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</PRE>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <h1>
      THE JEW AND OTHER STORIES
    </h1>
    <center>
      <b>BY IVAN TURGENEV<br>
       &nbsp;<br>
      <br>
      &nbsp;<br>
      <i>Translated from the Russian</i><br>
      <i>By CONSTANCE GARNETT</i><br>
       &nbsp;<br>
      <br>
      &nbsp;<br>
      TO THE MEMORY OF STEPNIAK<br>
      WHOSE LOVE OF TURGENEV<br>
      SUGGESTED THIS TRANSLATION<br></b>
    </center>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <h2>
      INTRODUCTION
    </h2>
    <p>
      In studying the Russian novel it is amusing to note the
      childish attitude of certain English men of letters to the
      novel in general, their depreciation of its influence and of
      the public's 'inordinate' love of fiction. Many men of
      letters to-day look on the novel as a mere story-book, as a
      series of light-coloured, amusing pictures for their 'idle
      hours,' and on memoirs, biographies, histories, criticism,
      and poetry as the age's <i>serious</i> contribution to
      literature. Whereas the reverse is the case. The most serious
      and significant of all literary forms the modern world has
      evolved is the novel; and brought to its highest development,
      the novel shares with poetry to-day the honour of being the
      supreme instrument of the great artist's literary skill.
    </p>
    <p>
      To survey the field of the novel as a mere pleasure-garden
      marked out for the crowd's diversion&#8212;a field of
      recreation adorned here and there by the masterpieces of a
      few great men&#8212;argues in the modern critic either an
      academical attitude to literature and life, or a one-eyed
      obtuseness, or merely the usual insensitive taste. The drama
      in all but two countries has been willy-nilly abandoned by
      artists as a coarse playground for the great public's romps
      and frolics, but the novel can be preserved exactly so long
      as the critics understand that to exercise a delicate art is
      the one <i>serious</i> duty of the artistic life. It is no
      more an argument against the vital significance of the novel
      that tens of thousands of people&#8212;that everybody, in
      fact&#8212;should to-day essay that form of art, than it is
      an argument against poetry that for all the centuries droves
      and flocks of versifiers and scribblers and rhymesters have
      succeeded in making the name of poet a little foolish in
      worldly eyes. The true function of poetry! That can only be
      vindicated in common opinion by the severity and enthusiasm
      of critics in stripping bare the false, and in hailing as the
      true all that is animated by the living breath of beauty. The
      true function of the novel! That can only be supported by
      those who understand that the adequate representation and
      criticism of human life would be impossible for modern men
      were the novel to go the way of the drama, and be abandoned
      to the mass of vulgar standards. That the novel is the most
      insidious means of mirroring human society Cervantes in his
      great classic revealed to seventeenth-century Europe.
      Richardson and Fielding and Sterne in their turn, as great
      realists and impressionists, proved to the eighteenth century
      that the novel is as flexible as life itself. And from their
      days to the days of Henry James the form of the novel has
      been adapted by European genius to the exact needs, outlook,
      and attitude to life of each successive generation. To the
      French, especially to Flaubert and Maupassant, must be given
      the credit of so perfecting the novel's technique that it has
      become the great means of cosmopolitan culture. It was,
      however, reserved for the youngest of European literatures,
      for the Russian school, to raise the novel to being the
      absolute and triumphant expression by the national genius of
      the national soul.
    </p>
    <p>
      Turgenev's place in modern European literature is best
      defined by saying that while he stands as a great classic in
      the ranks of the great novelists, along with Richardson,
      Fielding, Scott, Balzac, Dickens, Thackeray, Meredith,
      Tolstoi, Flaubert, Maupassant, he is the greatest of them
      all, in the sense that he is the supreme artist. As has been
      recognised by the best French critics, Turgenev's art is both
      wider in its range and more beautiful in its form than the
      work of any modern European artist. The novel modelled by
      Turgenev's hands, the Russian novel, became <i>the</i> great
      modern instrument for showing 'the very age and body of the
      time his form and pressure.' To reproduce human life in all
      its subtlety as it moves and breathes before us, and at the
      same time to assess its values by the great poetic insight
      that reveals man's relations to the universe around
      him,&#8212;that is an art only transcended by Shakespeare's
      own in its unique creation of a universe of great human
      types. And, comparing Turgenev with the European masters, we
      see that if he has made the novel both more delicate and more
      powerful than their example shows it, it is because as the
      supreme artist he filled it with the breath of poetry where
      others in general spoke the word of prose. Turgenev's horizon
      always broadens before our eyes: where Fielding and
      Richardson speak for the country and the town, Turgenev
      speaks for the nation. While Balzac makes defile before us an
      endless stream of human figures, Turgenev's characters reveal
      themselves as wider apart in the range of their spirit, as
      more mysteriously alive in their inevitable essence, than do
      Meredith's or Flaubert's, than do Thackeray's or
      Maupassant's. Where Tolstoi uses an immense canvas in <i>War
      and Peace</i>, wherein Europe may see the march of a whole
      generation, Turgenev in <i>Fathers and Children</i>
      concentrates in the few words of a single character, Bazarov,
      the essence of modern science's attitude to life, that
      scientific spirit which has transformed both European life
      and thought. It is, however, superfluous to draw further
      parallels between Turgenev and his great rivals. In England
      alone, perhaps, is it necessary to say to the young novelist
      that the novel can become anything, can be anything,
      according to the hands that use it. In its application to
      life, its future development can by no means be gauged. It is
      the most complex of all literary instruments, the chief
      method to-day of analysing the complexities of modern life.
      If you love your art, if you would exalt it, treat it
      absolutely seriously. If you would study it in its highest
      form, the form the greatest artist of our time has
      perfected&#8212;remember Turgenev.
    </p>
    <p>
      EDWARD GARNETT.
    </p>
    <p>
      November 1899.
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <h2>
      CONTENTS
    </h2>
    <p>
      <a href="#1">THE JEW</a>
    </p>
    <p>
      <a href="#2">AN UNHAPPY GIRL</a>
    </p>
    <p>
      <a href="#3">THE DUELLIST</a>
    </p>
    <p>
      <a href="#4">THREE PORTRAITS</a>
    </p>
    <p>
      <a href="#5">ENOUGH</a>
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p><a name="1"></a>
    <h2>
      THE JEW
    </h2>
    <p>
      ...'Tell us a story, colonel,' we said at last to Nikolai
      Ilyitch.
    </p>
    <p>
      The colonel smiled, puffed out a coil of tobacco smoke
      between his moustaches, passed his hand over his grey hair,
      looked at us and considered. We all had the greatest liking
      and respect for Nikolai Ilyitch, for his good-heartedness,
      common sense, and kindly indulgence to us young fellows. He
      was a tall, broad-shouldered, stoutly-built man; his dark
      face, 'one of the splendid Russian faces,' [Footnote:
      Lermontov in the <i>Treasurer's Wife</i>.&#8212;AUTHOR'S
      NOTE.] straight-forward, clever glance, gentle smile, manly
      and mellow voice&#8212;everything about him pleased and
      attracted one.
    </p>
    <p>
      'All right, listen then,' he began.
    </p>
    <p>
      It happened in 1813, before Dantzig. I was then in the
      E&#8212;&#8212; regiment of cuirassiers, and had just, I
      recollect, been promoted to be a cornet. It is an
      exhilarating occupation&#8212;fighting; and marching too is
      good enough in its way, but it is fearfully slow in a
      besieging army. There one sits the whole blessed day within
      some sort of entrenchment, under a tent, on mud or straw,
      playing cards from morning till night. Perhaps, from simple
      boredom, one goes out to watch the bombs and redhot bullets
      flying.
    </p>
    <p>
      At first the French kept us amused with sorties, but they
      quickly subsided. We soon got sick of foraging expeditions
      too; we were overcome, in fact, by such deadly dulness that
      we were ready to howl for sheer <i>ennui</i>. I was not more
      than nineteen then; I was a healthy young fellow, fresh as a
      daisy, thought of nothing but getting all the fun I could out
      of the French... and in other ways too... you understand what
      I mean... and this is what happened. Having nothing to do, I
      fell to gambling. All of a sudden, after dreadful losses, my
      luck turned, and towards morning (we used to play at night) I
      had won an immense amount. Exhausted and sleepy, I came out
      into the fresh air, and sat down on a mound. It was a
      splendid, calm morning; the long lines of our fortifications
      were lost in the mist; I gazed till I was weary, and then
      began to doze where I was sitting.
    </p>
    <p>
      A discreet cough waked me: I opened my eyes, and saw standing
      before me a Jew, a man of forty, wearing a long-skirted grey
      wrapper, slippers, and a black smoking-cap. This Jew, whose
      name was Girshel, was continually hanging about our camp,
      offering his services as an agent, getting us wine,
      provisions, and other such trifles. He was a thinnish,
      red-haired, little man, marked with smallpox; he blinked
      incessantly with his diminutive little eyes, which were
      reddish too; he had a long crooked nose, and was always
      coughing.
    </p>
    <p>
      He began fidgeting about me, bowing obsequiously.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, what do you want?' I asked him at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, I only&#8212;I've only come, sir, to know if I can't be
      of use to your honour in some way...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't want you; you can go.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'At your honour's service, as you desire.... I thought there
      might be, sir, something....'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You bother me; go along, I tell you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Certainly, sir, certainly. But your honour must permit me to
      congratulate you on your success....'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, how did you know?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, I know, to be sure I do.... An immense sum...
      immense....Oh! how immense....'
    </p>
    <p>
      Girshel spread out his fingers and wagged his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But what's the use of talking,' I said peevishly; 'what the
      devil's the good of money here?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! don't say that, your honour; ay, ay, don't say so.
      Money's a capital thing; always of use; you can get anything
      for money, your honour; anything! anything! Only say the word
      to the agent, he'll get you anything, your honour, anything!
      anything!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't tell lies, Jew.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ay! ay!' repeated Girshel, shaking his side-locks. 'Your
      honour doesn't believe me.... Ay... ay....' The Jew closed
      his eyes and slowly wagged his head to right and to left....
      'Oh, I know what his honour the officer would like.... I
      know,... to be sure I do!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The Jew assumed an exceedingly knowing leer.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Really!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The Jew glanced round timorously, then bent over to me.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Such a lovely creature, your honour, lovely!...' Girshel
      again closed his eyes and shot out his lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your honour, you've only to say the word... you shall see
      for yourself... whatever I say now, you'll hear... but you
      won't believe... better tell me to show you... that's the
      thing, that's the thing!'
    </p>
    <p>
      I did not speak; I gazed at the Jew.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, all right then; well then, very good; so I'll show you
      then....'
    </p>
    <p>
      Thereupon Girshel laughed and slapped me lightly on the
      shoulder, but skipped back at once as though he had been
      scalded.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But, your honour, how about a trifle in advance?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But you 're taking me in, and will show me some scarecrow?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ay, ay, what a thing to say!' the Jew pronounced with
      unusual warmth, waving his hands about. 'How can you! Why...
      if so, your honour, you order me to be given five hundred...
      four hundred and fifty lashes,' he added hurriedly....' You
      give orders&#8212;'
    </p>
    <p>
      At that moment one of my comrades lifted the edge of his tent
      and called me by name. I got up hurriedly and flung the Jew a
      gold coin.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This evening, this evening,' he muttered after me.
    </p>
    <p>
      I must confess, my friends, I looked forward to the evening
      with some impatience. That very day the French made a sortie;
      our regiment marched to the attack. The evening came on; we
      sat round the fires... the soldiers cooked porridge. My
      comrades talked. I lay on my cloak, drank tea, and listened
      to my comrades' stories. They suggested a game of
      cards&#8212;I refused to take part in it. I felt excited.
      Gradually the officers dispersed to their tents; the fires
      began to die down; the soldiers too dispersed, or went to
      sleep on the spot; everything was still. I did not get up. My
      orderly squatted on his heels before the fire, and was
      beginning to nod. I sent him away. Soon the whole camp was
      hushed. The sentries were relieved. I still lay there, as it
      were waiting for something. The stars peeped out. The night
      came on. A long while I watched the dying flame.... The last
      fire went out. 'The damned Jew was taking me in,' I thought
      angrily, and was just going to get up.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your honour,'... a trembling voice whispered close to my
      ear.
    </p>
    <p>
      I looked round: Girshel. He was very pale, he stammered, and
      whispered something.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Let's go to your tent, sir.' I got up and followed him. The
      Jew shrank into himself, and stepped warily over the short,
      damp grass. I observed on one side a motionless, muffled-up
      figure. The Jew beckoned to her&#8212;she went up to him. He
      whispered to her, turned to me, nodded his head several
      times, and we all three went into the tent. Ridiculous to
      relate, I was breathless.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You see, your honour,' the Jew whispered with an effort,
      'you see. She's a little frightened at the moment, she's
      frightened; but I've told her his honour the officer's a good
      man, a splendid man.... Don't be frightened, don't be
      frightened,' he went on&#8212;'don't be frightened....'
    </p>
    <p>
      The muffled-up figure did not stir. I was myself in a state
      of dreadful confusion, and didn't know what to say. Girshel
      too was fidgeting restlessly, and gesticulating in a strange
      way....
    </p>
    <p>
      'Any way,' I said to him, 'you get out....' Unwillingly, as
      it seemed, Girshel obeyed.
    </p>
    <p>
      I went up to the muffled-up figure, and gently took the dark
      hood off her head. There was a conflagration in Dantzig: by
      the faint, reddish, flickering glow of the distant fire I saw
      the pale face of a young Jewess. Her beauty astounded me. I
      stood facing her, and gazed at her in silence. She did not
      raise her eyes. A slight rustle made me look round. Girshel
      was cautiously poking his head in under the edge of the tent.
      I waved my hand at him angrily,... he vanished.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What's your name?' I said at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sara,' she answered, and for one instant I caught in the
      darkness the gleam of the whites of her large, long-shaped
      eyes and little, even, flashing teeth.
    </p>
    <p>
      I snatched up two leather cushions, flung them on the ground,
      and asked her to sit down. She slipped off her shawl, and sat
      down. She was wearing a short Cossack jacket, open in front,
      with round, chased silver buttons, and full sleeves. Her
      thick black hair was coiled twice round her little head. I
      sat down beside her and took her dark, slender hand. She
      resisted a little, but seemed afraid to look at me, and there
      was a catch in her breath. I admired her Oriental profile,
      and timidly pressed her cold, shaking fingers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you know Russian?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes... a little.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And do you like Russians?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, I like them.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then, you like me too?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, I like you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      I tried to put my arm round her, but she moved away
      quickly....
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no, please, sir, please...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, all right; look at me, any way.'
    </p>
    <p>
      She let her black, piercing eyes rest upon me, and at once
      turned away with a smile, and blushed.
    </p>
    <p>
      I kissed her hand ardently. She peeped at me from under her
      eyelids and softly laughed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What is it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      She hid her face in her sleeve and laughed more than before.
    </p>
    <p>
      Girshel showed himself at the entrance of the tent and shook
      his finger at her. She ceased laughing.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Go away!' I whispered to him through my teeth; 'you make me
      sick!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Girshel did not go away.
    </p>
    <p>
      I took a handful of gold pieces out of my trunk, stuffed them
      in his hand and pushed him out.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your honour, me too....' she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      I dropped several gold coins on her lap; she pounced on them
      like a cat.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, now I must have a kiss.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, please, please,' she faltered in a frightened and
      beseeching voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What are you frightened of?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm afraid.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, nonsense....'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, please.'
    </p>
    <p>
      She looked timidly at me, put her head a little on one side
      and clasped her hands. I let her alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If you like... here,' she said after a brief silence, and
      she raised her hand to my lips. With no great eagerness, I
      kissed it. Sara laughed again.
    </p>
    <p>
      My blood was boiling. I was annoyed with myself and did not
      know what to do. Really, I thought at last, what a fool I am.
    </p>
    <p>
      I turned to her again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sara, listen, I'm in love with you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You know? And you're not angry? And do you like me too?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Sara shook her head.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, answer me properly.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, show yourself,' she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      I bent down to her. Sara laid her hands on my shoulders,
      began scrutinising my face, frowned, smiled.... I could not
      contain myself, and gave her a rapid kiss on her cheek. She
      jumped up and in one bound was at the entrance of the tent.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come, what a shy thing you are!'
    </p>
    <p>
      She did not speak and did not stir.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come here to me....'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, sir, good-bye. Another time.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Girshel again thrust in his curly head, and said a couple of
      words to her; she bent down and glided away, like a snake.
    </p>
    <p>
      I ran out of the tent in pursuit of her, but could not get
      another glimpse of her nor of Girshel.
    </p>
    <p>
      The whole night long I could not sleep a wink.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next night we were sitting in the tent of our captain; I
      was playing, but with no great zest. My orderly came in.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Some one's asking for you, your honour.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who is it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A Jew.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Can it be Girshel?' I wondered. I waited till the end of the
      rubber, got up and went out. Yes, it was so; I saw Girshel.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well,' he questioned me with an ingratiating smile, 'your
      honour, are you satisfied?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah, you&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;!' (Here the colonel glanced
      round. 'No ladies present, I believe.... Well, never mind,
      any way.') 'Ah, bless you!' I responded, 'so you're making
      fun of me, are you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'How so?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'How so, indeed! What a question!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ay, ay, your honour, you 're too bad,' Girshel said
      reproachfully, but never ceasing smiling. 'The girl is young
      and modest.... You frightened her, indeed, you did.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Queer sort of modesty! why did she take money, then?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, what then? If one's given money, why not take it, sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I say, Girshel, let her come again, and I '11 let you off...
      only, please, don't show your stupid phiz inside my tent, and
      leave us in peace; do you hear?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Girshel's eyes sparkled.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What do you say? You like her?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, yes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She's a lovely creature! there's not another such anywhere.
      And have you something for me now?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, here, only listen; fair play is better than gold. Bring
      her and then go to the devil. I'll escort her home myself.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, no, sir, no, that's impossible, sir,' the Jew rejoined
      hurriedly. 'Ay, ay, that's impossible. I'll walk about near
      the tent, your honour, if you like; I'll... I'll go away,
      your honour, if you like, a little.... I'm ready to do your
      honour a service.... I'll move away... to be sure, I will.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, mind you do.... And bring her, do you hear?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Eh, but she's a beauty, your honour, eh? your honour, a
      beauty, eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Girshel bent down and peeped into my eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      'She's good-looking.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, then, give me another gold piece.'
    </p>
    <p>
      I threw him a coin; we parted.
    </p>
    <p>
      The day passed at last. The night came on. I had been sitting
      for a long while alone in my tent. It was dark outside. It
      struck two in the town. I was beginning to curse the Jew....
      Suddenly Sara came in, alone. I jumped up took her in my
      arms... put my lips to her face.... It was cold as ice. I
      could scarcely distinguish her features.... I made her sit
      down, knelt down before her, took her hands, touched her
      waist.... She did not speak, did not stir, and suddenly she
      broke into loud, convulsive sobbing. I tried in vain to
      soothe her, to persuade her.... She wept in torrents.... I
      caressed her, wiped her tears; as before, she did not resist,
      made no answer to my questions and wept&#8212;wept, like a
      waterfall. I felt a pang at my heart; I got up and went out
      of the tent.
    </p>
    <p>
      Girshel seemed to pop up out of the earth before me.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Girshel,' I said to him, 'here's the money I promised you.
      Take Sara away.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The Jew at once rushed up to her. She left off weeping, and
      clutched hold of him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good-bye, Sara,'I said to her. 'God bless you, good-bye.
      We'll see each other again some other time.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Girshel was silent and bowed humbly. Sara bent down, took my
      hand and pressed it to her lips; I turned away....
    </p>
    <p>
      For five or six days, my friends, I kept thinking of my
      Jewess. Girshel did not make his appearance, and no one had
      seen him in the camp. I slept rather badly at nights; I was
      continually haunted by wet, black eyes, and long eyelashes;
      my lips could not forget the touch of her cheek, smooth and
      fresh as a downy plum. I was sent out with a foraging party
      to a village some distance away. While my soldiers were
      ransacking the houses, I remained in the street, and did not
      dismount from my horse. Suddenly some one caught hold of my
      foot....
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mercy on us, Sara!'
    </p>
    <p>
      She was pale and excited.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your honour... help us, save us, your soldiers are insulting
      us.... Your honour....'
    </p>
    <p>
      She recognised me and flushed red.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, do you live here?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Where?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Sara pointed to a little, old house. I set spurs to my horse
      and galloped up. In the yard of the little house an ugly and
      tattered Jewess was trying to tear out of the hands of my
      long sergeant, Siliavka, three hens and a duck. He was
      holding his booty above his head, laughing; the hens clucked
      and the duck quacked.... Two other cuirassiers were loading
      their horses with hay, straw, and sacks of flour. Inside the
      house I heard shouts and oaths in Little-Russian.... I called
      to my men and told them to leave the Jews alone, not to take
      anything from them. The soldiers obeyed, the sergeant got on
      his grey mare, Proserpina, or, as he called her,
      'Prozherpila,' and rode after me into the street.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well,' I said to Sara, 'are you pleased with me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      She looked at me with a smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What has become of you all this time?'
    </p>
    <p>
      She dropped her eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I will come to you to-morrow.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'In the evening?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, sir, in the morning.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mind you do, don't deceive me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No... no, I won't.'
    </p>
    <p>
      I looked greedily at her. By daylight she seemed to me
      handsomer than ever. I remember I was particularly struck by
      the even, amber tint of her face and the bluish lights in her
      black hair.... I bent down from my horse and warmly pressed
      her little hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good-bye, Sara... mind you come.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      She went home; I told the sergeant to follow me with the
      party, and galloped off.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next day I got up very early, dressed, and went out of
      the tent. It was a glorious morning; the sun had just risen
      and every blade of grass was sparkling in the dew and the
      crimson glow. I clambered on to a high breastwork, and sat
      down on the edge of an embrasure. Below me a stout, cast-iron
      cannon stuck out its black muzzle towards the open country. I
      looked carelessly about me... and all at once caught sight of
      a bent figure in a grey wrapper, a hundred paces from me. I
      recognised Girshel. He stood without moving for a long while
      in one place, then suddenly ran a little on one side, looked
      hurriedly and furtively round... uttered a cry, squatted
      down, cautiously craned his neck and began looking round
      again and listening. I could see all his actions very
      clearly. He put his hand into his bosom, took out a scrap of
      paper and a pencil, and began writing or drawing something.
      Girshel continually stopped, started like a hare, attentively
      scrutinised everything around him, and seemed to be sketching
      our camp. More than once he hid his scrap of paper, half
      closed his eyes, sniffed at the air, and again set to work.
      At last, the Jew squatted down on the grass, took off his
      slipper, and stuffed the paper in it; but he had not time to
      regain his legs, when suddenly, ten steps from him, there
      appeared from behind the slope of an earthwork the whiskered
      countenance of the sergeant Siliavka, and gradually the whole
      of his long clumsy figure rose up from the ground. The Jew
      stood with his back to him. Siliavka went quickly up to him
      and laid his heavy paw on his shoulder. Girshel seemed to
      shrink into himself. He shook like a leaf and uttered a
      feeble cry, like a hare's. Siliavka addressed him
      threateningly, and seized him by the collar. I could not hear
      their conversation, but from the despairing gestures of the
      Jew, and his supplicating appearance, I began to guess what
      it was. The Jew twice flung himself at the sergeant's feet,
      put his hand in his pocket, pulled out a torn check
      handkerchief, untied a knot, and took out gold coins....
      Siliavka took his offering with great dignity, but did not
      leave off dragging the Jew by the collar. Girshel made a
      sudden bound and rushed away; the sergeant sped after him in
      pursuit. The Jew ran exceedingly well; his legs, clad in blue
      stockings, flashed by, really very rapidly; but Siliavka
      after a short run caught the crouching Jew, made him stand
      up, and carried him in his arms straight to the camp. I got
      up and went to meet him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! your honour!' bawled Siliavka,&#8212;'it's a spy I'm
      bringing you&#8212;a spy!...' The sturdy Little-Russian was
      streaming with perspiration. 'Stop that wriggling, devilish
      Jew&#8212;now then... you wretch! you'd better look out, I'll
      throttle you!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The luckless Girshel was feebly prodding his elbows into
      Siliavka's chest, and feebly kicking.... His eyes were
      rolling convulsively....
    </p>
    <p>
      'What's the matter?' I questioned Siliavka.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If your honour'll be so good as to take the slipper off his
      right foot,&#8212;I can't get at it.' He was still holding
      the Jew in his arms.
    </p>
    <p>
      I took off the slipper, took out of it a carefully folded
      piece of paper, unfolded it, and found an accurate map of our
      camp. On the margin were a number of notes written in a fine
      hand in the Jews' language.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile Siliavka had set Girshel on his legs. The Jew
      opened his eyes, saw me, and flung himself on his knees
      before me.
    </p>
    <p>
      Without speaking, I showed him the paper.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What's this?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's&#8212;-nothing, your honour. I was only....' His voice
      broke.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Are you a spy?'
    </p>
    <p>
      He did not understand me, muttered disconnected words,
      pressed my knees in terror....
    </p>
    <p>
      'Are you a spy?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I!' he cried faintly, and shook his head. 'How could I? I
      never did; I'm not at all. It's not possible; utterly
      impossible. I'm ready&#8212;I'll&#8212;this minute&#8212;I've
      money to give... I'll pay for it,' he whispered, and closed
      his eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      The smoking-cap had slipped back on to his neck; his reddish
      hair was soaked with cold sweat, and hung in tails; his lips
      were blue, and working convulsively; his brows were
      contracted painfully; his face was drawn....
    </p>
    <p>
      Soldiers came up round us. I had at first meant to give
      Girshel a good fright, and to tell Siliavka to hold his
      tongue, but now the affair had become public, and could not
      escape 'the cognisance of the authorities.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Take him to the general,' I said to the sergeant.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your honour, your honour!' the Jew shrieked in a voice of
      despair. 'I am not guilty... not guilty.... Tell him to let
      me go, tell him...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'His Excellency will decide about that,' said Siliavka. 'Come
      along.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your honour!' the Jew shrieked after me&#8212;'tell him!
      have mercy!'
    </p>
    <p>
      His shriek tortured me; I hastened my pace. Our general was a
      man of German extraction, honest and good-hearted, but strict
      in his adherence to military discipline. I went into the
      little house that had been hastily put up for him, and in a
      few words explained the reason of my visit. I knew the
      severity of the military regulations, and so I did not even
      pronounce the word 'spy,' but tried to put the whole affair
      before him as something quite trifling and not worth
      attention. But, unhappily for Girshel, the general put doing
      his duty higher than pity.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You, young man,' he said to me in his broken Russian,
      'inexperienced are. You in military matters yet inexperienced
      are. The matter, of which you to me reported have, is
      important, very important.... And where is this man who taken
      was? this Jew? where is he?'
    </p>
    <p>
      I went out and told them to bring in the Jew. They brought in
      the Jew. The wretched creature could scarcely stand up.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' pronounced the general, turning to me; 'and where's
      the plan which on this man found was?'
    </p>
    <p>
      I handed him the paper. The general opened it, turned away
      again, screwed up his eyes, frowned....
    </p>
    <p>
      'This is most as-ton-ish-ing...' he said slowly. 'Who
      arrested him?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I, your Excellency!' Siliavka jerked out sharply.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! good! good!... Well, my good man, what do you say in
      your defence?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your... your... your Excellency,' stammered Girshel, 'I...
      indeed,... your Excellency... I'm not guilty... your
      Excellency; ask his honour the officer.... I'm an agent, your
      Excellency, an honest agent.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He ought to be cross-examined,' the general murmured in an
      undertone, wagging his head gravely. 'Come, how do you
      explain this, my friend?' 'I'm not guilty, your Excellency,
      I'm not guilty.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That is not probable, however. You were&#8212;how is it said
      in Russian?&#8212;taken on the fact, that is, in the very
      facts!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hear me, your Excellency; I am not guilty.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You drew the plan? you are a spy of the enemy?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It wasn't me!' Girshel shrieked suddenly; 'not I, your
      Excellency!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The general looked at Siliavka.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, he's raving, your Excellency. His honour the officer
      here took the plan out of his slipper.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The general looked at me. I was obliged to nod assent.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are a spy from the enemy, my good man....'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not I... not I...' whispered the distracted Jew.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You have the enemy with similar information before provided?
      Confess....'
    </p>
    <p>
      'How could I?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You will not deceive me, my good man. Are you a spy?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The Jew closed his eyes, shook his head, and lifted the
      skirts of his gown.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hang him,' the general pronounced expressively after a brief
      silence,'according to the law. Where is Mr. Fiodor
      Schliekelmann?'
    </p>
    <p>
      They ran to fetch Schliekelmann, the general's adjutant.
      Girshel began to turn greenish, his mouth fell open, his eyes
      seemed starting out of his head. The adjutant came in. The
      general gave him the requisite instructions. The secretary
      showed his sickly, pock-marked face for an instant. Two or
      three officers peeped into the room inquisitively.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Have pity, your Excellency,' I said to the general in German
      as best I could; 'let him off....'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You, young man,' he answered me in Russian, 'I was saying to
      you, are inexperienced, and therefore I beg you silent to be,
      and me no more to trouble.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Girshel with a shriek dropped at the general's feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your Excellency, have mercy; I will never again, I will not,
      your Excellency; I have a wife... your Excellency, a
      daughter... have mercy....'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's no use!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Truly, your Excellency, I am guilty... it's the first time,
      your Excellency, the first time, believe me!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You furnished no other documents?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The first time, your Excellency,... my wife... my
      children... have mercy....'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But you are a spy.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'My wife... your Excellency... my children....'
    </p>
    <p>
      The general felt a twinge, but there was no getting out of
      it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'According to the law, hang the Hebrew,' he said
      constrainedly, with the air of a man forced to do violence to
      his heart, and sacrifice his better feelings to inexorable
      duty&#8212;'hang him! Fiodor Karlitch, I beg you to draw up a
      report of the occurrence....'
    </p>
    <p>
      A horrible change suddenly came over Girshel. Instead of the
      ordinary timorous alarm peculiar to the Jewish nature, in his
      face was reflected the horrible agony that comes before
      death. He writhed like a wild beast trapped, his mouth stood
      open, there was a hoarse rattle in his throat, he positively
      leapt up and down, convulsively moving his elbows. He had on
      only one slipper; they had forgotten to put the other on
      again... his gown fell open... his cap had fallen off....
    </p>
    <p>
      We all shuddered; the general stopped speaking.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your Excellency,' I began again, 'pardon this wretched
      creature.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Impossible! It is the law,' the general replied abruptly,
      and not without emotion, 'for a warning to others.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'For pity's sake....'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Cornet, be so good as to return to your post,' said the
      general, and he motioned me imperiously to the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      I bowed and went out. But seeing that in reality I had no
      post anywhere, I remained at no great distance from the
      general's house.
    </p>
    <p>
      Two minutes later Girshel made his appearance, conducted by
      Siliavka and three soldiers. The poor Jew was in a state of
      stupefaction, and could hardly move his legs. Siliavka went
      by me to the camp, and soon returned with a rope in his
      hands. His coarse but not ill-natured face wore a look of
      strange, exasperated commiseration. At the sight of the rope
      the Jew flung up his arms, sat down, and burst into sobs. The
      soldiers stood silently about him, and stared grimly at the
      earth. I went up to Girshel, addressed him; he sobbed like a
      baby, and did not even look at me. With a hopeless gesture I
      went to my tent, flung myself on a rug, and closed my
      eyes....
    </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly some one ran hastily and noisily into my tent. I
      raised my head and saw Sara; she looked beside herself. She
      rushed up to me, and clutched at my hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come along, come along,' she insisted breathlessly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Where? what for? let us stop here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'To father, to father, quick... save him... save him!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'To what father?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'My father; they are going to hang him....'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What! is Girshel...?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'My father... I '11 tell you all about it later,' she added,
      wringing her hands in despair: 'only come... come....'
    </p>
    <p>
      We ran out of the tent. In the open ground, on the way to a
      solitary birch-tree, we could see a group of soldiers....
      Sara pointed to them without speaking....
    </p>
    <p>
      'Stop,' I said to her suddenly: 'where are we running to? The
      soldiers won't obey me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Sara still pulled me after her.... I must confess, my head
      was going round.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But listen, Sara,' I said to her; 'what sense is there in
      running here? It would be better for me to go to the general
      again; let's go together; who knows, we may persuade him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Sara suddenly stood still and gazed at me, as though she were
      crazy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Understand me, Sara, for God's sake. I can't do anything for
      your father, but the general can. Let's go to him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But meanwhile they'll hang him,' she moaned....
    </p>
    <p>
      I looked round. The secretary was standing not far off.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ivanov,' I called to him; 'run, please, over there to them,
      tell them to wait a little, say I've gone to petition the
      general.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Ivanov ran off.
    </p>
    <p>
      We were not admitted to the general's presence. In vain I
      begged, persuaded, swore even, at last... in vain, poor Sara
      tore her hair and rushed at the sentinels; they would not let
      us pass.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sara looked wildly round, clutched her head in both hands,
      and ran at breakneck pace towards the open country, to her
      father. I followed her. Every one stared at us, wondering.
    </p>
    <p>
      We ran up to the soldiers. They were standing in a ring, and
      picture it, gentlemen! they were laughing, laughing at poor
      Girshel. I flew into a rage and shouted at them. The Jew saw
      us and fell on his daughter's neck. Sara clung to him
      passionately.
    </p>
    <p>
      The poor wretch imagined he was pardoned.... He was just
      beginning to thank me... I turned away.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your honour,' he shrieked and wrung his hands; 'I'm not
      pardoned?'
    </p>
    <p>
      I did not speak.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your honour,' he began muttering; 'look, your honour,
      look... she, this girl, see&#8212;you know&#8212;she's my
      daughter.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I know,' I answered, and turned away again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your honour,' he shrieked, 'I never went away from the tent!
      I wouldn't for anything...'
    </p>
    <p>
      He stopped, and closed his eyes for an instant.... 'I wanted
      your money, your honour, I must own... but not for
      anything....'
    </p>
    <p>
      I was silent. Girshel was loathsome to me, and she too, his
      accomplice....
    </p>
    <p>
      'But now, if you save me,' the Jew articulated in a whisper,
      'I'll command her... I... do you understand?... everything...
      I'll go to every length....'
    </p>
    <p>
      He was trembling like a leaf, and looking about him
      hurriedly. Sara silently and passionately embraced him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The adjutant came up to us.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Cornet,' he said to me; 'his Excellency has given me orders
      to place you under arrest. And you...' he motioned the
      soldiers to the Jew... 'quickly.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Siliavka went up to the Jew.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Fiodor Karlitch,' I said to the adjutant (five soldiers had
      come with him); 'tell them, at least, to take away that poor
      girl....'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of course. Certainly.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The unhappy girl was scarcely conscious. Girshel was
      muttering something to her in Yiddish....
    </p>
    <p>
      The soldiers with difficulty freed Sara from her father's
      arms, and carefully carried her twenty steps away. But all at
      once she broke from their arms and rushed towards Girshel....
      Siliavka stopped her. Sara pushed him away; her face was
      covered with a faint flush, her eyes flashed, she stretched
      out her arms.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So may you be accursed,' she screamed in German; 'accursed,
      thrice accursed, you and all the hateful breed of you, with
      the curse of Dathan and Abiram, the curse of poverty and
      sterility and violent, shameful death! May the earth open
      under your feet, godless, pitiless, bloodthirsty dogs....'
    </p>
    <p>
      Her head dropped back... she fell to the ground.... They
      lifted her up and carried her away.
    </p>
    <p>
      The soldiers took Girshel under his arms. I saw then why it
      was they had been laughing at the Jew when I ran up from the
      camp with Sara. He was really ludicrous, in spite of all the
      horror of his position. The intense anguish of parting with
      life, his daughter, his family, showed itself in the Jew in
      such strange and grotesque gesticulations, shrieks, and
      wriggles that we all could not help smiling, though it was
      horrible&#8212;intensely horrible to us too. The poor wretch
      was half dead with terror....
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oy! oy! oy!' he shrieked: 'oy... wait! I've something to
      tell you... a lot to tell you. Mr. Under-sergeant, you know
      me. I'm an agent, an honest agent. Don't hold me; wait a
      minute, a little minute, a tiny minute&#8212;wait! Let me go;
      I'm a poor Hebrew. Sara... where is Sara? Oh, I know, she's
      at his honour the quarter-lieutenant's.' (God knows why he
      bestowed such an unheard-of grade upon me.) 'Your honour the
      quarter-lieutenant, I'm not going away from the tent.' (The
      soldiers were taking hold of Girshel... he uttered a
      deafening shriek, and wriggled out of their hands.) 'Your
      Excellency, have pity on the unhappy father of a family. I'll
      give you ten golden pieces, fifteen I'll give, your
      Excellency!...' (They dragged him to the birch-tree.) 'Spare
      me! have mercy! your honour the quarter-lieutenant! your
      Excellency, the general and commander-in-chief!'
    </p>
    <p>
      They put the noose on the Jew.... I shut my eyes and rushed
      away.
    </p>
    <p>
      I remained for a fortnight under arrest. I was told that the
      widow of the luckless Girshel came to fetch away the clothes
      of the deceased. The general ordered a hundred roubles to be
      given to her. Sara I never saw again. I was wounded; I was
      taken to the hospital, and by the time I was well again,
      Dantzig had surrendered, and I joined my regiment on the
      banks of the Rhine.
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p><a name="2"></a>
    <h2>
      AN UNHAPPY GIRL
    </h2>
    <p>
      Yes, yes, began Piotr Gavrilovitch; those were painful
      days... and I would rather not recall them.... But I have
      made you a promise; I shall have to tell you the whole story.
      Listen.
    </p>
    <h3>
      I
    </h3>
    <p>
      I was living at that time (the winter of 1835) in Moscow, in
      the house of my aunt, the sister of my dead mother. I was
      eighteen; I had only just passed from the second into the
      third course in the faculty 'of Language' (that was what it
      was called in those days) in the Moscow University. My aunt
      was a gentle, quiet woman&#8212;a widow. She lived in a big,
      wooden house in Ostozhonka, one of those warm, cosy houses
      such as, I fancy, one can find nowhere else but in Moscow.
      She saw hardly any one, sat from morning till night in the
      drawing-room with two companions, drank the choicest tea,
      played patience, and was continually requesting that the room
      should be fumigated. Thereupon her companions ran into the
      hall; a few minutes later an old servant in livery would
      bring in a copper pan with a bunch of mint on a hot brick,
      and stepping hurriedly upon the narrow strips of carpet, he
      would sprinkle the mint with vinegar. White fumes always
      puffed up about his wrinkled face, and he frowned and turned
      away, while the canaries in the dining-room chirped their
      hardest, exasperated by the hissing of the smouldering mint.
    </p>
    <p>
      I was fatherless and motherless, and my aunt spoiled me. She
      placed the whole of the ground floor at my complete disposal.
      My rooms were furnished very elegantly, not at all like a
      student's rooms in fact: there were pink curtains in the
      bedroom, and a muslin canopy, adorned with blue rosettes,
      towered over my bed. Those rosettes were, I'll own, rather an
      annoyance to me; to my thinking, such 'effeminacies' were
      calculated to lower me in the eyes of my companions. As it
      was, they nicknamed me 'the boarding-school miss.' I could
      never succeed in forcing myself to smoke. I studied&#8212;why
      conceal my shortcomings?&#8212;very lazily, especially at the
      beginning of the course. I went out a great deal. My aunt had
      bestowed on me a wide sledge, fit for a general, with a pair
      of sleek horses. At the houses of 'the gentry' my visits were
      rare, but at the theatre I was quite at home, and I consumed
      masses of tarts at the restaurants. For all that, I permitted
      myself no breach of decorum, and behaved very discreetly,
      <i>en jeune homme de bonne maison</i>. I would not for
      anything in the world have pained my kind aunt; and besides I
      was naturally of a rather cool temperament.
    </p>
    <h3>
      II
    </h3>
    <p>
      From my earliest years I had been fond of chess; I had no
      idea of the science of the game, but I didn't play badly. One
      day in a caf&eacute;, I was the spectator of a prolonged
      contest at chess, between two players, of whom one, a
      fair-haired young man of about five-and-twenty, struck me as
      playing well. The game ended in his favour; I offered to play
      a match with him. He agreed,... and in the course of an hour,
      beat me easily, three times running.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You have a natural gift for the game,' he pronounced in a
      courteous tone, noticing probably that my vanity was
      suffering; 'but you don't know the openings. You ought to
      study a chess-book&#8212;Allgacir or Petrov.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you think so? But where can I get such a book?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come to me; I will give you one.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He gave me his name, and told me where he was living. Next
      day I went to see him, and a week later we were almost
      inseparable.
    </p>
    <h3>
      III
    </h3>
    <p>
      My new acquaintance was called Alexander Davidovitch Fustov.
      He lived with his mother, a rather wealthy woman, the widow
      of a privy councillor, but he occupied a little lodge apart
      and lived quite independently, just as I did at my aunt's. He
      had a post in the department of Court affairs. I became
      genuinely attached to him. I had never in my life met a young
      man more 'sympathetic.' Everything about him was charming and
      attractive: his graceful figure, his bearing, his voice, and
      especially his small, delicate face with the golden-blue
      eyes, the elegant, as it were coquettishly moulded little
      nose, the unchanging amiable smile on the crimson lips, the
      light curls of soft hair over the rather narrow, snow-white
      brow. Fustov's character was remarkable for exceptional
      serenity, and a sort of amiable, restrained affability; he
      was never pre-occupied, and was always satisfied with
      everything; but on the other hand he was never ecstatic over
      anything. Every excess, even in a good feeling, jarred upon
      him; 'that's savage, savage,' he would say with a faint
      shrug, half closing his golden eyes. Marvellous were those
      eyes of Fustov's! They invariably expressed sympathy,
      good-will, even devotion. It was only at a later period that
      I noticed that the expression of his eyes resulted solely
      from their setting, that it never changed, even when he was
      sipping his soup or smoking a cigar. His preciseness became a
      byword between us. His grandmother, indeed, had been a
      German. Nature had endowed him with all sorts of talents. He
      danced capitally, was a dashing horseman, and a first-rate
      swimmer; did carpentering, carving and joinery, bound books
      and cut out silhouettes, painted in watercolours nosegays of
      flowers or Napoleon in profile in a blue uniform; played the
      zither with feeling; knew a number of tricks, with cards and
      without; and had a fair knowledge of mechanics, physics, and
      chemistry; but everything only up to a certain point. Only
      for languages he had no great facility: even French he spoke
      rather badly. He spoke in general little, and his share in
      our students' discussions was mostly limited to the bright
      sympathy of his glance and smile. To the fair sex Fustov was
      attractive, undoubtedly, but on this subject, of such
      importance among young people, he did not care to enlarge,
      and fully deserved the nickname given him by his comrades,
      'the discreet Don Juan.' I was not dazzled by Fustov; there
      was nothing in him to dazzle, but I prized his affection,
      though in reality it was only manifested by his never
      refusing to see me when I called. To my mind Fustov was the
      happiest man in the world. His life ran so very smoothly. His
      mother, brothers, sisters, aunts, and uncles all adored him,
      he was on exceptionally good terms with all of them, and
      enjoyed the reputation of a paragon in his family.
    </p>
    <h3>
      IV
    </h3>
    <p>
      One day I went round to him rather early and did not find him
      in his study. He called to me from the next room; sounds of
      panting and splashing reached me from there. Every morning
      Fustov took a cold shower-bath and afterwards for a quarter
      of an hour practised gymnastic exercises, in which he had
      attained remarkable proficiency. Excessive anxiety about
      one's physical health he did not approve of, but he did not
      neglect necessary care. ('Don't neglect yourself, don't
      over-excite yourself, work in moderation,' was his precept.)
      Fustov had not yet made his appearance, when the outer door
      of the room where I was waiting flew wide open, and there
      walked in a man about fifty, wearing a bluish uniform. He was
      a stout, squarely-built man with milky-whitish eyes in a
      dark-red face and a perfect cap of thick, grey, curly hair.
      This person stopped short, looked at me, opened his mouth
      wide, and with a metallic chuckle, he gave himself a smart
      slap on his haunch, kicking his leg up in front as he did so.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ivan Demianitch?' my friend inquired through the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The same, at your service,' the new comer responded. 'What
      are you up to? At your toilette? That's right! that's right!'
      (The voice of the man addressed as Ivan Demianitch had the
      same harsh, metallic note as his laugh.) 'I've trudged all
      this way to give your little brother his lesson; and he's got
      a cold, you know, and does nothing but sneeze. He can't do
      his work. So I've looked in on you for a bit to warm myself.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Ivan Demianitch laughed again the same strange guffaw, again
      dealt himself a sounding smack on the leg, and pulling a
      check handkerchief out of his pocket, blew his nose noisily,
      ferociously rolling his eyes, spat into the handkerchief, and
      ejaculated with the whole force of his lungs: 'Tfoo-o-o!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Fustov came into the room, and shaking hands with both of us,
      asked us if we were acquainted.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not a bit of it!' Ivan Demianitch boomed at once: 'the
      veteran of the year twelve has not that honour!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Fustov mentioned my name first, then, indicating the 'veteran
      of the year twelve,' he pronounced: 'Ivan Demianitch Ratsch,
      professor of... various subjects.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Precisely so, various they are, precisely,' Mr. Ratsch
      chimed in. 'Come to think of it, what is there I haven't
      taught, and that I'm not teaching now, for that matter!
      Mathematics and geography and statistics and Italian
      book-keeping, ha-ha ha-ha! and music! You doubt it, my dear
      sir?'&#8212;he pounced suddenly upon me&#8212;'ask Alexander
      Daviditch if I'm not first-rate on the bassoon. I should be a
      poor sort of Bohemian&#8212;Czech, I should say&#8212;if I
      weren't! Yes, sir, I'm a Czech, and my native place is
      ancient Prague! By the way, Alexander Daviditch, why haven't
      we seen you for so long! We ought to have a little duet...
      ha-ha! Really!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I was at your place the day before yesterday, Ivan
      Demianitch,' replied Fustov.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But I call that a long while, ha-ha!'
    </p>
    <p>
      When Mr. Ratsch laughed, his white eyes shifted from side to
      side in a strange, restless way.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You're surprised, young man, I see, at my behaviour,' he
      addressed me again. 'But that's because you don't understand
      my temperament. You must just ask our good friend here,
      Alexander Daviditch, to tell you about me. What'll he tell
      you? He'll tell you old Ratsch is a simple, good-hearted
      chap, a regular Russian, in heart, if not in origin, ha-ha!
      At his christening named Johann Dietrich, but always called
      Ivan Demianitch! What's in my mind pops out on my tongue; I
      wear my heart, as they say, on my sleeve. Ceremony of all
      sorts I know naught about and don't want to neither! Can't
      bear it! You drop in on me one day of an evening, and you'll
      see for yourself. My good woman&#8212;my wife, that
      is&#8212;has no nonsense about her either; she'll cook and
      bake you... something wonderful! Alexander Daviditch, isn't
      it the truth I'm telling?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Fustov only smiled, and I remained silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't look down on the old fellow, but come round,' pursued
      Mr. Ratsch. 'But now...' (he pulled a fat silver watch out of
      his pocket and put it up to one of his goggle eyes)'I'd
      better be toddling on, I suppose. I've another chick
      expecting me.... Devil knows what I'm teaching him,...
      mythology, by God! And he lives a long way off, the rascal,
      at the Red Gate! No matter; I'll toddle off on foot. Thanks
      to your brother's cutting his lesson, I shall be the fifteen
      kopecks for sledge hire to the good! Ha-ha! A very good day
      to you, gentlemen, till we meet again!... Eh?... We must have
      a little duet!' Mr. Ratsch bawled from the passage putting on
      his goloshes noisily, and for the last time we heard his
      metallic laugh.
    </p>
    <h3>
      V
    </h3>
    <p>
      'What a strange man!' I said, turning to Fustov, who had
      already set to work at his turning-lathe. 'Can he be a
      foreigner? He speaks Russian so fluently.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He is a foreigner; only he's been thirty years in Russia. As
      long ago as 1802, some prince or other brought him from
      abroad... in the capacity of secretary... more likely, valet,
      one would suppose. He does speak Russian fluently,
      certainly.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'With such go, such far-fetched turns and phrases,' I put in.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, yes. Only very unnaturally too. They're all like that,
      these Russianised Germans.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But he's a Czech, isn't he?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know; may be. He talks German with his wife.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And why does he call himself a veteran of the year twelve?
      Was he in the militia, or what?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'In the militia! indeed! At the time of the fire he remained
      in Moscow and lost all his property.... That was all he did.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But what did he stay in Moscow for?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Fustov still went on with his turning.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The Lord knows. I have heard that he was a spy on our side;
      but that must be nonsense. But it's a fact that he received
      compensation from the treasury for his losses.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He wears some sort of uniform.... I suppose he's in
      government service then?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes. Professor in the cadet's corps. He has the rank of a
      petty councillor.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What's his wife like?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A German settled here, daughter of a sausagemaker... or
      butcher....'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And do you often go to see him?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What, is it pleasant there?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Rather pleasant.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Has he any children?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes. Three by the German, and a son and daughter by his
      first wife.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And how old is the eldest daughter?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'About five-and-twenty,'
    </p>
    <p>
      I fancied Fustov bent lower over his lathe, and the wheel
      turned more rapidly, and hummed under the even strokes of his
      feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is she good-looking?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's a matter of taste. She has a remarkable face, and
      she's altogether... a remarkable person.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Aha!' thought I. Fustov continued his work with special
      earnestness, and to my next question he only responded by a
      grunt.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I must make her acquaintance,' I decided.
    </p>
    <h3>
      VI
    </h3>
    <p>
      A few days later, Fustov and I set off to Mr. Ratsch's to
      spend the evening. He lived in a wooden house with a big yard
      and garden, in Krivoy Place near the Pretchistensky
      boulevard. He came out into the passage, and meeting us with
      his characteristic jarring guffaw and noise, led us at once
      into the drawing-room, where he presented me to a stout lady
      in a skimpy canvas gown, Eleonora Karpovna, his wife.
      Eleonora Karpovna had most likely in her first youth been
      possessed of what the French for some unknown reason call
      <i>beaut&eacute; du diable</i>, that is to say, freshness;
      but when I made her acquaintance, she suggested involuntarily
      to the mind a good-sized piece of meat, freshly laid by the
      butcher on a clean marble table. Designedly I used the word
      'clean'; not only our hostess herself seemed a model of
      cleanliness, but everything about her, everything in the
      house positively shone, and glittered; everything had been
      scoured, and polished, and washed: the samovar on the round
      table flashed like fire; the curtains before the windows, the
      table-napkins were crisp with starch, as were also the little
      frocks and shirts of Mr. Ratsch's four children sitting
      there, stout, chubby little creatures, exceedingly like their
      mother, with coarsely moulded, sturdy faces, curls on their
      foreheads, and red, shapeless fingers. All the four of them
      had rather flat noses, large, swollen-looking lips, and tiny,
      light-grey eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here's my squadron!' cried Mr. Ratsch, laying his heavy hand
      on the children's heads one after another. 'Kolia, Olga,
      Sashka and Mashka! This one's eight, this one's seven, that
      one's four, and this one's only two! Ha! ha! ha! As you can
      see, my wife and I haven't wasted our time! Eh, Eleonora
      Karpovna?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You always say things like that,' observed Eleonora Karpovna
      and she turned away.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And she's bestowed such Russian names on her squallers!' Mr.
      Ratsch pursued. 'The next thing, she'll have them all
      baptized into the Orthodox Church! Yes, by Jove! She's so
      Slavonic in her sympathies, 'pon my soul, she is, though she
      is of German blood! Eleonora Karpovna, are you Slavonic?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Eleonora Karpovna lost her temper.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm a petty councillor's wife, that's what I am! And so I'm
      a Russian lady and all you may say....'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There, the way she loves Russia, it's simply awful!' broke
      in Ivan Demianitch. 'A perfect volcano, ho, ho!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, and what of it?' pursued Eleonora Karpovna. 'To be
      sure I love Russia, for where else could I obtain noble rank?
      And my children too are nobly born, you know. Kolia, sitze
      ruhig mit den F&uuml;ssen!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Ratsch waved his hand to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There, there, princess, don't excite yourself! But where's
      the nobly born Viktor? To be sure, he's always gadding about!
      He'll come across the inspector one of these fine days! He'll
      give him a talking-to! Das ist ein Bummler, Fiktor!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dem Fiktov kann ich nicht kommandiren, Ivan Demianitch. Sie
      wissen wohl!' grumbled Eleonora Karpovna.
    </p>
    <p>
      I looked at Fustov, as though wishing finally to arrive at
      what induced him to visit such people... but at that instant
      there came into the room a tall girl in a black dress, the
      elder daughter of Mr. Ratsch, to whom Fustov had referred....
      I perceived the explanation of my friend's frequent visits.
    </p>
    <h3>
      VII
    </h3>
    <p>
      There is somewhere, I remember, in Shakespeare, something
      about 'a white dove in a flock of black crows'; that was just
      the impression made on me by the girl, who entered the room.
      Between the world surrounding her and herself there seemed to
      be too little in common; she herself seemed secretly
      bewildered and wondering how she had come there. All the
      members of Mr. Ratsch's family looked self-satisfied,
      simple-hearted, healthy creatures; her beautiful, but already
      careworn, face bore the traces of depression, pride and
      morbidity. The others, unmistakable plebeians, were
      unconstrained in their manners, coarse perhaps, but simple;
      but a painful uneasiness was manifest in all her indubitably
      aristocratic nature. In her very exterior there was no trace
      of the type characteristic of the German race; she recalled
      rather the children of the south. The excessively thick,
      lustreless black hair, the hollow, black, lifeless but
      beautiful eyes, the low, prominent brow, the aquiline nose,
      the livid pallor of the smooth skin, a certain tragic line
      near the delicate lips, and in the slightly sunken cheeks,
      something abrupt, and at the same time helpless in the
      movements, elegance without gracefulness... in Italy all this
      would not have struck me as exceptional, but in Moscow, near
      the Pretchistensky boulevard, it simply astonished me! I got
      up from my seat on her entrance; she flung me a swift, uneasy
      glance, and dropping her black eyelashes, sat down near the
      window 'like Tatiana.' (Pushkin's <i>Oniegin</i> was then
      fresh in every one's mind.) I glanced at Fustov, but my
      friend was standing with his back to me, taking a cup of tea
      from the plump hands of Eleonora Karpovna. I noticed further
      that the girl as she came in seemed to bring with her a
      breath of slight physical chillness.... 'What a statue!' was
      my thought.
    </p>
    <h3>
      VIII
    </h3>
    <p>
      'Piotr Gavrilitch,' thundered Mr. Ratsch, turning to me, 'let
      me introduce you to my... to my... my number one, ha, ha, ha!
      to Susanna Ivanovna!'
    </p>
    <p>
      I bowed in silence, and thought at once: 'Why, the name too
      is not the same sort as the others,' while Susanna rose
      slightly, without smiling or loosening her tightly clasped
      hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And how about the duet?' Ivan Demianitch pursued: 'Alexander
      Daviditch? eh? benefactor! Your zither was left with us, and
      I've got the bassoon out of its case already. Let us make
      sweet music for the honourable company!' (Mr. Ratsch liked to
      display his Russian; he was continually bursting out with
      expressions, such as those which are strewn broadcast about
      the ultra-national poems of Prince Viazemsky.) 'What do you
      say? Carried?' cried Ivan Demianitch, seeing Fustov made no
      objection. 'Kolka, march into the study, and look sharp with
      the music-stand! Olga, this way with the zither! And oblige
      us with candles for the stands, better-half!' (Mr. Ratsch
      turned round and round in the room like a top.) 'Piotr
      Gavrilitch, you like music, hey? If you don't care for it,
      you must amuse yourself with conversation, only mind, not
      above a whisper! Ha, ha ha! But what ever's become of that
      silly chap, Viktor? He ought to be here to listen too! You
      spoil him completely, Eleonora Karpovna.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Eleonora Karpovna fired up angrily.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Aber was kann ich denn, Ivan Demianitch...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'All right, all right, don't squabble! Bleibe ruhig, hast
      verstanden? Alexander Daviditch! at your service, sir!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The children had promptly done as their father had told them.
      The music-stands were set up, the music began. I have already
      mentioned that Fustov played the zither extremely well, but
      that instrument has always produced the most distressing
      impression upon me. I have always fancied, and I fancy still,
      that there is imprisoned in the zither the soul of a decrepit
      Jew money-lender, and that it emits nasal whines and
      complaints against the merciless musician who forces it to
      utter sounds. Mr. Ratsch's performance, too, was not
      calculated to give me much pleasure; moreover, his face
      became suddenly purple, and assumed a malignant expression,
      while his whitish eyes rolled viciously, as though he were
      just about to murder some one with his bassoon, and were
      swearing and threatening by way of preliminary, puffing out
      chokingly husky, coarse notes one after another. I placed
      myself near Susanna, and waiting for a momentary pause, I
      asked her if she were as fond of music as her papa.
    </p>
    <p>
      She turned away, as though I had given her a shove, and
      pronounced abruptly, 'Who?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your father,' I repeated,'Mr. Ratsch.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Ratsch is not my father.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not your father! I beg your pardon... I must have
      misunderstood... But I remember, Alexander Daviditch...'
    </p>
    <p>
      Susanna looked at me intently and shyly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You misunderstood Mr. Fustov. Mr. Ratsch is my stepfather.'
    </p>
    <p>
      I was silent for a while.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And you don't care for music?' I began again.
    </p>
    <p>
      Susanna glanced at me again. Undoubtedly there was something
      suggesting a wild creature in her eyes. She obviously had not
      expected nor desired the continuation of our conversation.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I did not say that,' she brought out slowly.
      'Troo-too-too-too-too-oo-oo...' the bassoon growled with
      startling fury, executing the final flourishes. I turned
      round, caught sight of the red neck of Mr. Ratsch, swollen
      like a boa-constrictor's, beneath his projecting ears, and
      very disgusting I thought him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But that... instrument you surely do not care for,' I said
      in an undertone.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No... I don't care for it,' she responded, as though
      catching my secret hint.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oho!' thought I, and felt, as it were, delighted at
      something.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Susanna Ivanovna,' Eleonora Karpovna announced suddenly in
      her German Russian, 'music greatly loves, and herself very
      beautifully plays the piano, only she likes not to play the
      piano when she is greatly pressed to play.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Susanna made Eleonora Karpovna no reply&#8212;she did not
      even look at her&#8212;only there was a faint movement of her
      eyes, under their dropped lids, in her direction. From this
      movement alone&#8212;this movement of her pupils&#8212;I
      could perceive what was the nature of the feeling Susanna
      cherished for the second wife of her stepfather.... And again
      I was delighted at something.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile the duet was over. Fustov got up and with
      hesitating footsteps approached the window, near which
      Susanna and I were sitting, and asked her if she had received
      from Lengold's the music that he had promised to order her
      from Petersburg.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Selections from <i>Robert le Diable,</i>' he added, turning
      to me, 'from that new opera that every one's making such a
      fuss about.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, I haven't got it yet,' answered Susanna, and turning
      round with her face to the window she whispered hurriedly.
      'Please, Alexander Daviditch, I entreat you, don't make me
      play to-day. I don't feel in the mood a bit.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What's that? Robert le Diable of Meyer-beer?' bellowed Ivan
      Demianitch, coming up to us: 'I don't mind betting it's a
      first-class article! He's a Jew, and all Jews, like all
      Czechs, are born musicians. Especially Jews. That's right,
      isn't it, Susanna Ivanovna? Hey? Ha, ha, ha, ha!'
    </p>
    <p>
      In Mr. Ratsch's last words, and this time even in his guffaw,
      there could be heard something more than his usual bantering
      tone&#8212;the desire to wound was evident. So, at least, I
      fancied, and so Susanna understood him. She started
      instinctively, flushed red, and bit her lower lip. A spot of
      light, like the gleam of a tear, flashed on her eyelash, and
      rising quickly, she went out of the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Where are you off to, Susanna Ivanovna?' Mr. Ratsch bawled
      after her.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Let her be, Ivan Demianitch, 'put in Eleonora Karpovna.
      'Wenn sie einmal so et was im Kopfe hat...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A nervous temperament,'Ratsch pronounced, rotating on his
      heels, and slapping himself on the haunch, 'suffers with the
      <i>plexus solaris.</i> Oh! you needn't look at me like that,
      Piotr Gavrilitch! I've had a go at anatomy too, ha, ha! I'm
      even a bit of a doctor! You ask Eleonora Karpovna... I cure
      all her little ailments! Oh, I'm a famous hand at that!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You must for ever be joking, Ivan Demianitch,' the latter
      responded with displeasure, while Fustov, laughing and
      gracefully swaying to and fro, looked at the husband and
      wife.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And why not be joking, mein M&uuml;tterchen?' retorted Ivan
      Demianitch. 'Life's given us for use, and still more for
      beauty, as some celebrated poet has observed. Kolka, wipe
      your nose, little savage!'
    </p>
    <h3>
      IX
    </h3>
    <p>
      'I was put in a very awkward position this evening through
      your doing,' I said the same evening to Fustov, on the way
      home with him. 'You told me that that girl&#8212;what's her
      name?&#8212;Susanna, was the daughter of Mr. Ratsch, but
      she's his stepdaughter.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Really! Did I tell you she was his daughter? But... isn't it
      all the same?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That Ratsch,' I went on.... 'O Alexander, how I detest him!
      Did you notice the peculiar sneer with which he spoke of Jews
      before her? Is she... a Jewess?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Fustov walked ahead, swinging his arms; it was cold, the snow
      was crisp, like salt, under our feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, I recollect, I did hear something of the sort,' he
      observed at last.... 'Her mother, I fancy, was of Jewish
      extraction.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then Mr. Ratsch must have married a widow the first time?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Probably.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'H'm!... And that Viktor, who didn't come in this evening, is
      his stepson too?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No... he's his real son. But, as you know, I don't enter
      into other people's affairs, and I don't like asking
      questions. I'm not inquisitive.'
    </p>
    <p>
      I bit my tongue. Fustov still pushed on ahead. As we got near
      home, I overtook him and peeped into his face.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh!' I queried, 'is Susanna really so musical?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Fustov frowned.
    </p>
    <p>
      'She plays the piano well, 'he said between his teeth. 'Only
      she's very shy, I warn you!' he added with a slight grimace.
      He seemed to be regretting having made me acquainted with
      her.
    </p>
    <p>
      I said nothing and we parted.
    </p>
    <h3>
      X
    </h3>
    <p>
      Next morning I set off again to Fustov's. To spend my
      mornings at his rooms had become a necessity for me. He
      received me cordially, as usual, but of our visit of the
      previous evening&#8212;not a word! As though he had taken
      water into his mouth, as they say. I began turning over the
      pages of the last number of the <i>Telescope.</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      A person, unknown to me, came into the room. It turned out to
      be Mr. Ratsch's son, the Viktor whose absence had been
      censured by his father the evening before.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was a young man, about eighteen, but already looked
      dissipated and unhealthy, with a mawkishly insolent grin on
      his unclean face, and an expression of fatigue in his swollen
      eyes. He was like his father, only his features were smaller
      and not without a certain prettiness. But in this very
      prettiness there was something offensive. He was dressed in a
      very slovenly way; there were buttons off his undergraduate's
      coat, one of his boots had a hole in it, and he fairly reeked
      of tobacco.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How d'ye do,' he said in a sleepy voice, with those peculiar
      twitchings of the head and shoulders which I have always
      noticed in spoilt and conceited young men. 'I meant to go to
      the University, but here I am. Sort of oppression on my
      chest. Give us a cigar.' He walked right across the room,
      listlessly dragging his feet, and keeping his hands in his
      trouser-pockets, and sank heavily upon the sofa.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Have you caught cold?' asked Fustov, and he introduced us to
      each other. We were both students, but were in different
      faculties.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No!... Likely! Yesterday, I must own...' (here Ratsch junior
      smiled, again not without a certain prettiness, though he
      showed a set of bad teeth) 'I was drunk, awfully drunk.
      Yes'&#8212;he lighted a cigar and cleared his
      throat&#8212;'Obihodov's farewell supper.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Where's he going?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'To the Caucasus, and taking his young lady with him. You
      know the black-eyed girl, with the freckles. Silly fool!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your father was asking after you yesterday,' observed
      Fustov.
    </p>
    <p>
      Viktor spat aside. 'Yes, I heard about it. You were at our
      den yesterday. Well, music, eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'As usual.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And <i>she</i>... with a new visitor' (here he pointed with
      his head in my direction) 'she gave herself airs, I'll be
      bound. Wouldn't play, eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of whom are you speaking?' Fustov asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, of the most honoured Susanna Ivanovna, of course!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Viktor lolled still more comfortably, put his arm up round
      his head, gazed at his own hand, and cleared his throat
      hoarsely.
    </p>
    <p>
      I glanced at Fustov. He merely shrugged his shoulders, as
      though giving me to understand that it was no use talking to
      such a dolt.
    </p>
    <h3>
      XI
    </h3>
    <p>
      Viktor, staring at the ceiling, fell to talking, deliberately
      and through his nose, of the theatre, of two actors he knew,
      of a certain Serafrina Serafrinovna, who had 'made a fool' of
      him, of the new professor, R., whom he called a brute.
      'Because, only fancy, what a monstrous notion! Every lecture
      he begins with calling over the students' names, and he's
      reckoned a liberal too! I'd have all your liberals locked up
      in custody!' and turning at last his full face and whole body
      towards Fustov, he brought out in a half-plaintive,
      half-ironical voice: 'I wanted to ask you something,
      Alexander Daviditch.... Couldn't you talk my governor round
      somehow?... You play duets with him, you know.... Here he
      gives me five miserable blue notes a month.... What's the use
      of that! Not enough for tobacco. And then he goes on about my
      not making debts! I should like to put him in my place, and
      then we should see! I don't come in for pensions, not like
      <i>some people</i>.' (Viktor pronounced these last words with
      peculiar emphasis.) 'But he's got a lot of tin, I know! It's
      no use his whining about hard times, there's no taking me in.
      No fear! He's made a snug little pile!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Fustov looked dubiously at Victor.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If you like,' he began, 'I'll speak to your father. Or, if
      you like... meanwhile... a trifling sum....'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, no! Better get round the governor... Though,' added
      Viktor, scratching his nose with all his fingers at once,
      'you might hand over five-and-twenty roubles, if it's the
      same to you.... What's the blessed total I owe you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You've borrowed eighty-five roubles of me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes.... Well, that's all right, then... make it a hundred
      and ten. I'll pay it all in a lump.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Fustov went into the next room, brought back a
      twenty-five-rouble note and handed it in silence to Viktor.
      The latter took it, yawned with his mouth wide open, grumbled
      thanks, and, shrugging and stretching, got up from the sofa.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Foo! though... I'm bored,' he muttered, 'might as well turn
      in to the "Italie."'
    </p>
    <p>
      He moved towards the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fustov looked after him. He seemed to be struggling with
      himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What pension were you alluding to just now, Viktor
      Ivanitch?' he asked at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      Viktor stopped in the doorway and put on his cap.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, don't you know? Susanna Ivanovna's pension.... She gets
      one. An awfully curious story, I can tell you! I'll tell it
      you one of these days. Quite an affair, 'pon my soul, a queer
      affair. But, I say, the governor, you won't forget about the
      governor, please! His hide is thick, of course&#8212;German,
      and it's had a Russian tanning too, still you can get through
      it. Only, mind my step-mother Elenorka's nowhere about! Dad's
      afraid of her, and she wants to keep everything for her
      brats! But there, you know your way about! Good-bye!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ugh, what a low beast that boy is!' cried Fustov, as soon as
      the door had slammed-to.
    </p>
    <p>
      His face was burning, as though from the fire, and he turned
      away from me. I did not question him, and soon retired.
    </p>
    <h3>
      XII
    </h3>
    <p>
      All that day I spent in speculating about Fustov, about
      Susanna, and about her relations. I had a vague feeling of
      something like a family drama. As far as I could judge, my
      friend was not indifferent to Susanna. But she? Did she care
      for him? Why did she seem so unhappy? And altogether, what
      sort of creature was she? These questions were continually
      recurring to my mind. An obscure but strong conviction told
      me that it would be no use to apply to Fustov for the
      solution of them. It ended in my setting off the next day
      alone to Mr. Ratsch's house.
    </p>
    <p>
      I felt all at once very uncomfortable and confused directly I
      found myself in the dark little passage. 'She won't appear
      even, very likely,' flashed into my mind. 'I shall have to
      stop with the repulsive veteran and his cook of a wife....
      And indeed, even if she does show herself, what of it? She
      won't even take part in the conversation.... She was anything
      but warm in her manner to me the other day. Why ever did I
      come?' While I was making these reflections, the little page
      ran to announce my presence, and in the adjoining room, after
      two or three wondering 'Who is it? Who, do you say?' I heard
      the heavy shuffling of slippers, the folding-door was
      slightly opened, and in the crack between its two halves was
      thrust the face of Ivan Demianitch, an unkempt and
      grim-looking face. It stared at me and its expression did not
      immediately change.... Evidently, Mr. Ratsch did not at once
      recognise me; but suddenly his cheeks grew rounder, his eyes
      narrower, and from his opening mouth, there burst, together
      with a guffaw, the exclamation: 'Ah! my dear sir! Is it you?
      Pray walk in!'
    </p>
    <p>
      I followed him all the more unwillingly, because it seemed to
      me that this affable, good-humoured Mr. Ratsch was inwardly
      wishing me at the devil. There was nothing to be done,
      however. He led me into the drawing-room, and in the
      drawing-room who should be sitting but Susanna, bending over
      an account-book? She glanced at me with her melancholy eyes,
      and very slightly bit the finger-nails of her left hand....
      It was a habit of hers, I noticed, a habit peculiar to
      nervous people. There was no one else in the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You see, sir,' began Mr. Ratsch, dealing himself a smack on
      the haunch, 'what you've found Susanna Ivanovna and me busy
      upon: we're at our accounts. My spouse has no great head for
      arithmetic, and I, I must own, try to spare my eyes. I can't
      read without spectacles, what am I to do? Let the young
      people exert themselves, ha-ha! That's the proper thing. But
      there's no need of haste.... More haste, worse speed in
      catching fleas, he-he!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Susanna closed the book, and was about to leave the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Wait a bit, wait a bit,' began Mr. Ratsch. 'It's no great
      matter if you're not in your best dress....' (Susanna was
      wearing a very old, almost childish, frock with short
      sleeves.) 'Our dear guest is not a stickler for ceremony, and
      I should like just to clear up last week.... You don't
      mind?'&#8212;he addressed me. 'We needn't stand on ceremony
      with you, eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Please don't put yourself out on my account!' I cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      'To be sure, my good friend. As you're aware, the late Tsar
      Alexey Nikolavitch Romanoff used to say, "Time is for
      business, but a minute for recreation!" We'll devote one
      minute only to that same business... ha-ha! What about that
      thirteen roubles and thirty kopecks?' he added in a low
      voice, turning his back on me.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Viktor took it from Eleonora Karpovna; he said that it was
      with your leave,' Susanna replied, also in a low voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He said... he said... my leave...' growled Ivan Demianitch.
      'I'm on the spot myself, I fancy. Might be asked. And who's
      had that seventeen roubles?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The upholsterer.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh... the upholsterer. What's that for?' 'His bill.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'His bill. Show me!' He pulled the book away from Susanna,
      and planting a pair of round spectacles with silver rims on
      his nose, he began passing his finger along the lines. 'The
      upholsterer,.. the upholsterer... You'd chuck all the money
      out of doors! Nothing pleases you better!... Wie die Croaten!
      A bill indeed! But, after all,' he added aloud, and he turned
      round facing me again, and pulled the spectacles off his
      nose, 'why do this now? I can go into these wretched details
      later. Susanna Ivanovna, be so good as to put away that
      account-book, and come back to us and enchant our kind
      guest's ears with your musical accomplishments, to wit,
      playing on the pianoforte... Eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Susanna turned away her head.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I should be very happy,' I hastily observed; 'it would be a
      great pleasure for me to hear Susanna Ivanovna play. But I
      would not for anything in the world be a trouble...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Trouble, indeed, what nonsense! Now then, Susanna Ivanovna,
      eins, zwei, drei!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Susanna made no response, and went out.
    </p>
    <h3>
      XIII
    </h3>
    <p>
      I had not expected her to come back; but she quickly
      reappeared. She had not even changed her dress, and sitting
      down in a corner, she looked twice intently at me. Whether it
      was that she was conscious in my manner to her of the
      involuntary respect, inexplicable to myself, which, more than
      curiosity, more even than sympathy, she aroused in me, or
      whether she was in a softened frame of mind that day, any
      way, she suddenly went to the piano, and laying her hand
      irresolutely on the keys, and turning her head a little over
      her shoulder towards me, she asked what I would like her to
      play. Before I had time to answer she had seated herself,
      taken up some music, hurriedly opened it, and begun to play.
      I loved music from childhood, but at that time I had but
      little comprehension of it, and very slight knowledge of the
      works of the great masters, and if Mr. Ratsch had not
      grumbled with some dissatisfaction, 'Aha! wieder dieser
      Beethoven!' I should not have guessed what Susanna had
      chosen. It was, as I found out afterwards, the celebrated
      sonata in F minor, opus 57. Susanna's playing impressed me
      more than I can say; I had not expected such force, such
      fire, such bold execution. At the very first bars of the
      intensely passionate allegro, the beginning of the sonata, I
      felt that numbness, that chill and sweet terror of ecstasy,
      which instantaneously enwrap the soul when beauty bursts with
      sudden flight upon it. I did not stir a limb till the very
      end. I kept, wanting&#8212;and not daring&#8212;to sigh. I
      was sitting behind Susanna; I could not see her face; I saw
      only from time to time her long dark hair tossed up and down
      on her shoulders, her figure swaying impulsively, and her
      delicate arms and bare elbows swiftly, and rather angularly,
      moving. The last notes died away. I sighed at last. Susanna
      still sat before the piano.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ja, ja,' observed Mr. Ratsch, who had also, however,
      listened with attention; 'romantische Musik! That's all the
      fashion nowadays. Only, why not play correctly? Eh? Put your
      finger on two notes at once&#8212;what's that for? Eh? To be
      sure, all we care for is to go quickly, quickly! Turns it out
      hotter, eh? Hot pancakes!' he bawled like a street seller.
    </p>
    <p>
      Susanna turned slightly towards Mr. Ratsch. I caught sight of
      her face in profile. The delicate eyebrow rose high above the
      downcast eyelid, an unsteady flush overspread the cheek, the
      little ear was red under the lock pushed behind it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have heard all the best performers with my own ears,'
      pursued Mr. Ratsch, suddenly frowning, 'and compared with the
      late Field they were all&#8212;tfoo! nil! zero!! Das war ein
      Kerl! Und ein so reines Spiel! And his own compositions the
      finest things! But all those now "tloo-too-too," and
      "tra-ta-ta," are written, I suppose, more for beginners. Da
      braucht man keine Delicatesse! Bang the keys anyhow... no
      matter! It'll turn out some how! Janitscharen Musik! Pugh!'
      (Ivan Demianitch wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.)
      'But I don't say that for you, Susanna Ivanovna; you played
      well, and oughtn't to be hurt by my remarks.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Every one has his own taste,' Susanna said in a low voice,
      and her lips were trembling; 'but your remarks, Ivan
      Demianitch, you know, cannot hurt me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! of course not! Only don't you imagine'&#8212;Mr. Ratsch
      turned to me&#8212;'don't you imagine, my young friend, that
      that comes from our excessive good-nature and meekness of
      spirit; it's simply that we fancy ourselves so highly exalted
      that&#8212;oo-oo!&#8212;we can't keep our cap on our head, as
      the Russian proverb says, and, of course, no criticism can
      touch us. The conceit, my dear sir, the conceit!'
    </p>
    <p>
      I listened in surprise to Mr. Ratsch. Spite, the bitterest
      spite, seemed as it were boiling over in every word he
      uttered.... And long it must have been rankling! It choked
      him. He tried to conclude his tirade with his usual laugh,
      and fell into a husky, broken cough instead. Susanna did not
      let drop a syllable in reply to him, only she shook her head,
      raised her face, and clasping her elbows with her hands,
      stared straight at him. In the depths of her fixed, wide-open
      eyes the hatred of long years lay smouldering with dim,
      unquenchable fire. I felt ill at ease.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You belong to two different musical generations,' I began,
      with an effort at lightness, wishing by this lightness to
      suggest that I noticed nothing, 'and so it is not surprising
      that you do not agree in your opinions.... But, Ivan
      Demianitch, you must allow me to take rather... the side of
      the younger generation. I'm an outsider, of course; but I
      must confess nothing in music has ever made such an
      impression on me as the... as what Susanna Ivanovna has just
      played us.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Ratsch pounced at once upon me.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And what makes you suppose,' he roared, still purple from
      the fit of coughing, 'that we want to enlist you on our side?
      We don't want that at all! Freedom for the free, salvation
      for the saved! But as to the two generations, that's right
      enough; we old folks find it hard to get on with you young
      people, very hard! Our ideas don't agree in anything: neither
      in art, nor in life, nor even in morals; do they, Susanna
      Ivanovna?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Susanna smiled a contemptuous smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Especially in regard to morals, as you say, our ideas do not
      agree, and cannot agree,' she responded, and something
      menacing seemed to flit over her brows, while her lips were
      faintly trembling as before.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of course! of course!' Ratsch broke in, 'I'm not a
      philosopher! I'm not capable of... rising so superior! I'm a
      plain man, swayed by prejudices&#8212;oh yes!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Susanna smiled again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think, Ivan Demianitch, you too have sometimes been able
      to place yourself above what are called prejudices.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Wie so? How so, I mean? I don't know what you mean.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You don't know what I mean? Your memory's so bad!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Ratsch seemed utterly taken aback.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I... I...' he repeated, 'I...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, you, Mr. Ratsch.'
    </p>
    <p>
      There followed a brief silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Really, upon my word...' Mr. Ratsch was beginning; 'how dare
      you... such insolence...'
    </p>
    <p>
      Susanna all at once drew herself up to her full height, and
      still holding her elbows, squeezing them tight, drumming on
      them with her fingers, she stood still facing Ratsch. She
      seemed to challenge him to conflict, to stand up to meet him.
      Her face was changed; it became suddenly, in one instant,
      extraordinarily beautiful, and terrible too; a sort of
      bright, cold brilliance&#8212;the brilliance of
      steel&#8212;gleamed in her lustreless eyes; the lips that had
      been quivering were compressed in one straight, mercilessly
      stern line. Susanna challenged Ratsch, but he gazed blankly,
      and suddenly subsiding into silence, all of a heap, so to
      say, drew his head in, even stepped back a pace. The veteran
      of the year twelve was afraid; there could be no mistake
      about that.
    </p>
    <p>
      Susanna slowly turned her eyes from him to me, as though
      calling upon me to witness her victory, and the humiliation
      of her foe, and, smiling once more, she walked out of the
      room.
    </p>
    <p>
      The veteran remained a little while motionless in his
      arm-chair; at last, as though recollecting a forgotten part,
      he roused himself, got up, and, slapping me on the shoulder,
      laughed his noisy guffaw.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There, 'pon my soul! fancy now, it's over ten years I've
      been living with that young lady, and yet she never can see
      when I'm joking, and when I'm in earnest! And you too, my
      young friend, are a little puzzled, I do believe....
      Ha-ha-ha! That's because you don't know old Ratsch!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No.... I do know you now,' I thought, not without a feeling
      of some alarm and disgust.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You don't know the old fellow, you don't know him,' he
      repeated, stroking himself on the stomach, as he accompanied
      me into the passage. 'I may be a tiresome person, knocked
      about by life, ha-ha! But I'm a good-hearted fellow, 'pon my
      soul, I am!'
    </p>
    <p>
      I rushed headlong from the stairs into the street. I longed
      with all speed to get away from that good-hearted fellow.
    </p>
    <h3>
      XIV
    </h3>
    <p>
      'They hate one another, that's clear,' I thought, as I
      returned homewards; 'there's no doubt either that he's a
      wretch of a man, and she's a good girl. But what has there
      been between them? What is the reason of this continual
      exasperation? What was the meaning of those hints? And how
      suddenly it broke out! On such a trivial pretext!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Next day Fustov and I had arranged to go to the theatre, to
      see Shtchepkin in 'Woe from Wit.' Griboyedov's comedy had
      only just been licensed for performance after being first
      disfigured by the censors' mutilations. We warmly applauded
      Famusov and Skalozub. I don't remember what actor took the
      part of Tchatsky, but I well remember that he was
      indescribably bad. He made his first appearance in a
      Hungarian jacket, and boots with tassels, and came on later
      in a frockcoat of the colour 'flamme du punch,' then in
      fashion, and the frockcoat looked about as suitable as it
      would have done on our old butler. I recollect too that we
      were all in ecstasies over the ball in the third act. Though,
      probably, no one ever executed such steps in reality, it was
      accepted as correct and I believe it is acted in just the
      same way to-day. One of the guests hopped excessively high,
      while his wig flew from side to side, and the public roared
      with laughter. As we were coming out of the theatre, we
      jostled against Viktor in a corridor.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You were in the theatre!' he cried, flinging his arms about.
      'How was it I didn't see you? I'm awfully glad I met you. You
      must come and have supper with me. Come on; I'll stand the
      supper!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Young Ratsch seemed in an excited, almost ecstatic, frame of
      mind. His little eyes darted to and fro; he was grinning, and
      there were spots of red on his face.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why this gleefulness?' asked Fustov.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why? Wouldn't you like to know, eh?' Viktor drew us a little
      aside, and pulling out of his trouser-pocket a whole bundle
      of the red and blue notes then in use waved them in the air.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fustov was surprised.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Has your governor been so liberal?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Viktor chuckled.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He liberal! You just try it on!... This morning, relying on
      your intercession, I asked him for cash. What do you suppose
      the old skinflint answered? "I'll pay your debts," says he,
      "if you like. Up to twenty-five roubles inclusive!" Do you
      hear, inclusive! No, sir, this was a gift from God in my
      destitution. A lucky chance.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Been robbing someone?' Fustov hazarded carelessly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Viktor frowned.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Robbing, no indeed! I won it, won it from an officer, a
      guardsman. He only arrived from Petersburg yesterday. Such a
      chain of circumstances! It's worth telling... only this isn't
      the place. Come along to Yar's; not a couple of steps. I'll
      stand the show, as I said!'
    </p>
    <p>
      We ought, perhaps, to have refused; but we followed without
      making any objection.
    </p>
    <h3>
      XV
    </h3>
    <p>
      At Yar's we were shown into a private room; supper was
      served, champagne was brought. Viktor related to us, omitting
      no detail, how he had in a certain 'gay' house met this
      officer of the guards, a very nice chap and of good family,
      only without a hap'orth of brains; how they had made friends,
      how he, the officer that is, had suggested as a joke a game
      of 'fools' with Viktor with some old cards, for next to
      nothing, and with the condition that the officer's winnings
      should go to the benefit of Wilhelmina, but Viktor's to his
      own benefit; how afterwards they had got on to betting on the
      games.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And I, and I,' cried Viktor, and he jumped up and clapped
      his hands, 'I hadn't more than six roubles in my pocket all
      the while. Fancy! And at first I was completely cleaned
      out.... A nice position! Only then&#8212;in answer to whose
      prayers I can't say&#8212;fortune smiled. The other fellow
      began to get hot and kept showing all his cards.... In no
      time he'd lost seven hundred and fifty roubles! He began
      begging me to go on playing, but I'm not quite a fool, I
      fancy; no, one mustn't abuse such luck; I popped on my hat
      and cut away. So now I've no need to eat humble pie with the
      governor, and can treat my friends.... Hi waiter! Another
      bottle! Gentlemen, let's clink glasses!'
    </p>
    <p>
      We did clink glasses with Viktor, and continued drinking and
      laughing with him, though his story was by no means to our
      liking, nor was his society a source of any great
      satisfaction to us either. He began being very affable,
      playing the buffoon, unbending, in fact, and was more
      loathsome than ever. Viktor noticed at last the impression he
      was making on us, and began to get sulky; his remarks became
      more disconnected and his looks gloomier. He began yawning,
      announced that he was sleepy, and after swearing with his
      characteristic coarseness at the waiter for a badly cleaned
      pipe, he suddenly accosted Fustov, with a challenging
      expression on his distorted face.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I say, Alexander Daviditch,' said he, 'you tell me, if you
      please, what do you look down on me for?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'How so?' My friend was momentarily at a loss for a reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll tell you how.... I'm very well aware that you look down
      on me, and that person does too' (he pointed at me with his
      finger), 'so there! As though you were yourself remarkable
      for such high and exalted principles, and weren't just as
      much a sinner as the rest of us. Worse even. Still waters...
      you know the proverb?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Fustov turned rather red.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What do you mean by that?' he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, I mean that I'm not blind yet, and I see very clearly
      everything that's going on under my nose.... And I have
      nothing against it: first it's not my principle to interfere,
      and secondly, my sister Susanna Ivanovna hasn't always been
      so exemplary herself.... Only, why look down on me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You don't understand what you're babbling there yourself!
      You're drunk,' said Fustov, taking his overcoat from the
      wall. 'He's swindled some fool of his money, and now he's
      telling all sorts of lies!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Viktor continued reclining on the sofa, and merely swung his
      legs, which were hanging over its arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Swindled! Why did you drink the wine, then? It was paid for
      with the money I won, you know. As for lies, I've no need for
      lying. It's not my fault that in her past Susanna
      Ivanovna...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hold your tongue!' Fustov shouted at him, 'hold your
      tongue... or...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Or what?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You'll find out what. Come along, Piotr.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Aha!' pursued Viktor; 'our noble-hearted knight takes refuge
      in flight. He doesn't care to hear the truth, that's evident!
      It stings&#8212;the truth does, it seems!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come along, Piotr,' Fustov repeated, completely losing his
      habitual coolness and self-possession.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Let's leave this wretch of a boy!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The boy's not afraid of you, do you hear,' Viktor shouted
      after us, 'he despises you, the boy does! Do you hear!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Fustov walked so quickly along the street that I had
      difficulty in keeping up with him. All at once he stopped
      short and turned sharply back.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Where are you going?' I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, I must find out what the idiot.... He's drunk, no doubt,
      God knows what.... Only don't you follow me... we shall see
      each other to-morrow. Good-bye!'
    </p>
    <p>
      And hurriedly pressing my hand, Fustov set off towards Yar's
      hotel.
    </p>
    <p>
      Next day I missed seeing Fustov; and on the day after that,
      on going to his rooms, I learned that he had gone into the
      country to his uncle's, near Moscow. I inquired if he had
      left no note for me, but no note was forth-coming. Then I
      asked the servant whether he knew how long Alexander
      Daviditch would be away in the country. 'A fortnight, or a
      little more, probably,' replied the man. I took at any rate
      Fustov's exact address, and sauntered home, meditating
      deeply. This unexpected absence from Moscow, in the winter,
      completed my utter perplexity. My good aunt observed to me at
      dinner that I seemed continually expecting something, and
      gazed at the cabbage pie as though I were beholding it for
      the first time in my life. 'Pierre, vous n'&ecirc;tes pas
      amoureux?' she cried at last, having previously got rid of
      her companions. But I reassured her: no, I was not in love.
    </p>
    <h3>
      XVI
    </h3>
    <p>
      Three days passed. I had a secret prompting to go to the
      Ratschs'. I fancied that in their house I should be sure to
      find a solution of all that absorbed my mind, that I could
      not make out.... But I should have had to meet the
      veteran.... That thought pulled me up. One tempestuous
      evening&#8212;the February wind was howling angrily outside,
      the frozen snow tapped at the window from time to time like
      coarse sand flung by a mighty hand&#8212;I was sitting in my
      room, trying to read. My servant came, and, with a mysterious
      air, announced that a lady wished to see me. I was
      surprised... ladies did not visit me, especially at such a
      late hour; however, I told him to show her in. The door
      opened and with swift step there walked in a woman, muffled
      up in a light summer cloak and a yellow shawl. Abruptly she
      cast off the cloak and the shawl, which were covered with
      snow, and I saw standing before me Susanna. I was so
      astonished that I did not utter a word, while she went up to
      the window, and leaning her shoulder against the wall,
      remained motionless; only her bosom heaved convulsively and
      her eyes moved restlessly, and the breath came with a faint
      moan from her white lips. I realised that it was no slight
      trouble that had brought her to me; I realised, for all my
      youth and shallowness, that at that instant before my eyes
      the fate of a whole life was being decided&#8212;a bitter and
      terrible fate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Susanna Ivanovna,' I began, 'how...'
    </p>
    <p>
      She suddenly clutched my hand in her icy fingers, but her
      voice failed her. She gave a broken sigh and looked down. Her
      heavy coils of black hair fell about her face.... The snow
      had not melted from off it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Please, calm yourself, sit down,' I began again, 'see here,
      on the sofa. What has happened? Sit down, I entreat you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' she articulated, scarcely audibly, and she sank on to
      the window-seat. 'I am all right here.... Let me be.... You
      could not expect... but if you knew... if I could... if...'
    </p>
    <p>
      She tried to control herself, but the tears flowed from her
      eyes with a violence that shook her, and sobs, hurried,
      devouring sobs, filled the room. I felt a tightness at my
      heart.... I was utterly stupefied. I had seen Susanna only
      twice; I had conjectured that she had a hard life, but I had
      regarded her as a proud girl, of strong character, and all at
      once these violent, despairing tears.... Mercy! Why, one only
      weeps like that in the presence of death!
    </p>
    <p>
      I stood like one condemned to death myself.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Excuse me,' she said at last, several times, almost angrily,
      wiping first one eye, then the other. 'It'll soon be over.
      I've come to you....' She was still sobbing, but without
      tears. 'I've come.... You know that Alexander Daviditch has
      gone away?'
    </p>
    <p>
      In this single question Susanna revealed everything, and she
      glanced at me, as though she would say: 'You understand, of
      course, you will have pity, won't you?' Unhappy girl! There
      was no other course left her then!
    </p>
    <p>
      I did not know what answer to make....
    </p>
    <p>
      'He has gone away, he has gone away... he believed him!'
      Susanna was saying meanwhile. 'He did not care even to
      question me; he thought I should not tell him all the truth,
      he could think that of me! As though I had ever deceived
      him!'
    </p>
    <p>
      She bit her lower lip, and bending a little, began to scratch
      with her nail the patterns of ice that covered the
      window-pane. I went hastily into the next room, and sending
      my servant away, came back at once and lighted another
      candle. I had no clear idea why I was doing all this.... I
      was greatly overcome. Susanna was sitting as before on the
      window-seat, and it was at this moment that I noticed how
      lightly she was dressed: a grey gown with white buttons and a
      broad leather belt, that was all. I went up to her, but she
      did not take any notice of me.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He believed it,... he believed it,' she whispered, swaying
      softly from side to side. 'He did not hesitate, he dealt me
      this last... last blow!' She turned suddenly to me. 'You know
      his address?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, Susanna Ivanovna.. I learnt it from his servants... at
      his house. He told me nothing of his intention; I had not
      seen him for two days&#8212;went to inquire and he had
      already left Moscow.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You know his address?' she repeated. 'Well, write to him
      then that he has killed me. You are a good man, I know. He
      did not talk to you of me, I dare say, but he talked to me
      about you. Write... ah, write to him to come back quickly, if
      he wants to find me alive!... No! He will not find me!...'
    </p>
    <p>
      Susanna's voice grew quieter at each word, and she was
      quieter altogether. But this calm seemed to me more awful
      than the previous sobs.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He believed him,...' she said again, and rested her chin on
      her clasped hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      A sudden squall of wind beat upon the window with a sharp
      whistle and a thud of snow. A cold draught passed over the
      room.... The candles flickered.... Susanna shivered. Again I
      begged her to sit on the sofa.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no, let me be,' she answered, 'I am all right here.
      Please.' She huddled up to the frozen pane, as though she had
      found herself a refuge in the recesses of the window.
      'Please.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But you're shivering, you're frozen,' I cried, 'Look, your
      shoes are soaked.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Let me be... please...' she whispered,. and closed her eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      A panic seized me.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Susanna Ivanovna!' I almost screamed: 'do rouse yourself, I
      entreat you! What is the matter with you? Why such despair?
      You will see, every thing will be cleared up, some
      misunderstanding... some unlooked-for chance.... You will
      see, he will soon be back. I will let him know.... I will
      write to him to-day.... But I will not repeat your words....
      Is it possible!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He will not find me,' Susanna murmured, still in the same
      subdued voice. 'Do you suppose I would have come here, to
      you, to a stranger, if I had not known I should not long be
      living? Ah, all my past has been swept away beyond return!
      You see, I could not bear to die so, in solitude, in silence,
      without saying to some one, "I've lost every thing... and I'm
      dying.... Look!"'
    </p>
    <p>
      She drew back into her cold little corner.... Never shall I
      forget that head, those fixed eyes with their deep, burnt-out
      look, those dark, disordered tresses against the pale
      window-pane, even the grey, narrow gown, under every fold of
      which throbbed such young, passionate life!
    </p>
    <p>
      Unconsciously I flung up my hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You... you die, Susanna Ivanovna! You have only to live....
      You must live!'
    </p>
    <p>
      She looked at me.... My words seemed to surprise her.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah, you don't know,' she began, and she softly dropped both
      her hands. 'I cannot live, Too much, too much I have had to
      suffer, too much! I lived through it.... I hoped... but
      now... when even this is shattered... when...'
    </p>
    <p>
      She raised her eyes to the ceiling and seemed to sink into
      thought. The tragic line, which I had once noticed about her
      lips, came out now still more clearly; it seemed to spread
      across her whole face. It seemed as though some relentless
      hand had drawn it immutably, had set a mark for ever on this
      lost soul.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was still silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Susanna Ivanovna,' I said, to break that awful silence with
      anything; 'he will come back, I assure you!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Susanna looked at me again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What do you say?' she enunciated with visible effort.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He will come back, Susanna Ivanovna, Alexander will come
      back!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He will come back?' she repeated. 'But even if he did come
      back, I cannot forgive him this humiliation, this lack of
      faith....'
    </p>
    <p>
      She clutched at her head.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My God! my God! what am I saying, and why am I here? What is
      it all? What... what did I come to ask... and whom? Ah, I am
      going mad!...'
    </p>
    <p>
      Her eyes came to a rest.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You wanted to ask me to write to Alexander,' I made haste to
      remind her.
    </p>
    <p>
      She started.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, write, write to him... what you like.... And here...'
      She hurriedly fumbled in her pocket and brought out a little
      manuscript book. 'This I was writing for him... before he ran
      away.... But he believed... he believed him!'
    </p>
    <p>
      I understood that her words referred to Viktor; Susanna would
      not mention him, would not utter his detested name.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But, Susanna Ivanovna, excuse me,' I began, 'what makes you
      suppose that Alexander Daviditch had any conversation... with
      that person?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What? Why, he himself came to me and told me all about it,
      and bragged of it... and laughed just as his father laughs!
      Here, here, take it,' she went on, thrusting the manuscript
      into my hand, 'read it, send it to him, burn it, throw it
      away, do what you like, as you please.... But I can't die
      like this with no one knowing.... Now it is time.... I must
      go.'
    </p>
    <p>
      She got up from the window-seat.... I stopped her.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Where are you going, Susanna Ivanovna, mercy on us! Listen,
      what a storm is raging! You are so lightly dressed.... And
      your home is not near here. Let me at least go for a
      carriage, for a sledge....'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no, I want nothing,' she said resolutely, repelling me
      and taking up her cloak and shawl. 'Don't keep me, for God's
      sake! or... I can't answer for anything! I feel an abyss, a
      dark abyss under my feet.... Don't come near me, don't touch
      me!' With feverish haste she put on her cloak, arranged her
      shawl.... 'Good-bye... good-bye.... Oh, my unhappy people,
      for ever strangers, a curse lies upon us! No one has ever
      cared for me, was it likely he...' She suddenly ceased. 'No;
      one man loved me,' she began again, wringing her hands, 'but
      death is all about me, death and no escape! Now it is my
      turn.... Don't come after me,' she cried shrilly. 'Don't
      come! don't come!'
    </p>
    <p>
      I was petrified, while she rushed out; and an instant later,
      I heard the slam downstairs of the heavy street door, and the
      window panes shook again under the violent onslaught of the
      blast.
    </p>
    <p>
      I could not quickly recover myself. I was only beginning life
      in those days: I had had no experience of passion nor of
      suffering, and had rarely witnessed any manifestation of
      strong feeling in others.... But the sincerity of this
      suffering, of this passion, impressed me. If it had not been
      for the manuscript in my hands, I might have thought that I
      had dreamed it all&#8212;it was all so unlikely, and swooped
      by like a passing storm. I was till midnight reading the
      manuscript. It consisted of several sheets of letter-paper,
      closely covered with a large, irregular writing, almost
      without an erasure. Not a single line was quite straight, and
      one seemed in every one of them to feel the excited trembling
      of the hand that held the pen. Here follows what was in the
      manuscript. I have kept it to this day.
    </p>
    <h3>
      XVII
    </h3>
    <h4>
      MY STORY
    </h4>
    <p>
      I am this year twenty-eight years old. Here are my earliest
      recollections; I was living in the Tambov province, in the
      country house of a rich landowner, Ivan Matveitch Koltovsky,
      in a small room on the second storey. With me lived my
      mother, a Jewess, daughter of a dead painter, who had come
      from abroad, a woman always ailing, with an extraordinarily
      beautiful face, pale as wax, and such mournful eyes, that
      sometimes when she gazed long at me, even without looking at
      her, I was aware of her sorrowful, sorrowful eyes, and I
      would burst into tears and rush to embrace her. I had tutors
      come to me; I had music lessons, and was called 'miss.' I
      dined at the master's table together with my mother. Mr.
      Koltovsky was a tall, handsome old man with a stately manner;
      he always smelt of <i>ambre</i>. I stood in mortal terror of
      him, though he called me Suzon and gave me his dry, sinewy
      hand to kiss under its lace-ruffles. With my mother he was
      elaborately courteous, but he talked little even with her. He
      would say two or three affable words, to which she promptly
      made a hurried answer; and he would be silent and sit looking
      about him with dignity, and slowly picking up a pinch of
      Spanish snuff from his round, golden snuff-box with the arms
      of the Empress Catherine on it.
    </p>
    <p>
      My ninth year has always remained vivid in my memory.... I
      learnt then, from the maids in the servants' room, that Ivan
      Matveitch Koltovsky was my father, and almost on the same
      day, my mother, by his command, was married to Mr. Ratsch,
      who was something like a steward to him. I was utterly unable
      to comprehend the possibility of such a thing, I was
      bewildered, I was almost ill, my brain suffered under the
      strain, my mind was overclouded. 'Is it true, is it true,
      mamma,' I asked her, 'that scented bogey' (that was my name
      for Ivan Matveitch) 'is my father?' My mother was terribly
      scared, she shut my mouth.... 'Never speak to any one of
      that, do you hear, Susanna, do you hear, not a word!'... she
      repeated in a shaking voice, pressing my head to her
      bosom.... And I never did speak to any one of it.... That
      prohibition of my mother's I understood.... I understood that
      I must be silent, that my mother begged my forgiveness!
    </p>
    <p>
      My unhappiness began from that day. Mr. Ratsch did not love
      my mother, and she did not love him. He married her for
      money, and she was obliged to submit. Mr. Koltovsky probably
      considered that in this way everything had been arranged for
      the best, <i>la position &eacute;tait
      r&eacute;gularis&eacute;e</i>. I remember the day before the
      marriage my mother and I&#8212;both locked in each other's
      arms&#8212;wept almost the whole morning&#8212;bitterly,
      bitterly&#8212;and silently. It is not strange that she was
      silent.... What could she say to me? But that I did not
      question her shows that unhappy children learn wisdom sooner
      than happy ones... to their cost.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Koltovsky continued to interest himself in my education,
      and even by degrees put me on a more intimate footing. He did
      not talk to me... but morning and evening, after flicking the
      snuff from his jabot with two fingers, he would with the same
      two fingers&#8212;always icy cold&#8212;pat me on the cheek
      and give me some sort of dark-coloured sweetmeats, also
      smelling of <i>ambre</i>, which I never ate. At twelve years
      old I became his reader&#8212;-<i>sa petite lectrice</i>. I
      read him French books of the last century, the memoirs of
      Saint Simon, of Mably, Renal, Helvetius, Voltaire's
      correspondence, the encyclopedists, of course without
      understanding a word, even when, with a smile and a grimace,
      he ordered me, 'relire ce dernier paragraphe, qui est bien
      remarquable!' Ivan Matveitch was completely a Frenchman. He
      had lived in Paris till the Revolution, remembered Marie
      Antoinette, and had received an invitation to Trianon to see
      her. He had also seen Mirabeau, who, according to his
      account, wore very large
      buttons&#8212;<i>exag&eacute;r&eacute; en tout</i>, and was
      altogether a man of <i>mauvais ton, en d&eacute;pit de sa
      naissance!</i> Ivan Matveitch, however, rarely talked of that
      time; but two or three times a year, addressing himself to
      the crooked old emigrant whom he had taken into his house,
      and called for some unknown reason 'M. le Commandeur,' he
      recited in his deliberate, nasal voice, the impromptu he had
      once delivered at a soiree of the Duchesse de Polignac. I
      remember only the first two lines.... It had reference to a
      comparison between the Russians and the French:
    </p>
    <pre>
  'L'aigle se plait aux regions aust&egrave;res
   Ou le ramier ne saurait habiter...'
</pre>
    <p>
      'Digne de M. de Saint Aulaire!' M. le Commandeur would every
      time exclaim.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ivan Matveitch looked youngish up to the time of his death:
      his cheeks were rosy, his teeth white, his eyebrows thick and
      immobile, his eyes agreeable and expressive, clear, black
      eyes, perfect agate. He was not at all unreasonable, and was
      very courteous with every one, even with the servants....
      But, my God! how wretched I was with him, with what joy I
      always left him, what evil thoughts confounded me in his
      presence! Ah, I was not to blame for them!... I was not to
      blame for what they had made of me....
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Ratsch was, after his marriage, assigned a lodge not far
      from the big house. I lived there with my mother. It was a
      cheerless life I led there. She soon gave birth to a son,
      Viktor, this same Viktor whom I have every right to think and
      to call my enemy. From the time of his birth my mother never
      regained her health, which had always been weak. Mr. Ratsch
      did not think fit in those days to keep up such a show of
      good spirits as he maintains now: he always wore a morose air
      and tried to pass for a busy, hard-working person. To me he
      was cruel and rude. I felt relief when I retired from Ivan
      Matveitch's presence; but my own home too I was glad to
      leave.... Unhappy was my youth! For ever tossed from one
      shore to the other, with no desire to anchor at either! I
      would run across the courtyard in winter, through the deep
      snow, in a thin frock&#8212;run to the big house to read to
      Ivan Matveitch, and as it were be glad to go.... But when I
      was there, when I saw those great cheerless rooms, the
      bright-coloured, upholstered furniture, that courteous and
      heartless old man in the open silk wadded jacket, in the
      white jabot and white cravat, with lace ruffles falling over
      his fingers, with a <i>soup&ccedil;on</i> of powder (so his
      valet expressed it) on his combed-back hair, I felt choked by
      the stifling scent of <i>ambre</i>, and my heart sank. Ivan
      Matveitch usually sat in a large low chair; on the wall
      behind his head hung a picture, representing a young woman,
      with a bright and bold expression of face, dressed in a
      sumptuous Hebrew costume, and simply covered with precious
      stones, with diamonds.... I often stole a glance at this
      picture, but only later on I learned that it was the portrait
      of my mother, painted by her father at Ivan Matveitch's
      request. She had changed indeed since those days! Well had he
      succeeded in subduing and crushing her! 'And she loved him!
      Loved that old man!' was my thought.... 'How could it be!
      Love him!' And yet, when I recalled some of my mother's
      glances, some half-uttered phrases and unconscious
      gestures.... 'Yes, yes, she did love him!' I repeated with
      horror. Ah, God, spare others from knowing aught of such
      feelings!
    </p>
    <p>
      Every day I read to Ivan Matveitch, sometimes for three or
      four hours together.... So much reading in such a loud voice
      was harmful to me. Our doctor was anxious about my lungs and
      even once communicated his fears to Ivan Matveitch. But the
      old man only smiled&#8212;no; he never smiled, but somehow
      sharpened and moved forward his lips&#8212;and told him:
      'Vous ne savez pas ce qu'il y a de ressources dans cette
      jeunesse.' 'In former years, however, M. le Commandeur,'...
      the doctor ventured to observe. Ivan Matveitch smiled as
      before. 'Vous r&ecirc;vez, mon cher,' he interposed: 'le
      commandeur n'a plus de dents, et il crache &agrave; chaque
      mot. J'aime les voix jeunes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      And I still went on reading, though my cough was very
      troublesome in the mornings and at night.... Sometimes Ivan
      Matveitch made me play the piano. But music always had a
      soporific influence on his nerves. His eyes closed at once,
      his head nodded in time, and only rarely I heard, 'C'est du
      Steibelt, n'est-ce pas? Jouez-moi du Steibelt!' Ivan
      Matveitch looked upon Steibelt as a great genius, who had
      succeeded in overcoming in himself 'la grossi&egrave;re
      lourdeur des Allemands,' and only found fault with him for
      one thing: 'trop de fougue! trop d'imagination!'... When Ivan
      Matveitch noticed that I was tired from playing he would
      offer me 'du cachou de Bologne.' So day after day slipped
      by....
    </p>
    <p>
      And then one night&#8212;a night never to be
      forgotten!&#8212;a terrible calamity fell upon me. My mother
      died almost suddenly. I was only just fifteen. Oh, what a
      sorrow that was, with what cruel violence it swooped down
      upon me! How terrified I was at that first meeting with
      death! My poor mother! Strange were our relations; we
      passionately loved each other... passionately and hopelessly;
      we both as it were treasured up and hid from each other our
      common secret, kept obstinately silent about it, though we
      knew all that was passing at the bottom of our hearts! Even
      of the past, of her own early past, my mother never spoke to
      me, and she never complained in words, though her whole being
      was nothing but one dumb complaint. We avoided all
      conversation of any seriousness. Alas! I kept hoping that the
      hour would come, and she would open her heart at last, and I
      too should speak out, and both of us would be more at
      ease.... But the daily little cares, her irresolute,
      shrinking temper, illnesses, the presence of Mr. Ratsch, and
      most of all the eternal question,&#8212;what is the use? and
      the relentless, unbroken flowing away of time, of life....
      All was ended as though by a clap of thunder, and the words
      which would have loosed us from the burden of our
      secret&#8212;even the last dying words of
      leave-taking&#8212;I was not destined to hear from my mother!
      All that is left in my memory is Mr. Ratsch's calling,
      'Susanna Ivanovna, go, please, your mother wishes to give you
      her blessing!' and then the pale hand stretched out from the
      heavy counterpane, the agonised breathing, the dying eyes....
      Oh, enough! enough!
    </p>
    <p>
      With what horror, with what indignation and piteous curiosity
      I looked next day, and on the day of the funeral, into the
      face of my father... yes, my father! In my dead mother's
      writing-case were found his letters. I fancied he looked a
      little pale and drawn... but no! Nothing was stirring in that
      heart of stone. Exactly as before, he summoned me to his
      room, a week later; exactly in the same voice he asked me to
      read: 'Si vous le voulez bien, les observations sur
      l'histoire de France de Mably, &agrave; la page 74...
      l&agrave; o&ugrave; nous avons &egrave;t&egrave;
      interrompus.' And he had not even had my mother's portrait
      moved! On dismissing me, he did indeed call me to him, and
      giving me his hand to kiss a second time, he observed:
      'Suzanne, la mort de votre m&egrave;re vous a priv&eacute;e
      de votre appui naturel; mais vous pourrez toujours compter
      sur ma protection,' but with the other hand he gave me at
      once a slight push on the shoulder, and, with the sharpening
      of the corners of the mouth habitual with him, he added,
      'Allez, mon enfant.' I longed to shriek at him: 'Why, but you
      know you're my father!' but I said nothing and left the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Next morning, early, I went to the graveyard. May had come in
      all its glory of flowers and leaves, and a long while I sat
      on the new grave. I did not weep, nor grieve; one thought was
      filling my brain: 'Do you hear, mother? He means to extend
      his protection to me, too!' And it seemed to me that my
      mother ought not to be wounded by the smile which it
      instinctively called up on my lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      At times I wonder what made me so persistently desire to
      wring&#8212;not a confession... no, indeed! but, at least,
      one warm word of kinship from Ivan Matveitch? Didn't I know
      what he was, and how little he was like all that I pictured
      in my dreams as a <i>father</i>!... But I was so lonely, so
      alone on earth! And then, that thought, ever recurring, gave
      me no rest: 'Did not she love him? She must have loved him
      for something?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Three years more slipped by. Nothing changed in the
      monotonous round of life, marked out and arranged for us.
      Viktor was growing into a boy. I was eight years older and
      would gladly have looked after him, but Mr. Ratsch opposed my
      doing so. He gave him a nurse, who had orders to keep strict
      watch that the child was not 'spoilt,' that is, not to allow
      me to go near him. And Viktor himself fought shy of me. One
      day Mr. Ratsch came into my room, perturbed, excited, and
      angry. On the previous evening unpleasant rumours had reached
      me about my stepfather; the servants were talking of his
      having been caught embezzling a considerable sum of money,
      and taking bribes from a merchant.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You can assist me,' he began, tapping impatiently on the
      table with his fingers. 'Go and speak for me to Ivan
      Matveitch.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Speak for you? On what ground? What about?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Intercede for me.... I'm not like a stranger any way... I'm
      accused... well, the fact is, I may be left without bread to
      eat, and you, too.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But how can I go to him? How can I disturb him?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What next! You have a right to disturb him!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What right, Ivan Demianitch?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come, no humbug.... He cannot refuse you, for many reasons.
      Do you mean to tell me you don't understand that?'
    </p>
    <p>
      He looked insolently into my eyes, and I felt my cheeks
      simply burning. Hatred, contempt, rose up within me, surged
      in a rush upon me, drowning me.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, I understand you, Ivan Demianitch,' I answered at
      last&#8212;my own voice seemed strange to me&#8212;'and I am
      not going to Ivan Matveitch, and I will not ask him for
      anything. Bread, or no bread!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Ratsch shivered, ground his teeth, and clenched his
      fists.
    </p>
    <p>
      'All right, wait a bit, your highness!' he muttered huskily.
      'I won't forget it!' That same day, Ivan Matveitch sent for
      him, and, I was told, shook his cane at him, the very cane
      which he had once exchanged with the Due de la Rochefoucauld,
      and cried, 'You be a scoundrel and extortioner! I put you
      outside!' Ivan Matveitch could hardly speak Russian at all,
      and despised our 'coarse jargon,' <i>ce jargon vulgaire et
      rude</i>. Some one once said before him, 'That same's
      self-understood.' Ivan Matveitch was quite indignant, and
      often afterwards quoted the phrase as an example of the
      senselessness and absurdity of the Russian tongue. 'What does
      it mean, that same's self-understood?' he would ask in
      Russian, with emphasis on each syllable. 'Why not simply
      that's understood, and why same and self?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Ivan Matveitch did not, however, dismiss Mr. Ratsch, he did
      not even deprive him of his position. But my stepfather kept
      his word: he never forgot it.
    </p>
    <p>
      I began to notice a change in Ivan Matveitch. He was
      low-spirited, depressed, his health broke down a little. His
      fresh, rosy face grew yellow and wrinkled; he lost a front
      tooth. He quite ceased going out, and gave up the
      reception-days he had established for the peasants, without
      the assistance of the priest, <i>sans le concours du
      clerg&eacute;</i>. On such days Ivan Matveitch had been in
      the habit of going in to the peasants in the hall or on the
      balcony, with a rose in his buttonhole, and putting his lips
      to a silver goblet of vodka, he would make them a speech
      something like this: 'You are content with my actions, even
      as I am content with your zeal, whereat I rejoice truly. We
      are all <i>brothers</i>; at our birth we are equal; I drink
      your health!' He bowed to them, and the peasants bowed to
      him, but only from the waist, no prostrating themselves to
      the ground, that was strictly forbidden. The peasants were
      entertained with good cheer as before, but Ivan Matveitch no
      longer showed himself to his subjects. Sometimes he
      interrupted my reading with exclamations: 'La machine se
      d&eacute;traque! Cela se g&acirc;te!' Even his
      eyes&#8212;those bright, stony eyes&#8212;began to grow dim
      and, as it were, smaller; he dozed oftener than ever and
      breathed hard in his sleep. His manner with me was unchanged;
      only a shade of chivalrous deference began to be perceptible
      in it. He never failed to get up&#8212;though with
      difficulty&#8212;from his chair when I came in, conducted me
      to the door, supporting me with his hand under my elbow, and
      instead of Suzon began to call me sometimes, 'ma ch&egrave;re
      demoiselle,' sometimes, 'mon Antigone.' M. le Commandeur died
      two years after my mother's death; his death seemed to affect
      Ivan Matveitch far more deeply. A contemporary had
      disappeared: that was what distressed him. And yet in later
      years M. le Commandeur's sole service had consisted in
      crying, 'Bien jou&eacute;, mal r&eacute;ussi!' every time
      Ivan Matveitch missed a stroke, playing billiards with Mr.
      Ratsch; though, indeed, too, when Ivan Matveitch addressed
      him at table with some such question as: 'N'est-ce pas, M. le
      Commandeur, c'est Montesquieu qui a dit cela dans ses
      <i>Lettres Persanes</i>?' he had still, sometimes dropping a
      spoonful of soup on his ruffle, responded profoundly: 'Ah,
      Monsieur de Montesquieu? Un grand &eacute;crivain, monsieur,
      un grand &eacute;crivain!' Only once, when Ivan Matveitch
      told him that 'les th&eacute;ophilanthropes ont eu pourtant
      du bon!' the old man cried in an excited voice, 'Monsieur de
      Kolontouskoi' (he hadn't succeeded in the course of twenty
      years in learning to pronounce his patron's name correctly),
      'Monsieur de Kolontouskoi! Leur fondateur, l'instigateur de
      cette secte, ce La Reveill&egrave;re Lepeaux &eacute;tait un
      bonnet rouge!' 'Non, non,' said Ivan Matveitch, smiling and
      rolling together a pinch of snuff: 'des fleurs, des jeunes
      vierges, le culte de la Nature... ils out eu du bon, ils out
      eu du bon!'...I was always surprised at the extent of Ivan
      Matveitch's knowledge, and at the uselessness of his
      knowledge to himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ivan Matveitch was perceptibly failing, but he still put a
      good face on it. One day, three weeks before his death, he
      had a violent attack of giddiness just after dinner. He sank
      into thought, said, 'C'est la fin,' and pulling himself
      together with a sigh, he wrote a letter to Petersburg to his
      sole heir, a brother with whom he had had no intercourse for
      twenty years. Hearing that Ivan Matveitch was unwell, a
      neighbour paid him a visit&#8212;a German, a
      Catholic&#8212;once a distinguished physician, who was living
      in retirement in his little place in the country. He was very
      rarely at Ivan Matveitch's, but the latter always received
      him with special deference, and in fact had a great respect
      for him. He was almost the only person in the world he did
      respect. The old man advised Ivan Matveitch to send for a
      priest, but Ivan Matveitch responded that 'ces messieurs et
      moi, nous n'avons rien &agrave; nous dire,' and begged him to
      change the subject. On the neighbour's departure, he gave his
      valet orders to admit no one in future.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then he sent for me. I was frightened when I saw him; there
      were blue patches under his eyes, his face looked drawn and
      stiff, his jaw hung down. 'Vous voila grande, Suzon,' he
      said, with difficulty articulating the consonants, but still
      trying to smile (I was then nineteen), 'vous allez
      peut-&ecirc;tre bient&oacute;t rester seule. Soyez toujours
      sage et vertueuse. C'est la derni&egrave;re
      r&eacute;commandation d'un'&#8212;he coughed&#8212;'d'un
      vieillard qui vous veut du bien. Je vous ai recommand&eacute;
      &agrave; mon fr&egrave;re et je ne doute pas qu'il ne
      respecte mes volont&eacute;s....' He coughed again, and
      anxiously felt his chest. 'Du reste, j'es&egrave;pre encore
      pouvoir faire quelque chose pour vous... dans mon testament.'
      This last phrase cut me to the heart, like a knife. Ah, it
      was really too... too contemptuous and insulting! Ivan
      Matveitch probably ascribed to some other feeling&#8212;to a
      feeling of grief or gratitude&#8212;what was expressed in my
      face, and as though wishing to comfort me, he patted me on
      the shoulder, at the same time, as usual, gently repelling
      me, and observed: 'Voyons, mon enfant, du courage! Nous
      sommes tous mortels! Et puis il n'y a pas encore de danger.
      Ce n'est qu'une pr&eacute;caution que j'ai cru devoir
      prendre.... Allez!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Again, just as when he had summoned me after my mother's
      death, I longed to shriek at him, 'But I'm your daughter!
      your daughter!' But I thought in those words, in that cry of
      the heart, he would doubtless hear nothing but a desire to
      assert my rights, my claims on his property, on his money....
      Oh, no, for nothing in the world would I say a word to this
      man, who had not once mentioned my mother's name to me, in
      whose eyes I was of so little account that he did not even
      trouble himself to ascertain whether I was aware of my
      parentage! Or, perhaps, he suspected, even knew it, and did
      not wish 'to raise a dust' (a favourite saying of his, almost
      the only Russian expression he ever used), did not care to
      deprive himself of a good reader with a young voice! No! no!
      Let him go on wronging his daughter, as he had wronged her
      mother! Let him carry both sins to the grave! I swore it, I
      swore he should not hear from my lips the word which must
      have something of a sweet and holy sound in every ear! I
      would not say to him father! I would not forgive him for my
      mother and myself! He felt no need of that forgiveness, of
      that name.... It could not be, it could not be that he felt
      no need of it! But he should not have forgiveness, he should
      not, he should not!
    </p>
    <p>
      God knows whether I should have kept my vow, and whether my
      heart would not have softened, whether I should not have
      overcome my shyness, my shame, and my pride... but it
      happened with Ivan Matveitch just as with my mother. Death
      carried him off suddenly, and also in the night. It was again
      Mr. Ratsch who waked me, and ran with me to the big house, to
      Ivan Matveitch's bedroom.... But I found not even the last
      dying gestures, which had left such a vivid impression on my
      memory at my mother's bedside. On the embroidered, lace-edged
      pillows lay a sort of withered, dark-coloured doll, with
      sharp nose and ruffled grey eyebrows.... I shrieked with
      horror, with loathing, rushed away, stumbled in doorways
      against bearded peasants in smocks with holiday red sashes,
      and found myself, I don't remember how, in the fresh air....
    </p>
    <p>
      I was told afterwards that when the valet ran into the
      bedroom, at a violent ring of the bell, he found Ivan
      Matveitch not in the bed, but a few feet from it. And that he
      was sitting huddled up on the floor, and that twice over he
      repeated, 'Well, granny, here's a pretty holiday for you!'
      And that these were his last words. But I cannot believe
      that. Was it likely he would speak Russian at such a moment,
      and such a homely old Russian saying too!
    </p>
    <p>
      For a whole fortnight afterwards we were awaiting the arrival
      of the new master, Semyon Matveitch Koltovsky. He sent orders
      that nothing was to be touched, no one was to be discharged,
      till he had looked into everything in person. All the doors,
      all the furniture, drawers, tables&#8212;all were locked and
      sealed up. All the servants were downcast and apprehensive. I
      became suddenly one of the most important persons in the
      house, perhaps the most important. I had been spoken of as
      'the young lady' before; but now this expression seemed to
      take a new significance, and was pronounced with a peculiar
      emphasis. It began to be whispered that 'the old master had
      died suddenly, and hadn't time to send for a priest, indeed
      and he hadn't been at confession for many a long day; but
      still, a will doesn't take long to make.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Ratsch, too, thought well to change his mode of action.
      He did not affect good-nature and friendliness; he knew he
      would not impose upon me, but his face wore an expression of
      sulky resignation. 'You see, I give in,' he seemed to say.
      Every one showed me deference, and tried to please me...
      while I did not know what to do or how to behave, and could
      only marvel that people failed to perceive how they were
      hurting me. At last Semyon Matveitch arrived.
    </p>
    <p>
      Semyon Matveitch was ten years younger than Ivan Matveitch,
      and his whole life had taken a completely different turn. He
      was a government official in Petersburg, filling an important
      position.... He had married and been left early a widower; he
      had one son. In face Semyon Matveitch was like his brother,
      only he was shorter and stouter, and had a round bald head,
      bright black eyes, like Ivan Matveitch's, only more
      prominent, and full red lips. Unlike his brother, whom he
      spoke of even after his death as a French philosopher, and
      sometimes bluntly as a queer fish, Semyon Matveitch almost
      invariably talked Russian, loudly and fluently, and he was
      constantly laughing, completely closing his eyes as he did so
      and shaking all over in an unpleasant way, as though he were
      shaking with rage. He looked after things very sharply, went
      into everything himself, exacted the strictest account from
      every one. The very first day of his arrival he ordered a
      service with holy water, and sprinkled everything with water,
      all the rooms in the house, even the lofts and the cellars,
      in order, as he put it, 'radically to expel the Voltairean
      and Jacobin spirit.' In the first week several of Ivan
      Matveitch's favourites were sent to the right-about, one was
      even banished to a settlement, corporal punishment was
      inflicted on others; the old valet&#8212;he was a Turk, knew
      French, and had been given to Ivan Matveitch by the late
      field-marshal Kamensky&#8212;received his freedom, indeed,
      but with it a command to be gone within twenty-four hours,
      'as an example to others.' Semyon Matveitch turned out to be
      a harsh master; many probably regretted the late owner.
    </p>
    <p>
      'With the old master, Ivan Matveitch,' a butler, decrepit
      with age, wailed in my presence, 'our only trouble was to see
      that the linen put out was clean, and that the rooms smelt
      sweet, and that the servants' voices weren't heard in the
      passages&#8212;God forbid! For the rest, you might do as you
      pleased. The old master never hurt a fly in his life! Ah,
      it's hard times now! It's time to die!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Rapid, too, was the change in my position, that is to say in
      the position in which I had been placed for a few days
      against my own will.... No sort of will was found among Ivan
      Matveitch's papers, not a line written for my benefit. At
      once every one seemed in haste to avoid me.... I am not
      speaking of Mr. Ratsch... every one else, too, was angry with
      me, and tried to show their anger, as though I had deceived
      them.
    </p>
    <p>
      One Sunday after matins, in which he invariably officiated at
      the altar, Semyon Matveitch sent for me. Till that day I had
      seen him by glimpses, and he seemed not to have noticed me.
      He received me in his study, standing at the window. He was
      wearing an official uniform with two stars. I stood still,
      near the door; my heart was beating violently from fear and
      from another feeling, vague as yet, but still oppressive. 'I
      wish to see you, young lady,' began Semyon Matveitch,
      glancing first at my feet, and then suddenly into my eyes.
      The look was like a slap in the face. 'I wished to see you to
      inform you of my decision, and to assure you of my
      unhesitating inclination to be of service to you.' He raised
      his voice. 'Claims, of course, you have none, but as... my
      brother's reader you may always reckon on my... my
      consideration. I am... of course convinced of your good sense
      and of your principles. Mr. Ratsch, your stepfather, has
      already received from me the necessary instructions. To which
      I must add that your attractive exterior seems to me a pledge
      of the excellence of your sentiments.' Semyon Matveitch went
      off into a thin chuckle, while I... I was not offended
      exactly... but I suddenly felt very sorry for myself... and
      at that moment I fully realised how utterly forsaken and
      alone I was. Semyon Matveitch went with short, firm steps to
      the table, took a roll of notes out of the drawer, and
      putting it in my hand, he added: 'Here is a small sum from me
      for pocket-money. I won't forget you in future, my pretty;
      but good-bye for the present, and be a good girl.' I took the
      roll mechanically: I should have taken anything he had
      offered me, and going back to my own room, a long while I
      wept, sitting on my bed. I did not notice that I had dropped
      the roll of notes on the floor. Mr. Ratsch found it and
      picked it up, and, asking me what I meant to do with it, kept
      it for himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      An important change had taken place in his fortunes too in
      those days. After a few conversations with Semyon Matveitch,
      he became a great favourite, and soon after received the
      position of head steward. From that time dates his
      cheerfulness, that eternal laugh of his; at first it was an
      effort to adapt himself to his patron... in the end it became
      a habit. It was then, too, that he became a Russian patriot.
      Semyon Matveitch was an admirer of everything national, he
      called himself 'a true Russian bear,' and ridiculed the
      European dress, which he wore however. He sent away to a
      remote village a cook, on whose training Ivan Matveitch had
      spent vast sums: he sent him away because he had not known
      how to prepare pickled giblets.
    </p>
    <p>
      Semyon Matveitch used to stand at the altar and join in the
      responses with the deacons, and when the serf-girls were
      brought together to dance and sing choruses, he would join in
      their songs too, and beat time with his feet, and pinch their
      cheeks.... But he soon went back to Petersburg, leaving my
      stepfather practically in complete control of the whole
      property.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bitter days began for me.... My one consolation was music,
      and I gave myself up to it with my whole soul. Fortunately
      Mr. Ratsch was very fully occupied, but he took every
      opportunity to make me feel his hostility; as he had
      promised, he 'did not forget' my refusal. He ill-treated me,
      made me copy his long and lying reports to Semyon Matveitch,
      and correct for him the mistakes in spelling. I was forced to
      obey him absolutely, and I did obey him. He announced that he
      meant to tame me, to make me as soft as silk. 'What do you
      mean by those mutinous eyes?' he shouted sometimes at dinner,
      drinking his beer, and slapping the table with his hand. 'You
      think, maybe, you're as silent as a sheep, so you must be all
      right.... Oh, no! You'll please look at me like a sheep too!'
      My position became a torture, insufferable,... my heart was
      growing bitter. Something dangerous began more and more
      frequently to stir within it. I passed nights without sleep
      and without a light, thinking, thinking incessantly; and in
      the darkness without and the gloom within, a fearful
      determination began to shape itself. The arrival of Semyon
      Matveitch gave another turn to my thoughts.
    </p>
    <p>
      No one had expected him. It turned out that he was retiring
      in unpleasant circumstances; he had hoped to receive the
      Alexander ribbon, and they had presented him with a
      snuff-box. Discontented with the government, which had failed
      to appreciate his talents, and with Petersburg society, which
      had shown him little sympathy, and did not share his
      indignation, he determined to settle in the country, and
      devote himself to the management of his property. He arrived
      alone. His son, Mihail Semyonitch, arrived later, in the
      holidays for the New Year. My stepfather was scarcely ever
      out of Semyon Matveitch's room; he still stood high in his
      good graces. He left me in peace; he had no time for me
      then... Semyon Matveitch had taken it into his head to start
      a paper factory. Mr. Ratsch had no knowledge whatever of
      manufacturing work, and Semyon Matveitch was aware of the
      fact; but then my stepfather was an active man (the favourite
      expression just then), an 'Araktcheev!' That was just what
      Semyon Matveitch used to call him&#8212;'my Araktcheev!'
      'That's all I want,' Semyon Matveitch maintained; 'if there
      is zeal, I myself will direct it.' In the midst of his
      numerous occupations&#8212;he had to superintend the factory,
      the estate, the foundation of a counting-house, the drawing
      up of counting-house regulations, the creation of new offices
      and duties&#8212;Semyon Matveitch still had time to attend to
      me.
    </p>
    <p>
      I was summoned one evening to the drawing-room, and set to
      play the piano. Semyon Matveitch cared for music even less
      than his brother; he praised and thanked me, however, and
      next day I was invited to dine at the master's table. After
      dinner Semyon Matveitch had rather a long conversation with
      me, asked me questions, laughed at some of my replies, though
      there was, I remember, nothing amusing in them, and stared at
      me so strangely... I felt uncomfortable. I did not like his
      eyes, I did not like their open expression, their clear
      glance.... It always seemed to me that this very openness
      concealed something evil, that under that clear brilliance it
      was dark within in his soul. 'You shall not be my reader,'
      Semyon Matveitch announced to me at last, prinking and
      setting himself to rights in a repulsive way. 'I am, thank
      God, not blind yet, and can read myself; but coffee will
      taste better to me from your little hands, and I shall listen
      to your playing with pleasure.' From that day I always went
      over to the big house to dinner, and sometimes remained in
      the drawing-room till evening. I too, like my stepfather, was
      in favour: it was not a source of joy for me. Semyon
      Matveitch, I am bound to own, showed me a certain respect,
      but in the man there was, I felt it, something that repelled
      and alarmed me. And that 'something' showed itself not in
      words, but in his eyes, in those wicked eyes, and in his
      laugh. He never spoke to me of my father, of his brother, and
      it seemed to me that he avoided the subject, not because he
      did not want to excite ambitious ideas or pretensions in me,
      but from another cause, to which I could not give a definite
      shape, but which made me blush and feel bewildered....
      Towards Christmas came his son, Mihail Semyonitch.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ah, I feel I cannot go on as I have begun; these memories are
      too painful. Especially now I cannot tell my story calmly....
      But what is the use of concealment? I loved Michel, and he
      loved me.
    </p>
    <p>
      How it came to pass&#8212;I am not going to describe that
      either. From the very evening when he came into the
      drawing-room&#8212;I was at the piano, playing a sonata of
      Weber's when he came in&#8212;handsome and slender, in a
      velvet coat lined with sheepskin and high gaiters, just as he
      was, straight from the frost outside, and shaking his
      snow-sprinkled, sable cap, before he had greeted his father,
      glanced swiftly at me, and wondered&#8212;I knew that from
      that evening I could never forget him&#8212;I could never
      forget that good, young face. He began to speak... and his
      voice went straight to my heart.... A manly and soft voice,
      and in every sound such a true, honest nature!
    </p>
    <p>
      Semyon Matveitch was delighted at his son's arrival, embraced
      him, but at once asked, 'For a fortnight, eh? On leave, eh?'
      and sent me away.
    </p>
    <p>
      I sat a long while at my window, and gazed at the lights
      flitting to and fro in the rooms of the big house. I watched
      them, I listened to the new, unfamiliar voices; I was
      attracted by the cheerful commotion, and something new,
      unfamiliar, bright, flitted into my soul too.... The next day
      before dinner I had my first conversation with him. He had
      come across to see my stepfather with some message from
      Semyon Matveitch, and he found me in our little sitting-room.
      I was getting up to go; he detained me. He was very lively
      and unconstrained in all his movements and words, but of
      superciliousness or arrogance, of the tone of Petersburg
      superiority, there was not a trace in him, and nothing of the
      officer, of the guardsman.... On the contrary, in the very
      freedom of his manner there was something appealing, almost
      shamefaced, as though he were begging you to overlook
      something. Some people's eyes are never laughing, even at the
      moment of laughter; with <i>him</i> it was the lips that
      almost never changed their beautiful line, while his eyes
      were almost always smiling. So we chatted for about an
      hour... what about I don't remember; I remember only that I
      looked him straight in the face all the while, and oh, how
      delightfully at ease I felt with him!
    </p>
    <p>
      In the evening I played on the piano. He was very fond of
      music, and he sat down in a low chair, and laying his curly
      head on his arm, he listened intently. He did not once praise
      me, but I felt that he liked my playing, and I played with
      ardour. Semyon Matveitch, who was sitting near his son,
      looking through some plans, suddenly frowned. 'Come, madam,'
      he said, smoothing himself down and buttoning himself up, as
      his manner was, 'that's enough; why are you trilling away
      like a canary? It's enough to make one's head ache. For us
      old folks you wouldn't exert yourself so, no fear...' he
      added in an undertone, and again he sent me away. Michel
      followed me to the door with his eyes, and got up from his
      seat. 'Where are you off to? Where are you off to?' cried
      Semyon Matveitch, and he suddenly laughed, and then said
      something more... I could not catch his words; but Mr.
      Ratsch, who was present, sitting in a corner of the
      drawing-room (he was always 'present,' and that time he had
      brought in the plans), laughed, and his laugh reached my
      ears.... The same thing, or almost the same thing, was
      repeated the following evening... Semyon Matveitch grew
      suddenly cooler to me.
    </p>
    <p>
      Four days later I met Michel in the corridor that divided the
      big house in two. He took me by the hand, and led me to a
      room near the dining-room, which was called the portrait
      gallery. I followed him, not without emotion, but with
      perfect confidence. Even then, I believe, I would have
      followed him to the end of the world, though I had as yet no
      suspicion of all that he was to me. Alas, I loved him with
      all the passion, all the despair of a young creature who not
      only has no one to love, but feels herself an uninvited and
      unnecessary guest among strangers, among enemies!... Michel
      said to me&#8212;and it was strange! I looked boldly,
      directly in his face, while he did not look at me, and
      flushed slightly&#8212;he said to me that he understood my
      position, and sympathised with me, and begged me to forgive
      his father.... 'As far as I'm concerned,' he added, 'I
      beseech you always to trust me, and believe me, to me you 're
      a sister&#8212;yes, a sister.' Here he pressed my hand
      warmly. I was confused, it was my turn to look down; I had
      somehow expected something else, some other word. I began to
      thank him. 'No, please,'&#8212;he cut me short&#8212;'don't
      talk like that.... But remember, it's a brother's duty to
      defend his sister, and if you ever need protection, against
      any one whatever, rely upon me. I have not been here long,
      but I have seen a good deal already... and among other
      things, I see through your stepfather.' He squeezed my hand
      again, and left me.
    </p>
    <p>
      I found out later that Michel had felt an aversion for Mr.
      Ratsch from his very first meeting with him. Mr. Ratsch tried
      to ingratiate himself with him too, but becoming convinced of
      the uselessness of his efforts, promptly took up himself an
      attitude of hostility to him, and not only did not disguise
      it from Semyon Matveitch, but, on the contrary, lost no
      opportunity of showing it, expressing, at the same time, his
      regret that he had been so unlucky as to displease the young
      heir. Mr. Ratsch had carefully studied Semyon Matveitch's
      character; his calculations did not lead him astray. 'This
      man's devotion to me admits of no doubt, for the very reason
      that after I am gone he will be ruined; my heir cannot endure
      him.'... This idea grew and strengthened in the old man's
      head. They say all persons in power, as they grow old, are
      readily caught by that bait, the bait of exclusive personal
      devotion....
    </p>
    <p>
      Semyon Matveitch had good reason to call Mr. Ratsch his
      Araktcheev.... He might well have called him another name
      too. 'You're not one to make difficulties,' he used to say to
      him. He had begun in this condescendingly familiar tone with
      him from the very first, and my stepfather would gaze fondly
      at Semyon Matveitch, let his head droop deprecatingly on one
      side, and laugh with good-humoured simplicity, as though to
      say, 'Here I am, entirely in your hands.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Ah, I feel my hands shaking, and my heart's thumping against
      the table on which I write at this moment. It's terrible for
      me to recall those days, and my blood boils.... But I will
      tell everything to the end... to the end!
    </p>
    <p>
      A new element had come into Mr. Ratsch's treatment of me
      during my brief period of favour. He began to be deferential
      to me, to be respectfully familiar with me, as though I had
      grown sensible, and become more on a level with him. 'You've
      done with your airs and graces,' he said to me one day, as we
      were going back from the big house to the lodge. 'Quite right
      too! All those fine principles and delicate
      sentiments&#8212;moral precepts in fact&#8212;are not for us,
      young lady, they're not for poor folks.'
    </p>
    <p>
      When I had fallen out of favour, and Michel did not think it
      necessary to disguise his contempt for Mr. Ratsch and his
      sympathy with me, the latter suddenly redoubled his severity
      with me; he was continually following me about, as though I
      were capable of any crime, and must be sharply looked after.
      'You mind what I say,' he shouted, bursting without knocking
      into my room, in muddy boots and with his cap on his head; 'I
      won't put up with such goings on! I won't stand your stuck-up
      airs! You're not going to impose on me. I'll break your proud
      spirit.'
    </p>
    <p>
      And accordingly, one morning he informed me that the decree
      had gone forth from Semyon Matveitch that I was not to appear
      at the dinner-table for the future without special
      invitation.... I don't know how all this would have ended if
      it had not been for an event which was the final
      turning-point of my destiny....
    </p>
    <p>
      Michel was passionately fond of horses. He took it into his
      head to break in a young horse, which went well for a while,
      then began kicking and flung him out of the sledge.... He was
      brought home unconscious, with a broken arm and bruises on
      his chest. His father was panic-stricken; he sent for the
      best doctors from the town. They did a great deal for Michel;
      but he had to lie down for a month. He did not play cards,
      the doctor forbade him to talk, and it was awkward for him to
      read, holding the book up in one hand all the while. It ended
      by Semyon Matveitch sending me in to his son, in my old
      capacity of reader.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then followed hours I can never forget! I used to go in to
      Michel directly after dinner, and sit at a little round table
      in the half-darkened window. He used to be lying down in a
      little room out of the drawing-room, at the further end, on a
      broad leather sofa in the Empire style, with a gold
      bas-relief on its high, straight back. The bas-relief
      represented a marriage procession among the ancients.
      Michel's head, thrown a little back on the pillow, always
      moved at once, and his pale face turned towards me: he
      smiled, his whole face brightened, he flung back his soft,
      damp curls, and said to me softly, 'Good-morning, my kind
      sweet girl.' I took up the book&#8212;Walter Scott's novels
      were at the height of their fame in those days&#8212;the
      reading of Ivanhoe has left a particularly vivid recollection
      in my mind.... I could not help my voice thrilling and
      quivering as I gave utterance to Rebecca's speeches. I, too,
      had Jewish blood, and was not my lot like hers? Was I not,
      like Rebecca, waiting on a sick man, dear to me? Every time I
      removed my eyes from the page and lifted them to him, I met
      his eyes with the same soft, bright smile over all his face.
      We talked very little; the door into the drawing-room was
      invariably open and some one was always sitting there; but
      whenever it was quiet there, I used, I don't know why, to
      cease reading and look intently at Michel, and he looked at
      me, and we both felt happy then and, as it were, glad and
      shamefaced, and everything, everything we told each other
      then without a gesture or a word! Alas! our hearts came
      together, ran to meet each other, as underground streams flow
      together, unseen, unheard... and irresistibly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Can you play chess or draughts?' he asked me one day.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can play chess a little,' I answered.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's good. Tell them to bring a chess-board and push up
      the table.'
    </p>
    <p>
      I sat down beside the sofa, my heart was throbbing, I did not
      dare glance at Michel,... Yet from the window, across the
      room, how freely I had gazed at him!
    </p>
    <p>
      I began to set the chessmen... My fingers shook.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I suggested it... not for the game,'... Michel said in an
      undertone, also setting the pieces, 'but to have you nearer
      me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      I made no answer, but, without asking which should begin,
      moved a pawn... Michel did not move in reply... I looked at
      him. His head was stretched a little forward; pale all over,
      with imploring eyes he signed towards my hand...
    </p>
    <p>
      Whether I understood him... I don't remember, but something
      instantaneously whirled into my head.... Hesitating, scarcely
      breathing, I took up the knight and moved it right across the
      board. Michel bent down swiftly, and catching my fingers with
      his lips, and pressing them against the board, he began
      noiselessly and passionately kissing them.... I had no power,
      I had no wish to draw them back; with my other hand I hid my
      face, and tears, as I remember now, cold but blissful... oh,
      what blissful tears!... dropped one by one on the table. Ah,
      I knew, with my whole heart I felt at that moment, all that
      he was who held my hand in his power! I knew that he was not
      a boy, carried away by a momentary impulse, not a Don Juan,
      not a military Lovelace, but one of the noblest, the best of
      men... and he loved me!
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, my Susanna!' I heard Michel whisper, 'I will never make
      you shed other tears than these.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He was wrong... he did.
    </p>
    <p>
      But what use is there in dwelling on such memories...
      especially, especially now?
    </p>
    <p>
      Michel and I swore to belong to each other. He knew that
      Semyon Matveitch would never let him marry me, and he did not
      conceal it from me. I had no doubt about it myself and I
      rejoiced, not that he did not deceive me&#8212;he <i>could
      not</i> deceive&#8212;but that he did not try to delude
      himself. For myself I asked for nothing, and would have
      followed where and how he chose. 'You shall be my wife,' he
      repeated to me. 'I am not Ivanhoe; I know that happiness is
      not with Lady Rowena.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Michel soon regained his health. I could not continue going
      to see him, but everything was decided between us. I was
      already entirely absorbed in the future; I saw nothing of
      what was passing around me, as though I were floating on a
      glorious, calm, but rushing river, hidden in mist. But we
      were watched, we were being spied upon. Once or twice I
      noticed my stepfather's malignant eyes, and heard his
      loathsome laugh.... But that laugh, those eyes as it were
      emerged for an instant from the mist... I shuddered, but
      forgot it directly, and surrendered myself again to the
      glorious, swift river...
    </p>
    <p>
      On the day before the departure of Michel&#8212;we had
      planned together that he was to turn back secretly on the way
      and fetch me&#8212;I received from him through his trusted
      valet a note, in which he asked me to meet him at half-past
      nine in the summer billiard-room, a large, low-pitched room,
      built on to the big house in the garden. He wrote to me that
      he absolutely must speak with me and arrange things. I had
      twice already met Michel in the billiard-room... I had the
      key of the outer door. As soon as it struck half-past nine I
      threw a warm wrap over my shoulders, stepped quietly out of
      the lodge, and made my way successfully over the crackling
      snow to the billiard-room. The moon, wrapped in vapour, stood
      a dim blur just over the ridge of the roof, and the wind
      whistled shrilly round the corner of the wall. A shiver
      passed over me, but I put the key into the lock, went into
      the room, closed the door behind me, turned round... A dark
      figure became visible against one of the walls, took a couple
      of steps forward, stopped...
    </p>
    <p>
      'Michel,' I whispered.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Michel is locked up by my orders, and this is I!' answered a
      voice, which seemed to rend my heart...
    </p>
    <p>
      Before me stood Semyon Matveitch!
    </p>
    <p>
      I was rushing to escape, but he clutched at my arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Where are you off to, vile hussy?' he hissed. 'You 're quite
      equal to stolen interviews with young fools, so you'll have
      to be equal to the consequences.'
    </p>
    <p>
      I was numb with horror, but still struggled towards the
      door... In vain! Like iron hooks the ringers of Semyon
      Matveitch held me tight.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Let me go, let me go,' I implored at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I tell you you shan't stir!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Semyon Matveitch forced me to sit down. In the half-darkness
      I could not distinguish his face. I had turned away from him
      too, but I heard him breathing hard and grinding his teeth. I
      felt neither fear nor despair, but a sort of senseless
      amazement... A captured bird, I suppose, is numb like that in
      the claws of the kite... and Semyon Matveitch's hand, which
      still held me as fast, crushed me like some wild, ferocious
      claw....
    </p>
    <p>
      'Aha!' he repeated; 'aha! So this is how it is... so it's
      come to this... Ah, wait a bit!'
    </p>
    <p>
      I tried to get up, but he shook me with such violence that I
      almost shrieked with pain, and a stream of abuse, insult, and
      menace burst upon me...
    </p>
    <p>
      'Michel, Michel, where are you? save me,' I moaned.
    </p>
    <p>
      Semyon Matveitch shook me again... That time I could not
      control myself... I screamed.
    </p>
    <p>
      That seemed to have some effect on him. He became a little
      quieter, let go my arm, but remained where he was, two steps
      from me, between me and the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      A few minutes passed... I did not stir; he breathed heavily
      as before.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sit still,' he began at last, 'and answer me. Let me see
      that your morals are not yet utterly corrupt, and that you
      are still capable of listening to the voice of reason.
      Impulsive folly I can overlook, but stubborn
      obstinacy&#8212;never! My son...' there was a catch in his
      breath... 'Mihail Semyonitch has promised to marry you?
      Hasn't he? Answer me! Has he promised, eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      I answered, of course, nothing. Semyon Matveitch was almost
      flying into fury again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I take your silence as a sign of assent,' he went on, after
      a brief pause. 'And so you were plotting to be my
      daughter-in-law? A pretty notion! But you're not a child of
      four years old, and you must be fully aware that young
      boobies are never sparing of the wildest promises, if only
      they can gain their ends... but to say nothing of that, could
      you suppose that I&#8212;a noble gentleman of ancient family,
      Semyon Matveitch Koltovsky&#8212;would ever give my consent
      to such a marriage? Or did you mean to dispense with the
      parental blessing?... Did you mean to run away, get married
      in secret, and then come back, go through a nice little
      farce, throw yourself at my feet, in the hope that the old
      man will be touched.... Answer me, damn you!'
    </p>
    <p>
      I only bent my head. He could kill me, but to force me to
      speak&#8212;that was not in his power.
    </p>
    <p>
      He walked up and down a little.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come, listen to me,' he began in a calmer voice. 'You
      mustn't think... don't imagine... I see one must talk to you
      in a different manner. Listen; I understand your position.
      You are frightened, upset.... Pull yourself together. At this
      moment I must seem to you a monster... a despot. But put
      yourself in my position too; how could I help being
      indignant, saying too much? And for all that I have shown you
      that I am not a monster, that I too have a heart. Remember
      how I treated you on my arrival here and afterwards till...
      till lately... till the illness of Mihail Semyonitch. I don't
      wish to boast of my beneficence, but I should have thought
      simple gratitude ought to have held you back from the
      slippery path on which you were determined to enter!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Semyon Matveitch walked to and fro again, and standing still
      patted me lightly on the arm, on the very arm which still
      ached from his violence, and was for long after marked with
      blue bruises.
    </p>
    <p>
      'To be sure,' he began again, 'we're headstrong... just a
      little headstrong! We don't care to take the trouble to
      think, we don't care to consider what our advantage consists
      in and where we ought to seek it. You ask me: where that
      advantage lies? You've no need to look far.... It's, maybe,
      close at hand.... Here am I now. As a father, as head of the
      family I am bound to be particular.... It's my duty. But I'm
      a man at the same time, and you know that very well.
      Undoubtedly I'm a practical person and of course cannot
      tolerate any sentimental nonsense; expectations that are
      quite inconsistent with everything, you must of course
      dismiss from your mind for really what sense is there in
      them?&#8212;not to speak of the immorality of such a
      proceeding.... You will assuredly realise all this yourself,
      when you have thought it over a little. And I say, simply and
      straightforwardly, I wouldn't confine myself to what I have
      done for you. I have always been prepared&#8212;and I am
      still prepared&#8212;to put your welfare on a sound footing,
      to guarantee you a secure position, because I know your
      value, I do justice to your talents, and your intelligence,
      and in fact... (here Semyon Matveitch stooped down to me a
      little)... you have such eyes that, I confess... though I am
      not a young man, yet to see them quite unmoved... I
      understand... is not an easy matter, not at all an easy
      matter.'
    </p>
    <p>
      These words sent a chill through me. I could scarcely believe
      my ears. For the first minute I fancied that Semyon Matveitch
      meant to bribe me to break with Michel, to pay me
      'compensation.'... But what was he saying? My eyes had begun
      to get used to the darkness and I could make out Semyon
      Matveitch's face. It was smiling, that old face, and he was
      walking to and fro with little steps, fidgeting restlessly
      before me....
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, what do you say,' he asked at last, 'does my offer
      please you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Offer?'... I repeated unconsciously,... I simply did not
      understand a word.
    </p>
    <p>
      Semyon Matveitch laughed... actually laughed his revolting
      thin laugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      'To be sure,' he cried, 'you're all alike you young
      women'&#8212;he corrected himself&#8212;'young ladies...
      young ladies... you all dream of nothing else... you must
      have young men! You can't live without love! Of course not.
      Well, well! Youth's all very well! But do you suppose that
      it's only young men that can love?... There are some older
      men, whose hearts are warmer... and when once an old man does
      take a fancy to any one, well&#8212;he's simply like a rock!
      It's for ever! Not like these beardless, feather-brained
      young fools! Yes, yes; you mustn't look down on old men! They
      can do so much! You've only to take them the right way!
      Yes... yes! And as for kissing, old men know all about that
      too, he-he-he...' Semyon Matveitch laughed again. 'Come,
      please... your little hand... just as a proof... that's
      all....'
    </p>
    <p>
      I jumped up from the chair, and with all my force I gave him
      a blow in the chest. He tottered, he uttered a sort of
      decrepit, scared sound, he almost fell down. There are no
      words in human language to express how loathsome and
      infinitely vile he seemed to me. Every vestige of fear had
      left me.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Get away, despicable old man,' broke from my lips; 'get
      away, Mr. Koltovsky, you noble gentleman of ancient family!
      I, too, am of your blood, the blood of the Koltovskys, and I
      curse the day and the hour when I was born of that ancient
      family!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What!... What are you saying!... What!' stammered Semyon
      Matveitch, gasping for breath. 'You dare... at the very
      minute when I've caught you... when you came to meet Misha...
      eh? eh? eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      But I could not stop myself.... Something relentless,
      desperate was roused up within me.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And you, you, the brother... of your brother, you had the
      insolence, you dared... What did you take me for? Can you be
      so blind as not to have seen long ago the loathing you arouse
      in me?... You dare use the word offer!... Let me out at once,
      this instant!'
    </p>
    <p>
      I moved towards the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, indeed! oh, oh! so this is what she says!' Semyon
      Matveitch piped shrilly, in a fit of violent fury, but
      obviously not able to make up his mind to come near me....
      'Wait a bit, Mr. Ratsch, Ivan Demianitch, come here!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The door of the billiard-room opposite the one I was near
      flew wide open, and my stepfather appeared, with a lighted
      candelabrum in each hand. His round, red face, lighted up on
      both sides, was beaming with the triumph of satisfied
      revenge, and slavish delight at having rendered valuable
      service.... Oh, those loathsome white eyes! when shall I
      cease to behold them?
    </p>
    <p>
      'Be so good as to take this girl at once,' cried Semyon
      Matveitch, turning to my stepfather and imperiously pointing
      to me with a shaking hand. 'Be so good as to take her home
      and put her under lock and key... so that she... can't stir a
      finger, so that not a fly can get in to her! Till further
      orders from me! Board up the windows if need be! You'll
      answer for her with your head!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Ratsch set the candelabra on the billiard-table, made
      Semyon Matveitch a low bow, and with a slight swagger and a
      malignant smile, moved towards me. A cat, I imagine,
      approaches a mouse who has no chance of escape in that way.
      All my daring left me in an instant. I knew the man was
      capable of... beating me. I began to tremble; yes; oh, shame!
      oh ignominy! I shivered.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now, then, madam,' said Mr. Ratsch, 'kindly come along.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He took me, without haste, by the arm above the elbow.... He
      saw that I should not resist. Of my own accord I pushed
      forward towards the door; at that instant I had but one
      thought in my mind, to escape as quickly as possible from the
      presence of Semyon Matveitch.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the loathsome old man darted up to us from behind, and
      Ratsch stopped me and turned me round face to face with his
      patron.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah!' the latter shouted, shaking his fist; 'ah! So I'm the
      brother... of my brother, am I? Ties of blood! eh? But a
      cousin, a first cousin you could marry? You could? eh? Take
      her, you!' he turned to my stepfather. 'And remember, keep a
      sharp look-out! The slightest communication with
      her&#8212;and no punishment will be too severe.... Take her!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Ratsch conducted me to my room. Crossing the courtyard,
      he said nothing, but kept laughing noiselessly to himself. He
      closed the shutters and the doors, and then, as he was
      finally returning, he bowed low to me as he had to Semyon
      Matveitch, and went off into a ponderous, triumphant guffaw!
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good-night to your highness,' he gasped out, choking: 'she
      didn't catch her fairy prince! What a pity! It wasn't a bad
      idea in its way! It's a lesson for the future: not to keep up
      correspondence! Ho-ho-ho! How capitally it has all turned out
      though!' He went out, and all of a sudden poked his head in
      at the door. 'Well? I didn't forget you, did I? Hey? I kept
      my promise, didn't I? Ho-ho!' The key creaked in the lock. I
      breathed freely. I had been afraid he would tie my hands...
      but they were my own, they were free! I instantly wrenched
      the silken cord off my dressing-gown, made a noose, and was
      putting it on my neck, but I flung the cord aside again at
      once. 'I won't please you!' I said aloud. 'What madness,
      really! Can I dispose of my life without Michel's leave, my
      life, which I have surrendered into his keeping? No, cruel
      wretches! No! You have not won your game yet! He will save
      me, he will tear me out of this hell, he... my Michel!'
    </p>
    <p>
      But then I remembered that he was shut up just as I was, and
      I flung myself, face downwards, on my bed, and sobbed... and
      sobbed.... And only the thought that my tormentor was perhaps
      at the door, listening and triumphing, only that thought
      forced me to swallow my tears....
    </p>
    <p>
      I am worn out. I have been writing since morning, and now it
      is evening; if once I tear myself from this sheet of paper, I
      shall not be capable of taking up the pen again.... I must
      hasten, hasten to the finish! And besides, to dwell on the
      hideous things that followed that dreadful day is beyond my
      strength!
    </p>
    <p>
      Twenty-four hours later I was taken in a closed cart to an
      isolated hut, surrounded by peasants, who were to watch me,
      and kept shut up for six whole weeks! I was not for one
      instant alone.... Later on I learnt that my stepfather had
      set spies to watch both Michel and me ever since his arrival,
      that he had bribed the servant, who had given me Michel's
      note. I ascertained too that an awful, heart-rending scene
      had taken place the next morning between the son and the
      father.... The father had cursed him. Michel for his part had
      sworn he would never set foot in his father's house again,
      and had set off to Petersburg. But the blow aimed at me by my
      stepfather rebounded upon himself. Semyon Matveitch announced
      that he could not have him remaining there, and managing the
      estate any longer. Awkward service, it seems, is an
      unpardonable offence, and some one must be fixed upon to bear
      the brunt of the <i>scandal</i>. Semyon Matveitch recompensed
      Mr. Ratsch liberally, however: he gave him the necessary
      means to move to Moscow and to establish himself there.
      Before the departure for Moscow, I was brought back to the
      lodge, but kept as before under the strictest guard. The loss
      of the 'snug little berth,' of which he was being deprived
      'thanks to me,' increased my stepfather's vindictive rage
      against me more than ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why did you make such a fuss?' he would say, almost snorting
      with indignation; 'upon my word! The old chap, of course, got
      a little too hot, was a little too much in a hurry, and so he
      made a mess of it; now, of course, his vanity's hurt, there's
      no setting the mischief right again now! If you'd only waited
      a day or two, it'd all have been right as a trivet; you
      wouldn't have been kept on dry bread, and I should have
      stayed what I was! Ah, well, women's hair is long... but
      their wit is short! Never mind; I'll be even with you yet,
      and that pretty young gentleman shall smart for it too!'
    </p>
    <p>
      I had, of course, to bear all these insults in silence.
      Semyon Matveitch I did not once see again. The separation
      from his son had been a shock to him too. Whether he felt
      remorse or&#8212;which is far more likely&#8212;wished to
      bind me for ever to my home, to my family&#8212;my
      family!&#8212;anyway, he assigned me a pension, which was to
      be paid into my stepfather's hands, and to be given to me
      till I married.... This humiliating alms, this pension I
      still receive... that is to say, Mr. Ratsch receives it for
      me....
    </p>
    <p>
      We settled in Moscow. I swear by the memory of my poor
      mother, I would not have remained two days, not two hours,
      with my stepfather, after once reaching the town... I would
      have gone away, not knowing where... to the police; I would
      have flung myself at the feet of the governor-general, of the
      senators; I don't know what I would have done, if it had not
      happened, at the very moment of our starting from the
      country, that the girl who had been our maid managed to give
      me a letter from Michel! Oh, that letter! How many times I
      read over each line, how many times I covered it with kisses!
      Michel besought me not to lose heart, to go on hoping, to
      believe in his unchanging love; he swore that he would never
      belong to any one but me; he called me his wife, he promised
      to overcome all hindrances, he drew a picture of our future,
      he asked of me only one thing, to be patient, to wait a
      little....
    </p>
    <p>
      And I resolved to wait and be patient. Alas! what would I not
      have agreed to, what would I not have borne, simply to do his
      will! That letter became my holy thing, my guiding star, my
      anchor. Sometimes when my stepfather would begin abusing and
      insulting me, I would softly lay my hand on my bosom (I wore
      Michel's letter sewed into an amulet) and only smile. And the
      more violent and abusive was Mr. Ratsch, the easier, lighter,
      and sweeter was the heart within me.... I used to see, at
      last, by his eyes, that he began to wonder whether I was
      going out of my mind.... Following on this first letter came
      a second, still more full of hope.... It spoke of our meeting
      soon.
    </p>
    <p>
      Alas! instead of that meeting there came a morning... I can
      see Mr. Ratsch coming in&#8212;and triumph again, malignant
      triumph, in his face&#8212;and in his hands a page of the
      <i>Invalid</i>, and there the announcement of the death of
      the Captain of the Guards&#8212;Mihail Koltovsky.
    </p>
    <p>
      What can I add? I remained alive, and went on living in Mr.
      Ratsch's house. He hated me as before&#8212;more than
      before&#8212;he had unmasked his black soul too much before
      me, he could not pardon me that. But that was of no
      consequence to me. I became, as it were, without feeling; my
      own fate no longer interested me. To think of him, to think
      of him! I had no interest, no joy, but that. My poor Michel
      died with my name on his lips.... I was told so by a servant,
      devoted to him, who had been with him when he came into the
      country. The same year my stepfather married Eleonora
      Karpovna. Semyon Matveitch died shortly after. In his will he
      secured to me and increased the pension he had allowed me....
      In the event of my death, it was to pass to Mr. Ratsch....
    </p>
    <p>
      Two&#8212;three&#8212;years passed... six years, seven
      years.... Life has been passing, ebbing away... while I
      merely watched how it was ebbing. As in childhood, on some
      river's edge one makes a little pond and dams it up, and
      tries in all sorts of ways to keep the water from soaking
      through, from breaking in. But at last the water breaks in,
      and then you abandon all your vain efforts, and you are glad
      instead to watch all that you had guarded ebbing away to the
      last drop....
    </p>
    <p>
      So I lived, so I existed, till at last a new, unhoped-for ray
      of warmth and light....'
    </p>
    <p>
      The manuscript broke off at this word; the following leaves
      had been torn off, and several lines completing the sentence
      had been crossed through and blotted out.
    </p>
    <h3>
      XVIII
    </h3>
    <p>
      The reading of this manuscript so upset me, the impression
      made by Susanna's visit was so great, that I could not sleep
      all night, and early in the morning I sent an express
      messenger to Fustov with a letter, in which I besought him to
      come to Moscow as soon as possible, as his absence might have
      the most terrible results. I mentioned also my interview with
      Susanna, and the manuscript she had left in my hands. After
      having sent off the letter, I did not go out of the house all
      day, and pondered all the time on what might be happening at
      the Ratsches'. I could not make up my mind to go there
      myself. I could not help noticing though that my aunt was in
      a continual fidget; she ordered pastilles to be burnt every
      minute, and dealt the game of patience, known as 'the
      traveller,' which is noted as a game in which one can never
      succeed. The visit of an unknown lady, and at such a late
      hour, had not been kept secret from her: her imagination at
      once pictured a yawning abyss on the edge of which I was
      standing, and she was continually sighing and moaning and
      murmuring French sentences, quoted from a little manuscript
      book entitled <i>Extraits de Lecture</i>. In the evening I
      found on the little table at my bedside the treatise of De
      Girando, laid open at the chapter: On the evil influence of
      the passions. This book had been put in my room, at my aunt's
      instigation of course, by the elder of her companions, who
      was called in the household Amishka, from her resemblance to
      a little poodle of that name, and was a very sentimental, not
      to say romantic, though elderly, maiden lady. All the
      following day was spent in anxious expectation of Fustov's
      coming, of a letter from him, of news from the Ratsches'
      house... though on what ground could they have sent to me?
      Susanna would be more likely to expect me to visit her....
      But I positively could not pluck up courage to see her
      without first talking to Fustov. I recalled every expression
      in my letter to him.... I thought it was strong enough; at
      last, late in the evening, he appeared.
    </p>
    <h3>
      XIX
    </h3>
    <p>
      He came into my room with his habitual, rapid, but deliberate
      step. His face struck me as pale, and though it showed traces
      of the fatigue of the journey, there was an expression of
      astonishment, curiosity, and dissatisfaction&#8212;emotions
      of which he had little experience as a rule. I rushed up to
      him, embraced him, warmly thanked him for obeying me, and
      after briefly describing my conversation with Susanna, handed
      him the manuscript. He went off to the window, to the very
      window in which Susanna had sat two days before, and without
      a word to me, he fell to reading it. I at once retired to the
      opposite corner of the room, and for appearance' sake took up
      a book; but I must own I was stealthily looking over the edge
      of the cover all the while at Fustov. At first he read rather
      calmly, and kept pulling with his left hand at the down on
      his lip; then he let his hand drop, bent forward and did not
      stir again. His eyes seemed to fly along the lines and his
      mouth slightly opened. At last he finished the manuscript,
      turned it over, looked round, thought a little, and began
      reading it all through a second time from beginning to end.
      Then he got up, put the manuscript in his pocket and moved
      towards the door; but he turned round and stopped in the
      middle of the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, what do you think?' I began, not waiting for him to
      speak.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have acted wrongly towards her,' Fustov declared thickly.
      'I have behaved... rashly, unpardonably, cruelly. I believed
      that... Viktor&#8212;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What!' I cried; 'that Viktor whom you despise so! But what
      could he say to you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Fustov crossed his arms and stood obliquely to me. He was
      ashamed, I saw that.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you remember,' he said with some effort, 'that... Viktor
      alluded to... a pension. That unfortunate word stuck in my
      head. It's the cause of everything. I began questioning
      him.... Well, and he&#8212;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What did he say?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He told me that the old man... what's his name?...
      Koltovsky, had allowed Susanna that pension because... on
      account of... well, in fact, by way of damages.'
    </p>
    <p>
      I flung up my hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And you believed him?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Fustov nodded.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes! I believed him.... He said, too, that with the young
      one... In fact, my behaviour is unjustifiable.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And you went away so as to break everything off?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes; that's the best way... in such cases. I acted savagely,
      savagely,' he repeated.
    </p>
    <p>
      We were both silent. Each of us felt that the other was
      ashamed; but it was easier for me; I was not ashamed of
      myself.
    </p>
    <h3>
      XX
    </h3>
    <p>
      'I would break every bone in that Viktor's body now,' pursued
      Fustov, clenching his teeth, 'if I didn't recognise that I'm
      in fault. I see now what the whole trick was contrived for,
      with Susanna's marriage they would lose the pension....
      Wretches!'
    </p>
    <p>
      I took his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Alexander,' I asked him, 'have you been to her?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No; I came straight to you on arriving. I'll go to-morrow...
      early to-morrow. Things can't be left so. On no account!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But you... love her, Alexander?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Fustov seemed offended.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of course I love her. I am very much attached to her.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She's a splendid, true-hearted girl!' I cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fustov stamped impatiently.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, what notion have you got in your head? I was prepared
      to marry her&#8212;she's been baptized&#8212;I'm ready to
      marry her even now, I'd been thinking of it, though she's
      older than I am.'
    </p>
    <p>
      At that instant I suddenly fancied that a pale woman's figure
      was seated in the window, leaning on her arms. The lights had
      burnt down; it was dark in the room. I shivered, looked more
      intently, and saw nothing, of course, in the window seat; but
      a strange feeling, a mixture of horror, anguish and pity,
      came over me.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Alexander!' I began with sudden intensity, 'I beg you, I
      implore you, go at once to the Ratsches', don't put it off
      till to-morrow! An inner voice tells me that you really ought
      to see Susanna to-day!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Fustov shrugged his shoulders.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What are you talking about, really! It's eleven o'clock now,
      most likely they're all in bed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No matter.... Do go, for goodness' sake! I have a
      presentiment.... Please do as I say! Go at once, take a
      sledge....'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come, what nonsense!' Fustov responded coolly; 'how could I
      go now? To-morrow morning I will be there, and everything
      will be cleared up.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But, Alexander, remember, she said that she was dying, that
      you would not find her... And if you had seen her face! Only
      think, imagine, to make up her mind to come to me... what it
      must have cost her....'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She's a little high-flown,' observed Fustov, who had
      apparently regained his self-possession completely. 'All
      girls are like that... at first. I repeat, everything will be
      all right to-morrow. Meanwhile, good-bye. I'm tired, and
      you're sleepy too.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He took his cap, and went out of the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But you promise to come here at once, and tell me all about
      it?' I called after him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I promise.... Good-bye!'
    </p>
    <p>
      I went to bed, but in my heart I was uneasy, and I felt vexed
      with my friend. I fell asleep late and dreamed that I was
      wandering with Susanna along underground, damp passages of
      some sort, and crawling along narrow, steep staircases, and
      continually going deeper and deeper down, though we were
      trying to get higher up out into the air. Some one was all
      the while incessantly calling us in monotonous, plaintive
      tones.
    </p>
    <h3>
      XXI
    </h3>
    <p>
      Some one's hand lay on my shoulder and pushed it several
      times.... I opened my eyes and in the faint light of the
      solitary candle, I saw Fustov standing before me. He
      frightened me. He was staggering; his face was yellow, almost
      the same colour as his hair; his lips seemed hanging down,
      his muddy eyes were staring senselessly away. What had become
      of his invariably amiable, sympathetic expression? I had a
      cousin who from epilepsy was sinking into idiocy.... Fustov
      looked like him at that moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      I sat up hurriedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What is it? What is the matter? Heavens!'
    </p>
    <p>
      He made no answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, what has happened? Fustov! Do speak! Susanna?...'
    </p>
    <p>
      Fustov gave a slight start.
    </p>
    <p>
      'She...' he began in a hoarse voice, and broke off.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What of her? Have you seen her?'
    </p>
    <p>
      He stared at me.
    </p>
    <p>
      'She's no more.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No more?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No. She is dead.'
    </p>
    <p>
      I jumped out of bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dead? Susanna? Dead?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Fustov turned his eyes away again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes; she is dead; she died at midnight.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He's raving!' crossed my mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      'At midnight! And what's the time now?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's eight o'clock in the morning now.
    </p>
    <p>
      They sent to tell me. She is to be buried to-morrow.'
    </p>
    <p>
      I seized him by the hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Alexander, you're not delirious? Are you in your senses?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am in my senses,' he answered. 'Directly I heard it, I
      came straight to you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      My heart turned sick and numb, as always happens on realising
      an irrevocable misfortune.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My God! my God! Dead!' I repeated. 'How is it possible? So
      suddenly! Or perhaps she took her own life?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know,' said Fustov, 'I know nothing. They told me
      she died at midnight. And to-morrow she will be buried.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'At midnight!' I thought.... 'Then she was still alive
      yesterday when I fancied I saw her in the window, when I
      entreated him to hasten to her....'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She was still alive yesterday, when you wanted to send me to
      Ivan Demianitch's,' said Fustov, as though guessing my
      thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How little he knew her!' I thought again. 'How little we
      both knew her! "High-flown," said he, "all girls are like
      that."... And at that very minute, perhaps, she was putting
      to her lips... Can one love any one and be so grossly
      mistaken in them?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Fustov stood stockstill before my bed, his hands hanging,
      like a guilty man.
    </p>
    <h3>
      XXII
    </h3>
    <p>
      I dressed hurriedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What do you mean to do now, Alexander?' I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      He gazed at me in bewilderment, as though marvelling at the
      absurdity of my question. And indeed what was there to do?
    </p>
    <p>
      'You simply must go to them, though,' I began. 'You're bound
      to ascertain how it happened; there is, possibly, a crime
      concealed. One may expect anything of those people.... It is
      all to be thoroughly investigated. Remember the statement in
      her manuscript, the pension was to cease on her marriage, but
      in event of her death it was to pass to Ratsch. In any case,
      one must render her the last duty, pay homage to her
      remains!'
    </p>
    <p>
      I talked to Fustov like a preceptor, like an elder brother.
      In the midst of all that horror, grief, bewilderment, a sort
      of unconscious feeling of superiority over Fustov had
      suddenly come to the surface in me.... Whether from seeing
      him crushed by the consciousness of his fault, distracted,
      shattered, whether that a misfortune befalling a man almost
      always humiliates him, lowers him in the opinion of others,
      'you can't be much,' is felt, 'if you hadn't the wit to come
      off better than that!' God knows! Any way, Fustov seemed to
      me almost like a child, and I felt pity for him, and saw the
      necessity of severity. I held out a helping hand to him,
      stooping down to him from above. Only a woman's sympathy is
      free from condescension.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Fustov continued to gaze with wild and stupid eyes at
      me&#8212;my authoritative tone obviously had no effect on
      him, and to my second question, 'You're going to them, I
      suppose?' he replied&#8212;
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, I'm not going.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What do you mean, really? Don't you want to ascertain for
      yourself, to investigate, how, and what? Perhaps, she has
      left a letter... a document of some sort....'
    </p>
    <p>
      Fustov shook his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can't go there,' he said. 'That's what I came to you for,
      to ask you to go... for me... I can't... I can't....'
    </p>
    <p>
      Fustov suddenly sat down to the table, hid his face in both
      hands, and sobbed bitterly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Alas, alas!' he kept repeating through his tears; 'alas,
      poor girl... poor girl... I loved... I loved her... alas!'
    </p>
    <p>
      I stood near him, and I am bound to confess, not the
      slightest sympathy was excited in me by those incontestably
      sincere sobs. I simply marvelled that Fustov could cry
      <i>like that</i>, and it seemed to me that <i>now</i> I knew
      what a small person he was, and that I should, in his place,
      have acted quite differently. What's one to make of it? If
      Fustov had remained quite unmoved, I should perhaps have
      hated him, have conceived an aversion for him, but he would
      not have sunk in my esteem.... He would have kept his
      prestige. Don Juan would have remained Don Juan! Very late in
      life, and only after many experiences, does a man learn, at
      the sight of a fellow-creature's real failing or weakness, to
      sympathise with him, and help him without a secret
      self-congratulation at his own virtue and strength, but on
      the contrary, with every humility and comprehension of the
      naturalness, almost the inevitableness, of sin.
    </p>
    <h3>
      XXIII
    </h3>
    <p>
      I was very bold and resolute in sending Fustov to the
      Ratsches'; but when I set out there myself at twelve o'clock
      (nothing would induce Fustov to go with me, he only begged me
      to give him an exact account of everything), when round the
      corner of the street their house glared at me in the distance
      with a yellowish blur from the coffin candles at one of the
      windows, an indescribable panic made me hold my breath, and I
      would gladly have turned back.... I mastered myself, however,
      and went into the passage. It smelt of incense and wax; the
      pink cover of the coffin, edged with silver lace, stood in a
      corner, leaning against the wall. In one of the adjoining
      rooms, the dining-room, the monotonous muttering of the
      deacon droned like the buzzing of a bee. From the
      drawing-room peeped out the sleepy face of a servant girl,
      who murmured in a subdued voice, 'Come to do homage to the
      dead?' She indicated the door of the dining-room. I went in.
      The coffin stood with the head towards the door; the black
      hair of Susanna under the white wreath, above the raised lace
      of the pillow, first caught my eyes. I went up sidewards,
      crossed myself, bowed down to the ground, glanced... Merciful
      God! what a face of agony! Unhappy girl! even death had no
      pity on her, had denied her&#8212;beauty, that would be
      little&#8212;even that peace, that tender and impressive
      peace which is often seen on the faces of the newly dead. The
      little, dark, almost brown, face of Susanna recalled the
      visages on old, old holy pictures. And the expression on that
      face! It looked as though she were on the point of
      shrieking&#8212;a shriek of despair&#8212;and had died so,
      uttering no sound... even the line between the brows was not
      smoothed out, and the fingers on the hands were bent back and
      clenched. I turned away my eyes involuntarily; but, after a
      brief interval, I forced myself to look, to look long and
      attentively at her. Pity filled my soul, and not pity alone.
      'That girl died by violence,' I decided inwardly; 'that's
      beyond doubt.' While I was standing looking at the dead girl,
      the deacon, who on my entrance had raised his voice and
      uttered a few disconnected sounds, relapsed into droning
      again, and yawned twice. I bowed to the ground a second time,
      and went out into the passage.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the doorway of the drawing-room Mr. Ratsch was already on
      the look-out for me, dressed in a gay-coloured dressing-gown.
      Beckoning to me with his hand, he led me to his own
      room&#8212;I had almost said, to his lair. The room, dark and
      close, soaked through and through with the sour smell of
      stale tobacco, suggested a comparison with the lair of a wolf
      or a fox.
    </p>
    <h3>
      XXIV
    </h3>
    <p>
      'Rupture! rupture of the external... of the external
      covering.... You understand.., the envelopes of the heart!'
      said Mr. Ratsch, directly the door closed. 'Such a
      misfortune! Only yesterday evening there was nothing to
      notice, and all of a sudden, all in a minute, all was over!
      It's a true saying, "heute roth, morgen todt!" It's true;
      it's what was to be expected. I always expected it. At Tambov
      the regimental doctor, Galimbovsky, Vikenty Kasimirovitch....
      you've probably heard of him... a first-rate medical man, a
      specialist&#8212;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's the first time I've heard the name,' I observed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, no matter; any way he was always,' pursued Mr. Ratsch,
      at first in a low voice, and then louder and louder, and, to
      my surprise, with a perceptible German accent, 'he was always
      warning me: "Ay, Ivan Demianitch! ay! my dear boy, you must
      be careful! Your stepdaughter has an organic defect in the
      heart&#8212;hypertrophia cordialis! The least thing and
      there'll be trouble! She must avoid all exciting emotions
      above all.... You must appeal to her reason."... But, upon my
      word, with a young lady... can one appeal to reason? Ha...
      ha... ha...'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Ratsch was, through long habit, on the point of laughing,
      but he recollected himself in time, and changed the incipient
      guffaw into a cough.
    </p>
    <p>
      And this was what Mr. Ratsch said! After all that I had found
      out about him!... I thought it my duty, however, to ask him
      whether a doctor was called in.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Ratsch positively bounced into the air.
    </p>
    <p>
      'To be sure there was.... Two were summoned, but it was
      already over&#8212;abgemacht! And only fancy, both, as though
      they were agreeing' (Mr. Ratsch probably meant, as though
      they had agreed), 'rupture! rupture of the heart! That's
      what, with one voice, they cried out. They proposed a
      post-mortem; but I... you understand, did not consent to
      that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And the funeral's to-morrow?' I queried.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, yes, to-morrow, to-morrow we bury our dear one! The
      procession will leave the house precisely at eleven o'clock
      in the morning.... From here to the church of St. Nicholas on
      Hen's Legs... what strange names your Russian churches do
      have, you know! Then to the last resting-place in mother
      earth. You will come! We have not been long acquainted, but I
      make bold to say, the amiability of your character and the
      elevation of your sentiments!...'
    </p>
    <p>
      I made haste to nod my head.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, yes, yes,' sighed Mr. Ratsch. 'It... it really has
      been, as they say, a thunderbolt from a clear sky! Ein Blitz
      aus heiterem Himmel!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And Susanna Ivanovna said nothing before her death, left
      nothing?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nothing, positively! Not a scrap of anything! Not a bit of
      paper! Only fancy, when they called me to her, when they
      waked me up&#8212;she was stiff already! Very distressing it
      was for me; she has grieved us all terribly! Alexander
      Daviditch will be sorry too, I dare say, when he knows....
      They say he is not in Moscow.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He did leave town for a few days...' I began.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Viktor Ivanovitch is complaining they're so long getting his
      sledge harnessed,' interrupted a servant girl coming
      in&#8212;the same girl I had seen in the passage. Her face,
      still looking half-awake, struck me this time by the
      expression of coarse insolence to be seen in servants when
      they know that their masters are in their power, and that
      they do not dare to find fault or be exacting with them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Directly, directly,' Ivan Demianitch responded nervously.
      'Eleonora Karpovna! Leonora! Lenchen! come here!'
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a sound of something ponderous moving the other
      side of the door, and at the same instant I heard Viktor's
      imperious call: 'Why on earth don't they put the horses in?
      You don't catch me trudging off to the police on foot!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Directly, directly,' Ivan Demianitch faltered again.
      'Eleonora Karpovna, come here!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But, Ivan Demianitch,' I heard her voice, 'ich habe keine
      Toilette gemacht!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Macht nichts. Komm herein!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Eleonora Karpovna came in, holding a kerchief over her neck
      with two fingers. She had on a morning wrapper, not buttoned
      up, and had not yet done her hair. Ivan Demianitch flew up to
      her.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You hear, Viktor's calling for the horses,' he said,
      hurriedly pointing his finger first to the door, then to the
      window. 'Please, do see to it, as quick as possible! Der Kerl
      schreit so!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Der Viktor schreit immer, Ivan Demianitch, Sie wissen wohl,'
      responded Eleonora Karpovna, 'and I have spoken to the
      coachman myself, but he's taken it into his head to give the
      horses oats. Fancy, what a calamity to happen so suddenly,'
      she added, turning to me; 'who could have expected such a
      thing of Susanna Ivanovna?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I was always expecting it, always!' cried Ratsch, and threw
      up his arms, his dressing-gown flying up in front as he did
      so, and displaying most repulsive unmentionables of chamois
      leather, with buckles on the belt. 'Rupture of the heart!
      rupture of the external membrane! Hypertrophy!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'To be sure,' Eleonora Karpovna repeated after him, 'hyper...
      Well, so it is. Only it's a terrible, terrible grief to me, I
      say again...' And her coarse-featured face worked a little,
      her eyebrows rose into the shape of triangles, and a tiny
      tear rolled over her round cheek, that looked varnished like
      a doll's.... 'I'm very sorry that such a young person who
      ought to have lived and enjoyed everything... everything...
      And to fall into despair so suddenly!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Na! gut, gut... geh, alte!' Mr. Ratsch cut her short.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Geh' schon, geh' schon,' muttered Eleonora Karpovna, and she
      went away, still holding the kerchief with her fingers, and
      shedding tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      And I followed her. In the passage stood Viktor in a
      student's coat with a beaver collar and a cap stuck jauntily
      on one side. He barely glanced at me over his shoulder, shook
      his collar up, and did not nod to me, for which I mentally
      thanked him.
    </p>
    <p>
      I went back to Fustov.
    </p>
    <h3>
      XXV
    </h3>
    <p>
      I found my friend sitting in a corner of his room with
      downcast head and arms folded across his breast. He had sunk
      into a state of numbness, and he gazed around him with the
      slow, bewildered look of a man who has slept very heavily and
      has only just been waked. I told him all about my visit to
      Ratsch's, repeated the veteran's remarks and those of his
      wife, described the impression they had made on me and
      informed him of my conviction that the unhappy girl had taken
      her own life.... Fustov listened to me with no change of
      expression, and looked about him with the same bewildered
      air.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Did you see her?' he asked me at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'In the coffin?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Fustov seemed to doubt whether Susanna were really dead.
    </p>
    <p>
      'In the coffin.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Fustov's face twitched and he dropped his eyes and softly
      rubbed his hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Are you cold?' I asked him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, old man, I'm cold,' he answered hesitatingly, and he
      shook his head stupidly.
    </p>
    <p>
      I began to explain my reasons for thinking that Susanna had
      poisoned herself or perhaps had been poisoned, and that the
      matter could not be left so....
    </p>
    <p>
      Fustov stared at me.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, what is there to be done?' he said, slowly opening his
      eyes wide and slowly closing them. 'Why, it'll be worse... if
      it's known about. They won't bury her. We must let things...
      alone.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This idea, simple as it was, had never entered my head. My
      friend's practical sense had not deserted him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'When is... her funeral?' he went on.
    </p>
    <p>
      'To-morrow.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Are you going?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'To the house or straight to the church?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'To the house and to the church too; and from there to the
      cemetery.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But I shan't go... I can't, I can't!' whispered Fustov and
      began crying. It was at these same words that he had broken
      into sobs in the morning. I have noticed that it is often so
      with weeping; as though to certain words, for the most of no
      great meaning,&#8212;but just to these words and to no
      others&#8212;it is given to open the fount of tears in a man,
      to break him down, and to excite in him the feeling of pity
      for others and himself... I remember a peasant woman was once
      describing before me the sudden death of her daughter, and
      she fairly dissolved and could not go on with her tale as
      soon as she uttered the phrase, 'I said to her, Fekla. And
      she says, "Mother, where have you put the salt... the salt...
      sa-alt?"' The word 'salt' overpowered her.
    </p>
    <p>
      But again, as in the morning, I was but little moved by
      Fustov's tears. I could not conceive how it was he did not
      ask me if Susanna had not left something for him. Altogether
      their love for one another was a riddle to me; and a riddle
      it remained to me.
    </p>
    <p>
      After weeping for ten minutes Fustov got up, lay down on the
      sofa, turned his face to the wall, and remained motionless. I
      waited a little, but seeing that he did not stir, and made no
      answer to my questions, I made up my mind to leave him. I am
      perhaps doing him injustice, but I almost believe he was
      asleep. Though indeed that would be no proof that he did not
      feel sorrow... only his nature was so constituted as to be
      unable to support painful emotions for long... His nature was
      too awfully well-balanced!
    </p>
    <h3>
      XXVI
    </h3>
    <p>
      The next day exactly at eleven o'clock I was at the place.
      Fine hail was falling from the low-hanging sky, there was a
      slight frost, a thaw was close at hand, but there were
      cutting, disagreeable gusts of wind flitting across in the
      air.... It was the most thoroughly Lenten, cold-catching
      weather. I found Mr. Ratsch on the steps of his house. In a
      black frock-coat adorned with crape, with no hat on his head,
      he fussed about, waved his arms, smote himself on the thighs,
      shouted up to the house, and then down into the street, in
      the direction of the funeral car with a white catafalque,
      already standing there with two hired carriages. Near it four
      garrison soldiers, with mourning capes over their old coats,
      and mourning hats pulled over their screwed-up eyes, were
      pensively scratching in the crumbling snow with the long
      stems of their unlighted torches. The grey shock of hair
      positively stood up straight above the red face of Mr.
      Ratsch, and his voice, that brazen voice, was cracking from
      the strain he was putting on it. 'Where are the pine
      branches? pine branches! this way! the branches of pine!' he
      yelled. 'They'll be bearing out the coffin directly! The
      pine! Hand over those pine branches! Look alive!' he cried
      once more, and dashed into the house. It appeared that in
      spite of my punctuality, I was late: Mr. Ratsch had thought
      fit to hurry things forward. The service in the house was
      already over; the priests&#8212;of whom one wore a calotte,
      and the other, rather younger, had most carefully combed and
      oiled his hair&#8212;appeared with all their retinue on the
      steps. The coffin too appeared soon after, carried by a
      coachman, two door-keepers, and a water-carrier. Mr. Ratsch
      walked behind, with the tips of his fingers on the coffin
      lid, continually repeating, 'Easy, easy!' Behind him waddled
      Eleonora Karpovna in a black dress, also adorned with crape,
      surrounded by her whole family; after all of them, Viktor
      stepped out in a new uniform with a sword with crape round
      the handle. The coffin-bearers, grumbling and altercating
      among themselves, laid the coffin on the hearse; the garrison
      soldiers lighted their torches, which at once began crackling
      and smoking; a stray old woman, who had joined herself on to
      the party, raised a wail; the deacons began to chant, the
      fine snow suddenly fell faster and whirled round like 'white
      flies.' Mr. Ratsch bawled, 'In God's name! start!' and the
      procession started. Besides Mr. Ratsch's family, there were
      in all five men accompanying the hearse: a retired and
      extremely shabby officer of roads and highways, with a faded
      Stanislas ribbon&#8212;not improbably hired&#8212;on his
      neck; the police superintendent's assistant, a diminutive man
      with a meek face and greedy eyes; a little old man in a
      fustian smock; an extremely fat fishmonger in a tradesman's
      bluejacket, smelling strongly of his calling, and I. The
      absence of the female sex (for one could hardly count as such
      two aunts of Eleonora Karpovna, sisters of the sausagemaker,
      and a hunchback old maiden lady with blue spectacles on her
      blue nose), the absence of girl friends and acquaintances
      struck me at first; but on thinking it over I realised that
      Susanna, with her character, her education, her memories,
      could not have made friends in the circle in which she was
      living. In the church there were a good many people
      assembled, more outsiders than acquaintances, as one could
      see by the expression of their faces. The service did not
      last long. What surprised me was that Mr. Ratsch crossed
      himself with great fervour, quite as though he were of the
      orthodox faith, and even chimed in with the deacons in the
      responses, though only with the notes not with the words.
      When at last it came to taking leave of the dead, I bowed
      low, but did not give the last kiss. Mr. Ratsch, on the
      contrary, went through this terrible ordeal with the utmost
      composure, and with a deferential inclination of his person
      invited the officer of the Stanislas ribbon to the coffin, as
      though offering him entertainment, and picking his children
      up under the arms swung them up in turn and held them up to
      the body. Eleonora Karpovna, on taking farewell of Susanna,
      suddenly broke into a roar that filled the church; but she
      was soon soothed and continually asked in an exasperated
      whisper, 'But where's my reticule?' Viktor held himself
      aloof, and seemed to be trying by his whole demeanour to
      convey that he was out of sympathy with all such customs and
      was only performing a social duty. The person who showed the
      most sympathy was the little old man in the smock, who had
      been, fifteen years before, a land surveyor in the Tambov
      province, and had not seen Ratsch since then. He did not know
      Susanna at all, but had drunk a couple of glasses of spirits
      at the sideboard before starting. My aunt had also come to
      the church. She had somehow or other found out that the
      deceased woman was the very lady who had paid me a visit, and
      had been thrown into a state of indescribable agitation! She
      could not bring herself to suspect me of any sort of
      misconduct, but neither could she explain such a strange
      chain of circumstances.... Not improbably she imagined that
      Susanna had been led by love for me to commit suicide, and
      attired in her darkest garments, with an aching heart and
      tears, she prayed on her knees for the peace of the soul of
      the departed, and put a rouble candle before the picture of
      the Consolation of Sorrow.... 'Amishka' had come with her
      too, and she too prayed, but was for the most part gazing at
      me, horror-stricken.... That elderly spinster, alas! did not
      regard me with indifference. On leaving the church, my aunt
      distributed all her money, more than ten roubles, among the
      poor.
    </p>
    <p>
      At last the farewell was over. They began closing the coffin.
      During the whole service I had not courage to look straight
      at the poor girl's distorted face; but every time that my
      eyes passed by it&#8212;'he did not come, he did not come,'
      it seemed to me that it wanted to say. They were just going
      to lower the lid upon the coffin. I could not restrain
      myself: I turned a rapid glance on to the dead woman. 'Why
      did you do it?' I was unconsciously asking.... 'He did not
      come!' I fancied for the last time.... The hammer was
      knocking in the nails, and all was over.
    </p>
    <h3>
      XXVII
    </h3>
    <p>
      We followed the hearse towards the cemetery. We were forty in
      number, of all sorts and conditions, nothing else really than
      an idle crowd. The wearisome journey lasted more than an
      hour. The weather became worse and worse. Halfway there
      Viktor got into a carriage, but Mr. Ratsch stepped gallantly
      on through the sloppy snow; just so must he have stepped
      through the snow when, after the fateful interview with
      Semyon Matveitch, he led home with him in triumph the girl
      whose life he had ruined for ever. The 'veteran's' hair and
      eyebrows were edged with snow; he kept blowing and uttering
      exclamations, or manfully drawing deep breaths and puffing
      out his round, dark-red cheeks.... One really might have
      thought he was laughing. 'On my death the pension was to pass
      to Ivan Demianitch'; these words from Susanna's manuscript
      recurred again to my mind. We reached the cemetery at last;
      we moved up to a freshly dug grave. The last ceremony was
      quickly performed; all were chilled through, all were in
      haste. The coffin slid on cords into the yawning hole; they
      began to throw earth on it. Mr. Ratsch here too showed the
      energy of his spirit, so rapidly, with such force and vigour,
      did he fling clods of earth on to the coffin lid, throwing
      himself into an heroic pose, with one leg planted firmly
      before him... he could not have shown more energy if he had
      been stoning his bitterest foe. Viktor, as before, held
      himself aloof; he kept muffling himself up in his coat, and
      rubbing his chin in the fur of his collar. Mr. Ratsch's other
      children eagerly imitated their father. Flinging sand and
      earth was a source of great enjoyment to them, for which, of
      course, they were in no way to blame. A mound began to rise
      up where the hole had been; we were on the point of
      separating, when Mr. Ratsch, wheeling round to the left in
      soldierly fashion, and slapping himself on the thigh,
      announced to all of us 'gentlemen present,' that he invited
      us, and also the 'reverend clergy,' to a 'funeral banquet,'
      which had been arranged at no great distance from the
      cemetery, in the chief saloon of an extremely superior
      restaurant, 'thanks to the kind offices of our honoured
      friend Sigismund Sigismundovitch.'... At these words he
      indicated the assistant of the police superintendent, and
      added that for all his grief and his Lutheran faith, he, Ivan
      Demianitch Ratsch, as a genuine Russian, put the old Russian
      usages before everything. 'My spouse,' he cried, 'with the
      ladies that have accompanied her, may go home, while we
      gentlemen commemorate in a modest repast the shade of Thy
      departed servant!' Mr. Ratsch's proposal was received with
      genuine sympathy; 'the reverend clergy' exchanged expressive
      glances with one another, while the officer of roads and
      highways slapped Ivan Demianitch on the shoulder, and called
      him a patriot and the soul of the company.
    </p>
    <p>
      We set off all together to the restaurant. In the restaurant,
      in the middle of a long, wide, and quite empty room on the
      first storey, stood two tables laid for dinner, covered with
      bottles and eatables, and surrounded by chairs. The smell of
      whitewash, mingled with the odours of spirits and salad oil,
      was stifling and oppressive. The police superintendent's
      assistant, as the organiser of the banquet, placed the clergy
      in the seats of honour, near which the Lenten dishes were
      crowded together conspicuously; after the priests the other
      guests took their seats; the banquet began. I would not have
      used such a festive word as banquet by choice, but no other
      word would have corresponded with the real character of the
      thing. At first the proceedings were fairly quiet, even
      slightly mournful; jaws munched busily, and glasses were
      emptied, but sighs too were audible&#8212;possibly sighs of
      digestion, but possibly also of feeling. There were
      references to death, allusions to the brevity of human life,
      and the fleeting nature of earthly hopes. The officer of
      roads and highways related a military but still edifying
      anecdote. The priest in the calotte expressed his approval,
      and himself contributed an interesting fact from the life of
      the saint, Ivan the Warrior. The priest with the superbly
      arranged hair, though his attention was chiefly engrossed by
      the edibles, gave utterance to something improving on the
      subject of chastity. But little by little all this changed.
      Faces grew redder, and voices grew louder, and laughter
      reasserted itself; one began to hear disconnected
      exclamations, caressing appellations, after the manner of
      'dear old boy,' 'dear heart alive,' 'old cock,' and even 'a
      pig like that'&#8212;everything, in fact, of which the
      Russian nature is so lavish, when, as they say, 'it comes
      unbuttoned.' By the time that the corks of home-made
      champagne were popping, the party had become noisy; some one
      even crowed like a cock, while another guest was offering to
      bite up and swallow the glass out of which he had just been
      drinking. Mr. Ratsch, no longer red but purple, suddenly rose
      from his seat; he had been guffawing and making a great noise
      before, but now he asked leave to make a speech. 'Speak! Out
      with it!' every one roared; the old man in the smock even
      bawled 'bravo!' and clapped his hands... but he was already
      sitting on the floor. Mr. Ratsch lifted his glass high above
      his head, and announced that he proposed in brief but
      'impressionable' phrases to refer to the qualities of the
      noble soul which,'leaving here, so to say, its earthly husk
      (die irdische H&uuml;lle) has soared to heaven, and
      plunged...' Mr. Ratsch corrected himself: 'and plashed....'
      He again corrected himself: 'and plunged...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Father deacon! Reverend sir! My good soul!' we heard a
      subdued but insistent whisper, 'they say you've a devilish
      good voice; honour us with a song, strike up: "We live among
      the fields!"'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sh! sh!... Shut up there!' passed over the lips of the
      guests.
    </p>
    <p>
      ...'Plunged all her devoted family,' pursued Mr. Ratsch,
      turning a severe glance in the direction of the lover of
      music, 'plunged all her family into the most irreplaceable
      grief! Yes!' cried Ivan Demianitch, 'well may the Russian
      proverb say, "Fate spares not the rod."...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Stop! Gentlemen!' shouted a hoarse voice at the end of the
      table, 'my purse has just been stolen!...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah, the swindler!' piped another voice, and slap! went a box
      on the ear.
    </p>
    <p>
      Heavens! What followed then! It was as though the wild beast,
      till then only growling and faintly stirring within us, had
      suddenly broken from its chains and reared up, ruffled and
      fierce in all its hideousness. It seemed as though every one
      had been secretly expecting 'a scandal,' as the natural
      outcome and sequel of a banquet, and all, as it were, rushed
      to welcome it, to support it.... Plates, glasses clattered
      and rolled about, chairs were upset, a deafening din arose,
      hands were waving in the air, coat-tails were flying, and a
      fight began in earnest.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Give it him! give it him!' roared like mad my neighbour, the
      fishmonger, who had till that instant seemed to be the most
      peaceable person in the world; it is true he had been
      silently drinking some dozen glasses of spirits. 'Thrash
      him!...'
    </p>
    <p>
      Who was to be thrashed, and what he was to be thrashed for,
      he had no idea, but he bellowed furiously.
    </p>
    <p>
      The police superintendent's assistant, the officer of roads
      and highways, and Mr. Ratsch, who had probably not expected
      such a speedy termination to his eloquence, tried to restore
      order... but their efforts were unavailing. My neighbour, the
      fishmonger, even fell foul of Mr. Ratsch himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He's murdered the young woman, the blasted German,' he
      yelled at him, shaking his fists; 'he's bought over the
      police, and here he's crowing over it!!'
    </p>
    <p>
      At this point the waiters ran in.... What happened further I
      don't know; I snatched up my cap in all haste, and made off
      as fast as my legs would carry me! All I remember is a
      fearful crash; I recall, too, the remains of a herring in the
      hair of the old man in the smock, a priest's hat flying right
      across the room, the pale face of Viktor huddled up in a
      corner, and a red beard in the grasp of a muscular hand....
      Such were the last impressions I carried away of the
      'memorial banquet,' arranged by the excellent Sigismund
      Sigismundovitch in honour of poor Susanna.
    </p>
    <p>
      After resting a little, I set off to see Fustov, and told him
      all of which I had been a witness during that day. He
      listened to me, sitting still, and not raising his head, and
      putting both hands under his legs, he murmured again, 'Ah! my
      poor girl, my poor girl!' and again lay down on the sofa and
      turned his back on me.
    </p>
    <p>
      A week later he seemed to have quite got over it, and took up
      his life as before. I asked him for Susanna's manuscript as a
      keepsake: he gave it me without raising any objection.
    </p>
    <h3>
      XXVIII
    </h3>
    <p>
      Several years passed by. My aunt was dead; I had left Moscow
      and settled in Petersburg. Fustov too had moved to
      Petersburg. He had entered the department of the Ministry of
      Finance, but we rarely met and I saw nothing much in him
      then. An official like every one else, and nothing more! If
      he is still living and not married, he is, most likely,
      unchanged to this day; he carves and carpenters and uses
      dumb-bells, and is as much a lady-killer as ever, and
      sketches Napoleon in a blue uniform in the albums of his lady
      friends. It happened that I had to go to Moscow on business.
      In Moscow I learned, with considerable surprise, that the
      fortunes of my former acquaintance, Mr. Ratsch, had taken an
      adverse turn. His wife had, indeed, presented him with twins,
      two boys, whom as a true Russian he had christened
      Briacheslav and Viacheslav, but his house had been burnt
      down, he had been forced to retire from his position, and
      worst of all, his eldest son, Viktor, had become practically
      a permanent inmate of the debtors' prison. During my stay in
      Moscow, among a company at a friendly gathering, I chanced to
      hear an allusion made to Susanna, and a most slighting, most
      insulting allusion! I did all I could to defend the memory of
      the unhappy girl, to whom fate had denied even the charity of
      oblivion, but my arguments did not make much impression on my
      audience. One of them, a young student poet, was, however, a
      little moved by my words. He sent me next day a poem, which I
      have forgotten, but which ended in the following four lines:
    </p>
    <pre>
  'Her tomb lies cold, forlorn, but even death
   Her gentle spirit's memory cannot save
   From the sly voice of slander whispering on,
   Withering the flowers on her forsaken tomb....'
</pre>
    <p>
      I read these lines and unconsciously sank into musing.
      Susanna's image rose before me; once more I seemed to see the
      frozen window in my room; I recalled that evening and the
      blustering snowstorm, and those words, those sobs.... I began
      to ponder how it was possible to explain Susanna's love for
      Fustov, and why she had so quickly, so impulsively given way
      to despair, as soon as she saw herself forsaken. How was it
      she had had no desire to wait a little, to hear the bitter
      truth from the lips of the man she loved, to write to him,
      even? How could she fling herself at once headlong into the
      abyss? Because she was passionately in love with Fustov, I
      shall be told; because she could not bear the slightest doubt
      of his devotion, of his respect for her. Perhaps; or perhaps
      because she was not at all so passionately in love with
      Fustov; that she did not deceive herself about him, but
      simply rested her last hopes on him, and could not get over
      the thought that even this man had at once, at the first
      breath of slander, turned away from her with contempt! Who
      can say what killed her; wounded pride, or the wretchedness
      of her helpless position, or the very memory of that first,
      noble, true-hearted nature to whom she had so joyfully
      pledged herself in the morning of her early days, who had so
      deeply trusted her, and so honoured her? Who knows; perhaps
      at the very instant when I fancied that her dead lips were
      murmuring, 'he did not come!' her soul was rejoicing that she
      had gone herself to him, to her Michel? The secrets of human
      life are great, and love itself, the most impenetrable of
      those secrets.... Anyway, to this day, whenever the image of
      Susanna rises before me, I cannot overcome a feeling of pity
      for her, and of angry reproach against fate, and my lips
      whisper instinctively, 'Unhappy girl! unhappy girl!'
    </p>
    <p>
      1868.
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p><a name="3"></a>
    <h2>
      THE DUELLIST
    </h2>
    <h3>
      I
    </h3>
    <p>
      A regiment of cuirassiers was quartered in 1829 in the
      village of Kirilovo, in the K&#8212;- province. That village,
      with its huts and hay-stacks, its green hemp-patches, and
      gaunt willows, looked from a distance like an island in a
      boundless sea of ploughed, black-earth fields. In the middle
      of the village was a small pond, invariably covered with
      goose feathers, with muddy, indented banks; a hundred paces
      from the pond, on the other side of the road, rose the wooden
      manor-house, long, empty, and mournfully slanting on one
      side. Behind the house stretched the deserted garden; in the
      garden grew old apple-trees that bore no fruit, and tall
      birch-trees, full of rooks' nests. At the end of the
      principal garden-walk, in a little house, once the
      bath-house, lived a decrepit old steward. Every morning,
      gasping and groaning, he would, from years of habit, drag
      himself across the garden to the seignorial apartments,
      though there was nothing to take care of in them except a
      dozen white arm-chairs, upholstered in faded stuff, two podgy
      chests on carved legs with copper handles, four pictures with
      holes in them, and one black alabaster Arab with a broken
      nose. The owner of the house, a careless young man, lived
      partly at Petersburg, partly abroad, and had completely
      forgotten his estate. It had come to him eight years before,
      from a very old uncle, once noted all over the countryside
      for his excellent liqueurs. The empty, dark-green bottles are
      to this day lying about in the storeroom, in company with
      rubbish of all sorts, old manuscript books in parti-coloured
      covers, scantily filled with writing, old-fashioned glass
      lustres, a nobleman's uniform of the Catherine period, a
      rusty sabre with a steel handle and so forth. In one of the
      lodges of the great house the colonel himself took up his
      abode. He was a married man, tall, sparing of his words, grim
      and sleepy. In another lodge lived the regimental adjutant,
      an emotional person of fine sentiments and many perfumes,
      fond of flowers and female society. The social life of the
      officers of this regiment did not differ from any other kind
      of society. Among their number were good people and bad,
      clever and silly.... One of them, a certain Avdey Ivanovitch
      Lutchkov, staff captain, had a reputation as a duellist.
      Lutchkov was a short and not thick-set man; he had a small,
      yellowish, dry face, lank, black hair, unnoticeable features,
      and dark, little eyes. He had early been left an orphan, and
      had grown up among privations and hardships. For weeks
      together he would be quiet enough,... and then all at
      once&#8212;as though he were possessed by some devil&#8212;he
      would let no one alone, annoying everybody, staring every one
      insolently in the face; trying, in fact, to pick a quarrel.
      Avdey Ivanovitch did not, however, hold aloof from
      intercourse with his comrades, but he was not on intimate
      terms with any one but the perfumed adjutant. He did not play
      cards, and did not drink spirits.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the May of 1829, not long before the beginning of the
      manoeuvres, there joined the regiment a young cornet, Fyodor
      Fedorovitch Kister, a Russian nobleman of German extraction,
      very fair-haired and very modest, cultivated and well read.
      He had lived up to his twentieth year in the home of his
      fathers, under the wings of his mother, his grandmother, and
      his two aunts. He was going into the army in deference solely
      to the wishes of his grandmother, who even in her old age
      could not see a white plumed helmet without emotion.... He
      served with no special enthusiasm but with energy, as it were
      conscientiously doing his duty. He was not a dandy, but was
      always cleanly dressed and in good taste. On the day of his
      arrival Fyodor Fedoritch paid his respects to his superior
      officers, and then proceeded to arrange his quarters. He had
      brought with him some cheap furniture, rugs, shelves, and so
      forth. He papered all the walls and the doors, put up some
      screens, had the yard cleaned, fixed up a stable, and a
      kitchen, even arranged a place for a bath.... For a whole
      week he was busily at work; but it was a pleasure afterwards
      to go into his room. Before the window stood a neat table,
      covered with various little things; in one corner was a set
      of shelves for books, with busts of Schiller and Goethe; on
      the walls hung maps, four Grevedon heads, and guns; near the
      table was an elegant row of pipes with clean mouthpieces;
      there was a rug in the outer room; all the doors shut and
      locked; the windows were hung with curtains. Everything in
      Fyodor Fedoritch's room had a look of cleanliness and order.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was quite a different thing in his comrades' quarters.
      Often one could scarcely make one's way across the muddy
      yard; in the outer room, behind a canvas screen, with its
      covering peeling off it, would lie stretched the snoring
      orderly; on the floor rotten straw; on the stove, boots and a
      broken jam-pot full of blacking; in the room itself a warped
      card-table, marked with chalk; on the table, glasses,
      half-full of cold, dark-brown tea; against the wall, a wide,
      rickety, greasy sofa; on the window-sills, tobacco-ash.... In
      a podgy, clumsy arm-chair one would find the master of the
      place in a grass-green dressing-gown with crimson plush
      facings and an embroidered smoking-cap of Asiatic extraction,
      and a hideously fat, unpleasant dog in a stinking brass
      collar would be snoring at his side.... All the doors always
      ajar....
    </p>
    <p>
      Fyodor Fedoritch made a favourable impression on his new
      comrades. They liked him for his good-nature, modesty,
      warm-heartedness, and natural inclination for everything
      beautiful, for everything, in fact, which in another officer
      they might, very likely, have thought out of place. They
      called Kister a young lady, and were kind and gentle in their
      manners with him. Avdey Ivanovitch was the only one who eyed
      him dubiously. One day after drill Lutchkov went up to him,
      slightly pursing up his lips and inflating his nostrils:
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good-morning, Mr. Knaster.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kister looked at him in some perplexity.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A very good day to you, Mr. Knaster,' repeated Lutchkov.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My name's Kister, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You don't say so, Mr. Knaster.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Fyodor Fedoritch turned his back on him and went homewards.
      Lutchkov looked after him with a grin.
    </p>
    <p>
      Next day, directly after drill he went up to Kister again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, how are you getting on, Mr. Kinderbalsam?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kister was angry, and looked him straight in the face. Avdey
      Ivanovitch's little bilious eyes were gleaming with malignant
      glee.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm addressing you, Mr. Kinderbalsam!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sir,' Fyodor Fedoritch replied, 'I consider your joke stupid
      and ill-bred&#8212;do you hear?&#8212;stupid and ill-bred.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'When shall we fight?' Lutchkov responded composedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'When you like,... to-morrow.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Next morning they fought a duel. Lutchkov wounded Kister
      slightly, and to the extreme astonishment of the seconds went
      up to the wounded man, took him by the hand and begged his
      pardon. Kister had to keep indoors for a fortnight. Avdey
      Ivanovitch came several times to ask after him and on Fyodor
      Fedoritch's recovery made friends with him. Whether he was
      pleased by the young officer's pluck, or whether a feeling
      akin to remorse was roused in his soul&#8212;it's hard to
      say... but from the time of his duel with Kister, Avdey
      Ivanovitch scarcely left his side, and called him first
      Fyodor, and afterwards simply Fedya. In his presence he
      became quite another man and&#8212;strange to say!&#8212;the
      change was not in his favour. It did not suit him to be
      gentle and soft. Sympathy he could not call forth in any one
      anyhow; such was his destiny! He belonged to that class of
      persons to whom has somehow been granted the privilege of
      authority over others; but nature had denied him the gifts
      essential for the justification of such a privilege. Having
      received no education, not being distinguished by
      intelligence, he ought not to have revealed himself; possibly
      his malignancy had its origin in his consciousness of the
      defects of his bringing up, in the desire to conceal himself
      altogether under one unchanging mask. Avdey Ivanovitch had at
      first forced himself to despise people, then he began to
      notice that it was not a difficult matter to intimidate them,
      and he began to despise them in reality. Lutchkov enjoyed
      cutting short by his very approach all but the most vulgar
      conversation. 'I know nothing, and have learned nothing, and
      I have no talents,' he said to himself; 'and so you too shall
      know nothing and not show off your talents before me....'
      Kister, perhaps, had made Lutchkov abandon the part he had
      taken up&#8212;just because before his acquaintance with him,
      the bully had never met any one genuinely idealistic, that is
      to say, unselfishly and simple-heartedly absorbed in dreams,
      and so, indulgent to others, and not full of himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      Avdey Ivanovitch would come sometimes to Kister, light a pipe
      and quietly sit down in an arm-chair. Lutchkov was not in
      Kister's company abashed by his own ignorance; he
      relied&#8212;and with good reason&#8212;on his German
      modesty.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well,' he would begin, 'what did you do yesterday? Been
      reading, I'll bet, eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, I read....'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, and what did you read? Come, tell away, old man, tell
      away.' Avdey Ivanovitch kept up his bantering tone to the
      end.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I read Kleist's <i>Idyll</i>. Ah, what a fine thing it is!
      If you don't mind, I'll translate you a few lines....' And
      Kister translated with fervour, while Lutchkov, wrinkling up
      his forehead and compressing his lips, listened
      attentively.... 'Yes, yes,' he would repeat hurriedly, with a
      disagreeable smile,'it's fine... very fine... I remember,
      I've read it... very fine.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Tell me, please,' he added affectedly, and as it were
      reluctantly, 'what's your view of Louis the Fourteenth?'
    </p>
    <p>
      And Kister would proceed to discourse upon Louis the
      Fourteenth, while Lutchkov listened, totally failing to
      understand a great deal, misunderstanding a part... and at
      last venturing to make a remark.... This threw him into a
      cold sweat; 'now, if I'm making a fool of myself,' he
      thought. And as a fact he often did make a fool of himself.
      But Kister was never off-hand in his replies; the
      good-hearted youth was inwardly rejoicing that, as he
      thought, the desire for enlightenment was awakened in a
      fellow-creature. Alas! it was from no desire for
      enlightenment that Avdey Ivanovitch questioned Kister; God
      knows why he did! Possibly he wished to ascertain for himself
      what sort of head he, Lutchkov, had, whether it was really
      dull, or simply untrained. 'So I really am stupid,' he said
      to himself more than once with a bitter smile; and he would
      draw himself up instantly and look rudely and insolently
      about him, and smile malignantly to himself if he caught some
      comrade dropping his eyes before his glance. 'All right, my
      man, you're so learned and well educated,...' he would mutter
      between his teeth. 'I'll show you... that's all....'
    </p>
    <p>
      The officers did not long discuss the sudden friendship of
      Kister and Lutchkov; they were used to the duellist's queer
      ways. 'The devil's made friends with the baby,' they said....
      Kister was warm in his praises of his friend on all hands; no
      one disputed his opinion, because they were afraid of
      Lutchkov; Lutchkov himself never mentioned Kister's name
      before the others, but he dropped his intimacy with the
      perfumed adjutant.
    </p>
    <h3>
      II
    </h3>
    <p>
      The landowners of the South of Russia are very keen on giving
      balls, inviting officers to their houses, and marrying off
      their daughters.
    </p>
    <p>
      About seven miles from the village of Kirilovo lived just
      such a country gentleman, a Mr. Perekatov, the owner of four
      hundred souls, and a fairly spacious house. He had a daughter
      of eighteen, Mashenka, and a wife, Nenila Makarievna. Mr.
      Perekatov had once been an officer in the cavalry, but from
      love of a country life and from indolence he had retired and
      had begun to live peaceably and quietly, as landowners of the
      middling sort do live. Nenila Makarievna owed her existence
      in a not perfectly legitimate manner to a distinguished
      gentleman of Moscow.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her protector had educated his little Nenila very carefully,
      as it is called, in his own house, but got her off his hands
      rather hurriedly, at the first offer, as a not very
      marketable article. Nenila Makarievna was ugly; the
      distinguished gentleman was giving her no more than ten
      thousand as dowry; she snatched eagerly at Mr. Perekatov. To
      Mr. Perekatov it seemed extremely gratifying to marry a
      highly educated, intellectual young lady... who was, after
      all, so closely related to so illustrious a personage. This
      illustrious personage extended his patronage to the young
      people even after the marriage, that is to say, he accepted
      presents of salted quails from them and called Perekatov 'my
      dear boy,' and sometimes simply, 'boy.' Nenila Makarievna
      took complete possession of her husband, managed everything,
      and looked after the whole property&#8212;very sensibly,
      indeed; far better, any way, than Mr. Perekatov could have
      done. She did not hamper her partner's liberty too much; but
      she kept him well in hand, ordered his clothes herself, and
      dressed him in the English style, as is fitting and proper
      for a country gentleman. By her instructions, Mr. Perekatov
      grew a little Napoleonic beard on his chin, to cover a large
      wart, which looked like an over-ripe raspberry. Nenila
      Makarievna, for her part, used to inform visitors that her
      husband played the flute, and that all flute-players always
      let the beard grow under the lower lip; they could hold their
      instrument more comfortably. Mr. Perekatov always, even in
      the early morning, wore a high, clean stock, and was well
      combed and washed. He was, moreover, well content with his
      lot; he dined very well, did as he liked, and slept all he
      could. Nenila Makarievna had introduced into her household
      'foreign ways,' as the neighbours used to say; she kept few
      servants, and had them neatly dressed. She was fretted by
      ambition; she wanted at least to be the wife of the marshal
      of the nobility of the district; but the gentry of the
      district, though they dined at her house to their hearts'
      content, did not choose her husband, but first the retired
      premier-major Burkolts, and then the retired second major
      Burundukov. Mr. Perekatov seemed to them too extreme a
      product of the capital.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Perekatov's daughter, Mashenka, was in face like her
      father. Nenila Makarievna had taken the greatest pains with
      her education. She spoke French well, and played the piano
      fairly. She was of medium height, rather plump and white; her
      rather full face was lighted up by a kindly and merry smile;
      her flaxen, not over-abundant hair, her hazel eyes, her
      pleasant voice&#8212;everything about her was gently
      pleasing, and that was all. On the other hand the absence of
      all affectation and conventionality, an amount of culture
      exceptional in a country girl, the freedom of her
      expressions, the quiet simplicity of her words and looks
      could not but be striking in her. She had developed at her
      own free will; Nenila Makarievna did not keep her in
      restraint.
    </p>
    <p>
      One morning at twelve o'clock the whole family of the
      Perekatovs were in the drawing-room. The husband in a round
      green coat, a high check cravat, and pea-green trousers with
      straps, was standing at the window, very busily engaged in
      catching flies. The daughter was sitting at her embroidery
      frame; her small dimpled little hand rose and fell slowly and
      gracefully over the canvas. Nenila Makarievna was sitting on
      the sofa, gazing in silence at the floor.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Did you send an invitation to the regiment at Kirilovo,
      Sergei Sergeitch?' she asked her husband.
    </p>
    <p>
      'For this evening? To be sure I did, ma ch&egrave;re.' (He
      was under the strictest orders not to call her 'little
      mother.') 'To be sure!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There are positively no gentlemen,' pursued Nenila
      Makarievna. 'Nobody for the girls to dance with.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Her husband sighed, as though crushed by the absence of
      partners.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mamma,' Masha began all at once, 'is Monsieur Lutchkov
      asked?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What Lutchkov?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He's an officer too. They say he's a very interesting
      person.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'How's that?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, he's not good-looking and he's not young, but every
      one's afraid of him. He's a dreadful duellist.' (Mamma
      frowned a little.) 'I should so like to see him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Sergei Sergeitch interrupted his daughter.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What is there to see in him, my darling? Do you suppose he
      must look like Lord Byron?' (At that time we were only just
      beginning to talk about Lord Byron.) 'Nonsense! Why, I
      declare, my dear, there was a time when I had a terrible
      character as a fighting man.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Masha looked wonderingly at her parent, laughed, then jumped
      up and kissed him on the cheek. His wife smiled a little,
      too... but Sergei Sergeitch had spoken the truth.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know if that gentleman is coming,' observed Nenila
      Makarievna. 'Possibly he may come too.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The daughter sighed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mind you don't go and fall in love with him,' remarked
      Sergei Sergeitch. 'I know you girls are all like that
      nowadays&#8212;so&#8212;what shall I say?&#8212;romantic...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' Masha responded simply.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nenila Makarievna looked coldly at her husband. Sergei
      Sergeitch played with his watch-chain in some embarrassment,
      then took his wide-brimmed, English hat from the table, and
      set off to see after things on the estate.
    </p>
    <p>
      His dog timidly and meekly followed him. As an intelligent
      animal, she was well aware that her master was not a person
      of very great authority in the house, and behaved herself
      accordingly with modesty and circumspection.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nenila Makarievna went up to her daughter, gently raised her
      head, and looked affectionately into her eyes. 'Will you tell
      me when you fall in love?' she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      Masha kissed her mother's hand, smiling, and nodded her head
      several times in the affirmative.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mind you do,' observed Nenila Makarievna, stroking her
      cheek, and she went out after her husband. Masha leaned back
      in her chair, dropped her head on her bosom, interlaced her
      fingers, and looked long out of window, screwing up her
      eyes... A slight flush passed over her fresh cheeks; with a
      sigh she drew herself up, was setting to work again, but
      dropped her needle, leaned her face on her hand, and biting
      the tips of her nails, fell to dreaming... then glanced at
      her own shoulder, at her outstretched hand, got up, went to
      the window, laughed, put on her hat and went out into the
      garden.
    </p>
    <p>
      That evening at eight o'clock, the guests began to arrive.
      Madame Perekatov with great affability received and
      'entertained' the ladies, Mashenka the girls; Sergei
      Sergeitch talked about the crops with the gentlemen and
      continually glanced towards his wife. Soon there arrived the
      young dandies, the officers, intentionally a little late; at
      last the colonel himself, accompanied by his adjutants,
      Kister and Lutchkov. He presented them to the lady of the
      house. Lutchkov bowed without speaking, Kister muttered the
      customary 'extremely delighted'... Mr. Perekatov went up to
      the colonel, pressed his hand warmly and looked him in the
      face with great cordiality. The colonel promptly looked
      forbidding. The dancing began. Kister asked Mashenka for a
      dance. At that time the <i>Ecossaise</i> was still
      flourishing.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do tell me, please,' Masha said to him, when, after
      galloping twenty times to the end of the room, they stood at
      last, the first couple, 'why isn't your friend dancing?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Which friend?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Masha pointed with the tip of her fan at Lutchkov.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He never dances,' answered Kister.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why did he come then?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kister was a little disconcerted. 'He wished to have the
      pleasure...'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mashenka interrupted him. 'You've not long been transferred
      into our regiment, I think?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Into your regiment,' observed Kister, with a smile: 'no, not
      long.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Aren't you dull here?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh no... I find such delightful society here... and the
      scenery!'... Kister launched into eulogies of the scenery.
      Masha listened to him, without raising her head. Avdey
      Ivanovitch was standing in a corner, looking indifferently at
      the dancers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How old is Mr. Lutchkov?' she asked suddenly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh... thirty-five, I fancy,' answered Kister.
    </p>
    <p>
      'They say he's a dangerous man... hot-tempered,' Masha added
      hurriedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He is a little hasty... but still, he's a very fine man.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'They say every one's afraid of him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kister laughed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm a friend of his.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Really?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your turn, your turn,' was shrieked at them from all sides.
      They started and began galloping again right across the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, I congratulate you,' Kister said to Lutchkov, going up
      to him after the dance; 'the daughter of the house does
      nothing but ask questions about you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Really?' Lutchkov responded scornfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      'On my honour! And you know she's extremely nice-looking;
      only look at her.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Which of them is she?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kister pointed out Masha.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah, not bad.' And Lutchkov yawned.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Cold-hearted person!' cried Kister, and he ran off to ask
      another girl to dance.
    </p>
    <p>
      Avdey Ivanovitch was extremely delighted at the fact Kister
      had mentioned to him, though he did yawn, and even yawned
      loudly. To arouse curiosity flattered his vanity intensely:
      love he despised&#8212;in words&#8212;but inwardly he was
      himself aware that it would be a hard and difficult task for
      him to win love.... A hard and difficult task for him to win
      love, but easy and simple enough to wear a mask of
      indifference, of silent haughtiness. Avdey Ivanovitch was
      unattractive and no longer young; but on the other hand he
      enjoyed a terrible reputation&#8212;and consequently he had
      every right to pose. He was used to the bitter, unspoken
      enjoyment of grim loneliness. It was not the first time he
      had attracted the attention of women; some had even tried to
      get upon more friendly terms with him, but he repelled their
      advances with exasperated obstinacy; he knew that sentiment
      was not in his line (during tender interviews, avowals, he
      first became awkward and vulgar, and, through anger, rude to
      the point of grossness, of insult); he remembered that the
      two or three women with whom he had at different times been
      on a friendly footing had rapidly grown cool to him after the
      first moment of closer intimacy, and had of their own impulse
      made haste to get away from him... and so he had at last
      schooled himself to remain an enigma, and to scorn what
      destiny had denied him.... This is, I fancy, the only sort of
      scorn people in general do feel. No sort of frank,
      spontaneous, that is to say good, demonstration of passion
      suited Lutchkov; he was bound to keep a continual check on
      himself, even when he was angry. Kister was the only person
      who was not disgusted when Lutchkov broke into laughter; the
      kind-hearted German's eyes shone with the generous delight of
      sympathy, when he read Avdey his favourite passages from
      Schiller, while the bully would sit facing him with lowering
      looks, like a wolf.... Kister danced till he was worn out,
      Lutchkov never left his corner, scowled, glanced stealthily
      at Masha, and meeting her eyes, at once threw an expression
      of indifference into his own. Masha danced three times with
      Kister. The enthusiastic youth inspired her with confidence.
      She chatted with him gaily enough, but at heart she was not
      at ease. Lutchkov engrossed her thoughts.
    </p>
    <p>
      A mazurka tune struck up. The officers fell to bounding up
      and down, tapping with their heels, and tossing the
      epaulettes on their shoulders; the civilians tapped with
      their heels too. Lutchkov still did not stir from his place,
      and slowly followed the couples with his eyes, as they
      whirled by. Some one touched his sleeve... he looked round;
      his neighbour pointed him out Masha. She was standing before
      him with downcast eyes, holding out her hand to him. Lutchkov
      for the first moment gazed at her in perplexity, then he
      carelessly took off his sword, threw his hat on the floor,
      picked his way awkwardly among the arm-chairs, took Masha by
      the hand, and went round the circle, with no capering up and
      down nor stamping, as it were unwillingly performing an
      unpleasant duty.... Masha's heart beat violently.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why don't you dance?' she asked him at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't care for it,' answered Lutchkov.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Where's your place?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Over there.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Lutchkov conducted Masha to her chair, coolly bowed to her
      and coolly returned to his corner... but there was an
      agreeable stirring of the spleen within him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kister asked Masha for a dance.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What a strange person your friend is!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He does interest you...' said Fyodor Fedoritch, with a sly
      twinkle of his blue and kindly eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes... he must be very unhappy.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He unhappy? What makes you suppose so?' And Fyodor Fedoritch
      laughed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You don't know... you don't know...' Masha solemnly shook
      her head with an important air.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Me not know? How's that?'...
    </p>
    <p>
      Masha shook her head again and glanced towards Lutchkov.
      Avdey Ivanovitch noticed the glance, shrugged his shoulders
      imperceptibly, and walked away into the other room.
    </p>
    <h3>
      III
    </h3>
    <p>
      Several months had passed since that evening. Lutchkov had
      not once been at the Perekatovs'. But Kister visited them
      pretty often. Nenila Makarievna had taken a fancy to him, but
      it was not she that attracted Fyodor Fedoritch. He liked
      Masha. Being an inexperienced person who had not yet talked
      himself out, he derived great pleasure from the interchange
      of ideas and feelings, and he had a simple-hearted faith in
      the possibility of a calm and exalted friendship between a
      young man and a young girl.
    </p>
    <p>
      One day his three well-fed and skittish horses whirled him
      rapidly along to Mr. Perekatov's house. It was a summer day,
      close and sultry. Not a cloud anywhere. The blue of the sky
      was so thick and dark on the horizon that the eye mistook it
      for storm-cloud. The house Mr. Perekatov had erected for a
      summer residence had been, with the foresight usual in the
      steppes, built with every window directly facing the sun.
      Nenila Makarievna had every shutter closed from early
      morning. Kister walked into the cool, half-dark drawing-room.
      The light lay in long lines on the floor and in short, close
      streaks on the walls. The Perekatov family gave Fyodor
      Fedoritch a friendly reception. After dinner Nenila
      Makarievna went away to her own room to lie down; Mr.
      Perekatov settled himself on the sofa in the drawing-room;
      Masha sat near the window at her embroidery frame, Kister
      facing her. Masha, without opening her frame, leaned lightly
      over it, with her head in her hands. Kister began telling her
      something; she listened inattentively, as though waiting for
      something, looked from time to time towards her father, and
      all at once stretched out her hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Listen, Fyodor Fedoritch... only speak a little more
      softly... papa's asleep.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Perekatov had indeed as usual dropped asleep on the sofa,
      with his head hanging and his mouth a little open.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What is it?' Kister inquired with curiosity.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You will laugh at me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, no, really!...'
    </p>
    <p>
      Masha let her head sink till only the upper part of her face
      remained uncovered by her hands and in a half whisper, not
      without hesitation, asked Kister why it was he never brought
      Mr. Lutchkov with him. It was not the first time Masha had
      mentioned him since the ball.... Kister did not speak. Masha
      glanced timorously over her interlaced fingers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'May I tell you frankly what I think?' Kister asked her.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, why not? of course.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It seems to me that Lutchkov has made a great impression on
      you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No!' answered Masha, and she bent over, as though wishing to
      examine the pattern more closely; a narrow golden streak of
      light lay on her hair; 'no... but...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, but?' said Kister, smiling.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, don't you see,' said Masha, and she suddenly lifted
      her head, so that the streak of light fell straight in her
      eyes; 'don't you see... he...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He interests you....'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well... yes...' Masha said slowly; she flushed a little,
      turned her head a little away and in that position went on
      talking. 'There is something about him so... There, you're
      laughing at me,' she added suddenly, glancing swiftly at
      Fyodor Fedoritch.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fyodor Fedoritch smiled the gentlest smile imaginable.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I tell you everything, whatever comes into my head,' Masha
      went on: 'I know that you are a very'... (she nearly said
      great) 'good friend of mine.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kister bowed. Masha ceased speaking, and shyly held out her
      hand to him; Fyodor Fedoritch pressed the tips of her fingers
      respectfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He must be a very queer person!' observed Masha, and again
      she propped her elbows on the frame.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Queer?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of course; he interests me just because he is queer!' Masha
      added slily.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Lutchkov is a noble, a remarkable man,' Kister rejoined
      solemnly. 'They don't know him in our regiment, they don't
      appreciate him, they only see his external side. He's
      embittered, of course, and strange and impatient, but his
      heart is good.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Masha listened greedily to Fyodor Fedoritch.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I will bring him to see you, I'll tell him there's no need
      to be afraid of you, that it's absurd for him to be so shy...
      I'll tell him... Oh! yes, I know what to say... Only you
      mustn't suppose, though, that I would...' (Kister was
      embarrassed, Masha too was embarrassed.)... 'Besides, after
      all, of course you only... like him....'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of course, just as I like lots of people.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kister looked mischievously at her.
    </p>
    <p>
      'All right, all right,' he said with a satisfied air; 'I'll
      bring him to you....'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, no....'
    </p>
    <p>
      'All right, I tell you it will be all right.... I'll arrange
      everything.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are so...' Masha began with a smile, and she shook her
      finger at him. Mr. Perekatov yawned and opened his eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, I almost think I've been asleep,' he muttered with
      surprise. This doubt and this surprise were repeated daily.
      Masha and Kister began discussing Schiller.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fyodor Fedoritch was not however quite at ease; he felt
      something like a stir of envy within him... and was
      generously indignant with himself. Nenila Makarievna came
      down into the drawing-room. Tea was brought in. Mr. Perekatov
      made his dog jump several times over a stick, and then
      explained he had taught it everything himself, while the dog
      wagged its tail deferentially, licked itself and blinked.
      When at last the great heat began to lessen, and an evening
      breeze blew up, the whole family went out for a walk in the
      birch copse. Fyodor Fedoritch was continually glancing at
      Masha, as though giving her to understand that he would carry
      out her behests; Masha felt at once vexed with herself, and
      happy and uncomfortable. Kister suddenly, apropos of nothing,
      plunged into a rather high-flown discourse upon love in the
      abstract, and upon friendship... but catching Nenila
      Makarievna's bright and vigilant eye he, as abruptly, changed
      the subject. The sunset was brilliant and glowing. A broad,
      level meadow lay outstretched before the birch copse. Masha
      took it into her head to start a game of 'catch-catch.'
      Maid-servants and footmen came out; Mr. Perekatov stood with
      his wife, Kister with Masha. The maids ran with deferential
      little shrieks; Mr. Perekatov's valet had the temerity to
      separate Nenila Makarievna from her spouse; one of the
      servant-girls respectfully paired off with her master; Fyodor
      Fedoritch was not parted from Masha. Every time as he
      regained his place, he said two or three words to her; Masha,
      all flushed with running, listened to him with a smile,
      passing her hand over her hair. After supper, Kister took
      leave.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a still, starlight night. Kister took off his cap. He
      was excited; there was a lump in his throat. 'Yes,' he said
      at last, almost aloud; 'she loves him: I will bring them
      together; I will justify her confidence in me.' Though there
      was as yet nothing to prove a definite passion for Lutchkov
      on Masha's part, though, according to her own account, he
      only excited her curiosity, Kister had by this time made up a
      complete romance, and worked out his own duty in the matter.
      He resolved to sacrifice his feelings&#8212;the more readily
      as 'so far I have no other sentiment for her but sincere
      devotion,' thought he. Kister really was capable of
      sacrificing himself to friendship, to a recognised duty. He
      had read a great deal, and so fancied himself a person of
      experience and even of penetration; he had no doubt of the
      truth of his suppositions; he did not suspect that life is
      endlessly varied, and never repeats itself. Little by little,
      Fyodor Fedoritch worked himself into a state of ecstasy. He
      began musing with emotion on his mission. To be the mediator
      between a shy, loving girl and a man possibly embittered only
      because he had never once in his life loved and been loved;
      to bring them together; to reveal their own feelings to them,
      and then to withdraw, letting no one know the greatness of
      his sacrifice, what a splendid feat! In spite of the coolness
      of the night, the simple-hearted dreamer's face burned....
    </p>
    <p>
      Next day he went round to Lutchkov early in the morning.
    </p>
    <p>
      Avdey Ivanovitch was, as usual, lying on the sofa, smoking a
      pipe. Kister greeted him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I was at the Perekatovs yesterday,' he said with some
      solemnity.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah!' Lutchkov responded indifferently, and he yawned.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes. They are splendid people.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Really?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We talked about you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Much obliged; with which of them was that?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'With the old people... and the daughter too.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! that... little fat thing?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She's a splendid girl, Lutchkov.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'To be sure, they're all splendid.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, Lutchkov, you don't know her. I have never met such a
      clever, sweet and sensitive girl.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Lutchkov began humming through his nose:
    </p>
    <pre>
  'In the Hamburg Gazette,
   You've read, I dare say,
   How the year before last,
   Munich gained the day....'
</pre>
    <p>
      'But I assure you....'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You 're in love with her, Fedya,' Lutchkov remarked
      sarcastically.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not at all. I never even thought of it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Fedya, you're in love with her!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What nonsense! As if one couldn't...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You're in love with her, friend of my heart, beetle on my
      hearth,' Avdey Ivanovitch chanted drawling.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah, Avdey, you really ought to be ashamed!' Kister said with
      vexation.
    </p>
    <p>
      With any one else Lutchkov would thereupon have kept on more
      than before; Kister he did not tease. 'Well, well, sprechen
      Sie deutsch, Ivan Andreitch,' he muttered in an undertone,
      'don't be angry.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Listen, Avdey,' Kister began warmly, and he sat down beside
      him. 'You know I care for you.' (Lutchkov made a wry face.)
      'But there's one thing, I'll own, I don't like about you...
      it's just that you won't make friends with any one, that you
      will stick at home, and refuse all intercourse with nice
      people. Why, there are nice people in the world, hang it all!
      Suppose you have been deceived in life, have been embittered,
      what of it; there's no need to rush into people's arms, of
      course, but why turn your back on everybody? Why, you'll cast
      me off some day, at that rate, I suppose.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Lutchkov went on smoking coolly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's how it is no one knows you... except me; goodness
      knows what some people think of you... Avdey!' added Kister
      after a brief silence; 'do you disbelieve in virtue, Avdey?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Disbelieve... no, I believe in it,'... muttered Lutchkov.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kister pressed his hand feelingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I want,' he went on in a voice full of emotion, 'to
      reconcile you with life. You will grow happier, blossom
      out... yes, blossom out. How I shall rejoice then! Only you
      must let me dispose of you now and then, of your time. To-day
      it's&#8212;what? Monday... to-morrow's Tuesday... on
      Wednesday, yes, on Wednesday we'll go together to the
      Perekatovs'. They will be so glad to see you... and we shall
      have such a jolly time there... and now let me have a pipe.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Avdey Ivanovitch lay without budging on the sofa, staring at
      the ceiling. Kister lighted a pipe, went to the window, and
      began drumming on the panes with his fingers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So they've been talking about me?' Avdey asked suddenly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'They have,' Kister responded with meaning.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What did they say?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, they talked. There're very anxious to make your
      acquaintance.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Which of them's that?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I say, what curiosity!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Avdey called his servant, and ordered his horse to be
      saddled.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Where are you off to?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The riding-school.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, good-bye. So we're going to the Perekatovs', eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'All right, if you like,' Lutchkov said lazily, stretching.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Bravo, old man!' cried Kister, and he went out into the
      street, pondered, and sighed deeply.
    </p>
    <h3>
      IV
    </h3>
    <p>
      Masha was just approaching the drawing-room door when the
      arrival of Kister and Lutchkov was announced. She promptly
      returned to her own room, and went up to the
      looking-glass.... Her heart was throbbing violently. A girl
      came to summon her to the drawing-room. Masha drank a little
      water, stopped twice on the stairs, and at last went down.
      Mr. Perekatov was not at home. Nenila Makarievna was sitting
      on the sofa; Lutchkov was sitting in an easy-chair, wearing
      his uniform, with his hat on his knees; Kister was near him.
      They both got up on Masha's entrance&#8212;Kister with his
      usual friendly smile, Lutchkov with a solemn and constrained
      air. She bowed to them in confusion, and went up to her
      mother. The first ten minutes passed off favourably. Masha
      recovered herself, and gradually began to watch Lutchkov. To
      the questions addressed to him by the lady of the house, he
      answered briefly, but uneasily; he was shy, like all egoistic
      people. Nenila Makarievna suggested a stroll in the garden to
      her guests, but did not herself go beyond the balcony. She
      did not consider it essential never to lose sight of her
      daughter, and to be constantly hobbling after her with a fat
      reticule in her hands, after the fashion of many mothers in
      the steppes. The stroll lasted rather a long while. Masha
      talked more with Kister, but did not dare to look either at
      him or at Lutchkov. Avdey Ivanovitch did not address a remark
      to her; Kister's voice showed agitation. He laughed and
      chattered a little over-much.... They reached the stream. A
      couple of yards or so from the bank there was a water-lily,
      which seemed to rest on the smooth surface of the water,
      encircled by its broad, round leaves.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What a beautiful flower!' observed Masha.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had hardly uttered these words when Lutchkov pulled out
      his sword, clutched with one hand at the frail twigs of a
      willow, and, bending his whole body over the water, cut off
      the head of the flower. 'It's deep here, take care!' Masha
      cried in terror. Lutchkov with the tip of his sword brought
      the flower to the bank, at her very feet. She bent down,
      picked up the flower, and gazed with tender, delighted
      amazement at Avdey. 'Bravo!' cried Kister. 'And I can't
      swim...' Lutchkov observed abruptly. Masha did not like that
      remark. 'What made him say that?' she wondered.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lutchkov and Kister remained at Mr. Perekatov's till the
      evening. Something new and unknown was passing in Masha's
      soul; a dreamy perplexity was reflected more than once in her
      face. She moved somehow more slowly, she did not flush on
      meeting her mother's eyes&#8212;on the contrary, she seemed
      to seek them, as though she would question her. During the
      whole evening, Lutchkov paid her a sort of awkward attention;
      but even this awkwardness gratified her innocent vanity. When
      they had both taken leave, with a promise to come again in a
      few days, she quietly went off to her own room, and for a
      long while, as it were, in bewilderment she looked about her.
      Nenila Makarievna came to her, kissed and embraced her as
      usual. Masha opened her lips, tried to say
      something&#8212;and did not utter a word. She wanted to
      confess&#8212;-she did not know what. Her soul was gently
      wandering in dreams. On the little table by her bedside the
      flower Lutchkov had picked lay in water in a clean glass.
      Masha, already in bed, sat up cautiously, leaned on her
      elbow, and her maiden lips softly touched the fresh white
      petals....
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well,' Kister questioned his friend next day, 'do you like
      the Perekatovs? Was I right? eh? Tell me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Lutchkov did not answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, do tell me, do tell me!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Really, I don't know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nonsense, come now!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That... what's her name... Mashenka's all right; not
      bad-looking.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There, you see...' said Kister&#8212;and he said no more.
    </p>
    <p>
      Five days later Lutchkov of his own accord suggested that
      they should call on the Perekatovs.
    </p>
    <p>
      Alone he would not have gone to see them; in Fyodor
      Fedoritch's absence he would have had to keep up a
      conversation, and that he could not do, and as far as
      possible avoided.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the second visit of the two friends, Masha was much more
      at her ease. She was by now secretly glad that she had not
      disturbed her mamma by an uninvited avowal. Before dinner,
      Avdey had offered to try a young horse, not yet broken in,
      and, in spite of its frantic rearing, he mastered it
      completely. In the evening he thawed, and fell into joking
      and laughing&#8212;and though he soon pulled himself up, yet
      he had succeeded in making a momentary unpleasant impression
      on Masha. She could not yet be sure herself what the feeling
      exactly was that Lutchkov excited in her, but everything she
      did not like in him she set down to the influence of
      misfortune, of loneliness.
    </p>
    <h3>
      V
    </h3>
    <p>
      The friends began to pay frequent visits to the Perekatovs'.
      Kister's position became more and more painful. He did not
      regret his action... no, but he desired at least to cut short
      the time of his trial. His devotion to Masha increased daily;
      she too felt warmly towards him; but to be nothing more than
      a go-between, a confidant, a friend even&#8212;it's a dreary,
      thankless business! Coldly idealistic people talk a great
      deal about the sacredness of suffering, the bliss of
      suffering... but to Kister's warm and simple heart his
      sufferings were not a source of any bliss whatever. At last,
      one day, when Lutchkov, ready dressed, came to fetch him, and
      the carriage was waiting at the steps, Fyodor Fedoritch, to
      the astonishment of his friend, announced point-blank that he
      should stay at home. Lutchkov entreated him, was vexed and
      angry... Kister pleaded a headache. Lutchkov set off alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      The bully had changed in many ways of late. He left his
      comrades in peace, did not annoy the novices, and though his
      spirit had not 'blossomed out,' as Kister had foretold, yet
      he certainly had toned down a little. He could not have been
      called 'disillusioned' before&#8212;he had seen and
      experienced almost nothing&#8212;and so it is not surprising
      that Masha engrossed his thoughts. His heart was not touched
      though; only his spleen was satisfied. Masha's feelings for
      him were of a strange kind. She almost never looked him
      straight in the face; she could not talk to him.... When they
      happened to be left alone together, Masha felt horribly
      awkward. She took him for an exceptional man, and felt
      overawed by him and agitated in his presence, fancied she did
      not understand him, and was unworthy of his confidence;
      miserably, drearily&#8212;but continually&#8212;she thought
      of him. Kister's society, on the contrary, soothed her and
      put her in a good humour, though it neither overjoyed nor
      excited her. With him she could chatter away for hours
      together, leaning on his arm, as though he were her brother,
      looking affectionately into his face, and laughing with his
      laughter&#8212;and she rarely thought of him. In Lutchkov
      there was something enigmatic for the young girl; she felt
      that his soul was 'dark as a forest,' and strained every
      effort to penetrate into that mysterious gloom.... So
      children stare a long while into a deep well, till at last
      they make out at the very bottom the still, black water.
    </p>
    <p>
      On Lutchkov's coming into the drawing-room alone, Masha was
      at first scared... but then she felt delighted. She had more
      than once fancied that there existed some sort of
      misunderstanding between Lutchkov and her, that he had not
      hitherto had a chance of revealing himself. Lutchkov
      mentioned the cause of Kister's absence; the parents
      expressed their regret, but Masha looked incredulously at
      Avdey, and felt faint with expectation. After dinner they
      were left alone; Masha did not know what to say, she sat down
      to the piano; her fingers flitted hurriedly and tremblingly
      over the keys; she was continually stopping and waiting for
      the first word... Lutchkov did not understand nor care for
      music. Masha began talking to him about Rossini (Rossini was
      at that time just coming into fashion) and about Mozart....
      Avdey Ivanovitch responded: 'Quite so,' 'by no means,'
      'beautiful,' 'indeed,' and that was all. Masha played some
      brilliant variations on one of Rossini's airs. Lutchkov
      listened and listened... and when at last she turned to him,
      his face expressed such unfeigned boredom, that Masha jumped
      up at once and closed the piano. She went up to the window,
      and for a long while stared into the garden; Lutchkov did not
      stir from his seat, and still remained silent. Impatience
      began to take the place of timidity in Masha's soul. 'What is
      it?' she wondered, 'won't you... or can't you?' It was
      Lutchkov's turn to feel shy. He was conscious again of his
      miserable, overwhelming diffidence; already he was raging!...
      'It was the devil's own notion to have anything to do with
      the wretched girl,' he muttered to himself.... And all the
      while how easy it was to touch Masha's heart at that instant!
      Whatever had been said by such an extraordinary though
      eccentric man, as she imagined Lutchkov, she would have
      understood everything, have excused anything, have believed
      anything.... But this burdensome, stupid silence! Tears of
      vexation were standing in her eyes. 'If he doesn't want to be
      open, if I am really not worthy of his confidence, why does
      he go on coming to see us? Or perhaps it is that I don't set
      the right way to work to make him reveal himself?'... And she
      turned swiftly round, and glanced so inquiringly, so
      searchingly at him, that he could not fail to understand her
      glance, and could not keep silence any longer....
    </p>
    <p>
      'Marya Sergievna,' he pronounced falteringly; 'I... I've... I
      ought to tell you something....'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Speak,' Masha responded rapidly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lutchkov looked round him irresolutely.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can't now...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why not?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I should like to speak to you... alone....'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, we are alone now.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes... but... here in the house....'
    </p>
    <p>
      Masha was at her wits' end.... 'If I refuse,' she thought,
      'it's all over.'... Curiosity was the ruin of Eve....
    </p>
    <p>
      'I agree,' she said at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      'When then? Where?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Masha's breathing came quickly and unevenly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'To-morrow... in the evening. You know the copse above the
      Long Meadow?'...
    </p>
    <p>
      'Behind the mill?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Masha nodded.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What time?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Wait...'
    </p>
    <p>
      She could not bring out another word; her voice broke... she
      turned pale and went quickly out of the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      A quarter of an hour later, Mr. Perekatov, with his
      characteristic politeness, conducted Lutchkov to the hall,
      pressed his hand feelingly, and begged him 'not to forget
      them'; then, having let out his guest, he observed with
      dignity to the footman that it would be as well for him to
      shave, and without awaiting a reply, returned with a careworn
      air to his own room, with the same careworn air sat down on
      the sofa, and guilelessly dropped asleep on the spot.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You're a little pale to-day,' Nenila Makarievna said to her
      daughter, on the evening of the same day. 'Are you quite
      well?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, mamma.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nenila Makarievna set straight the kerchief on the girl's
      neck.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are very pale; look at me,' she went on, with that
      motherly solicitude in which there is none the less audible a
      note of parental authority: 'there, now, your eyes look heavy
      too. You're not well, Masha.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'My head does ache a little,' said Masha, to find some way of
      escape.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There, I knew it.' Nenila Makarievna put some scent on
      Masha's forehead. 'You're not feverish, though.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Masha stooped down, and picked a thread off the floor.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nenila Makarievna's arms lay softly round Masha's slender
      waist.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It seems to me you have something you want to tell me,' she
      said caressingly, not loosing her hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      Masha shuddered inwardly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I? Oh, no, mamma.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Masha's momentary confusion did not escape her mother's
      attention.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, yes, you do.... Think a little.'
    </p>
    <p>
      But Masha had had time to regain her self-possession, and
      instead of answering, she kissed her mother's hand with a
      laugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And so you've nothing to tell me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, really, nothing.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I believe you,' responded Nenila Makarievna, after a short
      silence. 'I know you keep nothing secret from me.... That's
      true, isn't it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of course, mamma.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Masha could not help blushing a little, though.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You do quite rightly. It would be wrong of you to keep
      anything from me.... You know how I love you, Masha.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh yes, mamma.'
    </p>
    <p>
      And Masha hugged her.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There, there, that's enough.' (Nenila Makarievna walked
      about the room.) 'Oh tell me,' she went on in the voice of
      one who feels that the question asked is of no special
      importance; 'what were you talking about with Avdey
      Ivanovitch to-day?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'With Avdey Ivanovitch?' Masha repeated serenely. 'Oh, all
      sorts of things....'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you like him?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh yes, I like him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you remember how anxious you were to get to know him, how
      excited you were?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Masha turned away and laughed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What a strange person he is!' Nenila Makarievna observed
      good-humouredly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Masha felt an inclination to defend Lutchkov, but she held
      her tongue.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, of course,' she said rather carelessly; 'he is a queer
      fish, but still he's a nice man!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, yes!... Why didn't Fyodor Fedoritch come?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He was unwell, I suppose. Ah! by the way, Fyodor Fedoritch
      wanted to make me a present of a puppy.... Will you let me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What? Accept his present?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of course.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, thank you!' said Masha, 'thank you, thank you!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nenila Makarievna got as far as the door and suddenly turned
      back again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you remember your promise, Masha?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What promise?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You were going to tell me when you fall in love.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I remember.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well... hasn't the time come yet?' (Masha laughed
      musically.) 'Look into my eyes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Masha looked brightly and boldly at her mother.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It can't be!' thought Nenila Makarievna, and she felt
      reassured. 'As if she could deceive me!... How could I think
      of such a thing!... She's still a perfect baby....'
    </p>
    <p>
      She went away....
    </p>
    <p>
      'But this is really wicked,' thought Masha.
    </p>
    <h3>
      VI
    </h3>
    <p>
      Kister had already gone to bed when Lutchkov came into his
      room. The bully's face never expressed <i>one</i> feeling; so
      it was now: feigned indifference, coarse delight,
      consciousness of his own superiority... a number of different
      emotions were playing over his features.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, how was it? how was it?' Kister made haste to question
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! I went. They sent you greetings.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well? Are they all well?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of course, why not?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Did they ask why I didn't come?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, I think so.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Lutchkov stared at the ceiling and hummed out of tune. Kister
      looked down and mused.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But, look here,' Lutchkov brought out in a husky, jarring
      voice, 'you're a clever fellow, I dare say, you're a cultured
      fellow, but you're a good bit out in your ideas sometimes for
      all that, if I may venture to say so.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'How do you mean?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, look here. About women, for instance. How you're always
      cracking them up! You're never tired of singing their
      praises! To listen to you, they're all angels.... Nice sort
      of angels!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I like and respect women, but&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, of course, of course,' Avdey cut him short. 'I am not
      going to argue with you. That's quite beyond me! I'm a plain
      man.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I was going to say that... But why just to-day... just
      now,... are you talking about women?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, nothing!' Avdey smiled with great meaning. 'Nothing!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kister looked searchingly at his friend. He imagined (simple
      heart!) that Masha had been treating him badly; had been
      torturing him, perhaps, as only women can....
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are feeling hurt, my poor Avdey; tell me...'
    </p>
    <p>
      Lutchkov went off into a chuckle.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, well, I don't fancy I've much to feel hurt about,' he
      said, in a drawling tone, complacently stroking his
      moustaches. 'No, only, look here, Fedya,' he went on with the
      manner of a preceptor, 'I was only going to point out that
      you're altogether out of it about women, my lad. You believe
      me, Fedya, they 're all alike. One's only got to take a
      little trouble, hang about them a bit, and you've got things
      in your own hands. Look at Masha Perekatov now....'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Lutchkov tapped his foot on the floor and shook his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is there anything so specially attractive about me, hey? I
      shouldn't have thought there was anything. There isn't
      anything, is there? And here, I've a clandestine appointment
      for to-morrow.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kister sat up, leaned on his elbow, and stared in amazement
      at Lutchkov.
    </p>
    <p>
      'For the evening, in a wood...' Avdey Ivanovitch continued
      serenely. 'Only don't you go and imagine it means much. It's
      only a bit of fun. It's slow here, don't you know. A pretty
      little girl,... well, says I, why not? Marriage, of course,
      I'm not going in for... but there, I like to recall my young
      days. I don't care for hanging about petticoats&#8212;but I
      may as well humour the baggage. We can listen to the
      nightingales together. Of course, it's really more in your
      line; but the wench has no eyes, you see. I should have
      thought I wasn't worth looking at beside you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Lutchkov talked on a long while. But Kister did not hear him.
      His head was going round. He turned pale and passed his hand
      over his face. Lutchkov swayed up and down in his low chair,
      screwed up his eyes, stretched, and putting down Kister's
      emotion to jealousy, was almost gasping with delight. But it
      was not jealousy that was torturing Kister; he was wounded,
      not by the fact itself, but by Avdey's coarse carelessness,
      his indifferent and contemptuous references to Masha. He was
      still staring intently at the bully, and it seemed as if for
      the first time he was thoroughly seeing his face. So this it
      was he had been scheming for! This for which he had
      sacrificed his own inclinations! Here it was, the blessed
      influence of love.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Avdey... do you mean to say you don't care for her?' he
      muttered at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      'O innocence! O Arcadia!' responded Avdey, with a malignant
      chuckle.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kister in the goodness of his heart did not give in even
      then; perhaps, thought he, Avdey is in a bad temper and is
      'humbugging' from old habit... he has not yet found a new
      language to express new feelings. And was there not in
      himself some other feeling lurking under his indignation? Did
      not Lutchkov's avowal strike him so unpleasantly simply
      because it concerned Masha? How could one tell, perhaps
      Lutchkov really was in love with her.... Oh, no! no! a
      thousand times no! That man in love?... That man was
      loathsome with his bilious, yellow face, his nervous,
      cat-like movements, crowing with conceit... loathsome! No,
      not in such words would Kister have uttered to a devoted
      friend the secret of his love.... In overflowing happiness,
      in dumb rapture, with bright, blissful tears in his eyes
      would he have flung himself on his bosom....
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, old man,' queried Avdey, 'own up now you didn't expect
      it, and now you feel put out. Eh? jealous? Own up, Fedya. Eh?
      eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kister was about to speak out, but he turned with his face to
      the wall. 'Speak openly... to him? Not for anything!' he
      whispered to himself. 'He wouldn't understand me... so be it!
      He supposes none but evil feelings in me&#8212;so be it!...'
    </p>
    <p>
      Avdey got up.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I see you're sleepy,' he said with assumed sympathy: 'I
      don't want to be in your way. Pleasant dreams, my boy...
      pleasant dreams!'
    </p>
    <p>
      And Lutchkov went away, very well satisfied with himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kister could not get to sleep before the morning. With
      feverish persistence he turned over and over and thought over
      and over the same single idea&#8212;an occupation only too
      well known to unhappy lovers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Even if Lutchkov doesn't care for her,' he mused, 'if she
      has flung herself at his head, anyway he ought not even with
      me, with his friend, to speak so disrespectfully, so
      offensively of her! In what way is she to blame? How could
      any one have no feeling for a poor, inexperienced girl?
    </p>
    <p>
      'But can she really have a secret appointment with him? She
      has&#8212;yes, she certainly has. Avdey's not a liar, he
      never tells a lie. But perhaps it means nothing, a mere
      freak....
    </p>
    <p>
      'But she does not know him.... He is capable, I dare say, of
      insulting her. After to-day, I wouldn't answer for
      anything.... And wasn't it I myself that praised him up and
      exalted him? Wasn't it I who excited her curiosity?... But
      who could have known this? Who could have foreseen it?...
    </p>
    <p>
      'Foreseen what? Has he so long ceased to be my friend?...
      But, after all, was he ever my friend? What a disenchantment!
      What a lesson!'
    </p>
    <p>
      All the past turned round and round before Kister's eyes.
      'Yes, I did like him,' he whispered at last. 'Why has my
      liking cooled so suddenly?... And do I dislike him? No, why
      did I ever like him? I alone?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kister's loving heart had attached itself to Avdey for the
      very reason that all the rest avoided him. But the
      good-hearted youth did not know himself how great his
      good-heartedness was.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My duty,' he went on, 'is to warn Marya Sergievna. But how?
      What right have I to interfere in other people's affairs, in
      other people's love? How do I know the nature of that love?
      Perhaps even in Lutchkov.... No, no!' he said aloud, with
      irritation, almost with tears, smoothing out his pillow,
      'that man's stone....
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is my own fault... I have lost a friend.... A precious
      friend, indeed! And she's not worth much either!... What a
      sickening egoist I am! No, no! from the bottom of my soul I
      wish them happiness.... Happiness! but he is laughing at
      her!... And why does he dye his moustaches? I do, really,
      believe he does.... Ah, how ridiculous I am!' he repeated, as
      he fell asleep.
    </p>
    <h3>
      VII
    </h3>
    <p>
      The next morning Kister went to call on the Perekatovs. When
      they met, Kister noticed a great change in Masha, and Masha,
      too, found a change in him, but neither spoke of it. The
      whole morning they both, contrary to their habit, felt
      uncomfortable. Kister had prepared at home a number of hints
      and phrases of double meaning and friendly counsels... but
      all this previous preparation turned out to be quite thrown
      away. Masha was vaguely aware that Kister was watching her;
      she fancied that he pronounced some words with intentional
      significance; but she was conscious, too, of her own
      excitement, and did not trust her own observations. 'If only
      he doesn't mean to stay till evening!' was what she was
      thinking incessantly, and she tried to make him realise that
      he was not wanted. Kister, for his part, took her awkwardness
      and her uneasiness for obvious signs of love, and the more
      afraid he was for her the more impossible he found it to
      speak of Lutchkov; while Masha obstinately refrained from
      uttering his name. It was a painful experience for poor
      Fyodor Fedoritch. He began at last to understand his own
      feelings. Never had Masha seemed to him more charming. She
      had, to all appearances, not slept the whole night. A faint
      flush stood in patches on her pale face; her figure was
      faintly drooping; an unconscious, weary smile never left her
      lips; now and then a shiver ran over her white shoulders; a
      soft light glowed suddenly in her eyes, and quickly faded
      away. Nenila Makarievna came in and sat with them, and
      possibly with intention mentioned Avdey Ivanovitch. But in
      her mother's presence Masha was armed <i>jusqu'aux dents,</i>
      as the French say, and she did not betray herself at all. So
      passed the whole morning.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You will dine with us?' Nenila Makarievna asked Kister.
    </p>
    <p>
      Masha turned away.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' Kister said hurriedly, and he glanced towards Masha.
      'Excuse me... duties of the service...'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nenila Makarievna duly expressed her regret. Mr. Perekatov,
      following her lead, also expressed something or other. 'I
      don't want to be in the way,' Kister wanted to say to Masha,
      as he passed her, but he bowed down and whispered instead:
      'Be happy... farewell... take care of yourself...' and was
      gone.
    </p>
    <p>
      Masha heaved a sigh from the bottom of her heart, and then
      felt panic-stricken at his departure. What was it fretting
      her? Love or curiosity? God knows; but, we repeat, curiosity
      alone was enough to ruin Eve.
    </p>
    <h3>
      VIII
    </h3>
    <p>
      Long Meadow was the name of a wide, level stretch of ground
      on the right of the little stream Sniezhinka, nearly a mile
      from the Perekatovs' property. The left bank, completely
      covered by thick young oak bushes, rose steeply up over the
      stream, which was almost overgrown with willow bushes, except
      for some small 'breeding-places,' the haunts of wild ducks.
      Half a mile from the stream, on the right side of Long
      Meadow, began the sloping, undulating uplands, studded here
      and there with old birch-trees, nut bushes, and
      guelder-roses.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sun was setting. The mill rumbled and clattered in the
      distance, sounding louder or softer according to the wind.
      The seignorial drove of horses was lazily wandering about the
      meadows; a shepherd walked, humming a tune, after a flock of
      greedy and timorous sheep; the sheepdogs, from boredom, were
      running after the crows. Lutchkov walked up and down in the
      copse, with his arms folded. His horse, tied up near by, more
      than once whinnied in response to the sonorous neighing of
      the mares and fillies in the meadow. Avdey was ill-tempered
      and shy, as usual. Not yet convinced of Masha's love, he felt
      wrathful with her and annoyed with himself... but his
      excitement smothered his annoyance. He stopped at last before
      a large nut bush, and began with his riding-whip switching
      off the leaves at the ends of the twigs....
    </p>
    <p>
      He heard a light rustle... he raised his head.... Ten paces
      from him stood Masha, all flushed from her rapid walk, in a
      hat, but with no gloves, in a white dress, with a hastily
      tied kerchief round her neck. She dropped her eyes instantly,
      and softly nodded....
    </p>
    <p>
      Avdey went awkwardly up to her with a forced smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How happy I am...' he was beginning, scarcely audibly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am very glad... to meet you...' Masha interrupted
      breathlessly. 'I usually walk here in the evening... and
      you...'
    </p>
    <p>
      But Lutchkov had not the sense even to spare her modesty, to
      keep up her innocent deception.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I believe, Marya Sergievna,' he pronounced with dignity,
      'you yourself suggested...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes... yes...' rejoined Masha hurriedly. 'You wished to see
      me, you wanted...' Her voice died away.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lutchkov did not speak. Masha timidly raised her eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Excuse me,' he began, not looking at her, 'I'm a plain man,
      and not used to talking freely... to ladies... I... I wished
      to tell you... but, I fancy, you 're not in the humour to
      listen to me....'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Speak.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Since you tell me to... well, then, I tell you frankly that
      for a long while now, ever since I had the honour of making
      your acquaintance...'
    </p>
    <p>
      Avdey stopped. Masha waited for the conclusion of his
      sentence.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know, though, what I'm telling you all this for....
      There's no changing one's destiny...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'How can one know?...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I know!' responded Avdey gloomily. 'I am used to facing its
      blows!'
    </p>
    <p>
      It struck Masha that this was not exactly the befitting
      moment for Lutchkov to rail against destiny.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There are kind-hearted people in the world,' she observed
      with a smile; 'some even too kind....'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I understand you, Marya Sergievna, and believe me, I
      appreciate your friendliness... I... I... You won't be
      angry?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No.... What do you want to say?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I want to say... that I think you charming... Marya
      Sergievna, awfully charming....'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am very grateful to you,' Masha interrupted him; her heart
      was aching with anticipation and terror. 'Ah, do look, Mr.
      Lutchkov,' she went on&#8212;'look, what a view!'
    </p>
    <p>
      She pointed to the meadow, streaked with long, evening
      shadows, and flushed red with the sunset.
    </p>
    <p>
      Inwardly overjoyed at the abrupt change in the conversation,
      Lutchkov began admiring the view. He was standing near
      Masha....
    </p>
    <p>
      'You love nature?' she asked suddenly, with a rapid turn of
      her little head, looking at him with that friendly,
      inquisitive, soft glance, which is a gift only vouchsafed to
      young girls.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes... nature... of course...' muttered Avdey. 'Of course...
      a stroll's pleasant in the evening, though, I confess, I'm a
      soldier, and fine sentiments are not in my line.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Lutchkov often repeated that he 'was a soldier.' A brief
      silence followed. Masha was still looking at the meadow.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How about getting away?' thought Avdey. 'What rot it is,
      though! Come, more pluck!... Marya Sergievna...' he began, in
      a fairly resolute voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      Masha turned to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Excuse me,' he began, as though in joke, 'but let me on my
      side know what you think of me, whether you feel at all... so
      to say,... amiably disposed towards my person?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mercy on us, how uncouth he is!' Masha said to herself. 'Do
      you know, Mr. Lutchkov,' she answered him with a smile, 'it's
      not always easy to give a direct answer to a direct
      question.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Still...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But what is it to you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, really now, I want to know...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But... Is it true that you are a great duellist? Tell me, is
      it true?' said Masha, with shy curiosity. 'They do say you
      have killed more than one man?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It has happened so,' Avdey responded indifferently, and he
      stroked his moustaches.
    </p>
    <p>
      Masha looked intently at him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This hand then...' she murmured. Meanwhile Lutchkov's blood
      had caught fire. For more than a quarter of an hour a young
      and pretty girl had been moving before his eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Marya Sergievna,' he began again, in a sharp and strange
      voice, 'you know my feelings now, you know what I wanted to
      see you for.... You've been so kind.... You tell me, too, at
      last what I may hope for....'
    </p>
    <p>
      Masha twisted a wildflower in her hands.... She glanced
      sideways at Lutchkov, flushed, smiled, said,' What nonsense
      you do talk,' and gave him the flower.
    </p>
    <p>
      Avdey seized her hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And so you love me!' he cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      Masha turned cold all over with horror. She had not had the
      slightest idea of making a declaration of love to Avdey: she
      was not even sure herself as yet whether she did care for
      him, and here he was forestalling her, forcing her to speak
      out&#8212;he must be misunderstanding her then.... This idea
      flashed quicker than lightning into Masha's head. She had
      never expected such a speedy <i>d&eacute;nouement.</i>...
      Masha, like an inquisitive child, had been asking herself all
      day: 'Can it be that Lutchkov cares for me?' She had dreamed
      of a delightful evening walk, a respectful and tender
      dialogue; she had fancied how she would flirt with him, make
      the wild creature feel at home with her, permit him at
      parting to kiss her hand... and instead of that...
    </p>
    <p>
      Instead of that, she was suddenly aware of Avdey's rough
      moustaches on her cheek....
    </p>
    <p>
      'Let us be happy,' he was whispering: 'there's no other
      happiness on earth!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Masha shuddered, darted horror-stricken on one side, and pale
      all over, stopped short, one hand leaning on a birch-tree.
      Avdey was terribly confused.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Excuse me,' he muttered, approaching her, 'I didn't expect
      really...'
    </p>
    <p>
      Masha gazed at him, wide-eyed and speechless... A
      disagreeable smile twisted his lips... patches of red came
      out on his face....
    </p>
    <p>
      'What are you afraid of?' he went on; 'it's no such great
      matter.... Why, we understand each other... and so....'
    </p>
    <p>
      Masha did not speak.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come, stop that!... that's all nonsense! it's nothing
      but...' Lutchkov stretched out his hand to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Masha recollected Kister, his 'take care of yourself,' and,
      sinking with terror, in a rather shrill voice screamed,
      'Taniusha!'
    </p>
    <p>
      From behind a nutbush emerged the round face of her maid....
      Avdey was completely disconcerted. Reassured by the presence
      of her hand-maiden, Masha did not stir. But the bully was
      shaking all over with rage; his eyes were half closed; he
      clenched his fists and laughed nervously.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Bravo! bravo! Clever trick&#8212;no denying that!' he cried
      out.
    </p>
    <p>
      Masha was petrified.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So you took every care, I see, to be on the safe side, Marya
      Sergievna! Prudence is never thrown away, eh? Upon my word!
      Nowadays young ladies see further than old men. So this is
      all your love amounts to!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know, Mr. Lutchkov, who has given you any right to
      speak about love... what love?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who? Why, you yourself!' Lutchkov cut her short: 'what
      next!' He felt he was ship-wrecking the whole business, but
      he could not restrain himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have acted thoughtlessly,' said Masha.... 'I yielded to
      your request, relying upon your <i>d&eacute;licatesse</i>...
      but you don't know French... on your courtesy, I mean....'
    </p>
    <p>
      Avdey turned pale. Masha had stung him to the quick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know French... may be; but I know... I know very
      well that you have been amusing yourself at my expense.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not at all, Avdey Ivanovitch... indeed, I'm very sorry...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, please, don't talk about being sorry for me,' Avdey cut
      her short peremptorily; 'spare me that, anyway!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Lutchkov...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, you needn't put on those grand-duchess airs... It's
      trouble thrown away! you don't impress me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Masha stepped back a pace, turned swiftly round and walked
      away.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Won't you give me a message for your friend, your shepherd
      lad, your tender sweet-heart, Kister,' Avdey shouted after
      her. He had lost his head. 'Isn't he the happy man?'...
    </p>
    <p>
      Masha made him no reply, and hurriedly, gladly retreated. She
      felt light at heart, in spite of her fright and excitement.
      She felt as though she had waked up from a troubled sleep,
      had stepped out of a dark room into air and sunshine....
      Avdey glared about him like a madman; in speechless frenzy he
      broke a young tree, jumped on to his mare, and so viciously
      drove the spurs into her, so mercilessly pulled and tugged at
      the reins that the wretched beast galloped six miles in a
      quarter of an hour and almost expired the same night.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kister waited for Lutchkov in vain till midnight, and next
      morning he went round himself to see him. The orderly
      informed Fyodor Fedoritch that his master was lying down and
      had given orders that he would see no one. 'He won't see me
      even?'. 'Not even your honour.' Kister walked twice up and
      down the street, tortured by the keenest apprehensions, and
      then went home again. His servant handed him a note.
    </p>
    <p>
      'From whom?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'From the Perekatovs. Artiomka the postillion brought it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kister's hands began to tremble.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He had orders to give you their greetings. He had orders to
      wait for your answer. Am I to give Artiomka some vodka?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kister slowly unfolded the note, and read as follows:
    </p>
    <p>
      'DEAR GOOD FYODOR FEDORITCH,&#8212;I want very, very much to
      see you. Come to-day, if you can. Don't refuse my request, I
      entreat you, for the sake of our old friendship. If only you
      knew... but you shall know everything. Good-bye for a little
      while,&#8212;eh?
    </p>
    <p>
      MARIE.
    </p>
    <p>
      'P.S.&#8212;Be sure to come to-morrow.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'So your honour, am I to give Artiomka some vodka?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kister turned a long, bewildered stare at his servant's
      countenance, and went out without uttering a word.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The master has told me to get you some vodka, and to have a
      drink with you,' said Kister's servant to Artiomka the
      postillion.
    </p>
    <h3>
      IX
    </h3>
    <p>
      Masha came with such a bright and grateful face to meet
      Kister, when he came into the drawing-room, she pressed his
      hand so warmly and affectionately, that his heart throbbed
      with delight, and a weight seemed rolled from his mind. Masha
      did not, however, say a single word, and she promptly left
      the room. Sergei Sergeitch was sitting on the sofa, playing
      patience. Conversation sprang up. Sergei Sergeitch had not
      yet succeeded with his usual skill in bringing the
      conversation round from all extraneous topics to his dog,
      when Masha reappeared, wearing a plaid silk sash, Kister's
      favourite sash. Nenila Makarievna came in and gave Fyodor
      Fedoritch a friendly greeting. At dinner they were all
      laughing and making jokes; even Sergei Sergeitch plucked up
      spirit and described one of the merriest pranks of his
      youthful days, hiding his head from his wife like an ostrich,
      as he told the story.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Let us go for a walk, Fyodor Fedoritch,' Masha said to
      Kister after dinner with that note of affectionate authority
      in her voice which is, as it were, conscious that you will
      gladly submit to it. 'I want to talk to you about something
      very, very important,' she added with enchanting solemnity,
      as she put on her suede gloves. 'Are you coming with us,
      <i>maman</i>?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' answered Nenila Makarievna.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But we are not going into the garden.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Where then?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'To Long Meadow, to the copse.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Take Taniusha with you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Taniusha, Taniusha!' Masha cried musically, flitting lightly
      as a bird from the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      A quarter of an hour later Masha walked with Kister into the
      Long Meadow. As she passed the cattle, she gave a piece of
      bread to her favourite cow, patted it on the head and made
      Kister stroke it. Masha was in great good humour and chatted
      merrily. Kister responded willingly, though he awaited
      explanations with impatience.... Taniusha walked behind at a
      respectful distance, only from time to time stealing a sly
      glance at her young lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You're not angry with me, Fyodor Fedoritch?' queried Masha.
    </p>
    <p>
      'With you, Marya Sergievna? Why, whatever for?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The day before yesterday... don't you remember?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You were out of humour... that was all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What are we walking in single file for? Give me your arm.
      That's right.... You were out of humour too.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, I was too.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But to-day I'm in good humour, eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, I think so, to-day...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And do you know why? Because...'
    </p>
    <p>
      Masha nodded her head gravely. 'Well, I know why.... Because
      I am with you,' she added, not looking at Kister.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kister softly pressed her hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But why don't you question me?...' Masha murmured in an
      undertone.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What about?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, don't pretend... about my letter.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I was waiting for...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's just why I am happy with you,' Masha interrupted him
      impulsively: 'because you are a gentle, good-hearted person,
      because you are incapable... <i>parceque vous avez de la
      d&eacute;licatesse</i>. One can say that to you: you
      understand French.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kister did understand French, but he did not in the least
      understand Masha.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Pick me that flower, that one... how pretty it is!' Masha
      admired it, and suddenly, swiftly withdrawing her hand from
      his arm, with an anxious smile she began carefully sticking
      the tender stalk in the buttonhole of Kister's coat. Her
      slender fingers almost touched his lips. He looked at the
      fingers and then at her. She nodded her head to him as though
      to say 'you may.'... Kister bent down and kissed the tips of
      her gloves.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile they drew near the already familiar copse. Masha
      became suddenly more thoughtful, and at last kept silent
      altogether. They came to the very place where Lutchkov had
      waited for her. The trampled grass had not yet grown straight
      again; the broken sapling had not yet withered, its little
      leaves were only just beginning to curl up and fade. Masha
      stared about her, and turned quickly to Kister.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you know why I have brought you here?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, I don't.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't you know? Why is it you haven't told me anything about
      your friend Lutchkov to-day? You always praise him so...'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kister dropped his eyes, and did not speak.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you know,' Masha brought out with some effort, 'that I
      made... an appointment... to meet him here... yesterday?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I know that,' Kister rejoined hurriedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You know it?... Ah! now I see why the day before
      yesterday... Mr. Lutchkov was in a hurry it seems to boast of
      his <i>conquest</i>.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kister was about to answer....
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't speak, don't say anything in opposition.... I know
      he's your friend. You are capable of taking his part. You
      knew, Kister, you knew.... How was it you didn't prevent me
      from acting so stupidly? Why didn't you box my ears, as if I
      were a child? You knew... and didn't you care?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But what right had I...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What right!... the right of a friend. But he too is your
      friend.... I'm ashamed, Kister.... He your friend.... That
      man behaved to me yesterday, as if...'
    </p>
    <p>
      Masha turned away. Kister's eyes flamed; he turned pale.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, never mind, don't be angry.... Listen, Fyodor Fedoritch,
      don't be angry. It's all for the best. I am very glad of
      yesterday's explanation... yes, that's just what it was,'
      added Masha. 'What do you suppose I am telling you about it
      for? To complain of Mr. Lutchkov? Nonsense! I've forgotten
      about him. But I have done you a wrong, my good friend.... I
      want to speak openly to you, to ask your forgiveness... your
      advice. You have accustomed me to frankness; I am at ease
      with you.... You are not a Mr. Lutchkov!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Lutchkov is clumsy and coarse,' Kister brought out with
      difficulty; 'but...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why <i>but</i>? Aren't you ashamed to say <i>but</i>? He is
      coarse, <i>and</i> clumsy, <i>and</i> ill-natured, <i>and</i>
      conceited.... Do you hear?&#8212;<i>and</i>, not <i>but</i>.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are speaking under the influence of anger, Marya
      Sergievna,' Kister observed mournfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Anger? A strange sort of anger! Look at me; are people like
      this when they 're angry? Listen,' pursued Masha; 'you may
      think what you like of me... but if you imagine I am flirting
      with you to-day from pique, well... well...' (tears stood in
      her eyes)'I shall be angry in earnest.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do be open with me, Marya Sergievna...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'O, silly fellow! how slow you are! Why, look at me, am I not
      open with you, don't you see right through me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, very well... yes; I believe you,' Kister said with a
      smile, seeing with what anxious insistence she tried to catch
      his eyes. 'But tell me, what induced you to arrange to meet
      Lutchkov?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What induced me? I really don't know. He wanted to speak to
      me alone. I fancied he had never had time, never had an
      opportunity to speak freely. He has spoken freely now! Do you
      know, he may be an extraordinary man, but he's a fool,
      really.... He doesn't know how to put two words together.
      He's simply an ignoramus. Though, indeed, I don't blame him
      much... he might suppose I was a giddy, mad, worthless girl.
      I hardly ever talked to him.... He did excite my curiosity,
      certainly, but I imagined that a man who was worthy of being
      your friend...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't, please, speak of him as my friend,' Kister
      interposed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no, I don't want to separate you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, my God, for you I'm ready to sacrifice more than a
      friend.... Everything is over between me and Mr. Lutchkov,'
      Kister added hurriedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Masha looked intently into his face.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, enough of him,' she said. 'Don't let us talk of him.
      It's a lesson to me for the future. It's I that am to blame.
      For several months past I have almost every day seen a man
      who is good, clever, bright, friendly who...' (Masha was
      confused, and stammered) 'who, I think, cared... a little...
      for me too... and I like a fool,' she went on quickly,
      'preferred to him... no, no, I didn't prefer him, but...'
    </p>
    <p>
      She drooped her head, and ceased speaking in confusion.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kister was in a sort of terror. 'It can't be!' he kept
      repeating to himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Marya Sergievna!' he began at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      Masha lifted her head, and turned upon him eyes heavy with
      unshed tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You don't guess of whom I am speaking?' she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      Scarcely daring to breathe, Kister held out his hand. Masha
      at once clutched it warmly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are my friend as before, aren't you?... Why don't you
      answer?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am your friend, you know that,' he murmured.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And you are not hard on me? You forgive me?... You
      understand me? You're not laughing at a girl who made an
      appointment only yesterday with one man, and to-day is
      talking to another, as I am talking to you.... You're not
      laughing at me, are you?...' Masha's face glowed crimson, she
      clung with both hands to Kister's hand....
    </p>
    <p>
      'Laugh at you,' answered Kister: 'I... I... why, I love
      you... I love you,' he cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      Masha hid her face.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Surely you've long known that I love you, Marya Sergievna?'
    </p>
    <h3>
      X
    </h3>
    <p>
      Three weeks after this interview, Kister was sitting alone in
      his room, writing the following letter to his mother:&#8212;
    </p>
    <p>
      Dearest Mother!&#8212;I make haste to share my great
      happiness with you; I am going to get married. This news will
      probably only surprise you from my not having, in my previous
      letters, even hinted at so important a change in my
      life&#8212;and you know that I am used to sharing all my
      feelings, my joys and my sorrows, with you. My reasons for
      silence are not easy to explain to you. To begin with, I did
      not know till lately that I was loved; and on my own side
      too, it is only lately that I have realised myself all the
      strength of my own feeling. In one of my first letters from
      here, I wrote to you of our neighbours, the Perekatovs; I am
      engaged to their only daughter, Marya. I am thoroughly
      convinced that we shall both be happy. My feeling for her is
      not a fleeting passion, but a deep and genuine emotion, in
      which friendship is mingled with love. Her bright, gentle
      disposition is in perfect harmony with my tastes. She is
      well-educated, clever, plays the piano splendidly.... If you
      could only see her! I enclose her portrait sketched by me. I
      need hardly say she is a hundred times better-looking than
      her portrait. Masha loves you already, like a daughter, and
      is eagerly looking forward to seeing you. I mean to retire,
      to settle in the country, and to go in for farming. Mr.
      Perekatov has a property of four hundred serfs in excellent
      condition. You see that even from the material point of view,
      you cannot but approve of my plans. I will get leave and come
      to Moscow and to you. Expect me in a fortnight, not later. My
      own dearest mother, how happy I am!... Kiss me...' and so on.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kister folded and sealed the letter, got up, went to the
      window, lighted a pipe, thought a little, and returned to the
      table. He took out a small sheet of notepaper, carefully
      dipped his pen into the ink, but for a long while he did not
      begin to write, knitted his brows, lifted his eyes to the
      ceiling, bit the end of his pen.... At last he made up his
      mind, and in the course of a quarter of an hour he had
      composed the following:
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dear Avdey Ivanovitch,&#8212;Since the day of your last
      visit (that is, for three weeks) you have sent me no message,
      have not said a word to me, and have seemed to avoid meeting
      me. Every one is, undoubtedly, free to act as he pleases; you
      have chosen to break off our acquaintance, and I do not,
      believe me, in addressing you intend to reproach you in any
      way. It is not my intention or my habit to force myself upon
      any one whatever; it is enough for me to feel that I am not
      to blame in the matter. I am writing to you now from a
      feeling of duty. I have made an offer to Marya Sergievna
      Perekatov, and have been accepted by her, and also by her
      parents. I inform <i>you</i> of this fact&#8212;directly and
      immediately&#8212;to avoid any kind of misapprehension or
      suspicion. I frankly confess, sir, that I am unable to feel
      great concern about the good opinion of a man who himself
      shows so little concern for the opinions and feelings of
      other people, and I am writing to you solely because I do not
      care in this matter even to appear to have acted or to be
      acting underhandedly. I make bold to say, you know me, and
      will not ascribe my present action to any other lower motive.
      Addressing you for the last time, I cannot, for the sake of
      our old friendship, refrain from wishing you all good things
      possible on earth.&#8212;I remain, sincerely, your obedient
      servant, Fyodor Kister.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Fyodor Fedoritch despatched this note to the address, changed
      his uniform, and ordered his carriage to be got ready.
      Light-hearted and happy, he walked up and down his little
      room humming, even gave two little skips in the air, twisted
      a book of songs into a roll, and was tying it up with blue
      ribbon.... The door opened, and Lutchkov, in a coat without
      epaulettes, with a cap on his head, came into the room.
      Kister, astounded, stood still in the middle of the room,
      without finishing the bow he was tying.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So you're marrying the Perekatov girl?' queried Avdey in a
      calm voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kister fired up.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sir,' he began; 'decent people take off their caps and say
      good-morning when they come into another man's room.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Beg pardon,' the bully jerked out; and he took off his cap.
      'Good-morning.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good-morning, Mr. Lutchkov. You ask me if I am about to
      marry Miss Perekatov? Haven't you read my letter, then?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have read your letter. You're going to get married. I
      congratulate you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I accept your congratulation, and thank you for it. But I
      must be starting.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I should like to have a few words of explanation with you,
      Fyodor Fedoritch.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'By all means, with pleasure,' responded the good-natured
      fellow. 'I must own I was expecting such an explanation. Your
      behaviour to me has been so strange, and I think, on my side,
      I have not deserved... at least, I had no reason to expect...
      But won't you sit down? Wouldn't you like a pipe?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Lutchkov sat down. There was a certain weariness perceptible
      in his movements. He stroked his moustaches and lifted his
      eyebrows.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I say, Fyodor Fedoritch,' he began at last; 'why did you
      keep it up with me so long?...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'How do you mean?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why did you pose as such... a disinterested being, when you
      were just such another as all the rest of us sinners all the
      while?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't understand you.... Can I have wounded you in some
      way?...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You don't understand me... all right. I'll try and speak
      more plainly. Just tell me, for instance, openly, Have you
      had a liking for the Perekatov girl all along, or is it a
      case of sudden passion?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I should prefer, Avdey Ivanitch, not to discuss with you my
      relations with Marya Sergievna,' Kister responded coldly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, indeed! As you please. Only you'll kindly allow me to
      believe that you've been humbugging me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Avdey spoke very deliberately and emphatically.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You can't believe that, Avdey Ivanitch; you know me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I know you?... who knows you? The heart of another is a dark
      forest, and the best side of goods is always turned
      uppermost. I know you read German poetry with great feeling
      and even with tears in your eyes; I know that you've hung
      various maps on your walls; I know you keep your person
      clean; that I know,... but beyond that, I know nothing...'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kister began to lose his temper.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Allow me to inquire,' he asked at last, 'what is the object
      of your visit? You have sent no message to me for three
      weeks, and now you come to me, apparently with the intention
      of jeering at me. I am not a boy, sir, and I do not allow any
      one...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mercy on us,' Lutchkov interrupted him; 'mercy on us, Fyodor
      Fedoritch, who would venture to jeer at you? It's quite the
      other way; I've come to you with a most humble request, that
      is, that you'd do me the favour to explain your behaviour to
      me. Allow me to ask you, wasn't it you who forced me to make
      the acquaintance of the Perekatov family? Didn't you assure
      your humble servant that it would make his soul blossom into
      flower? And lastly, didn't you throw me with the virtuous
      Marya Sergievna? Why am I not to presume that it's to
      <i>you</i> I'm indebted for that final agreeable scene, of
      which you have doubtless been informed in befitting fashion?
      An engaged girl, of course, tells her betrothed of
      everything, especially of her <i>innocent</i> indiscretions.
      How can I help supposing that it's thanks to you I've been
      made such a terrific fool of? You took such a mighty interest
      in my "blossoming out," you know!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kister walked up and down the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Look here, Lutchkov,' he said at last; 'if you
      really&#8212;joking apart&#8212;are convinced of what you
      say, which I confess I don't believe, then let me tell you,
      it's shameful and wicked of you to put such an insulting
      construction on my conduct and intentions. I don't want to
      justify myself... I appeal to your own conscience, to your
      memory.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes; I remember you were continually whispering with Marya
      Sergievna. Besides that, let me ask you another question:
      Weren't you at the Perekatovs' after a certain conversation
      with me, after that evening when I like a fool chattered to
      you, thinking you my greatest friend, of the meeting she'd
      arranged?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What! you suspect me...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I suspect other people of nothing,' Avdey cut him short with
      cutting iciness, 'of which I would not suspect myself; but I
      have the weakness to suppose that other men are no better
      than I am.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are mistaken,' Kister retorted emphatically; 'other men
      are better than you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I congratulate them upon it,' Lutchkov dropped carelessly;
      'but...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But remember,' broke in Kister, now in his turn thoroughly
      infuriated, 'in what terms you spoke of... of that meeting...
      of... But these explanations are leading to nothing, I
      see.... Think what you choose of me, and act as you think
      best.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come, that's better,' observed Avdey. 'At last you're
      beginning to speak plainly.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'As you think best,' repeated Kister.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I understand your position, Fyodor Fedoritch,' Avdey went on
      with an affectation of sympathy; 'it's disagreeable,
      certainly. A man has been acting, acting a part, and no one
      has recognised him as a humbug; and all of a sudden...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'If I could believe,' Kister interrupted, setting his teeth,
      'that it was wounded love that makes you talk like this, I
      should feel sorry for you; I could excuse you.... But in your
      abuse, in your false charges, I hear nothing but the shriek
      of mortified pride... and I feel no sympathy for you.... You
      have deserved what you've got.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ugh, mercy on us, how the fellow talks!' Avdey murmured.
      'Pride,' he went on; 'may be; yes, yes, my pride, as you say,
      has been mortified intensely and insufferably. But who isn't
      proud? Aren't you? Yes, I'm proud, and for instance, I permit
      no one to feel sorry for me....'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You don't permit it!' Kister retorted haughtily. 'What an
      expression, sir! Don't forget, the tie between us you
      yourself have broken. I must beg you to behave with me as
      with a complete outsider.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Broken! Broken the tie between us!' repeated Avdey.
      'Understand me; I have sent you no message, and have not been
      to see you because I was sorry for you; you must allow me to
      be sorry for you, since you 're sorry for me!... I didn't
      want to put you in a false position, to make your conscience
      prick.... You talk of a tie between us... as though you could
      remain my friend as before your marriage! Rubbish! Why, you
      were only friendly with me before to gloat over your fancied
      superiority...'
    </p>
    <p>
      Avdey's duplicity overwhelmed, confounded Kister.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Let us end this unpleasant conversation!' he cried at last.
      'I must own I don't see why you've been pleased to come to
      me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You don't see what I've come to you for?' Avdey asked
      inquiringly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I certainly don't see why.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'N&#8212;o?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, I tell you...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Astonishing!... This is astonishing! Who'd have thought it
      of a fellow of your intelligence!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come, speak plainly...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have come, Mr. Kister,' said Avdey, slowly rising to his
      feet, 'I have come to challenge you to a duel. Do you
      understand now? I want to fight you. Ah! you thought you
      could get rid of me like that! Why, didn't you know the sort
      of man you have to do with? As if I'd allow...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very good,' Kister cut in coldly and abruptly. 'I accept
      your challenge. Kindly send me your second.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, yes,' pursued Avdey, who, like a cat, could not bear to
      let his victim go so soon: 'it'll give me great pleasure I'll
      own to put a bullet into your fair and idealistic countenance
      to-morrow.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are abusive after a challenge, it seems,' Kister
      rejoined contemptuously. 'Be so good as to go. I'm ashamed of
      you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, to be sure, <i>d&eacute;licatesse</i>!... Ah, Marya
      Sergievna, I don't know French!' growled Avdey, as he put on
      his cap. 'Till we meet again, Fyodor Fedoritch!'
    </p>
    <p>
      He bowed and walked out.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kister paced several times up and down the room. His face
      burned, his breast heaved violently. He felt neither fear nor
      anger; but it sickened him to think what this man really was
      that he had once looked upon as a friend. The idea of the
      duel with Lutchkov was almost pleasant to him.... Once get
      free from the past, leap over this rock in his path, and then
      to float on an untroubled tide... 'Good,' he thought, 'I
      shall be fighting to win my happiness.' Masha's image seemed
      to smile to him, to promise him success. 'I'm not going to be
      killed! not I!' he repeated with a serene smile. On the table
      lay the letter to his mother.... He felt a momentary pang at
      his heart. He resolved any way to defer sending it off. There
      was in Kister that quickening of the vital energies of which
      a man is aware in face of danger. He calmly thought over all
      the possible results of the duel, mentally placed Masha and
      himself in all the agonies of misery and parting, and looked
      forward to the future with hope. He swore to himself not to
      kill Lutchkov... He felt irresistibly drawn to Masha. He
      paused a second, hurriedly arranged things, and directly
      after dinner set off to the Perekatovs. All the evening
      Kister was in good spirits, perhaps in too good spirits.
    </p>
    <p>
      Masha played a great deal on the piano, felt no foreboding of
      evil, and flirted charmingly with him. At first her
      unconsciousness wounded him, then he took Masha's very
      unconsciousness as a happy omen, and was rejoiced and
      reassured by it. She had grown fonder and fonder of him every
      day; happiness was for her a much more urgent need than
      passion. Besides, Avdey had turned her from all exaggerated
      desires, and she renounced them joyfully and for ever. Nenila
      Makarievna loved Kister like a son. Sergei Sergeitch as usual
      followed his wife's lead.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Till we meet,' Masha said to Kister, following him into the
      hall and gazing at him with a soft smile, as he slowly and
      tenderly kissed her hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Till we meet,' Fyodor Fedoritch repeated confidently; 'till
      we meet.'
    </p>
    <p>
      But when he had driven half a mile from the Perekatovs'
      house, he stood up in the carriage, and with vague uneasiness
      began looking for the lighted windows.... All in the house
      was dark as in the tomb.
    </p>
    <h3>
      XI
    </h3>
    <p>
      Next day at eleven o'clock in the morning Kister's second, an
      old major of tried merit, came for him. The good old man
      growled to himself, bit his grey moustaches, and wished Avdey
      Ivanovitch everything unpleasant.... The carriage was brought
      to the door. Kister handed the major two letters, one for his
      mother, the other for Masha.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What's this for?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, one can never tell...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nonsense! we'll shoot him like a partridge...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Any way it's better...'
    </p>
    <p>
      The major with vexation stuffed the two letters in the side
      pocket of his coat.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Let us start.'
    </p>
    <p>
      They set off. In a small copse, a mile and a half from the
      village of Kirilovo, Lutchkov was awaiting them with his
      former friend, the perfumed adjutant. It was lovely weather,
      the birds were twittering peacefully; not far from the copse
      a peasant was tilling the ground. While the seconds were
      marking out the distance, fixing the barrier, examining and
      loading the pistols, the opponents did not even glance at one
      another.... Kister walked to and fro with a careless air,
      swinging a flower he had gathered; Avdey stood motionless,
      with folded arms and scowling brow. The decisive moment
      arrived. 'Begin, gentlemen!' Kister went rapidly towards the
      barrier, but he had not gone five steps before Avdey fired,
      Kister started, made one more step forward, staggered. His
      head sank... His knees bent under him... He fell like a sack
      on the grass. The major rushed up to him.... 'Is it
      possible?' whispered the dying man.
    </p>
    <p>
      Avdey went up to the man he had killed. On his gloomy and
      sunken face was a look of savage, exasperated regret.... He
      looked at the adjutant and the major, bent his head like a
      guilty man, got on his horse without a word, and rode slowly
      straight to the colonel's quarters.
    </p>
    <p>
      Masha... is living to this day.
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p><a name="4"></a>
    <h2>
      THREE PORTRAITS
    </h2>
    <p>
      'Neighbours' constitute one of the most serious drawbacks of
      life in the country. I knew a country gentleman of the
      Vologodsky district, who used on every suitable occasion to
      repeat the following words, 'Thank God, I have no
      neighbours,' and I confess I could not help envying that
      happy mortal. My own little place is situated in one of the
      most thickly peopled provinces of Russia. I am surrounded by
      a vast number of dear neighbours, from highly respectable and
      highly respected country gentlemen, attired in ample
      frockcoats and still more ample waistcoats, down to regular
      loafers, wearing jackets with long sleeves and a so-called
      shooting-bag on their back. In this crowd of gentlefolks I
      chanced, however, to discover one very pleasant fellow. He
      had served in the army, had retired and settled for good and
      all in the country. According to his story, he had served for
      two years in the B&#8212;&#8212;&#8212; regiment. But I am
      totally unable to comprehend how that man could have
      performed any sort of duty, not merely for two years, but
      even for two days. He was born 'for a life of peace and
      country calm,' that is to say, for lazy, careless vegetation,
      which, I note parenthetically, is not without great and
      inexhaustible charms. He possessed a very fair property, and
      without giving too much thought to its management, spent
      about ten thousand roubles a year, had obtained an excellent
      cook&#8212;my friend was fond of good fare&#8212;and ordered
      too from Moscow all the newest French books and magazines. In
      Russian he read nothing but the reports of his bailiff, and
      that with great difficulty. He used, when he did not go out
      shooting, to wear a dressing-gown from morning till
      dinner-time and at dinner. He would look through plans of
      some sort, or go round to the stables or to the threshing
      barn, and joke with the peasant women, who, to be sure, in
      his presence wielded their flails in leisurely fashion. After
      dinner my friend would dress very carefully before the
      looking-glass, and drive off to see some neighbour possessed
      of two or three pretty daughters. He would flirt serenely and
      unconcernedly with one of them, play blind-man's-buff with
      them, return home rather late and promptly fall into a heroic
      sleep. He could never be bored, for he never gave himself up
      to complete inactivity; and in the choice of occupations he
      was not difficult to please, and was amused like a child with
      the smallest trifle. On the other hand, he cherished no
      particular attachment to life, and at times, when he chanced
      to get a glimpse of the track of a wolf or a fox, he would
      let his horse go at full gallop over such ravines that to
      this day I cannot understand how it was he did not break his
      neck a hundred times over. He belonged to that class of
      persons who inspire in one the idea that they do not know
      their own value, that under their appearance of indifference
      strong and violent passions lie concealed. But he would have
      laughed in one's face if he could have guessed that one
      cherished such an opinion of him. And indeed I must own I
      believe myself that even supposing my friend had had in youth
      some strong impulse, however vague, towards what is so
      sweetly called 'higher things,' that impulse had long, long
      ago died out. He was rather stout and enjoyed superb health.
      In our day one cannot help liking people who think little
      about themselves, because they are exceedingly rare... and my
      friend had almost forgotten his own personality. I fancy,
      though, that I have said too much about him already, and my
      prolixity is the more uncalled for as he is not the hero of
      my story. His name was Piotr Fedorovitch Lutchinov.
    </p>
    <p>
      One autumn day there were five of us, ardent sportsmen,
      gathered together at Piotr Fedorovitch's. We had spent the
      whole morning out, had run down a couple of foxes and a
      number of hares, and had returned home in that supremely
      agreeable frame of mind which comes over every well-regulated
      person after a successful day's shooting. It grew dusk. The
      wind was frolicking over the dark fields and noisily swinging
      the bare tops of the birches and lime-trees round Lutchinov's
      house. We reached the house, got off our horses.... On the
      steps I stood still and looked round: long storm-clouds were
      creeping heavily over the grey sky; a dark-brown bush was
      writhing in the wind, and murmuring plaintively; the yellow
      grass helplessly and forlornly bowed down to the earth;
      flocks of thrushes were fluttering in the mountain-ashes
      among the bright, flame-coloured clusters of berries. Among
      the light brittle twigs of the birch-trees blue-tits hopped
      whistling. In the village there was the hoarse barking of
      dogs. I felt melancholy... but it was with a genuine sense of
      comfort that I walked into the dining-room. The shutters were
      closed; on a round table, covered with a tablecloth of
      dazzling whiteness, amid cut-glass decanters of red wine,
      there were eight lighted candles in silver candlesticks; a
      fire glowed cheerfully on the hearth, and an old and very
      stately-looking butler, with a huge bald head, wearing an
      English dress, stood before another table on which was
      pleasingly conspicuous a large soup-tureen, encircled by
      light savoury-smelling steam. In the hall we passed by
      another venerable man, engaged in icing
      champagne&#8212;'according to the strictest rules of the
      art.' The dinner was, as is usual in such cases, exceedingly
      pleasant. We laughed and talked of the incidents of the day's
      shooting, and recalled with enthusiasm two glorious 'runs.'
      After dining pretty heartily, we settled comfortably into
      ample arm-chairs round the fire; a huge silver bowl made its
      appearance on the table, and in a few minutes the white flame
      of the burning rum announced our host's agreeable intention
      'to concoct a punch.' Piotr Fedoritch was a man of some
      taste; he was aware, for instance, that nothing has so fatal
      an influence on the fancy as the cold, steady, pedantic light
      of a lamp, and so he gave orders that only two candles should
      be left in the room. Strange half-shadows quivered on the
      walls, thrown by the fanciful play of the fire in the hearth
      and the flame of the punch... a soft, exceedingly agreeable
      sense of soothing comfort replaced in our hearts the somewhat
      boisterous gaiety that had reigned at dinner.
    </p>
    <p>
      Conversations have their destinies, like books, as the Latin
      proverb says, like everything in the world. Our conversation
      that evening was particularly many-sided and lively. From
      details it passed to rather serious general questions, and
      lightly and casually came back to the daily incidents of
      life.... After chatting a good deal, we suddenly all sank
      into silence. At such times they say an angel of peace is
      flying over.
    </p>
    <p>
      I cannot say why my companions were silent, but I held my
      tongue because my eyes had suddenly come to rest on three
      dusty portraits in black wooden frames. The colours were
      rubbed and cracked in places, but one could still make out
      the faces. The portrait in the centre was that of a young
      woman in a white gown with lace ruffles, her hair done up
      high, in the style of the eighties of last century. On her
      right, upon a perfectly black background, there stood out the
      full, round face of a good-natured country gentleman of
      five-and-twenty, with a broad, low brow, a thick nose, and a
      good-humoured smile. The French powdered coiffure was utterly
      out of keeping with the expression of his Slavonic face. The
      artist had portrayed him wearing a long loose coat of crimson
      colour with large paste buttons; in his hand he was holding
      some unlikely-looking flower. The third portrait, which was
      the work of some other more skilful hand, represented a man
      of thirty, in the green uniform, with red facings, of the
      time of Catherine, in a white shirt, with a fine cambric
      cravat. One hand leaned on a gold-headed cane, the other lay
      on his shirt front. His dark, thinnish face was full of
      insolent haughtiness. The fine long eyebrows almost grew
      together over the pitch-black eyes, about the thin, scarcely
      discernible lips played an evil smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why do you keep staring at those faces?' Piotr Fedoritch
      asked me.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, I don't know!' I answered, looking at him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Would you care to hear a whole story about those three
      persons?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, please tell it,' we all responded with one voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      Piotr Fedoritch got up, took a candle, carried it to the
      portraits, and in the tone of a showman at a wild beast show,
      'Gentlemen!' he boomed, 'this lady was the adopted child of
      my great-grandfather, Olga Ivanovna N.N., called Lutchinov,
      who died forty years ago unmarried. This gentleman,' he
      pointed to the portrait of a man in uniform, 'served as a
      lieutenant in the Guards, Vassily Ivanovitch Lutchinov,
      expired by the will of God in the year seventeen hundred and
      ninety. And this gentleman, to whom I have not the honour of
      being related, is a certain Pavel Afanasiitch Rogatchov,
      serving nowhere, as far as I'm aware.... Kindly take note of
      the hole in his breast, just on the spot where the heart
      should be. That hole, you see, a regular three-sided hole,
      would be hardly likely to have come there by chance.... Now,
      'he went on in his usual voice, 'kindly seat yourselves, arm
      yourselves with patience, and listen.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Gentlemen! (he began) I come of a rather old family. I am not
      proud of my descent, seeing that my ancestors were all
      fearful prodigals. Though that reproach cannot indeed be made
      against my great-grandfather, Ivan Andreevitch Lutchinov; on
      the contrary, he had the character of being excessively
      careful, even miserly&#8212;at any rate, in the latter years
      of his life. He spent his youth in Petersburg, and lived
      through the reign of Elizabeth. In Petersburg he married, and
      had by his wife, my great-grandmother, four children, three
      sons, Vassily, Ivan, and Pavel, my grandfather, and one
      daughter, Natalia. In addition, Ivan Andreevitch took into
      his family the daughter of a distant relation, a nameless and
      destitute orphan&#8212;Olga Ivanovna, of whom I spoke just
      now. My great-grandfather's serfs were probably aware of his
      existence, for they used (when nothing particularly unlucky
      occurred) to send him a trifling rent, but they had never
      seen his face. The village of Lutchinovka, deprived of the
      bodily presence of its lord, was flourishing exceedingly,
      when all of a sudden one fine morning a cumbrous old family
      coach drove into the village and stopped before the elder's
      hut. The peasants, alarmed at such an unheard-of occurrence,
      ran up and saw their master and mistress and all their young
      ones, except the eldest, Vassily, who was left behind in
      Petersburg. From that memorable day down to the very day of
      his death, Ivan Andreevitch never left Lutchinovka. He built
      himself a house, the very house in which I have the pleasure
      of conversing with you at this moment. He built a church too,
      and began living the life of a country gentleman. Ivan
      Andreevitch was a man of immense height, thin, silent, and
      very deliberate in all his movements. He never wore a
      dressing-gown, and no one but his valet had ever seen him
      without powder. Ivan Andreevitch usually walked with his
      hands clasped behind his back, turning his head at each step.
      Every day he used to walk in a long avenue of lime-trees,
      which he had planted with his own hand; and before his death
      he had the pleasure of enjoying the shade of those trees.
      Ivan Andreevitch was exceedingly sparing of his words; a
      proof of his taciturnity is to be found in the remarkable
      fact that in the course of twenty years he had not said a
      single word to his wife, Anna Pavlovna. His relations with
      Anna Pavlovna altogether were of a very curious sort. She
      directed the whole management of the household; at dinner she
      always sat beside her husband&#8212;he would mercilessly have
      chastised any one who had dared to say a disrespectful word
      to her&#8212;and yet he never spoke to her, never touched her
      hand. Anna Pavlovna was a pale, broken-spirited woman,
      completely crushed. She prayed every day on her knees in
      church, and she never smiled. There was a rumour that they
      had formerly, that is, before they came into the country,
      lived on very cordial terms with one another. They did say
      too that Anna Pavlovna had been untrue to her matrimonial
      vows; that her conduct had come to her husband's
      knowledge.... Be that as it may, any way Ivan Andreevitch,
      even when dying, was not reconciled to her. During his last
      illness, she never left him; but he seemed not to notice her.
      One night, Anna Pavlovna was sitting in Ivan Andreevitch's
      bedroom&#8212;he suffered from sleeplessness&#8212;a lamp was
      burning before the holy picture. My grandfather's servant,
      Yuditch, of whom I shall have to say a few words later, went
      out of the room. Anna Pavlovna got up, crossed the room, and
      sobbing flung herself on her knees at her husband's bedside,
      tried to say something&#8212;stretched out her hands... Ivan
      Andreevitch looked at her, and in a faint voice, but
      resolutely, called, 'Boy!' The servant went in; Anna Pavlovna
      hurriedly rose, and went back, tottering, to her place.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ivan Andreevitch's children were exceedingly afraid of him.
      They grew up in the country, and were witnesses of Ivan
      Andreevitch's strange treatment of his wife. They all loved
      Anna Pavlovna passionately, but did not dare to show their
      love. She seemed of herself to hold aloof from them.... You
      remember my grandfather, gentlemen; to the day of his death
      he always walked on tiptoe, and spoke in a whisper... such is
      the force of habit! My grandfather and his brother, Ivan
      Ivanovitch, were simple, good-hearted people, quiet and
      depressed. My grand'tante Natalia married, as you are aware,
      a coarse, dull-witted man, and all her life she cherished an
      unutterable, slavish, sheep-like passion for him. But their
      brother Vassily was not of that sort. I believe I said that
      Ivan Andreevitch had left him in Petersburg. He was then
      twelve. His father confided him to the care of a distant
      kinsman, a man no longer young, a bachelor, and a terrible
      Voltairean.
    </p>
    <p>
      Vassily grew up and went into the army. He was not tall, but
      was well-built and exceedingly elegant; he spoke French
      excellently, and was renowned for his skilful swordsmanship.
      He was considered one of the most brilliant young men of the
      beginning of the reign of Catherine. My father used often to
      tell me that he had known more than one old lady who could
      not refer to Vassily Ivanovitch Lutchinov without heartfelt
      emotion. Picture to yourselves a man endowed with exceptional
      strength of will, passionate and calculating, persevering and
      daring, reserved in the extreme, and&#8212;according to the
      testimony of all his contemporaries&#8212;fascinatingly,
      captivatingly attractive. He had no conscience, no heart, no
      principle, though no one could have called him positively a
      bad-hearted man. He was vain, but knew how to disguise his
      vanity, and passionately cherished his independence. When
      Vassily Ivanovitch would half close his black eyes, smiling
      affectionately, when he wanted to fascinate any one, they say
      it was impossible to resist him; and even people, thoroughly
      convinced of the coldness and hardness of his heart, were
      more than once vanquished by the bewitching power of his
      personal influence. He served his own interests devotedly,
      and made other people, too, work for his advantage; and he
      was always successful in everything, because he never lost
      his head, never disdained using flattery as a means, and well
      understood how to use it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ten years after Ivan Andreevitch had settled in the country,
      he came for a four months' visit to Lutchinovka, a brilliant
      officer of the Guards, and in that time succeeded positively
      in turning the head of the grim old man, his father. Strange
      to say, Ivan Andreevitch listened with enjoyment to his son's
      stories of some of his <i>conquests</i>. His brothers were
      speechless in his presence, and admired him as a being of a
      higher order. And Anna Pavlovna herself became almost fonder
      of him than any of her other children who were so sincerely
      devoted to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Vassily Ivanovitch had come down into the country primarily
      to visit his people, but also with the second object of
      getting as much money as possible from his father. He lived
      sumptuously in the glare of publicity in Petersburg, and had
      made a mass of debts. He had no easy task to get round his
      father's miserliness, and though Ivan Andreevitch gave him on
      this one visit probably far more money than he gave all his
      other children together during twenty years spent under his
      roof, Vassily followed the well-known Russian rule, 'Get what
      you can!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Ivan Andreevitch had a servant called Yuditch, just such
      another tall, thin, taciturn person as his master. They say
      that this man Yuditch was partly responsible for Ivan
      Andreevitch's strange behaviour with Anna Pavlovna; they say
      he discovered my great-grandmother's guilty intrigue with one
      of my great-grandfather's dearest friends. Most likely
      Yuditch deeply regretted his ill-timed jealousy, for it would
      be difficult to conceive a more kind-hearted man. His memory
      is held in veneration by all my house-serfs to this day. My
      great-grandfather put unbounded confidence in Yuditch. In
      those days landowners used to have money, but did not put it
      into the keeping of banks, they kept it themselves in chests,
      under their floors, and so on. Ivan Andreevitch kept all his
      money in a great wrought-iron coffer, which stood under the
      head of his bed. The key of this coffer was intrusted to
      Yuditch. Every evening as he went to bed Ivan Andreevitch
      used to bid him open the coffer in his presence, used to tap
      in turn each of the tightly filled bags with a stick, and
      every Saturday he would untie the bags with Yuditch, and
      carefully count over the money. Vassily heard of all these
      doings, and burned with eagerness to overhaul the sacred
      coffer. In the course of five or six days he had
      <i>softened</i> Yuditch, that is, he had worked on the old
      man till, as they say, he worshipped the ground his young
      master trod on. Having thus duly prepared him, Vassily put on
      a careworn and gloomy air, for a long while refused to answer
      Yuditch's questions, and at last told him that he had lost at
      play, and should make an end of himself if he could not get
      money somehow. Yuditch broke into sobs, flung himself on his
      knees before him, begged him to think of God, not to be his
      own ruin. Vassily locked himself in his room without uttering
      a word. A little while after he heard some one cautiously
      knocking at his door; he opened it, and saw in the doorway
      Yuditch pale and trembling, with the key in his hand. Vassily
      took in the whole position at a glance. At first, for a long
      while, he refused to take it. With tears Yuditch repeated,
      'Take it, your honour, graciously take it!'... Vassily at
      last agreed. This took place on Monday. The idea occurred to
      Vassily to replace the money taken out with broken bits of
      crockery. He reckoned on Ivan Andreevitch's tapping the bags
      with his stick, and not noticing the hardly perceptible
      difference in the sound, and by Saturday he hoped to obtain
      and to replace the sum in the coffer. As he planned, so he
      did. His father did not, in fact, notice anything. But by
      Saturday Vassily had not procured the money; he had hoped to
      win the sum from a rich neighbour at cards, and instead of
      that, he lost it all. Meantime, Saturday had come; it came at
      last to the turn of the bags filled with broken crocks.
      Picture, gentlemen, the amazement of Ivan Andreevitch!
    </p>
    <p>
      'What does this mean?' he thundered. Yuditch was silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You stole the money?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then some one took the key from you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I didn't give the key to any one.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not to any one? Well then, you are the thief. Confess!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am not a thief, Ivan Andreevitch.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Where the devil did these potsherds come from then? So
      you're deceiving me! For the last time I tell
      you&#8212;confess!' Yuditch bowed his head and folded his
      hands behind his back.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hi, lads!' shrieked Ivan Andreevitch in a voice of frenzy.
      'A stick!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What, beat... me?' murmured Yuditch.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, indeed! Are you any better than the rest? You are a
      thief! O Yuditch! I never expected such dishonesty of you!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have grown grey in your service, Ivan Andreevitch,'
      Yuditch articulated with effort.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What have I to do with your grey hairs? Damn you and your
      service!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The servants came in.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Take him, do, and give it him thoroughly.' Ivan
      Andreevitch's lips were white and twitching. He walked up and
      down the room like a wild beast in a small cage.
    </p>
    <p>
      The servants did not dare to carry out his orders.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why are you standing still, children of Ham? Am I to
      undertake him myself, eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Yuditch was moving towards the door....
    </p>
    <p>
      'Stay!' screamed Ivan Andreevitch. 'Yuditch, for the last
      time I tell you, I beg you, Yuditch, confess!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can't!' moaned Yuditch.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then take him, the sly old fox! Flog him to death! His blood
      be on my head!' thundered the infuriated old man. The
      flogging began.... The door suddenly opened, and Vassily came
      in. He was almost paler than his father, his hands were
      shaking, his upper lip was lifted, and laid bare a row of
      even, white teeth.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am to blame,' he said in a thick but resolute voice. 'I
      took the money.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The servants stopped.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You! what? you, Vaska! without Yuditch's consent?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No!' said Yuditch, 'with my consent. I gave Vassily
      Ivanovitch the key of my own accord. Your honour, Vassily
      Ivanovitch! why does your honour trouble?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'So this is the thief!' shrieked Ivan Andreevitch. 'Thanks,
      Vassily, thanks! But, Yuditch, I'm not going to forgive you
      anyway. Why didn't you tell me all about it directly? Hey,
      you there! why are you standing still? do you too resist my
      authority? Ah, I'll settle things with you, my pretty
      gentleman!' he added, turning to Vassily.
    </p>
    <p>
      The servants were again laying hands on Yuditch....
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't touch him!' murmured Vassily through his teeth. The
      men did not heed him. 'Back!' he shrieked and rushed upon
      them.... They stepped back.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! mutiny!' moaned Ivan Andreevitch, and, raising his
      stick, he approached his son. Vassily leaped back, snatched
      at the handle of his sword, and bared it to half its length.
      Every one was trembling. Anna Pavlovna, attracted by the
      noise, showed herself at the door, pale and scared.
    </p>
    <p>
      A terrible change passed over the face of Ivan Andreevitch.
      He tottered, dropped the stick, and sank heavily into an
      arm-chair, hiding his face in both hands. No one stirred, all
      stood rooted to the spot, Vassily like the rest. He clutched
      the steel sword-handle convulsively, and his eyes glittered
      with a weary, evil light....
    </p>
    <p>
      'Go, all of you... all, out,' Ivan Andreevitch brought out in
      a low voice, not taking his hands from his face.
    </p>
    <p>
      The whole crowd went out. Vassily stood still in the doorway,
      then suddenly tossed his head, embraced Yuditch, kissed his
      mother's hand... and two hours later he had left the place.
      He went back to Petersburg.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the evening of the same day Yuditch was sitting on the
      steps of the house serfs' hut. The servants were all round
      him, sympathising with him and bitterly reproaching their
      young master.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's enough, lads,' he said to them at last, 'give over...
      why do you abuse him? He himself, the young master, I dare
      say is not very happy at his audacity....'
    </p>
    <p>
      In consequence of this incident, Vassily never saw his father
      again. Ivan Andreevitch died without him, and died probably
      with such a load of sorrow on his heart as God grant none of
      us may ever know. Vassily Ivanovitch, meanwhile, went into
      the world, enjoyed himself in his own way, and squandered
      money recklessly. How he got hold of the money, I cannot tell
      for certain. He had obtained a French servant, a very smart
      and intelligent fellow, Bourcier, by name. This man was
      passionately attached to him and aided him in all his
      numerous manoeuvres. I do not intend to relate in detail all
      the exploits of my grand-uncle; he was possessed of such
      unbounded daring, such serpent-like resource, such
      inconceivable wiliness, such a fine and ready wit, that I
      must own I can understand the complete sway that unprincipled
      person exercised even over the noblest natures.
    </p>
    <p>
      Soon after his father's death, in spite of his wiliness,
      Vassily Ivanovitch was challenged by an injured husband. He
      fought a duel, seriously wounded his opponent, and was forced
      to leave the capital; he was banished to his estate, and
      forbidden to leave it. Vassily Ivanovitch was thirty years
      old. You may easily imagine, gentlemen, with what feelings he
      left the brilliant life in the capital that he was used to,
      and came into the country. They say that he got out of the
      hooded cart several times on the road, flung himself face
      downwards in the snow and cried. No one in Lutchinovka would
      have known him as the gay and charming Vassily Ivanovitch
      they had seen before. He did not talk to any one; went out
      shooting from morning to night; endured his mother's timid
      caresses with undisguised impatience, and was merciless in
      his ridicule of his brothers, and of their wives (they were
      both married by that time)....
    </p>
    <p>
      I have not so far, I think, told you anything about Olga
      Ivanovna. She had been brought as a tiny baby to Lutchinovka;
      she all but died on the road. Olga Ivanovna was brought up,
      as they say, in the fear of God and her betters. It must be
      admitted that Ivan Andreevitch and Anna Pavlovna both treated
      her as a daughter. But there lay hid in her soul a faint
      spark of that fire which burned so fiercely in Vassily
      Ivanovitch. While Ivan Andreevitch's own children did not
      dare even to wonder about the cause of the strange, dumb feud
      between their parents, Olga was from her earliest years
      disturbed and tormented by Anna Pavlovna's position. Like
      Vassily, she loved independence; any restriction fretted her.
      She was devoted with her whole soul to her benefactress; old
      Lutchinov she detested, and more than once, sitting at table,
      she shot such black looks at him, that even the servant
      handing the dishes felt uncomfortable. Ivan Andreevitch never
      noticed these glances, for he never took the slightest notice
      of his family.
    </p>
    <p>
      At first Anna Pavlovna had tried to eradicate this hatred,
      but some bold questions of Olga's forced her to complete
      silence. The children of Ivan Andreevitch adored Olga, and
      the old lady too was fond of her, but not with a very ardent
      affection.
    </p>
    <p>
      Long continued grieving had crushed all cheerfulness and
      every strong feeling in that poor woman; nothing is so clear
      a proof of Vassily's captivating charm as that he had made
      even his mother love him passionately. Demonstrations of
      tenderness on the part of children were not in the spirit of
      the age, and so it is not to be wondered at that Olga did not
      dare to express her devotion, though she always kissed Anna
      Pavlovna's hand with special reverence, when she said
      good-night to her. Twenty years later, Russian girls began to
      read romances of the class of <i>The Adventures of Marquis
      Glagol, Fanfan and Lolotta, Alexey or the Cottage in the
      Forest</i>; they began to play the clavichord and to sing
      songs in the style of the once very well-known:
    </p>
    <pre>
  'Men like butterflies in sunshine
   Flutter round us opening blossoms,' etc.
</pre>
    <p>
      But in the seventies of last century (Olga Ivanovna was born
      in 1757) our country beauties had no notion of such
      accomplishments. It is difficult for us now to form a clear
      conception of the Russian miss of those days. We can indeed
      judge from our grandmothers of the degree of culture of girls
      of noble family in the time of Catherine; but how is one to
      distinguish what they had gradually gained in the course of
      their long lives from what they were in the days of their
      youth?
    </p>
    <p>
      Olga Ivanovna spoke French a little, but with a strong
      Russian accent: in her day there was as yet no talk of French
      emigrants. In fact, with all her fine qualities, she was
      still pretty much of a savage, and I dare say in the
      simplicity of her heart, she had more than once chastised
      some luckless servant girl with her own hands....
    </p>
    <p>
      Some time before Vassily Ivanovitch's arrival, Olga Ivanovna
      had been betrothed to a neighbour, Pavel Afanasievitch
      Rogatchov, a very good-natured and straightforward fellow.
      Nature had forgotten to put any spice of ill-temper into his
      composition. His own serfs did not obey him, and would
      sometimes all go off, down to the least of them, and leave
      poor Rogatchov without any dinner... but nothing could
      trouble the peace of his soul. From his childhood he had been
      stout and indolent, had never been in the government service,
      and was fond of going to church and singing in the choir.
      Look, gentlemen, at this round, good-natured face; glance at
      this mild, beaming smile... don't you really feel it
      reassuring, yourselves? His father used at long intervals to
      drive over to Lutchinovka, and on holidays used to bring with
      him his Pavlusha, whom the little Lutchinovs teased in every
      possible way. Pavlusha grew up, began driving over to call on
      Ivan Andreevitch on his own account, fell in love with Olga
      Ivanovna, and offered her his hand and heart&#8212;not to her
      personally, but to her benefactors. Her benefactors gave
      their consent. They never even thought of asking Olga
      Ivanovna whether she liked Rogatchov. In those days, in the
      words of my grandmother, 'such refinements were not the
      thing.' Olga soon got used to her betrothed, however; it was
      impossible not to feel fond of such a gentle and amiable
      creature. Rogatchov had received no education whatever; his
      French consisted of the one word <i>bonjour</i>, and he
      secretly considered even that word improper. But some jocose
      person had taught him the following lines, as a French song:
      'Sonitchka, Sonitchka! Ke-voole-voo-de-mwa&#8212;I adore
      you&#8212;me-je-ne-pyoo-pa....' This supposed song he always
      used to hum to himself when he felt in good spirits. His
      father was also a man of incredible good-nature, always wore
      a long nankin coat, and whatever was said to him he responded
      with a smile. From the time of Pavel Afanasievitch's
      betrothal, both the Rogatchovs, father and son, had been
      tremendously busy. They had been having their house entirely
      transformed adding various 'galleries,' talking in a friendly
      way with the workmen, encouraging them with drinks. They had
      not yet completed all these additions by the winter; they put
      off the wedding till the summer. In the summer Ivan
      Andreevitch died; the wedding was deferred till the following
      spring. In the winter Vassily Ivanovitch arrived. Rogatchov
      was presented to him; he received him coldly and
      contemptuously, and as time went on, he, so alarmed him by
      his haughty behaviour that poor Rogatchov trembled like a
      leaf at the very sight of him, was tongue-tied and smiled
      nervously. Vassily once almost annihilated him
      altogether&#8212;by making him a bet, that he, Rogatchov, was
      not able to stop smiling. Poor Pavel Afanasievitch almost
      cried with, embarrassment, but&#8212;actually!&#8212;a smile,
      a stupid, nervous smile refused to leave his perspiring face!
      Vassily toyed deliberately with the ends of his neckerchief,
      and looked at him with supreme contempt. Pavel
      Afanasievitch's father heard too of Vassily's presence, and
      after an interval of a few days&#8212;'for the sake of
      greater formality'&#8212;he sallied off to Lutchinovka with
      the object of 'felicitating our honoured guest on his advent
      to the halls of his ancestors.' Afanasey Lukitch was famed
      all over the countryside for his eloquence&#8212;that is to
      say, for his capacity for enunciating without faltering a
      rather long and complicated speech, with a sprinkling of
      bookish phrases in it. Alas! on this occasion he did not
      sustain his reputation; he was even more disconcerted than
      his son, Pavel Afanasievitch; he mumbled something quite
      inarticulate, and though he had never been used to taking
      vodka, he at once drained a glass 'to carry things
      off'&#8212;he found Vassily at lunch,&#8212;tried at least to
      clear his throat with some dignity, and did not succeed in
      making the slightest sound. On their way home, Pavel
      Afanasievitch whispered to his parent, 'Well, father?'
      Afanasey Lukitch responded angrily also in a whisper, 'Don't
      speak of it!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The Rogatchovs began to be less frequent visitors at
      Lutchinovka. Though indeed they were not the only people
      intimidated by Vassily; he awakened in his own brothers, in
      their wives, in Anna Pavlovna herself, an instinctive feeling
      of uneasiness and discomfort... they tried to avoid him in
      every way they could. Vassily must have noticed this, but
      apparently had no intention of altering his behaviour to
      them. Suddenly, at the beginning of the spring, he became
      once more the charming, attractive person they had known of
      old...
    </p>
    <p>
      The first symptom of this sudden transformation was Vassily's
      unexpected visit to the Rogatchovs. Afanasey Lukitch, in
      particular, was fairly disconcerted at the sight of
      Lutchinov's carriage, but his dismay very quickly vanished.
      Never had Vassily been more courteous and delightful. He took
      young Rogatchov by the arm, went with him to look at the new
      buildings, talked to the carpenters, made some suggestions,
      with his own hands chopped a few chips off with the axe,
      asked to be shown Afanasey Lukitch's stud horses, himself
      trotted them out on a halter, and altogether so affected the
      good-hearted children of the steppes by his gracious
      affability that they both embraced him more than once. At
      home, too, Vassily managed, in the course of a few days, to
      turn every one's head just as before. He contrived all sorts
      of laughable games, got hold of musicians, invited the ladies
      and gentlemen of the neighbourhood, told the old ladies the
      scandals of the town in the most amusing way, flirted a
      little with the young ones, invented unheard-of diversions,
      fireworks and such things, in short, he put life into every
      thing and every one. The melancholy, gloomy house of the
      Lutchinovs was suddenly converted into a noisy, brilliant,
      enchanted palace of which the whole countryside was talking.
      This sudden transformation surprised many and delighted all.
      All sorts of rumours began to be whispered about. Sagacious
      persons opined that Vassily Ivanovitch had till then been
      crushed under the weight of some secret trouble, that he saw
      chances of returning to the capital... but the true cause of
      Vassily Ivanovitch's metamorphosis was guessed by no one.
    </p>
    <p>
      Olga Ivanovna, gentlemen, was rather pretty; though her
      beauty consisted rather in the extraordinary softness and
      freshness of her shape, in the quiet grace of her movements
      than in the strict regularity of her features. Nature had
      bestowed on her a certain independence; her bringing
      up&#8212;she had grown up without father or mother&#8212;had
      developed in her reserve and determination. Olga did not
      belong to the class of quiet and tame-spirited young ladies;
      but only one feeling had reached its full possibilities in
      her as yet&#8212;hatred for her benefactor. Other more
      feminine passions might indeed flare up in Olga Ivanovna's
      heart with abnormal and painful violence... but she had not
      the cold pride, nor the intense strength of will, nor the
      self-centred egoism, without which any passion passes quickly
      away.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first rush of feeling in such half-active, half-passive
      natures is sometimes extremely violent; but they give way
      very quickly, especially when it is a question of relentless
      conformity with accepted principles; they are afraid of
      consequences.... And yet, gentlemen, I will frankly confess,
      women of that sort always make the strongest impression on
      me. ... (At these words the speaker drank a glass of water.
      Rubbish! rubbish! thought I, looking at his round chin;
      nothing in the world makes a strong impression on you, my
      dear fellow!)
    </p>
    <p>
      Piotr Fedoritch resumed: Gentlemen, I believe in blood, in
      race. Olga Ivanovna had more blood than, for instance, her
      foster sister, Natalia. How did this blood show itself, do
      you ask? Why, in everything; in the lines of her hands, in
      her lips, in the sound of her voice, in her glance, in her
      carriage, in her hair, in the very folds of her gown. In all
      these trifles there lay hid something special, though I am
      bound to admit that the&#8212;how can one express
      it?&#8212;<i>la distinction</i>, which had fallen to Olga
      Pavlovna's share would not have attracted Vassily's notice
      had he met her in Petersburg. But in the country, in the
      wilds, she not only caught his attention, she was positively
      the sole cause of the transformation of which I have just
      been speaking.
    </p>
    <p>
      Consider the position. Vassily Ivanovitch liked to enjoy
      life; he could not but be bored in the country; his brothers
      were good-natured fellows, but extremely limited people: he
      had nothing in common with them. His sister, Natalia, with
      the assistance of her husband, had brought into the world in
      the course of three years no less than four babies; between
      her and Vassily was a perfect gulf.... Anna Pavlovna went to
      church, prayed, fasted, and was preparing herself for death.
      There remained only Olga&#8212;a fresh, shy, pretty girl....
      Vassily did not notice her at first... indeed, who does
      notice a dependant, an orphan girl kept from charity in the
      house?... One day, at the very beginning of spring, Vassily
      was walking about the garden, and with his cane slashing off
      the heads of the dandelions, those stupid yellow flowers,
      which come out first in such numbers in the meadows, as soon
      as they begin to grow green. He was walking in the garden in
      front of the house; he lifted his head, and caught sight of
      Olga Ivanovna.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was sitting sideways at the window, dreamily stroking a
      tabby kitten, who, purring and blinking, nestled on her lap,
      and with great satisfaction held up her little nose into the
      rather hot spring sunshine. Olga Ivanovna was wearing a white
      morning gown, with short sleeves; her bare, pale-pink,
      girlish shoulders and arms were a picture of freshness and
      health. A little red cap discreetly restrained her thick,
      soft, silky curls. Her face was a little flushed; she was
      only just awake. Her slender, flexible neck bent forward so
      charmingly; there was such seductive negligence, such modesty
      in the restful pose of her figure, free from corsets, that
      Vassily Ivanovitch (a great connoisseur!) halted
      involuntarily and peeped in. It suddenly occurred to him that
      Olga Ivanovna ought not to be left in her primitive
      ignorance; that she might with time be turned into a very
      sweet and charming woman. He stole up to the window,
      stretched up on tiptoe, and imprinted a silent kiss on Olga
      Ivanovna's smooth, white arm, a little below the elbow.
    </p>
    <p>
      Olga shrieked and jumped up, the kitten put its tail in the
      air and leaped into the garden. Vassily Ivanovitch with a
      smile kept her by the arm.... Olga flushed all over, to her
      ears; he began to rally her on her alarm... invited her to
      come a walk with him. But Olga Ivanovna became suddenly
      conscious of the negligence of her attire, and 'swifter than
      the swift red deer' she slipped away into the next room.
    </p>
    <p>
      The very same day Vassily set off to the Rogatchovs. He was
      suddenly happy and light-hearted. Vassily was not in love
      with Olga, no! the word 'love' is not to be used lightly....
      He had found an occupation, had set himself a task, and
      rejoiced with the delight of a man of action. He did not even
      remember that she was his mother's ward, and another man's
      betrothed. He never for one instant deceived himself; he was
      fully aware that it was not for her to be his wife....
      Possibly there was passion to excuse him&#8212;not a very
      elevated nor noble passion, truly, but still a fairly strong
      and tormenting passion. Of course he was not in love like a
      boy; he did not give way to vague ecstasies; he knew very
      well what he wanted and what he was striving for.
    </p>
    <p>
      Vassily was a perfect master of the art of winning over, in
      the shortest time, any one however shy or prejudiced against
      him. Olga soon ceased to be shy with him. Vassily Ivanovitch
      led her into a new world. He ordered a clavichord for her,
      gave her music lessons (he himself played fairly well on the
      flute), read books aloud to her, had long conversations with
      her.... The poor child of the steppes soon had her head
      turned completely. Vassily dominated her entirely. He knew
      how to tell her of what had been till then unknown to her,
      and to tell her in a language she could understand. Olga
      little by little gained courage to express all her feelings
      to him: he came to her aid, helped her out with the words she
      could not find, did not alarm her, at one moment kept her
      back, at another encouraged her confidences.... Vassily
      busied himself with her education from no disinterested
      desire to awaken and develop her talents. He simply wanted to
      draw her a little closer to himself; and he knew too that an
      innocent, shy, but vain young girl is more easily seduced
      through the mind than the heart. Even if Olga had been an
      exceptional being, Vassily would never have perceived it, for
      he treated her like a child. But as you are aware, gentlemen,
      there was nothing specially remarkable in Olga. Vassily tried
      all he could to work on her imagination, and often in the
      evening she left his side with such a whirl of new images,
      phrases and ideas in her head that she could not sleep all
      night, but lay breathing uneasily and turning her burning
      cheeks from side to side on the cool pillows, or got up, went
      to the window and gazed fearfully and eagerly into the dark
      distance. Vassily filled every moment of her life; she could
      not think of any one else. As for Rogatchov, she soon
      positively ceased to notice his existence. Vassily had the
      tact and shrewdness not to talk to Olga in his presence; but
      he either made him laugh till he was ready to cry, or
      arranged some noisy entertainment, a riding expedition, a
      boating party by night with torches and music&#8212;he did
      not in fact let Pavel Afanasievitch have a chance to think
      clearly.
    </p>
    <p>
      But in spite of all Vassily Ivanovitch's tact, Rogatchov
      dimly felt that he, Olga's betrothed and future husband, had
      somehow become as it were an outsider to her... but in the
      boundless goodness of his heart, he was afraid of wounding
      her by reproaches, though he sincerely loved her and prized
      her affection. When left alone with her, he did not know what
      to say, and only tried all he could to follow her wishes. Two
      months passed by. Every trace of self-reliance, of will,
      disappeared at last in Olga. Rogatchov, feeble and
      tongue-tied, could be no support to her. She had no wish even
      to resist the enchantment, and with a sinking heart she
      surrendered unconditionally to Vassily....
    </p>
    <p>
      Olga Ivanovna may very likely then have known something of
      the bliss of love; but it was not for long. Though
      Vassily&#8212;for lack of other occupation&#8212;did not drop
      her, and even attached himself to her and looked after her
      fondly, Olga herself was so utterly distraught that she found
      no happiness even in love and yet could not tear herself away
      from Vassily. She began to be frightened at everything, did
      not dare to think, could talk of nothing, gave up reading,
      and was devoured by misery. Sometimes Vassily succeeded in
      carrying her along with him and making her forget everything
      and every one. But the very next day he would find her pale,
      speechless, with icy hands, and a fixed smile on her lips....
      There followed a time of some difficulty for Vassily; but no
      difficulties could dismay him. He concentrated himself like a
      skilled gambler. He could not in the least rely upon Olga
      Ivanovna; she was continually betraying herself, turning
      pale, blushing, weeping... her new part was utterly beyond
      her powers. Vassily toiled for two: in his restless and
      boisterous gaiety, only an experienced observer could have
      detected something strained and feverish. He played his
      brothers, sisters, the Rogatchovs, the neighbours, like pawns
      at chess. He was everlastingly on the alert. Not a single
      glance, a single movement, was lost on him, yet he appeared
      the most heedless of men. Every morning he faced the fray,
      and every evening he scored a victory. He was not the least
      oppressed by such a fearful strain of activity. He slept four
      hours out of the twenty-four, ate very little, and was
      healthy, fresh, and good-humoured.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meantime the wedding-day was approaching. Vassily succeeded
      in persuading Pavel Afanasievitch himself of the necessity of
      delay. Then he despatched him to Moscow to make various
      purchases, while he was himself in correspondence with
      friends in Petersburg. He took all this trouble, not so much
      from sympathy for Olga Ivanovna, as from a natural bent and
      liking for bustle and agitation.... Besides, he was beginning
      to be sick of Olga Ivanovna, and more than once after a
      violent outbreak of passion for her, he would look at her, as
      he sometimes did at Rogatchov. Lutchinov always remained a
      riddle to every one. In the coldness of his relentless soul
      you felt the presence of a strange almost southern fire, and
      even in the wildest glow of passion a breath of icy chill
      seemed to come from the man.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before other people he supported Olga Ivanovna as before. But
      when they were alone, he played with her like a cat with a
      mouse, or frightened her with sophistries, or was wearily,
      malignantly bored, or again flung himself at her feet, swept
      her away, like a straw in a hurricane... and there was no
      feigning at such moments in his passion... he really was
      moved himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      One day, rather late in the evening, Vassily was sitting
      alone in his room, attentively reading over the last letters
      he had received from Petersburg, when suddenly he heard a
      faint creak at the door, and Olga Ivanovna's maid, Palashka,
      came in.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What do you want?' Vassily asked her rather crossly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My mistress begs you to come to her.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can't just now. Go along.... Well what are you standing
      there for?' he went on, seeing that Palashka did not go away.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My mistress told me to say that she very particularly wants
      to see you,' she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, what's the matter?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Would your honour please to see for yourself....'
    </p>
    <p>
      Vassily got up, angrily flung the letters into a drawer, and
      went in to Olga Ivanovna. She was sitting alone in a corner,
      pale and passive.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What do you want?' he asked her, not quite politely.
    </p>
    <p>
      Olga looked at him and closed her eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What's the matter? what is it, Olga?'
    </p>
    <p>
      He took her hand.... Olga Ivanovna's hand was cold as ice...
      She tried to speak... and her voice died away. The poor woman
      had no possible doubt of her condition left her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Vassily was a little disconcerted. Olga Ivanovna's room was a
      couple of steps from Anna Pavlovna's bedroom. Vassily
      cautiously sat down by Olga, kissed and chafed her hands,
      comforted her in whispers. She listened to him, and silently,
      faintly, shuddered. In the doorway stood Palashka, stealthily
      wiping her eyes. In the next room they heard the heavy, even
      ticking of the clock, and the breathing of some one asleep.
      Olga Ivanovna's numbness dissolved at last into tears and
      stifled sobs. Tears are like a storm; after them one is
      always calmer. When Olga Ivanovna had quieted down a little,
      and only sobbed convulsively at intervals, like a child,
      Vassily knelt before her with caresses and tender promises,
      soothed her completely, gave her something to drink, put her
      to bed, and went away. He did not undress all night; wrote
      two or three letters, burnt two or three papers, took out a
      gold locket containing the portrait of a black-browed,
      black-eyed woman with a bold, voluptuous face, scrutinised
      her features slowly, and walked up and down the room
      pondering.
    </p>
    <p>
      Next day, at breakfast, he saw with extreme displeasure poor
      Olga's red and swollen eyes and pale, agitated face. After
      breakfast he proposed a stroll in the garden to her. Olga
      followed Vassily, like a submissive sheep. When two hours
      afterwards she came in from the garden she quite broke down;
      she told Anna Pavlovna she was unwell, and went to lie down
      on her bed. During their walk Vassily had, with a suitable
      show of remorse, informed her that he was secretly
      married&#8212;he was really as much a bachelor as I am. Olga
      Ivanovna did not fall into a swoon&#8212;people don't fall
      into swoons except on the stage&#8212;but she turned all at
      once stony, though she herself was so far from hoping to
      marry Vassily Ivanovitch that she was even afraid to think
      about it. Vassily had begun to explain to her the
      inevitableness of her parting from him and marrying
      Rogatchov. Olga Ivanovna looked at him in dumb horror.
      Vassily talked in a cool, business-like, practical way,
      blamed himself, expressed his regret, but concluded all his
      remarks with the following words: 'There's no going back on
      the past; we've got to act.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Olga was utterly overwhelmed; she was filled with terror and
      shame; a dull, heavy despair came upon her; she longed for
      death, and waited in agony for Vassily's decision.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We must confess everything to my mother,' he said to her at
      last.
    </p>
    <p>
      Olga turned deadly pale; her knees shook under her.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't be afraid, don't be afraid,' repeated Vassily, 'trust
      to me, I won't desert you... I will make everything right...
      rely upon me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The poor woman looked at him with love... yes, with love, and
      deep, but hopeless devotion.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I will arrange everything, everything,' Vassily said to her
      at parting... and for the last time he kissed her chilly
      hands....
    </p>
    <p>
      Next morning&#8212;Olga Ivanovna had only just risen from her
      bed&#8212;her door opened... and Anna Pavlovna appeared in
      the doorway. She was supported by Vassily. In silence she got
      as far as an arm-chair, and in silence she sat down. Vassily
      stood at her side. He looked composed; his brows were knitted
      and his lips slightly parted. Anna Pavlovna, pale, indignant,
      angry, tried to speak, but her voice failed her. Olga
      Ivanovna glanced in horror from her benefactress to her
      lover, with a terrible sinking at her heart... she fell on
      her knees with a shriek in the middle of the room, and hid
      her face in her hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then it's true... is it true?' murmured Anna Pavlovna, and
      bent down to her.... 'Answer!' she went on harshly, clutching
      Olga by the arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mother!' rang out Vassily's brazen voice, 'you promised me
      not to be hard on her.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I want... confess... confess... is it true? is it true?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mother... remember...' Vassily began deliberately.
    </p>
    <p>
      This one word moved Anna Pavlovna greatly. She leaned back in
      her chair, and burst into sobs.
    </p>
    <p>
      Olga Ivanovna softly raised her head, and would have flung
      herself at the old lady's feet, but Vassily kept her back,
      raised her from the ground, and led her to another arm-chair.
      Anna Pavlovna went on weeping and muttering disconnected
      words....
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come, mother,' began Vassily, 'don't torment yourself, the
      trouble may yet be set right.... If Rogatchov...'
    </p>
    <p>
      Olga Ivanovna shuddered, and drew herself up.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If Rogatchov,' pursued Vassily, with a meaning glance at
      Olga Ivanovna, 'imagines that he can disgrace an honourable
      family with impunity...'
    </p>
    <p>
      Olga Ivanovna was overcome with horror.
    </p>
    <p>
      'In my house,' moaned Anna Pavlovna.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Calm yourself, mother. He took advantage of her innocence,
      her youth, he&#8212;you wish to say something'&#8212;he broke
      off, seeing that Olga made a movement towards him....
    </p>
    <p>
      Olga Ivanovna sank back in her chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I will go at once to Rogatchov. I will make him marry her
      this very day. You may be sure I will not let him make a
      laughing-stock of us....'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But... Vassily Ivanovitch... you...' whispered Olga.
    </p>
    <p>
      He gave her a prolonged, cold stare. She sank into silence
      again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mother, give me your word not to worry her before I return.
      Look, she is half dead. And you, too, must rest. Rely upon
      me; I answer for everything; in any case, wait till I return.
      I tell you again, don't torture her, or yourself, and trust
      to me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He went to the door and stopped. 'Mother,' said he, 'come
      with me, leave her alone, I beg of you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Anna Pavlovna got up, went up to the holy picture, bowed down
      to the ground, and slowly followed her son. Olga Ivanovna,
      without a word or a movement, looked after them.
    </p>
    <p>
      Vassily turned back quickly, snatched her hand, whispered in
      her ear, 'Rely on me, and don't betray us,' and at once
      withdrew.... 'Bourcier!' he called, running swiftly down the
      stairs, 'Bourcier!'
    </p>
    <p>
      A quarter of an hour later he was sitting in his carriage
      with his valet.
    </p>
    <p>
      That day the elder Rogatchov was not at home. He had gone to
      the district town to buy cloth for the liveries of his
      servants. Pavel Afanasievitch was sitting in his own room,
      looking through a collection of faded butterflies. With
      lifted eyebrows and protruding lips, he was carefully, with a
      pin, turning over the fragile wings of a 'night sphinx' moth,
      when he was suddenly aware of a small but heavy hand on his
      shoulder. He looked round. Vassily stood before him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good-morning, Vassily Ivanovitch,' he said in some
      amazement.
    </p>
    <p>
      Vassily looked at him, and sat down on a chair facing him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pavel Afanasievitch was about to smile... but he glanced at
      Vassily, and subsided with his mouth open and his hands
      clasped.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Tell me, Pavel Afanasievitch,' said Vassily suddenly, 'are
      you meaning to dance at your <i>wedding soon?</i>'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I?... soon... of course... for my part... though as you and
      your sister ... I, for my part, am ready to-morrow even.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very good, very good. You're a very impatient person, Pavel
      Afanasievitch.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'How so?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Let me tell you,' pursued Vassily Ivanovitch, getting up, 'I
      know all; you understand me, and I order you without delay
      to-morrow to marry Olga.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Excuse me, excuse me,' objected Rogatchov, not rising from
      his seat; 'you order me. I sought Olga Ivanovna's hand of
      myself and there's no need to give me orders.... I confess,
      Vassily Ivanovitch, I don't quite understand you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You don't understand me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, really, I don't understand you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you give me your word to marry her to-morrow?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, mercy on us, Vassily Ivanovitch... haven't you yourself
      put off our wedding more than once? Except for you it would
      have taken place long ago. And now I have no idea of breaking
      it off. What is the meaning of your threats, your
      insistence?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Pavel Afanasievitch wiped the sweat off his face.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you give me your word? Say yes or no!' Vassily repeated
      emphatically.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Excuse me... I will... but...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very good. Remember then... She has confessed everything.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who has confessed?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Olga Ivanovna.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, what has she confessed?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, what are you pretending to me for, Pavel Afanasievitch?
      I'm not a stranger to you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What am I pretending? I don't understand you, I don't, I
      positively don't understand a word. What could Olga Ivanovna
      confess?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What? You are really too much! You know what.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'May God slay me...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, I'll slay you, if you don't marry her... do you
      understand?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What!...' Pavel Afanasievitch jumped up and stood facing
      Vassily. 'Olga Ivanovna... you tell me...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You're a clever fellow, you are, I must own'&#8212;Vassily
      with a smile patted him on the shoulder&#8212;'though you do
      look so innocent.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good God!... You'll send me out of my mind.... What do you
      mean, explain, for God's sake!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Vassily bent down and whispered something in his ear.
    </p>
    <p>
      Rogatchov cried out, 'What!...!?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Vassily stamped.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Olga Ivanovna? Olga?...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes... your betrothed...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'My betrothed... Vassily Ivanovitch... she... she... Why, I
      never wish to see her again,' cried Pavel Afanasievitch.
      'Good-bye to her for ever! What do you take me for? I'm being
      duped... I'm being duped... Olga Ivanovna, how wrong of you,
      have you no shame?...' (Tears gushed from his eyes.) 'Thanks,
      Vassily Ivanovitch, thanks very much... I never wish to see
      her again now! no! no! don't speak of her.... Ah, merciful
      Heavens! to think I have lived to see this! Oh, very well,
      very well!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's enough nonsense,' Vassily Ivanovitch observed coldly.
      'Remember, you've given me your word: the wedding's
      to-morrow.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, that it won't be! Enough of that, Vassily Ivanovitch. I
      say again, what do you take me for? You do me too much
      honour. I'm humbly obliged. Excuse me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'As you please!' retorted Vassily. 'Get your sword.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sword... what for?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What for?... I'll show you what for.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Vassily drew out his fine, flexible French sword and bent it
      a little against the floor.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You want... to fight... me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Precisely so.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But, Vassily Ivanovitch, put yourself in my place! How can
      I, only think, after what you have just told me.... I'm a man
      of honour, Vassily Ivanovitch, a nobleman.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You're a nobleman, you're a man of honour, so you'll be so
      good as to fight with me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Vassily Ivanovitch!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are frightened, I think, Mr. Rogatchov.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm not in the least frightened, Vassily Ivanovitch. You
      thought you would frighten me, Vassily Ivanovitch. I'll scare
      him, you thought, he's a coward, and he'll agree to anything
      directly... No, Vassily Ivanovitch, I am a nobleman as much
      as you are, though I've not had city breeding, and you won't
      succeed in frightening me into anything, excuse me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very good,' retorted Vassily; 'where is your sword then?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Eroshka!' shouted Pavel Afanasievitch. A servant came in.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Get me the sword&#8212;there&#8212;you know, in the loft...
      make haste....'
    </p>
    <p>
      Eroshka went out. Pavel Afanasievitch suddenly became
      exceedingly pale, hurriedly took off his dressing-gown, put
      on a reddish coat with big paste buttons... twisted a cravat
      round his neck... Vassily looked at him, and twiddled the
      fingers of his right hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, are we to fight then, Pavel Afanasievitch?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Let's fight, if we must fight,' replied Rogatchov, and
      hurriedly buttoned up his shirt.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ay, Pavel Afanasievitch, you take my advice, marry her...
      what is it to you... And believe me, I'll...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, Vassily Ivanovitch,' Rogatchov interrupted him. 'You'll
      kill me or maim me, I know, but I'm not going to lose my
      honour; if I'm to die then I must die.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Eroshka came in, and trembling, gave Rogatchov a wretched old
      sword in a torn leather scabbard. In those days all noblemen
      wore swords with powder, but in the steppes they only put on
      powder twice a year. Eroshka moved away to the door and burst
      out crying. Pavel Afanasievitch pushed him out of the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But, Vassily Ivanovitch,' he observed with some
      embarrassment, 'I can't fight with you on the spot: allow me
      to put off our duel till to-morrow. My father is not at home,
      and it would be as well for me to put my affairs in order
      to&#8212;to be ready for anything.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I see you're beginning to feel frightened again, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no, Vassily Ivanovitch; but consider yourself...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Listen!' shouted Lutchinov, 'you drive me out of
      patience.... Either give me your word to marry her at once,
      or fight...or I'll thrash you with my cane like a
      coward,&#8212;do you understand?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come into the garden,' Rogatchov answered through his teeth.
    </p>
    <p>
      But all at once the door opened, and the old nurse, Efimovna,
      utterly distracted, broke into the room, fell on her knees
      before Rogatchov, and clasped his legs....
    </p>
    <p>
      'My little master!' she wailed, 'my nursling... what is it
      you are about? Will you be the death of us poor wretches,
      your honour? Sure, he'll kill you, darling! Only you say the
      word, you say the word, and we'll make an end of him, the
      insolent fellow.... Pavel Afanasievitch, my baby-boy, for the
      love of God!'
    </p>
    <p>
      A number of pale, excited faces showed in the door...there
      was even the red beard of the village elder...
    </p>
    <p>
      'Let me go, Efimovna, let me go!' muttered Rogatchov.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I won't, my own, I won't. What are you about, sir, what are
      you about? What'll Afanasey Lukitch say? Why, he'll drive us
      all out of the light of day.... Why are you fellows standing
      still? Take the uninvited guest in hand and show him out of
      the house, so that not a trace be left of him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Rogatchov!' Vassily Ivanovitch shouted menacingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are crazy, Efimovna, you are shaming me, come, come...'
      said Pavel Afanasievitch. 'Go away, go away, in God's name,
      and you others, off with you, do you hear?...'
    </p>
    <p>
      Vassily Ivanovitch moved swiftly to the open window, took out
      a small silver whistle, blew lightly... Bourcier answered
      from close by. Lutchinov turned at once to Pavel
      Afanasievitch.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What's to be the end of this farce?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Vassily Ivanovitch, I will come to you to-morrow. What can I
      do with this crazy old woman?...'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, I see it's no good wasting words on you,' said Vassily,
      and he swiftly raised his cane...
    </p>
    <p>
      Pavel Afanasievitch broke loose, pushed Efimovna away,
      snatched up the sword, and rushed through another door into
      the garden.
    </p>
    <p>
      Vassily dashed after him. They ran into a wooden summerhouse,
      painted cunningly after the Chinese fashion, shut themselves
      in, and drew their swords. Rogatchov had once taken lessons
      in fencing, but now he was scarcely capable of drawing a
      sword properly. The blades crossed. Vassily was obviously
      playing with Rogatchov's sword. Pavel Afanasievitch was
      breathless and pale, and gazed in consternation into
      Lutchinov's face.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile, screams were heard in the garden; a crowd of
      people were running to the summerhouse. Suddenly Rogatchov
      heard the heart-rending wail of old age...he recognised the
      voice of his father. Afanasey Lukitch, bare-headed, with
      dishevelled hair, was running in front of them all,
      frantically waving his hands....
    </p>
    <p>
      With a violent and unexpected turn of the blade Vassily sent
      the sword flying out of Pavel Afanasievitch's hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Marry her, my boy,' he said to him: 'give over this
      foolery!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I won't marry her,' whispered Rogatchov, and he shut his
      eyes, and shook all over.
    </p>
    <p>
      Afanasey Lukitch began banging at the door of the
      summerhouse.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You won't?' shouted Vassily.
    </p>
    <p>
      Rogatchov shook his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, damn you, then!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Poor Pavel Afanasievitch fell dead: Lutchinov's sword stabbed
      him to the heart... The door gave way; old Rogatchov burst
      into the summerhouse, but Vassily had already jumped out of
      window...
    </p>
    <p>
      Two hours later he went into Olga Ivanovna's room... She
      rushed in terror to meet him... He bowed to her in silence;
      took out his sword and pierced Pavel Afanasievitch's portrait
      in the place of the heart. Olga shrieked and fell unconscious
      on the floor... Vassily went in to Anna Pavlovna. He found
      her in the oratory. 'Mother,' said he, 'we are avenged.' The
      poor old woman shuddered and went on praying.
    </p>
    <p>
      Within a week Vassily had returned to Petersburg, and two
      years later he came back stricken with
      paralysis&#8212;tongue-tied. He found neither Anna Pavlovna
      nor Olga living, and soon after died himself in the arms of
      Yuditch, who fed him like a child, and was the only one who
      could understand his incoherent stuttering.
    </p>
    <p>
      1846.
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p><a name="5"></a>
    <h2>
      ENOUGH
    </h2>
    <h3>
      A FRAGMENT FROM THE NOTE-BOOK OF A DEAD ARTIST
    </h3>
    <h4>
      I
    </h4>
    <h4>
      II
    </h4>
    <h4>
      III
    </h4>
    <p>
      'Enough,' I said to myself as I moved with lagging steps over
      the steep mountainside down to the quiet little brook.
      'Enough,' I said again, as I drank in the resinous fragrance
      of the pinewood, strong and pungent in the freshness of
      falling evening. 'Enough,' I said once more, as I sat on the
      mossy mound above the little brook and gazed into its dark,
      lingering waters, over which the sturdy reeds thrust up their
      pale green blades.... 'Enough.'
    </p>
    <p>
      No more struggle, no more strain, time to draw in, time to
      keep firm hold of the head and to bid the heart be silent. No
      more to brood over the voluptuous sweetness of vague,
      seductive ecstasy, no more to run after each fresh form of
      beauty, no more to hang over every tremour of her delicate,
      strong wings.
    </p>
    <p>
      All has been felt, all has been gone through... I am weary.
      What to me now that at this moment, larger, fiercer than
      ever, the sunset floods the heavens as though aflame with
      some triumphant passion? What to me that, amid the soft peace
      and glow of evening, suddenly, two paces hence, hidden in a
      thick bush's dewy stillness, a nightingale has sung his heart
      out in notes magical as though no nightingale had been on
      earth before him, and he first sang the first song of first
      love? All this was, has been, has been again, and is a
      thousand times repeated&#8212;and to think that it will last
      on so to all eternity&#8212;as though decreed,
      ordained&#8212;it stirs one's wrath! Yes... wrath!
    </p>
    <h4>
      IV
    </h4>
    <p>
      Ah, I am grown old! Such thoughts would never have come to me
      once&#8212;in those happy days of old, when I too was aflame
      like the sunset and my heart sang like the nightingale.
    </p>
    <p>
      There is no hiding it&#8212;everything has faded about me,
      all life has paled. The light that gives life's colours depth
      and meaning&#8212;the light that comes out of the heart of
      man&#8212;is dead within me.... No, not dead yet&#8212;it
      feebly smoulders on, giving no light, no warmth.
    </p>
    <p>
      Once, late in the night in Moscow, I remember I went up to
      the grating window of an old church, and leaned against the
      faulty pane. It was dark under the low arched roof&#8212;a
      forgotten lamp shed a dull red light upon the ancient
      picture; dimly could be discerned the lips only of the sacred
      face&#8212;stern and sorrowful. The sullen darkness gathered
      about it, ready it seemed to crush under its dead weight the
      feeble ray of impotent light.... Such now in my heart is the
      light; and such the darkness.
    </p>
    <h4>
      V
    </h4>
    <p>
      And this I write to thee, to thee, my one never forgotten
      friend, to thee, my dear companion, whom I have left for
      ever, but shall not cease to love till my life's end....
      Alas! thou knowest what parted us. But that I have no wish to
      speak of now. I have left thee... but even here, in these
      wilds, in this far-off exile, I am all filled through and
      through with thee; as of old I am in thy power, as of old I
      feel the sweet burden of thy hand on my bent head!
    </p>
    <p>
      For the last time I drag myself from out the grave of silence
      in which I am lying now. I turn a brief and softened gaze on
      all my past... our past.... No hope and no return; but no
      bitterness is in my heart and no regret, and clearer than the
      blue of heaven, purer than the first snow on mountain tops,
      fair memories rise up before me like the forms of departed
      gods.... They come, not thronging in crowds, in slow
      procession they follow one another like those draped Athenian
      figures we admired so much&#8212;dost thou remember?&#8212;in
      the ancient bas-reliefs in the Vatican.
    </p>
    <h4>
      VI
    </h4>
    <p>
      I have spoken of the light that comes from the heart of man,
      and sheds brightness on all around him... I long to talk with
      thee of the time when in my heart too that light burned
      bright with blessing... Listen... and I will fancy thee
      sitting before me, gazing up at me with those eyes&#8212;so
      fond yet stern almost in their intentness. O eyes, never to
      be forgotten! On whom are they fastened now? Who folds in his
      heart thy glance&#8212;that glance that seems to flow from
      depths unknown even as mysterious springs&#8212;like ye, both
      clear and dark&#8212;that gush out into some narrow, deep
      ravine under the frowning cliffs.... Listen.
    </p>
    <h4>
      VII
    </h4>
    <p>
      It was at the end of March before Annunciation, soon after I
      had seen thee for the first time and&#8212;not yet dreaming
      of what thou wouldst be to me&#8212;already, silently,
      secretly, I bore thee in my heart. I chanced to cross one of
      the great rivers of Russia. The ice had not yet broken up,
      but looked swollen and dark; it was the fourth day of thaw.
      The snow was melting everywhere&#8212;steadily but slowly;
      there was the running of water on all sides; a noiseless wind
      strayed in the soft air. Earth and sky alike were steeped in
      one unvarying milky hue; there was not fog nor was there
      light; not one object stood out clear in the general
      whiteness, everything looked both close and indistinct. I
      left my cart far behind and walked swiftly over the ice of
      the river, and except the muffled thud of my own steps heard
      not a sound. I went on enfolded on all sides by the first
      breath, the first thrill, of early spring... and gradually
      gaining force with every step, with every movement forwards,
      a glad tremour sprang up and grew, all uncomprehended within
      me... it drew me on, it hastened me, and so strong was the
      flood of gladness within me, that I stood still at last and
      with questioning eyes looked round me, as I would seek some
      outer cause of my mood of rapture.... All was soft, white,
      slumbering, but I lifted my eyes; high in the heavens floated
      a flock of birds flying back to us.... 'Spring! welcome
      spring!' I shouted aloud: 'welcome, life and love and
      happiness!' And at that instance, with sweetly troubling
      shock, suddenly like a cactus flower thy image blossomed
      aflame within me, blossomed and grew, bewilderingly fair and
      radiant, and I knew that I love thee, thee only&#8212;that I
      am all filled full of thee....
    </p>
    <h4>
      VIII
    </h4>
    <p>
      I think of thee... and many other memories, other pictures
      float before me with thee everywhere, at every turn of my
      life I meet thee. Now an old Russian garden rises up before
      me on the slope of a hillside, lighted up by the last rays of
      the summer sun. Behind the silver poplars peeps out the
      wooden roof of the manor-house with a thin curl of reddish
      smoke above the white chimney, and in the fence a little gate
      stands just ajar, as though some one had drawn it to with
      faltering hand; and I stand and wait and gaze at that gate
      and the sand of the garden path&#8212;wonder and rapture in
      my heart. All that I behold seems new and different; over all
      a breath of some glad, brooding mystery, and already I catch
      the swift rustle of steps, and I stand intent and alert as a
      bird with wings folded ready to take flight anew, and my
      heart burns and shudders in joyous dread before the
      approaching, the alighting rapture....
    </p>
    <h4>
      IX
    </h4>
    <p>
      Then I see an ancient cathedral in a beautiful, far-off land.
      In rows kneel the close packed people; a breath of prayerful
      chill, of something grave and melancholy is wafted from the
      high, bare roof, from the huge, branching columns. Thou
      standest at my side, mute, apart, as though knowing me not.
      Each fold of thy dark cloak hangs motionless as carved in
      stone. Motionless, too, lie the bright patches cast by the
      stained windows at thy feet on the worn flags. And lo,
      violently thrilling the incense-clouded air, thrilling us
      within, rolled out the mighty flood of the organ's notes...
      and I saw thee paler, rigid&#8212;thy glance caressed me,
      glided higher and rose heavenwards&#8212;while to me it
      seemed none but an immortal soul could look so, with such
      eyes...
    </p>
    <h4>
      X
    </h4>
    <p>
      Another picture comes back to me.
    </p>
    <p>
      No old-world temple subdues us with its stern magnificence;
      the low walls of a little snug room shut us off from the
      whole world. What am I saying? We are alone, alone in the
      whole world; except us two there is nothing
      living&#8212;outside these friendly walls darkness and death
      and emptiness... It is not the wind that howls without, not
      the rain streaming in floods; without, Chaos wails and moans,
      his sightless eyes are weeping. But with us all is peaceful
      and light and warm and welcoming; something droll, something
      of childish innocence, like a butterfly&#8212;isn't it
      so?&#8212;flutters about us. We nestle close to one another,
      we lean our heads together and both read a favourite book. I
      feel the delicate vein beating in thy soft forehead; I hear
      that thou livest, thou hearest that I am living, thy smile is
      born on my face before it is on thine, thou makest mute
      answer to my mute question, thy thoughts, my thoughts are
      like the two wings of one bird, lost in the infinite blue...
      the last barriers have fallen&#8212;and so soothed, so
      deepened is our love, so utterly has all apartness vanished
      that we have no need for word or look to pass between us....
      Only to breathe, to breathe together is all we want, to be
      together and scarcely to be conscious that we are
      together....
    </p>
    <h4>
      XI
    </h4>
    <p>
      Or last of all, there comes before me that bright September
      when we walked through the deserted, still flowering garden
      of a forsaken palace on the bank of a great river&#8212;not
      Russian&#8212;under the soft brilliance of the cloudless sky.
      Oh, how put into words what we felt! The endlessly flowing
      river, the solitude and peace and bliss, and a kind of
      voluptuous melancholy, and the thrill of rapture, the
      unfamiliar monotonous town, the autumn cries of the jackdaws
      in the high sun-lit treetops, and the tender words and smiles
      and looks, long, soft, piercing to the very in-most soul, and
      the beauty, beauty in our lives, about us, on all
      sides&#8212;it is above words. Oh, the bench on which we sat
      in silence with heads bowed down under the weight of
      feeling&#8212;I cannot forget it till the hour I die! How
      delicious were those few strangers passing us with brief
      greetings and kind faces, and the great quiet boats floating
      by (in one&#8212;dost thou remember?&#8212;stood a horse
      pensively gazing at the gliding water), the baby prattle of
      the tiny ripples by the bank, and the very bark of the
      distant dogs across the water, the very shouts of the fat
      officer drilling the red-faced recruits yonder, with
      outspread arms and knees crooked like grasshoppers!... We
      both felt that better than those moments nothing in the world
      had been or would be for us, that all else... But why
      compare? Enough... enough... Alas! yes: enough.
    </p>
    <h4>
      XII
    </h4>
    <p>
      For the last time I give myself up to those memories and bid
      them farewell for ever. So a miser gloating over his hoard,
      his gold, his bright treasure, covers it over in the damp,
      grey earth; so the wick of a smouldering lamp flickers up in
      a last bright flare and sinks into cold ash. The wild
      creature has peeped out from its hole for the last time at
      the velvet grass, the sweet sun, the blue, kindly waters, and
      has huddled back into the depths, curled up, and gone to
      sleep. Will he have glimpses even in sleep of the sweet sun
      and the grass and the blue kindly water?...
    </p>
    <h4>
      XIII
    </h4>
    <p>
      Sternly, remorselessly, fate leads each of us, and only at
      the first, absorbed in details of all sorts, in trifles, in
      ourselves, we are not aware of her harsh hand. While one can
      be deceived and has no shame in lying, one can live and there
      is no shame in hoping. Truth, not the full truth, of that,
      indeed, we cannot speak, but even that little we can reach
      locks up our lips at once, ties our hands, leads us to 'the
      No.' Then one way is left a man to keep his feet, not to fall
      to pieces, not to sink into the mire of self-forgetfulness...
      of self-contempt,&#8212;calmly to turn away from all, to say
      'enough!' and folding impotent arms upon the empty breast, to
      save the last, the sole honour he can attain to, the dignity
      of knowing his own nothingness; that dignity at which Pascal
      hints when calling man a thinking reed he says that if the
      whole universe crushed him, he, that reed, would be higher
      than the universe, because he would know it was crushing him,
      and it would know it not. A poor dignity! A sorry
      consolation! Try your utmost to be penetrated by it, to have
      faith in it, you, whoever you may be, my poor brother, and
      there's no refuting those words of menace:
    </p>
    <pre>
  'Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
   That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
   And then is heard no more: it is a tale
   Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
   Signifying nothing.'
</pre>
    <p>
      I quoted these lines from <i>Macbeth</i>, and there came back
      to my mind the witches, phantoms, apparitions.... Alas! no
      ghosts, no fantastic, unearthly powers are terrible; there
      are no terrors in the Hoffmann world, in whatever form it
      appears.... What is terrible is that there is nothing
      terrible, that the very essence of life is petty,
      uninteresting and degradingly inane. Once one is soaked
      through and through with that knowledge, once one has tasted
      of that bitter, no honey more seems sweet, and even the
      highest, sweetest bliss, the bliss of love, of perfect
      nearness, of complete devotion&#8212;even that loses all its
      magic; all its dignity is destroyed by its own pettiness, its
      brevity. Yes; a man loved, glowed with passion, murmured of
      eternal bliss, of undying raptures, and lo, no trace is left
      of the very worm that devoured the last relic of his withered
      tongue. So, on a frosty day in late autumn, when all is
      lifeless and dumb in the bleached grey grass, on the bare
      forest edge, if the sun but come out for an instant from the
      fog and turn one steady glance on the frozen earth, at once
      the gnats swarm up on all sides; they sport in the warm rays,
      bustle, flutter up and down, circle round one another... The
      sun is hidden&#8212;the gnats fall in a feeble shower, and
      there is the end of their momentary life.
    </p>
    <h4>
      XIV
    </h4>
    <p>
      But are there no great conceptions, no great words of
      consolation: patriotism, right, freedom, humanity, art? Yes;
      those words there are, and many men live by them and for
      them. And yet it seems to me that if Shakespeare could be
      born again he would have no cause to retract his Hamlet, his
      Lear. His searching glance would discover nothing new in
      human life: still the same motley picture&#8212;in reality so
      little complex&#8212;would unroll before him in its
      terrifying sameness. The same credulity and the same cruelty,
      the same lust of blood, of gold, of filth, the same vulgar
      pleasures, the same senseless sufferings in the name... why,
      in the name of the very same shams that Aristophanes jeered
      at two thousand years ago, the same coarse snares in which
      the many-headed beast, the multitude, is caught so easily,
      the same workings of power, the same traditions of
      slavishness, the same innateness of falsehood&#8212;in a
      word, the same busy squirrel's turning in the same old
      unchanged wheel.... Again Shakespeare would set Lear
      repeating his cruel: 'None doth offend,' which in other words
      means: 'None is without offence.' and he too would say
      'enough!' he too would turn away. One thing perhaps, may be:
      in contrast to the gloomy tragic tyrant Richard, the great
      poet's ironic genius would want to paint a newer type, the
      tyrant of to-day, who is almost ready to believe in his own
      virtue, and sleeps well of nights, or finds fault with too
      sumptuous a dinner at the very time when his half-crushed
      victims try to find comfort in picturing him, like Richard,
      haunted by the phantoms of those he has ruined...
    </p>
    <p>
      But to what end?
    </p>
    <p>
      Why prove&#8212;picking out, too, and weighing words,
      smoothing and rounding off phrases&#8212;why prove to gnats
      that they are really gnats?
    </p>
    <h4>
      XV
    </h4>
    <p>
      But art?... beauty?... Yes, these are words of power; they
      are more powerful, may be, than those I have spoken before.
      Venus of Milo is, may be, more real than Roman law or the
      principles of 1789. It may be objected&#8212;how many times
      has the retort been heard!&#8212;that beauty itself is
      relative; that by the Chinese it is conceived as quite other
      than the European's ideal.... But it is not the relativity of
      art confounds me; its transitoriness, again its brevity, its
      dust and ashes&#8212;that is what robs me of faith and
      courage. Art at a given moment is more powerful, may be, than
      nature; for in nature is no symphony of Beethoven, no picture
      of Ruysd&auml;el, no poem of Goethe, and only dull-witted
      pedants or disingenuous chatterers can yet maintain that art
      is the imitation of nature. But at the end of all, nature is
      inexorable; she has no need to hurry, and sooner or later she
      takes her own. Unconsciously and inflexibly obedient to laws,
      she knows not art, as she knows not freedom, as she knows not
      good; from all ages moving, from all ages changing, she
      suffers nothing immortal, nothing unchanging.... Man is her
      child; but man's work&#8212;art&#8212;is hostile to her, just
      because it strives to be unchanging and immortal. Man is the
      child of nature; but she is the universal mother, and she has
      no preferences; all that exists in her lap has arisen only at
      the cost of something else, and must in its time yield its
      place to something else. She creates destroying, and she
      cares not whether she creates or she destroys&#8212;so long
      as life be not exterminated, so long as death fall not short
      of his dues.... And so just as serenely she hides in mould
      the god-like shape of Phidias's Zeus as the simplest pebble,
      and gives the vile worm for food the priceless verse of
      Sophokles. Mankind, 'tis true, jealously aid her in her work
      of of slaughter; but is it not the same elemental force, the
      force of nature, that finds vent in the fist of the barbarian
      recklessly smashing the radiant brow of Apollo, in the savage
      yells with which he casts in the fire the picture of Apelles?
      How are we, poor folks, poor artists to be a match for this
      deaf, dumb, blind force who triumphs not even in her
      conquests, but goes onward, onward, devouring all things? How
      stand against those coarse and mighty waves, endlessly,
      unceasingly moving upward? How have faith in the value and
      dignity of the fleeting images, that in the dark, on the edge
      of the abyss, we shape out of dust for an instant?
    </p>
    <h4>
      XVI
    </h4>
    <p>
      All this is true,... but only the transient is beautiful,
      said Schiller; and nature in the incessant play of her
      rising, vanishing forms is not averse to beauty. Does not she
      carefully deck the most fleeting of her children&#8212;the
      petals of the flowers, the wings of the butterfly&#8212;in
      the fairest hues, does she not give them the most exquisite
      lines? Beauty needs not to live for ever to be
      eternal&#8212;one instant is enough for her. Yes; that may be
      is true&#8212;but only there where personality is not, where
      man is not, where freedom is not; the butterfly's wing
      spoiled appears again and again for a thousand years as the
      same wing of the same butterfly; there sternly, fairly,
      impersonally necessity completes her circle... but man is not
      repeated like the butterfly, and the work of his hands, his
      art, his spontaneous creation once destroyed is lost for
      ever.... To him alone is it vouchsafed to create... but
      strange and dreadful it is to pronounce: we are creators...
      for one hour&#8212;as there was, in the tale, a caliph for an
      hour. In this is our pre-eminence&#8212;and our curse; each
      of those 'creators' himself, even he and no other, even this
      <i>I</i> is, as it were, constructed with certain aim, on
      lines laid down beforehand; each more or less dimly is aware
      of his significance, is aware that he is innately something
      noble, eternal&#8212;and lives, and must live in the moment
      and for the moment.[1] Sit in the mud, my friend, and aspire
      to the skies! The greatest among us are just those who more
      deeply than all others have felt this rooted contradiction;
      though if so, it may be asked, can such words be used as
      greatest, great?
    </p>
    <p>
      [Footnote 1: One cannot help recalling here Mephistopheles's
      words to Faust:&#8212;
    </p>
    <pre>
  'Er (Gott) findet sich in einem ewgen Glanze,
   Uns hat er in die Finsterniss gebracht&#8212;
   Und euch taugt einzig Tag und Nacht.'
                                        &#8212;AUTHOR'S NOTE.]
</pre>
    <h4>
      XVII
    </h4>
    <p>
      What is to be said of those to whom, with all goodwill, one
      cannot apply such terms, even in the sense given them by the
      feeble tongue of man? What can one say of the ordinary,
      common, second-rate, third-rate toilers&#8212;whatsoever they
      may be&#8212;statesmen, men of science, artists&#8212;above
      all, artists? How conjure them to shake off their numb
      indolence, their weary stupor, how draw them back to the
      field of battle, if once the conception has stolen into their
      brains of the nullity of everything human, of every sort of
      effort that sets before itself a higher aim than the mere
      winning of bread? By what crowns can they be lured for whom
      laurels and thorns alike are valueless? For what end will
      they again face the laughter of 'the unfeeling crowd' or 'the
      judgment of the fool'&#8212;of the old fool who cannot
      forgive them from turning away from the old bogies&#8212;of
      the young fool who would force them to kneel with him, to
      grovel with him before the new, lately discovered idols? Why
      should they go back again into that jostling crowd of
      phantoms, to that market-place where seller and buyer cheat
      each other alike, where is noise and clamour, and all is
      paltry and worthless? Why 'with impotence in their bones'
      should they struggle back into that world where the peoples,
      like peasant boys on a holiday, are tussling in the mire for
      handfuls of empty nutshells, or gape in open-mouthed
      adoration before sorry tinsel-decked pictures, into that
      world where only that is living which has no right to live,
      and each, stifling self with his own shouting, hurries
      feverishly to an unknown, uncomprehended goal? No... no....
      Enough... enough... enough!
    </p>
    <h4>
      XVIII
    </h4>
    <p>
      ...The rest is silence. [Footnote: English in the
      original.&#8212;TRANSLATOR'S NOTE.]
    </p>
    <p>
      1864.
    </p>
<BR>
<BR>
<BR>
<BR>
<PRE>
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