man among us. And, indeed, where are such to be found! There was, they say, a good time once in the Moscow university! But not now. Now it’s a school, not a university. I was not happy with my comrades,’ he added, dropping his voice.

‘Not happy,’ murmured Elena.

‘But I ought,’ continued Bersenyev, ‘to make an exception. I know one student—it’s true he is not in the same faculty—he is certainly a remarkable man.’

‘What is his name?’ Elena inquired with interest.

‘Insarov Dmitri Nikanorovitch. He is a Bulgarian.’

‘Not a Russian?’

‘No, he is not a Russian,’

‘Why is he living in Moscow, then?’

‘He came here to study. And do you know with what aim he is studying? He has a single idea: the liberation of his country. And his story is an exceptional one. His father was a fairly well-to-do merchant; he came from Tirnova. Tirnova is now a small town, but it was the capital of Bulgaria in the old days when Bulgaria was still an independent state. He traded with Sophia, and had relations with Russia; his sister, Insarov’s aunt, is still living in Kiev, married to a senior history teacher in the gymnasium there. In 1835, that is to say eighteen years ago, a terrible crime was committed; Insarov’s mother suddenly disappeared without leaving a trace behind; a week later she was found murdered.’

Elena shuddered. Bersenyev stopped.

‘Go on, go on,’ she said.

‘There were rumours that she had been outraged and murdered by a Turkish aga; her husband, Insarov’s father, found out the truth, tried to avenge her, but only succeeded in wounding the aga with his poniard…. He was shot.’

‘Shot, and without a trial?’

‘Yes. Insarov was just eight years old at the time. He remained in the hands of neighbours. The sister heard of the fate of her brother’s family, and wanted to take the nephew to live with her. They got him to Odessa, and from there to Kiev. At Kiev he lived twelve whole years. That’s how it is he speaks Russian so well.’

‘He speaks Russian?’

‘Just as we do. When he was twenty (that was at the beginning of the year 1848) he began to want to return to his country. He stayed in Sophia and Tirnova, and travelled through the length and breadth of Bulgaria, spending two years there, and learning his mother tongue over again. The Turkish Government persecuted him, and he was certainly exposed to great dangers during those two years; I once caught sight of a broad scar on his neck, from a wound, no doubt; but he does not like to talk about it. He is reserved, too, in his own way. I have tried to question him about everything, but I could get nothing out of him. He answers by generalities. He’s awfully obstinate. He returned to Russia again in 1850, to Moscow, with the intention of educating himself thoroughly, getting intimate with Russians, and then when he leaves the university——’

‘What then?’ broke in Elena.

‘What God wills. It’s hard to forecast the future.’

For a while Elena did not take her eyes off Bersenyev.

‘You have greatly interested me by what you have told me,’ she said. ‘What is he like, this friend of yours; what did you call him, Insarov?’

‘What shall I say? To my mind, he’s good-looking. But you will see him for yourself.’

‘How so?’

‘I will bring him here to see you. He is coming to our little village the day after tomorrow, and is going to live with me in the same lodging.’

‘Really? But will he care to come to see us?’

‘I should think so. He will be delighted.’

‘He isn’t proud, then?’

‘Not the least. That’s to say, he is proud if you like, only not in the sense you mean. He will never, for instance, borrow money from any one.’

‘Is he poor?’

‘Yes, he isn’t rich. When he went to Bulgaria he collected some relics left of his father’s property, and his aunt helps him; but it all comes to very little.’

‘He must have a great deal of character,’ observed Elena.

‘Yes. He is a man of iron. And at the same time you will see there is something childlike and frank, with all his concentration and even his reserve. It’s true, his frankness is not our poor sort of frankness—the frankness of people who have absolutely nothing to conceal…. But there, I will bring him to see you; wait a little.’

‘And isn’t he shy?’ asked Elena again.

‘No, he’s not shy. It’s only vain people who are shy.’

‘Why, are you vain?’

He was confused and made a vague gesture with his hands.

‘You excite my curiosity,’ pursued Elena. ‘But tell me, has he not taken vengeance on that Turkish aga?’

Bersenyev smiled

‘Revenge is only to be found in novels, Elena Nikolaevna; and, besides, in twelve years that aga may well be dead.’

‘Mr. Insarov has never said anything, though, to you about it?’

‘No, never.’

‘Why did he go to Sophia?’

‘His father used to live there.’

Elena grew thoughtful.

‘To liberate one’s country!’ she said. ‘It is terrible even to utter those words, they are so grand.’

At that instant Anna Vassilyevna came into the room, and the conversation stopped.

Bersenyev was stirred by strange emotions when he returned home that evening. He did not regret his plan of making Elena acquainted with Insarov, he felt the deep impression made on her by his account of the young Bulgarian very natural… had he not himself tried to deepen that impression! But a vague, unfathomable emotion lurked secretly in his heart; he was sad with a sadness that had nothing noble in it. This sadness did not prevent him, however, from setting to work on the History of the Hohenstaufen, and beginning to read it at the very page at which he had left off the evening before.

XI

Two days later, Insarov in accordance with his promise arrived at Bersenyev’s with his luggage. He had no servant; but without any assistance he put his room to rights, arranged the furniture, dusted and swept the floor. He had special trouble with the writing table, which would not fit into the recess in the wall assigned for it; but Insarov, with the silent persistence peculiar to him succeeded in getting his own way with it. When he had settled in, he asked Bersenyev to let him pay him ten roubles in advance, and arming himself with a thick stick, set off to inspect the country surrounding his new abode. He returned three hours later; and in response to Bersenyev’s invitation to share his repast, he said that he would not refuse to dine with him that day, but that he had already spoken to the woman of the house, and would get her to send him up his meals for the future.

‘Upon my word!’ said Bersenyev, ‘you will fare very badly; that old body can’t cook a bit. Why don’t you dine with me, we would go halves over the cost.’

‘My means don’t allow me to dine as you do,’ Insarov replied with a tranquil smile.

There was something in that smile which forbade further insistence; Bersenyev did not add a word. After dinner he proposed to Insarov that he should take him to the Stahovs; but he replied that he had intended to devote the evening to correspondence with his Bulgarians, and so he would ask him to put off the visit to the Stahovs till next day. Bersenyev was already familiar with Insarov’s unbending will; but it was only now when he was under the same roof with him, that he fully realised at last that Insarov would never alter any decision, just in the same way as he would never fail to carry out a promise he had given; to Bersenyev—a Russian to his fingertips—this more than German exactitude seemed at first odd, and even rather ludicrous; but he soon got used to it, and ended by finding it—if not deserving of respect—at least very convenient.

The second day after his arrival, Insarov got up at four o’clock in the morning, made a round of almost all Kuntsovo, bathed in the river, drank a glass of cold milk, and then set to work. And he had plenty of work to do; he was studying Russian history and law, and political economy, translating the Bulgarian ballads and chronicles, collecting materials on the Eastern Question, and compiling a Russian grammar for the use of Bulgarians, and a Bulgarian grammar for the use of Russians. Bersenyev went up to him and began to discuss Feuerbach. Insarov listened attentively, made few remarks, but to the point; it was clear from his observations that he was trying to arrive at a conclusion as to whether he need study Feuerbach, or whether he could get on without him. Bersenyev turned the conversation on to his pursuits, and asked him if he could not show him anything. Insarov read him his translation of two or three Bulgarian ballads, and was anxious to hear his opinion of them. Bersenyev thought the translation a faithful one, but not sufficiently spirited. Insarov paid close attention to his criticism. From the ballads Bersenyev passed on to the present position of Bulgaria, and then for the first time he noticed what a change came over Insarov at the mere mention of his country: not that his face flushed nor his voice grew louder—no! but at once a sense of force and intense onward striving was expressed in his whole personality, the lines of his mouth grew harder and less flexible, and a dull persistent fire glowed in the depths of his eyes. Insarov did not care to enlarge on his own travels in his country; but of Bulgaria in