"Can he still be in Dukhovo?" Nikolai Vsevolodovich suddenly heaved himself up, almost jumped, and made a strong move forward.

"No, it was he who drove me here this morning, we came back together," Pyotr Stepanovich said, as if he had not noticed Nikolai Vsevolodovich's momentary agitation at all. "Look at that, I've dropped a book." He bent down to pick up the keepsake^[81] he had brushed against. "'Balzac's Women, with illustrations"—he suddenly opened the book—"I haven't read it. Lembke also writes novels."

"Really?" Nikolai Vsevolodovich asked, as if interested.

"In Russian—secretly, of course. Yulia Mikhailovna knows and lets him. A duffer, but he has his ways; they've got it all worked out. What strictness of form, what self-possession! We could use some of that."

"You're praising the administration?"

"And why not? The only thing in Russia that's natural and achieved... I'll stop, I'll stop," he suddenly heaved himself up, "I didn't mean it, not a word about anything delicate. Anyhow, goodbye, you look a bit green."

"It's a fever."

"I believe it; you should go to bed. Incidentally, there are castrates in the district, curious people^[82]... Later, though. Here, though, is another little anecdote: there's an infantry regiment in the district.

Friday evening I was drinking with the officers in ——tsy. We have three friends there, vous comprenez? There was talk about atheism, and, of course, we cashiered God well and good. They were delighted, squealing. Incidentally, Shatov insists that to start a rebellion in Russia one must inevitably begin with atheism. Maybe he's right. One gray-haired boor of a captain sat and sat, silent, not saying a word; suddenly he stands up in the middle of the room and says, so loudly, you know, as if to himself: 'If there's no God, then what sort of captain am I?'—took his cap, threw up his arms, and walked out."

"Having uttered a rather well rounded thought," Nikolai Vsevolodovich yawned for the third time.

"Really? I didn't understand it; I was going to ask you. Well, what else have I got for you? The Shpigulins' factory is interesting; five hundred workers there, as you know, a hotbed of cholera, they haven't cleaned the place in fifteen years, and they cheat their employees; the owners are millionaires. I can assure you some of the workers have a notion of what the Internationale^[83] is. Did you smile? You'll see for yourself, just give me a tiny, tiny bit of time! I've already asked you for some time, and now I'm asking for more, and then... sorry, though, I won't, I won't, I don't mean that, don't scowl. Anyhow, good-bye. Ah, what's the matter with me?" he suddenly turned back. "I completely forgot the main thing: I was just told that our box has come from Petersburg."

"Meaning?" Nikolai Vsevolodovich looked at him uncomprehendingly.

"Meaning your box, your things, tailcoats, trousers, linen—has it come? Is it true?"

"Yes, I heard something earlier."

"Ah, might it be possible, now! ..."

"Ask Alexei."

"Then tomorrow? Tomorrow? In with your things there are also my jacket, my tailcoat, and three pairs of trousers, from Charmeur's,^[84]on your recommendation, remember?"

"I've heard you're playing the gallant around here?" Nikolai Vsevolodovich grinned. "Is it true you're going to take lessons from a riding-master?"

Pyotr Stepanovich smiled a crooked smile.

"You know," he suddenly hurried excessively, in a quivering and faltering voice, "you know, Nikolai Vsevolodovich, with regard to persons, we'll drop that once and for all, right? You may, of course, despise me as much as you like, if you find it so amusing, but still it would be better not to be personal for a while, right?"

"Very well, I won't do it again," said Nikolai Vsevolodovich. Pyotr Stepanovich grinned, slapped his knee with his hat, shifted from one foot to the other, and assumed his former expression.

"There are some here who even consider me your rival with Lizaveta Nikolaevna, so how can I not think of my appearance?" he laughed. "Who has been informing you, though? Hm. It's precisely eight o'clock; well, I'm off; I promised to call on Varvara Petrovna, but I'll pass that up; you go to bed and tomorrow you'll feel more chipper. It's dark and raining outside, I have a cab, though, because the streets aren't quiet here at night. . . Ah, incidentally: there's a certain Fedka the Convict wandering around town and hereabouts, a fugitive from Siberia, imagine, my former household serf, whom papa packed off to the army fifteen years ago, to make some money.^[85] A very remarkable man."

"Have you... talked with him?" Nikolai Vsevolodovich glanced up.

"I have. He's not hiding from me. A man ready for anything, anything—for money, naturally, but there are convictions there, too, of his own kind, of course. Ah, yes, again incidentally: if you were serious just now about that plan, remember, to do with Lizaveta Nikolaevna, then I repeat once more that I, too, am a man ready for anything, in all senses, whatever you like, and am completely at your service ... What, are you reaching for your stick? Ah, no, it's not your stick... Imagine, I thought you were looking for your stick."

Nikolai Vsevolodovich was not looking for anything and did not say anything, but he did indeed rise a little, somehow suddenly, with some strange movement in his face.

"Or if you need something in connection with Mr. Gaganov," Pyotr Stepanovich suddenly blurted out, this time nodding directly at the paperweight, "I can, of course, arrange everything, and I'm sure you won't pass me up."

He suddenly walked out without waiting for a reply, but then stuck his head back in through the doorway.

"Because," he cried in a patter, "Shatov, for example, also had no right to risk his life on Sunday when he went up to you, right? I wish you to make note of that."

He disappeared again, without waiting for a reply.

IV

He may have thought, as he disappeared, that when Nikolai Vsevolodovich was left alone he would start pounding the wall with his fists, and no doubt he would have been glad to peek in, if only it had been possible. But he would have been very disappointed: Nikolai Vsevolodovich remained calm. For a couple of minutes he stood by the desk in the same position, apparently deep in thought; but soon a cold, listless smile forced itself to his lips. He slowly sat down on the sofa, in his former place in the corner, and closed his eyes as if from fatigue. The corner of the letter was still peeking out from under the paperweight, but he made no move to put it right.

Soon he became totally oblivious. Varvara Petrovna, who had worn herself out with cares during those days, could not restrain herself, and after Pyotr Stepanovich, who had promised to stop and see her, left without keeping his promise, she herself ventured to visit Nicolas, though it was not her appointed time. She kept imagining: what if he were finally to say something definite? Softly, as before, she knocked on the door and, again receiving no reply, opened it herself. Seeing Nicolas sitting there somehow too motionlessly, she cautiously approached the sofa, her heart pounding. She was as if struck that he had fallen asleep so quickly and that he could sleep like that, sitting so straight and so motionlessly; even his breathing was almost imperceptible. His face was pale and stern, but as if quite frozen, motionless; his eyebrows were slightly knitted and frowning; he decidedly resembled an inanimate wax figure. She stood over him for three minutes or so, scarcely breathing, and was suddenly overcome with fear; she went out on tiptoe, paused in the doorway, hastily made a cross over him, and withdrew unnoticed, with a new heavy feeling, and a new anguish.