young man entered the room, with a small sharp-featured face, and bright little eyes. He was beaming all over, as though he had just won a fortune or heard a most delightful piece of news.

Insarov got up from his seat

‘You don’t recognise me,’ began the stranger, going up to him with an easy air, and bowing politely to Elena, ‘Lupoyarov, do you remember, we met at Moscow at the E——’s.’

‘Yes, at the E——’s,’ replied Insarov.

‘To be sure, to be sure! I beg you to present me to your wife. Madam, I have always had the profoundest respect for Dmitri Vassilyevitch’ (he corrected himself)—’for Nikanor Vassilyevitch, and am very happy to have the pleasure at last of making your acquaintance. Fancy,’ he continued, turning to Insarov, ‘I only heard yesterday evening that you were here. I am staying at this hotel too. What a city! Venice is poetry—that’s the only word for it! But one thing’s really awful: the cursed Austrians meeting one at every turn! ah, these Austrians! By the way, have you heard, there’s been a decisive battle on the Danube: three hundred Turkish officers killed, Silistria taken; Servia has declared its independence. You, as a patriot, ought to be in transports, oughtn’t you? Even my Slavonic blood’s positively on fire! I advise you to be more careful, though; I’m convinced there’s a watch kept on you. The spies here are something awful! A suspicious-looking man came up to me yesterday and asked: «Are you a Russian?» I told him I was a Dane. But you seem unwell, dear Nikanor Vassilyevitch. You ought to see a doctor; madam, you ought to make your husband see a doctor. Yesterday I ran through the palaces and churches, as though I were crazy. I suppose you’ve been in the palace of the Doges? What magnificence everywhere! Especially that great hall and Marino Faliero’s place: there’s an inscription: decapitati pro criminibus. I’ve been in the famous prisons too; that threw me into indignation, you may fancy. I’ve always, you remember perhaps, taken an interest in social questions, and taken sides against aristocracy—well, that’s where I should like to send the champions of aristocracy—to those dungeons. How well Byron said: I stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs; though he was an aristocrat too. I was always for progress—the younger generation are all for progress. And what do you say to the Anglo-French business? We shall see whether they can do much, Boustrapa and Palmerston. You know Palmerston has been made Prime Minister. No, say what you like, the Russian fist is not to be despised. He’s awfully deep that Boustrapa! If you like I will lend you Les Chatiments de Victor Hugo—it’s marvellous—L’avenir, le gendarme de Dieu—rather boldly written, but what force in it, what force! That was a fine saying, too, of Prince Vyazemsky’s: «Europe repeats: Bash-Kadik-Lar keeping an eye on Sinope.» I adore poetry. I have Proudhon’s last work, too—I have everything. I don’t know how you feel, but I’m glad of the war; only as I’m not required at home, I’m going from here to Florence, and to Rome. France I can’t go to—so I’m thinking of Spain—the women there, I’m told, are marvellous! only such poverty, and so many insects. I would be off to California—we Russians are ready to do anything—but I promised an editor to study the question of the commerce of the Mediterranean in detail. You will say that’s an uninteresting, special subject, but that’s just what we need, specialists; we have philosophised enough, now we need the practical, the practical. But you are very unwell, Nikanor Vassilyevitch, I am tiring you, perhaps, but still I must stay a little longer.’

And for a long time Lupoyarov still babbled on in the same way, and, as he went away, he promised to come again.

Worn out by the unexpected visit, Insarov lay down on the sofa. ‘So this,’ he said, mournfully looking at Elena, ‘is your younger generation! There are plenty who show off, and give themselves airs, while at heart they are as empty chatterboxes as that worthy.’

Elena made no reply to her husband; at that instant she was far more concerned at Insarov’s weakness than at the character of the whole younger generation in Russia. She sat down near him, and took up some work. He closed his eyes, and lay without moving, white and thin. Elena glanced at his sharp profile, at his emaciated hands, and felt a sudden pang of terror.

‘Dmitri,’ she began.

He started. ‘Eh? Has Renditch come?’

‘Not yet—but what do you think—you are in a fever, you are really not quite well, shouldn’t we send for a doctor?’

‘That wretched gossip has frightened you. There’s no necessity. I will rest a little, and it will pass off. After dinner we will go out again—somewhere.’

Two hours passed. Insarov still lay on the sofa, but he could not sleep, though he did not open his eyes. Elena did not leave his side; she had dropped her work upon her knee, and did not stir.

‘Why don’t you go to sleep?’ she asked at last.

‘Wait a little.’ He took her hand, and placed it under his head. ‘There—that is nice. Wake me at once directly Renditch comes. If he says the ship is ready, we will start at once. We ought to pack everything.’

‘Packing won’t take long,’ answered Elena.

‘That fellow babbled something about a battle, about Servia,’ said Insarov, after a short interval. ‘I suppose he made it all up. But we must, we must start. We can’t lose time. Be ready.’

He fell asleep, and everything was still in the room.

Elena let her head rest against the back of her chair, and gazed a long while out of the window. The weather had changed for the worse; the wind had risen. Great white clouds were scudding over the sky, a slender mast was swaying in the distance, a long streamer, with a red cross on it, kept fluttering, falling, and fluttering again. The pendulum of the old-fashioned clock ticked drearily, with a kind of melancholy whirr. Elena shut her eyes. She had slept badly all night; gradually she, too, fell asleep.

She had a strange dream. She thought sha was floating in a boat on the Tsaritsino lake with some unknown people. They did not speak, but sat motionless, no one was rowing; the boat was moving by itself. Elena was not afraid, but she felt dreary; she wanted to know who were these people, and why she was with them? She looked and the lake grew broader, the banks vanished—now it was not a lake but a stormy sea: immense blue silent waves rocked the boat majestically; something menacing, roaring was rising from the depths; her unknown companions jumped up, shrieking, wringing their hands… Elena recognised their faces; her father was among them. But a kind of white whirlwind came flying over the waves—everything was turning round, everything was confounded together.

Elena looked about her; as before, all around was white; but it was snow, snow, boundless plains of snow. And she was not now in a boat, but travelling, as she had come from Moscow, in a sledge; she was not alone; by her side was sitting a little creature muffled in an old cloak; Elena looked closely; it was Katya, her poor little friend. Elena was seized with terror. ‘Why, isn’t she dead?’ she thought.

‘Katya, where are we going together?’ Katya did not answer, and nestled herself closer in her little cloak; she was freezing. Elena too was cold; she looked along the road into the distance; far away a town could be seen through the fine drifting snow. High white towers with silvery cupolas… ‘Katya, Katya, is it Moscow? No,’ thought Elena, ‘it is Solovetsky Monastery; it’s full of little narrow cells like a beehive; it’s stifling, cramping there—and Dmitri’s shut up there. I must rescue him.’… Suddenly a grey, yawning abyss opened before her. The sledge was falling, Katya was laughing. ‘Elena, Elena!’ came a voice from the abyss.

‘Elena!’ sounded distinctly in her ears. She raised her head quickly, turned round, and was stupefied: Insarov, white as snow, the snow of her dream, had half risen from the sofa, and was staring at her with large, bright, dreadful eyes. His hair hung in disorder on his forehead and his lips parted strangely. Horror, mingled with an anguish of tenderness, was expressed on his suddenly transfigured face.

‘Elena!’ he articulated, ‘I am dying.’

She fell with a scream on her knees, and clung to his breast.

‘It’s all over,’ repeated Insarov: ‘I’m dying… Good-bye, my poor girl! good-bye, my country!’ and he fell backwards on to the sofa.

Elena rushed out of the room, began calling for help; a waiter ran for a doctor. Elena clung to Insarov.

At that instant in the doorway appeared a broad-shouldered, sunburnt man, in a stout frieze coat and a low oil-skin hat. He stood still in bewilderment.

‘Renditch!’ cried Elena, ‘it’s you! Look, for God’s sake, he’s ill! What’s wrong? Good God! He went out yesterday, he was talking to me just now.’

Renditch said nothing and only moved on one side. There slipped quickly past him a little figure in a wig and spectacles; it was a doctor living in the same hotel. He went up to Insarov.

‘Signora,’ he said, after the lapse of a few minutes, ‘the foreign gentleman is dead—il Signore forestiere e morte—of aneurism in combination with disease of the lungs.’

XXXV

The next day, in the same room, Renditch was standing at the window; before him, wrapped in a shawl, sat Elena. In the next room, Insarov lay in his coffin. Elena’s