical person, I haven't, and that's all about it! A dreamer I was born, a dreamer! Dreaming, dreaming.... What is dreaming? Sobakevitch's peasant—that's dreaming. Ugh!...'

Almost till morning Pasinkov wandered in delirium; at last he gradually grew quieter, sank back on the pillow, and dozed off. I went back into my room. Worn out by the cruel night, I slept soundly.

Elisei again waked me.

'Ah, sir!' he said in a shaking voice, 'I do believe Yakov Ivanitch is dying....'

I ran in to Pasinkov. He was lying motionless. In the light of the coming day he looked already a corpse. He recognised me.

'Good-bye,' he whispered; 'greet her for me, I'm dying....'

'Yasha!' I cried; 'nonsense! you are going to live....'

'No, no! I am dying.... Here, take this as a keepsake.' ... (He pointed to his breast.) ...

'What's this?' he began suddenly; 'look: the sea ... all golden, and blue isles upon it, marble temples, palm-trees, incense....'

He ceased speaking ... stretched....

Within half an hour he was no more. Elisei flung himself weeping at his feet. I closed his eyes.

On his neck there was a little silken amulet on a black cord. I took it.

Three days afterwards he was buried.... One of the noblest hearts was hidden for ever in the grave. I myself threw the first handful of earth upon him.

III

Another year and a half passed by. Business obliged me to visit Moscow. I took up my quarters in one of the good hotels there. One day, as I was passing along the corridor, I glanced at the black-board with the list of visitors staying in the hotel, and almost cried out aloud with astonishment. Opposite the number 12 stood, distinctly written in chalk, the name, Sophia Nikolaevna Asanova. Of late I had chanced to hear a good deal that was bad about her husband. I had learned that he was addicted to drink and to gambling, had ruined himself, and was generally misconducting himself. His wife was spoken of with respect.... In some excitement I went back to my room. The passion, that had long long ago grown cold, began as it were to stir within my heart, and it throbbed. I resolved to go and see Sophia Nikolaevna. 'Such a long time has passed since the day we parted,' I thought, 'she has, most likely, forgotten everything there was between us in those days.'

I sent Elisei, whom I had taken into my service after the death of Pasinkov, with my visiting-card to her door, and told him to inquire whether she was at home, and whether I might see her. Elisei quickly came back and announced that Sophia Nikolaevna was at home and would see me.

I went at once to Sophia Nikolaevna. When I went in, she was standing in the middle of the room, taking leave of a tall stout gentleman.

'As you like,' he was saying in a rich, mellow voice; 'he is not a harmless person, he's a useless person; and every useless person in a well-ordered society is harmful, harmful, harmful!'

With those words the tall gentleman went out. Sophia Nikolaevna turned to me.

'How long it is since we met!' she said. 'Sit down, please....'

We sat down. I looked at her.... To see again after long absence the features of a face once dear, perhaps beloved, to recognise them, and not recognise them, as though across the old, unforgotten countenance a new one, like, but strange, were looking out at one; instantaneously, almost unconsciously, to note the traces time has laid upon it;—all this is rather melancholy. 'I too must have changed in the same way,' each is inwardly thinking....

Sophia Nikolaevna did not, however, look much older; though, when I had seen her last, she was sixteen, and that was nine years ago.

Her features had become still more correct and severe; as of old, they expressed sincerity of feeling and firmness; but in place of her former serenity, a sort of secret ache and anxiety could be discerned in them. Her eyes had grown deeper and darker. She had begun to show a likeness to her mother....

Sophia Nikolaevna was the first to begin the conversation.

'We are both changed,' she began. 'Where have you been all this time?'

'I've been a rolling stone,' I answered. 'And have you been living in the country all the while?'

'For the most part I've been in the country. I'm only here now for a little time.'

'How are your parents?'

'My mother is dead, but my father is still in Petersburg; my brother's in the service; Varia lives with him.'

'And your husband?'

'My husband,' she said in a rather hurried voice—'he's just now in South Russia for the horse fairs. He was always very fond of horses, you know, and he has started stud stables ... and so, on that account ... he's buying horses now.'

At that instant there walked into the room a little girl of eight years old, with her hair in a pigtail, with a very keen and lively little face, and large dark grey eyes. On seeing me, she at once drew back her little foot, dropped a hasty curtsey, and went up to Sophia Nikolaevna.

'This is my little daughter; let me introduce her to you,' said Sophia

Nikolaevna, putting one finger under the little girl's round chin; 'she would not stop at home—she persuaded me to bring her with me.'

The little girl scanned me with her rapid glance and faintly dropped her eyelids.

'She is a capital little person,' Sophia Nikolaevna went on: 'there's nothing she's afraid of. And she's good at her lessons; I must say that for her.'

'Comment se nomme monsieur?' the little girl asked in an undertone, bending over to her mother.

Sophia Nikolaevna mentioned my name.

The little girl glanced at me again.

'What is your name?' I asked her.

'My name is Lidia,' answered the little girl, looking me boldly in the face.

'I expect they spoil you,' I observed.

'Who spoil me?'

'Who? everyone, I expect; your parents to begin with.'

(The little girl looked, without a word, at her mother.) 'I can fancy Konstantin Alexandritch,' I was going on ...

'Yes, yes,' Sophia Nikolaevna interposed, while her little daughter kept her attentive eyes fastened upon her; 'my husband, of course—he is very fond of children....'

A strange expression flitted across Lidia's clever little face. There was a slight pout about her lips; she hung her head.

'Tell me,' Sophia Nikolaevna added hurriedly; 'you are here on business, I expect?'

'Yes, I am here on business.... And are you too?'

'Yes.... In my husband's absence, you understand, I'm obliged to look after business matters.'

'Maman!' Lidia was beginning.

'Quoi, mon enfant?'

'Non—rien.... Je te dirai apres.'

Sophia Nikolaevna smiled and shrugged her shoulders.

'Tell me, please,' Sophia Nikolaevna began again; 'do you remember, you had a friend ... what was his name? he had such a good-natured face ... he was always reading poetry; such an enthusiastic—'

'Not Pasinkov?'

'Yes, yes, Pasinkov ... where is he now?'

'He is dead.'

'Dead?' repeated Sophia Nikolaevna; 'what a pity!...'

'Have I seen him?' the little girl asked in a hurried whisper.

'No, Lidia, you've never seen him.—What a pity!' repeated Sophia Nikolaevna.

'You regret him ...' I began; 'what if you had known him, as I knew him?... But, why did you speak of him, may I ask?'

'Oh, I don't know....' (Sophia Nikolaevna dropped her eyes.) 'Lidia,' she added; 'run away to your nurse.'

'You'll call me when I may come back?' asked the little girl.

'Yes.'

The little girl went away. Sophia Nikolaevna turned to me.

'Tell me, please, all you know about Pasinkov.' I began telling her his story. I sketched in brief words the whole life of my friend; tried, as far as I was able, to give an idea of his soul; described his last meeting with me and his end.

'And a man like that,' I cried, as I finished my story—'has left us, unnoticed, almost unappreciated! But that's no great loss. What is the use of man's appreciation? What pains me, what wounds me, is that such a man, with such a loving and devoted heart, is dead without having once known the bliss of love returned, without having awakened interest in one woman's heart worthy of him!... Such as I may well know nothing of such happiness; we don't deserve it; but Pasinkov!... And yet haven't I met thousands of men in my life, who could not compare with him in any respect, who were loved? Must one believe that some faults in a man—conceit, for instance, or frivolity—are essential to gain a woman's devotion? Or does love fear perfection, the perfection possible on earth, as something strange and terrible?'

Sophia Nikolaevna heard me to the end, without taking her stern, searching eyes off me, without moving her lips; only her eyebrows contracted from time to time.

'What makes you suppose,' she observed after a brief silence, 'that no woman ever loved your friend?'

'Because I know it, know it for a fact.'

Sophia Nikolaevna seemed about to say something, but she stopped. She seemed to be struggling with herself.

'You are mistaken,' she began at last; 'I know a woman who loved your dead friend passionately; she loves him and remembers him to this day ... and the news of his death will be a fearful blow for her.'

'Who is this woman? may I know?'

'My sister, Varia.'

'Varvara Nikolaevna!' I cried in amazement.

'Yes.'

'What? Varvara Nikolaevna?' I repeated, 'that...'

'I will finish your sentence,' Sophia Nikolaevna took me up; 'that girl you thought so cold, so listless and indifferent, loved your friend; that is why she has never married and never will marry. Till this day no one has known of this but me; Varia would die before she would betray her secret. In our family we know how to suffer in silence.'

I looked long and intently at Sophia Nikolaevna, involuntarily pondering on the bitter significance of her last words.

'You have surprised me,' I observed at last. 'But do you know, Sophia Nikolaevna, if I were not afraid of recalling disagreeable memories, I might surprise you too....'

'I don't understand you,' she rejoined slowly, and with some embarrassment.

'You certainly don't understand me,' I said, hastily getting up; 'and so allow me, instead of verbal explanation, to send you something ...'

'But what is it?' she inquired.

'Don't be alarmed, Sophia Nikolaevna, it's nothing to do with me.'

I bowed, and went back to my room, took out the little silken bag I had taken off Pasinkov, and sent it to Sophia Nikolaevna with the following note—

'This my friend wore always on his breast and died with it on him. In it is the only note you ever wrote him, quite insignificant in its contents; you can read it. He wore it because he loved you passionately; he confessed it to me only the day before his death. Now, when he is dead, why should you not know that his heart too was yours?'

Elisei returned quickly and brought me back the relic.

'Well?' I queried; 'didn't she send any message?'

'No.'

I was silent for a little.

'Did she read my note?'

'No doubt she did; the maid took it to her.'

'Unapproachable,' I thought, remembering Pasinkov's last words. 'All right, you can go,' I said aloud.

Elisei smiled somewhat queerly and did not go.

'There's a girl ...' he began, 'here to see you.'

'What girl?'

Elisei hesitated.

'Didn't my master say anything to you?'

'No.... What is it?'

'When my master was in Novgorod,' he went on, fingering the door-post, 'he made acquaintance, so to say, with a girl. So here is this girl, wants to see you. I met her the other day in the street. I said to her, "Come along; if the master allows it, I'll let you see him."

'Ask her in, ask her in, of course. But ... what is she like?'

'An ordinary girl...working class...Russian.'

'Did Yakov Ivanitch care for her?'

'Well, yes ... he was fond of her. And she...when she heard my master was dead, she was terribly upset. She's a good sort of girl.'

'Ask her in, ask her in.'

Elisei went out and at once came back. He was followed by a girl in a striped cotton gown, with a dark kerchief on her head, that half hid her face. On seeing me, she was much taken aback and turned away.

'What's the matter?' Elisei said to her; 'go on, don't be afraid.'

I went up to her and took her by the hand.

'What is your name?' I asked her.

'Masha,' she replied in a soft voice, stealing a glance at me.

She looked about two- or three-and-twenty; she had a round, rather simple-looking, but pleasant face, soft cheeks, mild blue eyes, and very pretty and clean little hands. She was tidily dressed.

'You knew Yakov Ivanitch?' I pursued.

'I used to know him,' she said, tugging at the ends of her kerchief, and the tears stood in her eyes.

I asked her to sit down.

She sat down at once on the edge of a chair, without any affectation of ceremony. Elisei went out.

'You became acquainted with him in Novgorod?'

'Yes, in Novgorod,' she answered, clasping her hands under her kerchief. 'I only heard the day before yesterday, from Elisei Timofeitch, of his death. Yakov Ivanitch, when he went away to Siberia, promised to write to me, and twice he did write, and then he wrote no more. I would have followed him out to Siberia, but he didn't wish it.'

'Have you relations in Novgorod?'

'Yes.'

'Did you live with them?'

'I used to live with mother and my married sister; but afterwards mother was cross with me, and my sister was crowded up, too; she has a lot of children: and so I moved. I always rested my hopes on Yakov Ivanitch, and longed for nothing but to see him, and he was always good to me—you can ask Elisei Timofeitch.'

Masha paused.

'I have his letters,' she went on. 'Here, look.' She took several letters out of her pocket, and handed them to me. 'Read them,' she added.

I opened one letter and recognised Pasinkov's hand.

'Dear Masha!' (he wrote in large, distinct letters) 'you leaned your little head against my head yesterday, and when I asked why you do so, you told me—"I want to hear what you are thinking." I'll tell you what I was thinking; I was thinking how nice it would be for Masha to learn to read and write! She could make out this letter ...'

Masha glanced at the letter.

'That he wrote me in Novgorod,' she observed, 'when he was just going to teach me to read. Look at the others. There's one from Siberia. Here, read this.'

I read the letters. They were very affectionate, even tender. In one of them, the first one from Siberia, Pasinkov called Masha his best friend, promised to send her the money for the journey to Siberia, and ended with the following words—'I kiss your pretty little hands; the girls here have not hands like yours; and their heads are no match for yours, nor their hearts either.... Read the books I gave you, and think of me, and I'll not forget you. You are the only, only girl that ever cared for me; and so I want to belong only to you....'

'I see he was very much attached to you,' I said, giving the letters back to her.

'He was very fond of me,' replied Masha, putting the letters carefully into her pocket, and the tears flowed slowly down her cheeks. 'I always trusted in him; if the Lord had vouchsafed him long life, he would not have abandoned me. God grant him His heavenly peace!'...

She wiped her eyes with a corner of her kerchief.

'Where are you living now?' I inquired.

'I'm here now, in Moscow; I came here with my mistress, but now I'm out of a place. I did go to Yakov Ivanitch's aunt, but she is very poor herself. Yakov Ivanitch used often to talk of you,' she added, getting up and bowing; 'he always loved you and thought of you. I met Elisei Timofeitch the day before yesterday, and wondered whether you wouldn't be willing to assist me, as I'm out of a place just now....'

'With the greatest pleasure, Maria ... let me ask, what's your name from your father?'

'Petrovna,' answered Masha, and she cast down her eyes.

'I will do anything for you I can, Maria Petrovna,' I continued; 'I am only sorry that I am a visitor here, and know few good families.'

Masha sighed.

'If I could get a situation of some sort ... I can't cut out, but I can sew, so I'm always doing sewing ... and I can look after children too.'

'Give her money,' I thought; 'but how's one to do it?'

'Listen, Maria Petrovna,' I began, not without faltering; 'you must, please, excuse me, but you know from Pasinkov's own words what a friend of his I was ... won't you allow me to offer you—for the immediate present—a small sum?' ...

Masha glanced at me.

'What?' she asked.

'Aren't you in want of money?' I said.

Masha flushed all over and hung her head.

'What do I want with money?' she murmured; 'better get me a situation.'

'I will try to get you a situation, but I can't answer for it for certain; but you ought not to make any scruple, really ... I'm not like a stranger to you, you know.... Accept this from me, in memory of our friend....'

I turned away, hurriedly pulled a few notes out of my pocket-book, and handed them to her.

Masha was standing motionless, her head still more downcast.

'Take it,' I persisted.

She slowly raised her eyes to me, looked me in the face mournfully, slowly drew her pale hand from under her kerchief and held it out to me.

I laid the notes in her cold fingers. Without a word, she hid the hand again under her kerchief, and dropped her eyes.

'In future, Maria Petrovna,' I resumed, 'if you should be in want of anything, please apply directly to me. I will give you my address.'

'I humbly thank you,' she said, and after a short pause she added: 'He did not speak to you of me?'

'I only met him the day before his death, Maria Petrovna. But I'm not sure ... I believe he did say something.'

Masha passed her hand over her hair, pressed her cheek lightly, thought a moment, and saying 'Good-bye,' walked out of the room.

I sat at the table and fell into bitter musings. This Masha, her relations with Pasinkov, his letters, the hidden love of Sophia Nikolaevna's sister for him.... 'Poor fellow! poor fellow!' I whispered, with a catching in my breath. I thought of all Pasinkov's life, his childhood, his youth, Fraeulein Frederike.... 'Well,' I thought, 'much fate gave to thee! much cause for joy!'

Next day I went again to see Sophia Nikolaevna. I was kept waiting in the ante-room, and when I entered, Lidia was already seated by her mother. I understood that Sophia Nikolaevna did not wish to renew the conversation of the previous day.

We began to talk—I really don't remember what about—about the news of the town, public affairs.... Lidia often put in her little word, and looked slily at me. An amusing air of importance had suddenly become apparent on her mobile little visage.... The clever little girl must have guessed that her mother had intentionally stationed her at her side.

I got up and began taking leave. Sophia Nikolaevna conducted me to the door.

'I made you no answer yesterday,' she said, standing still in the doorway; 'and, indeed, what answer was there to make? Our life is not in our own hands; but we all have one anchor, from which one can never, without one's own will, be torn—a sense of duty.'

Without a word I bowed my head in sign of assent, and parted from the youthful Puritan.

All that evening I stayed at home, but I did not think of her; I kept thinking and thinking of my dear, never-to-be-forgotten Pasinkov—the last of the idealists; and emotions, mournful and tender, pierced with sweet anguish into my soul, rousing echoes on the strings of a heart not yet quite grown old.... Peace to your ashes, unpractical man, simple-hearted idealist! and God grant to all practical men—to whom you were always incomprehensible, and who, perhaps, will laugh even now over you in the grave—God grant to them to experience even a hundredth part of those pure delights in which, in spite of fate and men, your poor and unambitious life was so rich!



ANDREI KOLOSOV

In a small, decently furnished room several young men were sitting before the fire. The winter evening was only just beginning; the samovar was boiling on the table, the conversation had hardly taken a definite turn, but passed lightly from one subject to another. They began discussing exceptional people, and in what way they differed from ordinary people. Every one expounded his views to the best of his abilities; they raised their voices and began to be noisy. A small, pale man, after listening long to the disquisitions of his companions, sipping tea and smoking a cigar the while, suddenly got up and addressed us all (I was one of the disputants) in the following words:—

'Gentlemen! all your profound remarks are excellent in their own way, but unprofitable.

Every one, as usual, hears his opponent's views, and every one retains his own convictions. But it's not the first time we have met, nor the first time we have argued, and so we have probably by now had ample opportunity for expressing our own views and learning those of others. Why, then, do you take so much trouble?'

Uttering these words, the small man carelessly flicked the ash off his cigar into the fireplace, dropped his eyelids, and smiled serenely. We all ceased speaking.

'Well, what are we to do then, according to you?' said one of us; 'play cards, or what? go to sleep? break up and go home?'

'Playing cards is agreeable, and sleep's always salutary,' retorted the small man; 'but it's early yet to break up and go home. You didn't understand me, though. Listen: I propose, if it comes to that, that each of you should describe some exceptional personality, tell us of any meeting you may have had with any remarkable man. I can assure you even the feeblest description has far more sense in it than the finest argument.'

We pondered.

'It's a strange thing,' observed one of us, an inveterate jester; 'except myself I don't know a single exceptional person, and with my life you are all, I fancy, familiar already. However, if you insist—'

'No!' cried another, 'we don't! But, I tell you what,' he added, addressing the small man, 'you begin. You have put a stopper on all of us, you're the person to fill the gap. Only mind, if we don't care for your story, we shall hiss you.'

'If you like,' answered the small man. He stood close to the fire; we sat round him and kept quiet. The small man looked at all of us, glanced at the ceiling, and began as follows:—

'Ten years ago, my dear friends, I was a student at Moscow. My father, a virtuous landowner of the steppes, had handed me over to a retired German professor, who, for a hundred roubles a month, undertook to lodge and board me, and to watch over my morals. This German was the fortunate possessor of an exceedingly solemn and decorous manner; at first I went in considerable awe of him. But on returning home one evening, I saw, with indescribable emotion, my preceptor sitting with three or four companions at a round table, on which there stood a fair-sized collection of empty bottles and half-full glasses. On seeing me, my revered preceptor got up, and, waving his arms and stammering, presented me to the honourable company, who all promptly offered me a glass of punch. This agreeable spectacle had a most illuminating effect on my intelligence; my future rose before me in the most seductive images. And, as a fact, from that memorable day I enjoyed unbounded freedom, and all but worried my preceptor to death. He had a wife who always smelt of smoke and pickled cucumbers; she was still youngish, but had not a single front tooth in her head. All German women, as we know, very quickly lose those indispensable ornaments of the human frame. I mention her, solely because she fell passionately in love with me and fed me almost into my grave.'

'To the point, to the point,' we shouted. 'Surely it's not your own adventures you're going to tell us?'

'No, gentlemen!' the small man replied composedly. 'I am an ordinary mortal. And so I lived at my German's, as the saying is, in clover. I did not attend lectures with too much assiduity, while at home I did positively nothing. In a very short time, I had got to know all my comrades and was on intimate terms with all of them. Among my new friends was one rather decent and good-natured fellow, the son of a town provost on the retired list. His name was Bobov. This Bobov got in the habit of coming to see me, and seemed to like me. I, too ... do you know, I didn't like him, nor dislike him; I was more or less indifferent.... I must tell I hadn't in all Moscow a single relation, except an old uncle, who used sometimes to ask me for money. I never went anywhere, and was particularly afraid of women; I also avoided all acquaintance with the parents of my college friends, ever after one such parent (in my presence) pulled his son's hair—because a button was off his uniform, while at the very time I hadn't more than six buttons on my whole coat. In comparison with many of my comrades, I passed for being a person of wealth; my father used to send me every now and then small packets of faded blue notes, and consequently I not only enjoyed a position of independence, but I was continually surrounded by toadies and flatterers.... What am I saying?—why, for that matter, so was my bobtail dog Armishka, who, in spite of his setter pedigree, was so frightened of a shot, that the very sight of a gun reduced him to indescribable misery. Like every young man, however, I was not without that vague inward fermentation which usually, after bringing forth a dozen more or less shapeless poems, passes off in a peaceful and propitious manner. I wanted something, strove towards something, and dreamed of something; I'll own I didn't know precisely what it was I dreamed of. Now I understand what was lacking:—I felt my loneliness, thirsted for the society of so-called live people; the word Life waked echoes in my heart, and with a vague ache I listened to the sound of it.... Valerian Nikitich, pass me a cigarette.'

Lighting the cigarette, the small man continued:

'One fine morning Bobov came running to me, out of breath: "Do you know, old man, the great news? Kolosov has arrived." "Kolosov? and who on earth is Mr. Kolosov?"

'"You don't know him? Andriusha Kolosov! Come, old boy, let's go to him directly. He came back last night from a holiday engagement." "But what sort of fellow is he?" "An exceptional man, my boy, let me assure you!" "An exceptional man," I answered; "then you go alone. I'll stop at home. I know your exceptional men! A half-tipsy rhymester with an everlastingly ecstatic smile!" ... "Oh no! Kolosov's not like that." I was on the point of observing that it was for Mr. Kolosov to call on me; but, I don't know why, I obeyed Bobov and went. Bobov conducted me to one of the very dirtiest, crookedest, and narrowest streets in Moscow.... The house in which Kolosov lodged was built in the old-fashioned style, rambling and uncomfortable. We went into the courtyard; a fat peasant woman was hanging out clothes on a line stretched from the house to the fence.... Children were squalling on the wooden staircase...'

'Get on! get on!' we objected plaintively.

'I see, gentlemen, you don't care for the agreeable, and cling solely to the profitable. As you please! We groped our way through a dark and narrow passage to Kolosov's room; we went in. You have most likely an approximate idea of what a poor student's room is like. Directly facing the door Kolosov was sitting on a chest of drawers, smoking a pipe. He gave his hand to Bobov in a friendly way, and greeted me affably. I looked at Kolosov and at once felt irresistibly drawn to him. Gentlemen! Bobov was right: Kolosov really was a remarkable person. Let me describe a little more in detail.... He was rather tall, slender, graceful, and exceedingly good-looking. His face...I find it very difficult to describe his face. It is easy to describe all the features one by one; but how is one to convey to any one else what constitutes the distinguishing characteristic, the essence of just that face?'

'What Byron calls "the music of the face,"' observed a tightly buttoned-up, pallid gentleman.

'Quite so.... And therefore I will confine myself to a single remark: the especial "something" to which I have just referred consisted in Kolosov's case in a carelessly gay and fearless expression of face, and also in an exceedingly captivating smile. He did not remember his parents, and had had a wretched bringing-up in the house of a distant relative, who had been degraded from the service for taking bribes. Up to the age of fifteen, he had lived in the country; then he found his way into Moscow, and after two years spent in the care of an old deaf priest's wife, he entered the university and began to get his living by lessons. He gave instruction in history, geography, and Russian grammar, though he had only a dim notion of these branches of science; but in the first place, there is an abundance of 'textbooks' among us in Russia, of the greatest usefulness to teachers; and secondly, the requirements of the respectable merchants, who confided their children's education to Kolosov, were exceedingly limited. Kolosov was neither a wit nor a humorist; but you cannot imagine how readily we all fell under that fellow's sway. We felt a sort of instinctive admiration of him; his words, his looks, his gestures were all so full of the charm of youth that all his comrades were head over ears in love with him. The professors considered him as a fairly intelligent lad, but 'of no marked abilities,' and lazy.

Kolosov's presence gave a special harmony to our evening reunions. Before him, our liveliness never passed into vulgar riotousness; if we were all melancholy—this half childlike melancholy, in his presence, led on to quiet, sometimes fairly sensible, conversation, and never ended in dejected boredom. You are smiling, gentlemen—I understand your smile; no doubt, many of us since then have turned out pretty cads! But youth ... youth....'

'Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story! The days of our youth are the days of our glory....'

commented the same pallid gentleman.

'By Jove, what a memory he's got! and all from Byron!' observed the storyteller. 'In one word, Kolosov was the soul of our set. I was attached to him by a feeling stronger than any I have ever felt for any woman. And yet, I don't feel ashamed even now to remember that strange love—yes, love it was, for I recollect I went through at that time all the tortures of that passion, jealousy, for instance. Kolosov liked us all equally, but was particularly friendly with a silent, flaxen-haired, and unobtrusive youth, called Gavrilov. From Gavrilov he was almost inseparable; he would often speak to him in a whisper, and used to disappear with him out of Moscow, no one knew where, for two or three days at a time.... Kolosov did not care to be questioned, and I was lost in surmises. It was not simple curiosity that disturbed me. I longed to become the friend, the attendant squire of Kolosov; I was jealous of Gavrilov; I envied him; I could never find an explanation to satisfy me of Kolosov's strange absences. Meanwhile he had none of that air of mysteriousness about him, which is the proud possession of youths endowed with vanity, pallor, black hair, and 'expressive' eyes, nor had he anything of that studied carelessness under which we are given to understand that vast forces are slumbering; no, he was quite open and free; but when he was possessed by passion, an intense, impulsive energy was apparent in everything about him; only he did not waste his energies in vain, and never under any circumstances became high-flown or affected. By the way ... tell me the truth, hasn't it happened to you to sit smoking a pipe with an air of as weary solemnity as if you had just resolved on a grand achievement, while you were simply pondering on what colour to choose for your next pair of trousers?... But the point is, that I was the first to observe in Kolosov, always cheerful and friendly as he was, these instinctive, passionate impulses.... They may well say that love is penetrating. I made up my mind at all hazards to get into his confidence. It was no use for me to lay myself out to please Kolosov; I had such a childlike adoration for him that he could have no doubt of my devotion ... but to my indescribable vexation, I had, at last, to yield to the conviction that Kolosov avoided closer intimacy with me, that he was as it were oppressed by my uninvited attachment. Once, when with obvious displeasure he asked me to lend him money—the very next day he returned me the loan with ironical gratitude. During the whole winter my relations with Kolosov were utterly unchanged; I often compared myself with Gavrilov, and could not make out in what respect he was better than I.... But suddenly everything was changed. In the middle of April, Gavrilov fell ill, and died in the arms of Kolosov, who never left his room for an instant, and went nowhere for a whole week afterwards. We were all grieved for poor Gavrilov; the pale, silent lad seemed to have had a foreboding of his end. I too grieved sincerely for him, but my heart ached with expectation of something.... One ever memorable evening ... I was alone, lying on the sofa, gazing idly at the ceiling ... some one rapidly opened the door of my room and stood still in the doorway; I raised my head; before me stood Kolosov.

He slowly came in and sat down beside me. 'I have come to you,' he began in a rather thick voice, 'because you care more for me than any of the others do.... I have lost my best friend'—his voice shook a little—'and I feel lonely.... None of you knew Gavrilov ... none of you knew....' He got up, paced up and down the room, came rapidly towards me again.... 'Will you take his place?' he said, and gave me his hand. I leaped up and flung myself on his breast. My genuine delight touched him.... I did not know what to say, I was choking.... Kolosov looked at me and softly laughed. We had tea. At tea he talked of Gavrilov; I heard that that timid, gentle boy had saved Kolosov's life, and I could not but own to myself that in Gavrilov's place I couldn't have resisted chattering about it—boasting of my luck. It struck eight. Kolosov got up, went to the window, drummed on the panes, turned swiftly round to me, tried to say something ... and sat down on a chair without a word. I took his hand. 'Kolosov, truly, truly I deserve your confidence!' He looked straight into my eyes. 'Well, if so,' he brought out at last, 'take your cap and come along.' 'Where to?' 'Gavrilov did not ask me.' I was silent at once. 'Can you play at cards?' 'Yes.'

We went out, took a cab to one of the gates of the town. At the gate we got out. Kolosov went on in front very quickly; I followed him. We walked along the highroad. After we had gone three-quarters of a mile, Kolosov turned off. Meanwhile night had come on. On the right in the fog were the twinkling lights, the innumerable church-spires of the immense city; on the left, two white horses were grazing in a meadow skirting the forest: before us stretched fields covered with greyish mists. I followed Kolosov in silence. He stopped all at once, stretched his hand out in front of him, and said: 'Here, this is where we are going.' I saw a small dark house; two little windows showed a dim light in the fog. 'In this house,' Kolosov went on, 'lives a man called Sidorenko, a retired lieutenant, with his sister, an old maid, and his daughter. I shall pass you off as a relation of mine—you must sit down and play at cards with him.' I nodded without a word.

I wanted to show Kolosov that I could be as silent as Gavrilov.... But I will own I was suffering agonies of curiosity. As we went up to the steps of the house, I caught sight, at a lighted window, of the slender figure of a girl.... She seemed waiting for us and vanished at once. We went into a dark and narrow passage. A crooked, hunchback old woman came to meet us, and looked at me with astonishment. 'Is Ivan Semyonitch at home?' inquired Kolosov. 'He is at home.'... 'He is at home!' called a deep masculine voice from within. We went into the dining-room, if dining-room one can call the long, rather dirty room; a small old piano huddled unassumingly in a corner beside the stove; a few chairs stood out along the walls which had once been yellow. In the middle of the room stood a tall, stooping man of fifty, in a greasy dressing-gown. I looked at him more attentively: a morose looking countenance, hair standing up like a brush, a low forehead, grey eyes, immense whiskers, thick lips.... 'A nice customer!' I thought. 'It's a longish time since we've seen you, Andrei Nikolaevitch,' he observed, holding out his hideous red hand, 'a longish time it is! And where's Sevastian Sevastianovitch?' 'Gavrilov is dead,' answered Kolosov mournfully. 'Dead! you don't say so! And who's this?' 'My relation—I have the honour to present to you Nikolai Alexei....' 'All right, all right,' Ivan Semyonitch cut him short, 'delighted, delighted. And does he play cards?' 'Play, of course he does!' 'Ah, then, that's capital; we'll sit down directly. Hey! Matrona Semyonovna—where are you? the card-table—quick!... And tea!' With these words Mr. Sidorenko walked into the next room. Kolosov looked at me. 'Listen,' he said, 'you can't think how ashamed I am!'... I shut him up. 'Come, you there, what's your name, this way,' called Ivan Semyonitch. I went into the drawing-room. The drawing-room was even smaller than the dining-room. On the walls hung some monstrosities of portraits; in front of the sofa, of which the stuffing protruded in several places, stood a green table; on the sofa sat Ivan Semyonitch, already shuffling the cards. Near him on the extreme edge of a low chair sat a spare woman in a white cap and a black gown, yellow and wrinkled, with short-sighted eyes and thin cat-like lips. 'Here,' said Ivan Semyonitch, 'let me introduce him; the first man's dead; Andrei Nikolaevitch has brought us another; let's see how he plays!' The old lady bowed awkwardly and cleared her throat. I looked round; Kolosov was no longer in the room. 'Stop that coughing, Matrona Semyonovna; sheep cough,' grumbled Sidorenko. I sat down; the game began. Mr. Sidorenko got fearfully hot and furious at my slightest mistake; he pelted his sister with abusive epithets, but she had apparently had time to get used to her brother's amenities, and only blinked in response. But when he announced to Matrona Semyonovna that she was 'Antichrist,' the poor old woman fired up. 'Ivan Semyonitch,' she protested with heat, 'you were the death of your wife, Anfisa Karpovna, but you shan't worry me into my grave!' 'Indeed?' 'No! you shan't.' 'Indeed?' 'No! you shan't.' They kept it up in this fashion for some time. My position was, as you perceive, not merely an unenviable one: it was positively idiotic. I couldn't conceive what had induced Kolosov to bring me.... I have never been a good card-player; but on that occasion I was aware myself that I was playing excruciatingly badly. 'No!' the retired lieutenant repeated continually,' you can't hold a candle to Sevastianovitch! No! you play carelessly!' I, you may be sure, was inwardly wishing him at the devil. This torture continued for two hours; they beat me hollow. Before the end of the last rubber, I heard a slight sound behind my chair—I looked round and saw Kolosov; beside him stood a girl of seventeen, who was watching me with a scarcely perceptible smile. 'Fill me my pipe, Varia,' muttered Ivan Semyonitch. The girl promptly flew off into the other room. She was not very pretty, rather pale, rather thin; but never before or since have I seen such hair, such eyes. We finished the rubber somehow; I paid up, Sidorenko lighted his pipe and grumbled:

'Well, now it's time for supper!' Kolosov presented me to Varia, that is, to Varvara Ivanovna, the daughter of Ivan Semyonitch. Varia was embarrassed; I too was embarrassed. But in a few minutes Kolosov, as usual, had got everything and everyone into full swing; he sat Varia down to the piano, begged her to play a dance tune, and proceeded to dance a Cossack dance in competition with Ivan Semyonitch. The lieutenant uttered little shrieks, stamped and cut such incredible capers that even Matrona Semyonovna burst out laughing and retreated to her own room upstairs. The hunchback old woman laid the table; we sat down to supper. At supper Kolosov told all sorts of nonsensical stories; the lieutenant's guffaws were deafening; I peeped from under my eyelids at Varia. She never took her eyes off Kolosov ... and from the expression of her face alone, I could divine that she both loved him and was loved by him. Her lips were slightly parted, her head bent a little forward, a faint colour kept flitting across her whole face; from time to time she sighed deeply, suddenly dropped her eyes, and softly laughed to herself.... I rejoiced for Kolosov.... But at the same time, deuce take it, I was envious....

After supper, Kolosov and I promptly took up our caps, which did not, however, prevent the lieutenant from saying, with a yawn: 'You've paid us a long visit, gentlemen; it's time to say good-bye.' Varia accompanied Kolosov into the passage: 'When are you coming, Andrei Nikolaevitch?' she whispered to him. 'In a few days, for certain.' 'Bring him too,' she added, with a very sly smile. 'Of course, of course.' ... 'Your humble servant!' thought I....

On the way home, I heard the following story. Six months before, Kolosov had become acquainted with Mr. Sidorenko in a rather queer way. One rainy evening, Kolosov was returning home from shooting, and had reached the gate of the city, when suddenly, at no great distance from the highroad, he heard groans, interspersed with curses. He had a gun; without thinking long, he made straight for the sound, and found a man lying on the ground with a dislocated ankle. This man was Mr. Sidorenko. With great difficulty he got him home, handed him over to the care of his frightened sister and his daughter, and ran for the doctor.... Meantime it was nearly morning; Kolosov was almost dropping with fatigue. With the permission of Matrona Semyonovna, he lay down on the sofa in the parlour, and slept till eight o'clock. On waking up he would at once have gone home; but they kept him and gave him some tea. In the night he had twice succeeded in catching a glimpse of the pale face of Varvara Ivanovna; he had not particularly noticed her, but in the morning she made a decidedly agreeable impression on him. Matrona Semyonovna garrulously praised and thanked Kolosov; Varvara sat silent, pouring out the tea, glanced at him now and then, and with timid shame-faced attentiveness handed him first a cup of tea, then the cream, then the sugar-basin. Meanwhile the lieutenant waked up, loudly called for his pipe, and after a short pause bawled: 'Sister! hi, sister!' Matrona Semyonovna went to his bedroom. 'What about that...what the devil's his name? is he gone?' 'No, I'm still here,' answered Kolosov, going up to the door; 'are you better now?' 'Yes,' answered the lieutenant; 'come in here, my good sir.' Kolosov went in. Sidorenko looked at him, and reluctantly observed: 'Well, thanks; come sometimes and see me—what's your name? who the devil's to know?' 'Kolosov,' answered Andrei. 'Well, well, come and see us; but it's no use your sticking on here now, I daresay they're expecting you at home.' Kolosov retreated, said good-bye to Matrona Semyonovna, bowed to Varvara Ivanovna, and returned home. From that day he began to visit Ivan Semyonitch, at first at long intervals, then more and more frequently. The summer came on; he would sometimes take his gun, put on his knapsack, and set off as if he were going shooting. He would go to the retired lieutenant's, and stay on there till evening.

Varvara Ivanovna's father had served twenty-five years in the army, had saved a small sum of money, and bought himself a few acres of land a mile and a half from Moscow. He could scarcely read and write; but in spite of his external clumsiness and coarseness, he was shrewd and cunning, and even, on occasion, capable of sharp practice, like many Little Russians. He was a fearful egoist, obstinate as an ox, and in general exceedingly impolite, especially with strangers; I even detected in him something like a contempt for the whole human race. He indulged himself in every caprice, like a spoilt child; would know no one, and lived for his own pleasure. We were once somehow or other talking about marriages with him; 'Marriage ... marriage,' said he; 'whom the devil would I let my daughter marry? Eh? what should I do it for? for her husband to knock her about as I used to my wife? Besides, whom should I be left with?' Such was the retired lieutenant, Ivan Semyonitch. Kolosov used to go and see him, not on his account, of course, but for the sake of his daughter. One fine evening, Andrei was sitting in the garden with her, chatting about something; Ivan Semyonitch went up to him, looked sullenly at Varia, and called Andrei away. 'Listen, my dear fellow,' he said to him; 'you find it good fun, I see, gossiping with my only child, but I'm dull in my old age; bring some one with you, or I've nobody to deal a card to; d'ye hear? I shan't give admittance to you by yourself.' The next day Kolosov turned up with Gavrilov, and poor Sevastian Sevastianovitch had for a whole autumn and winter been playing cards in the evenings with the retired lieutenant; that worthy treated him without ceremony, as it is called—in other words, fearfully rudely. You now probably realise why it was that, after Gavrilov's death, Kolosov took me with him to Ivan Semyonitch's. As he communicated all these details, Kolosov added, 'I love Varia, she is the dearest girl; she liked you.'

I have forgotten, I fancy, to make known to you that up to that time I had been afraid of women and avoided them, though I would sometimes, in solitude, spend whole hours in dreaming of tender interviews, of love, of mutual love, and so on. Varvara Ivanovna was the first girl with whom I was forced to talk, by necessity—by necessity it really was. Varia was an ordinary girl, and yet there are very few such girls in holy Russia. You will ask me—why so? Because I never noticed in her anything strained, unnatural, affected; because she was a simple, candid, rather melancholy creature, because one could never call her 'a young lady.' I liked her soft smile; I liked her simple-hearted, ringing little voice, her light and mirthful laugh, her attentive though by no means 'profound' glances. The child promised nothing; but you could not help admiring her, as you admire the sudden, soft cry of the oriole at evening, in the lofty, dark birch-wood. I must confess that at the present time I should pass by such a creature with some indifference; I've no taste now for solitary evening strolls, and orioles; but in those days ...

I've no doubt, gentlemen, that, like all well-educated persons, you have been in love at least once in the course of your life, and have learnt from your own experience how love springs up and develops in the human heart, and therefore I'm not going to enlarge too much on what took place with me at that time. Kolosov and I used to go pretty often to Ivan Semyonitch's; and though those damned cards often drove me to utter despair, still, in the mere proximity of the woman one loves (I had fallen in love with Varia) there is a sort of strange, sweet, tormenting joy. I made no effort to suppress this growing feeling; besides, by the time I had at last brought myself to call the emotion by its true name, it was already too strong.... I cherished my love in silence, and jealously and shyly concealed it. I myself enjoyed this agonising ferment of silent passion. My sufferings did not rob me of my sleep, nor of my appetite; but for whole days together I was conscious of that peculiar physical sensation in my breast which is a symptom of the presence of love. I am incapable of depicting the conflict of various sensations which took place within me when, for example, Kolosov came in from the garden with Varia, and her whole face was aglow with ecstatic devotion, exhaustion from excess of bliss.... She so completely lived in his life, was so completely taken up with him, that unconsciously she adopted his ways, looked as he looked, laughed as he laughed.... I can imagine the moments she passed with Andrei, the raptures she owed to him.... While he ... Kolosov did not lose his freedom; in her absence he did not, I suppose, even think of her; he was still the same unconcerned, gay, and happy fellow we had always known him.

And, as I have already told you, we used, Kolosov and I, to go pretty often to Ivan Semyonitch's. Sometimes, when he was out of humour, the retired lieutenant did not make me sit down to cards; on such occasions, he would shrink into a corner in silence, scowling and looking crossly at every one. The first time I was delighted at his letting me off so easily; but afterwards I would sometimes begin myself begging him to sit down to whist, the part of third person was so insupportable! I was so unpleasantly in Kolosov's and Varia's way, though they did assure each other that there was no need to mind me!...

Meanwhile time went on.... They were happy.... I have no great fondness for describing other people's happiness. But then I began to notice that Varia's childish ecstasy had gradually given way to a more womanly, more restless feeling. I began to surmise that the new song was being sung to the old tune—that is, that Kolosov was...little by little...cooling. This discovery, I must own, delighted me; I did not feel, I must confess, the slightest indignation against Andrei.

The intervals between our visits became longer and longer.... Varia began to meet us with tear-stained eyes. Reproaches were heard ... Sometimes I asked Kolosov with affected indifference, 'Well, shall we go to Ivan Semyonitch's to-day?' ... He looked coldly at me, and answered quietly, 'No, we're not going.' I sometimes fancied that he smiled slily when he spoke to me of Varia.... I failed generally to fill Gavrilov's place with him.... Gavrilov was a thousand times more good-natured and foolish than I.

Now allow me a slight digression.... When I spoke of my university comrades, I did not mention a certain Mr. Shtchitov. He was five-and-thirty; he had been a student for ten years already. I can see even now his rather long pale face, his little brown eyes, his long hawk nose crooked at the end, his thin sarcastic lips, his solemn upstanding shock of hair, and his chin that lost itself complacently in the wide striped cravat of the colour of a raven's wing, the shirt front with bronze buttons, the open blue frock-coat and striped waistcoat.... I can hear his unpleasantly jarring laugh.... He went everywhere, was conspicuous at all possible kinds of 'dancing classes.' ... I remember I could not listen to his cynical stories without a peculiar shudder.... Kolosov once compared him to an unswept Russian refreshment bar ... a horrible comparison! And with all that, there was a lot of intelligence, common sense, observation, and wit in the man.... He sometimes impressed us by some saying so apt, so true and cutting, that we were all involuntarily reduced to silence and looked at him with amazement. But, to be sure, it is just the same to a Russian whether he has uttered an absurdity or a clever thing. Shtchitov was especially dreaded by those self-conscious, dreamy, and not particularly gifted youths who spend whole days in painfully hatching a dozen trashy lines of verse and reading them in sing-song to their 'friends,' and who despise every sort of positive science. One such he simply drove out of Moscow, by continually repeating to him two of his own lines. Yet all the while Shtchitov himself did nothing and learnt nothing.... But that's all in the natural order of things. Well, Shtchitov, God only knows why, began jeering at my romantic attachment to Kolosov. The first time, with noble indignation, I told him to go to the devil; the second time, with chilly contempt, I informed him that he was not capable of judging of our friendship—but I did not send him away; and when, on taking leave of me, he observed that without Kolosov's permission I didn't even dare to praise him, I felt annoyed; Shtchitov's last words sank into my heart.—For more than a fortnight I had not seen Varia.... Pride, love, a vague anticipation, a number of different feelings were astir within me ... with a wave of the hand and a fearful sinking at my heart, I set off alone to Ivan Semyonitch's.

I don't know how I made my way to the familiar little house; I remember I sat down several times by the road to rest, not from fatigue, but from emotion. I went into the passage, and had not yet had time to utter a single word when the door of the drawing-room flew open and Varia ran to meet me. 'At last,' she said, in a quavering voice; 'where's Andrei Nikolaevitch?' 'Kolosov has not come,' I muttered with an effort. 'Not come!' she repeated. 'Yes ... he told me to tell you that ... he was detained....' I positively did not know what I was saying, and I did not dare to raise my eyes. Varia stood silent and motionless before me. I glanced at her: she turned away her head; two big tears rolled slowly down her cheeks. In the expression of her face there was such sudden, bitter suffering; the conflict between bashfulness, sorrow, and confidence in me was so simply, so touchingly apparent in the unconscious movement of her poor little head that it sent a pang to my heart. I bent a little forward ... she gave a hurried start and ran away. In the parlour I was met by Ivan Semyonitch. 'How's this, my good sir, are you alone?' he asked me, with a queer twitch of his left eyelid. 'Yes, I've come alone,' I stammered. Sidorenko went off into a sudden guffaw and departed into the next room.

I had never been in such a foolish position; it was too devilishly disgusting! But there was nothing to be done. I began walking up and down the room. 'What was the fat pig laughing at?' I wondered. Matrona Semyonovna came into the room with a stocking in her hands and sat down in the window. I began talking to her. Meanwhile tea was brought in. Varia came downstairs, pale and sorrowful. The retired lieutenant made jokes about Kolosov. 'I know,' said he, 'what sort of customer he is; you couldn't tempt him here with lollipops now, I expect!' Varia hurriedly got up and went away. Ivan Semyonitch looked after her and gave a sly whistle. I glanced at him in perplexity. 'Can it be,' I wondered, 'that he knows all about it?' And the lieutenant, as though divining my thoughts, nodded his head affirmatively. Directly after tea I got up and took leave. 'You, my good sir, we shall see again,' observed the lieutenant. I did not say a word in reply.... I began to feel simply frightened of the man.

On the steps a cold and trembling hand clutched at mine; I looked round: Varia. 'I must speak to you,' she whispered. 'Come to-morrow rather earlier, straight into the garden. After dinner papa is asleep; no one will interfere with us.' I pressed her hand without a word, and we parted.