at once, and look at Pasinkov, as though anything cleverer than his behaviour on that occasion it was impossible to conceive.

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

A minute later Asanov entered.

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

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

‘And that is?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Will you go to the devil!’ I shouted, stamping, ‘and send me a second;

I don’t mean to talk to you.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

For a long while Pasinkov did not utter a word.

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

‘Yes.’

Pasinkov was silent again for a little.

‘I thought so. And you went to her to-day and began reproaching her?…’

‘Yes, yes, yes!…’ I articulated desperately. ‘Now you can despise me….’

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

‘And she loves him?’ he queried.

‘She loves him….’

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

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

And he took up his hat.

‘Where are you going?’

‘To Asanov.’

I jumped up from the sofa.

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

Pasinkov looked at me.

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

‘But what are you going to say to Asanov?’

‘I’ll try and explain things to him, I’ll tell him you beg his forgiveness …’

‘But I don’t want to apologise to him!’

‘You don’t? Why, aren’t you in fault?’

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

Pasinkov went out.

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

‘Well?’ I queried in a timid voice.

‘Thank goodness!’ he answered; ‘it’s all settled.’

‘You have been at Asanov’s?’

‘Yes.’

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

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

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

‘I’ve been at the Zlotnitskys’.’

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

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

‘And you … told her everything … about me … everything?’

‘I told her what was necessary.’

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

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

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

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

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

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