unwillingly, looked at one from under his eyebrows with an expression half surly, half indifferent, and read nothing except books of travels and geography. Sometimes he was unwell, and then he would shut himself up in his own room, and paint little pictures, or tease the old grey parrot, Popka. His wife, a sickly, consumptive woman, with hollow black eyes and a sharp nose, did not leave her sofa for days together, and was always embroidering cushion-covers in canvas. As far as I could observe, she was rather afraid of her husband, as though she had somehow wronged him at some time or other. The elder daughter, Varvara, a plump, rosy, fair-haired girl of eighteen, was always sitting at the window, watching the people that passed by. The son, who was being educated in a government school, was only seen at home on Sundays, and he, too, did not care to waste his words. Even the younger daughter, Sophia, the girl with whom I was in love, was of a silent disposition. In the Zlotnitskys' house there reigned a perpetual stillness; it was only broken by the piercing screams of Popka, but visitors soon got used to these, and were conscious again of the burden and oppression of the eternal stillness. Visitors, however, seldom looked in upon the Zlotnitskys; their house was a dull one. The very furniture, the red paper with yellow patterns in the drawing-room, the numerous rush-bottomed chairs in the dining-room, the faded wool-work cushions, embroidered with figures of girls and dogs, on the sofa, the branching lamps, and the gloomy-looking portraits on the walls—everything inspired an involuntary melancholy, about everything there clung a sense of chill and flatness. On my arrival in Petersburg, I had thought it my duty to call on the Zlotnitskys. They were relations of my mother's. I managed with difficulty to sit out an hour with them, and it was a long while before I went there again. But by degrees I took to going oftener and oftener. I was drawn there by Sophia, whom I had not cared for at first, and with whom I finally fell in love.
She was a slender, almost thin, girl of medium height, with a pale face, thick black hair, and big brown eyes, always half closed. Her severe and well-defined features, especially her tightly shut lips, showed determination and strength of will. At home they knew her to be a girl with a will of her own….
'She's like her eldest sister, like Katerina,' Madame Zlotnitsky said one day, as she sat alone with me (in her husband's presence she did not dare to mention the said Katerina). 'You don't know her; she's in the Caucasus, married. At thirteen, only fancy, she fell in love with her husband, and announced to us at the time that she would never marry any one else. We did everything we could—nothing was of any use. She waited till she was three-and- twenty, and braved her father's anger, and so married her idol. There is no saying what Sonitchka might not do! The Lord preserve her from such stubbornness! But I am afraid for her; she's only sixteen now, and there's no turning her….'
Mr. Zlotnitsky came in, and his wife was instantly silent.
What had captivated me in Sophia was not her strength of will—no; but with all her dryness, her lack of vivacity and imagination, she had a special charm of her own, the charm of straightforwardness, genuine sincerity, and purity of heart. I respected her as much as I loved her…. It seemed to me that she too looked with friendly eyes on me; to have my illusions as to her feeling for me shattered, and her love for another man proved conclusively, was a blow to me.
The unlooked-for discovery I had made astonished me the more as Asanov was not often at the Zlotnitskys' house, much less so than I, and had shown no marked preference for Sonitchka. He was a handsome, dark fellow, with expressive but rather heavy features, with brilliant, prominent eyes, with a large white forehead, and full red lips under fine moustaches. He was very discreet, but severe in his behaviour, confident in his criticisms and utterances, and dignified in his silence. It was obvious that he thought a great deal of himself. Asanov rarely laughed, and then with closed teeth, and he never danced. He was rather loosely and clumsily built. He had at one time served in the —th regiment, and was spoken of as a capable officer.
'A strange thing!' I ruminated, lying on the sofa; 'how was it I noticed nothing?' … 'Be careful as before': those words in Sophia's letter suddenly recurred to my memory. 'Ah!' I thought: 'that's it! What a sly little hussy! And I thought her open and sincere…. Wait a bit, that's all; I'll let you know….'
But at this point, if I can trust my memory, I began weeping bitterly, and could not get to sleep all night.
* * * * *
Next day at two o'clock I set off to the Zlotnitskys'. The father was not at home, and his wife was not sitting in her usual place; after the pancake festival of the preceding day, she had a headache, and had gone to lie down in her bedroom. Varvara was standing with her shoulder against the window, looking into the street; Sophia was walking up and down the room with her arms folded across her bosom; Popka was shrieking.
'Ah! how do you do?' said Varvara lazily, directly I came into the room, and she added at once in an undertone, 'There goes a peasant with a tray on his head.' … (She had the habit of keeping up a running commentary on the passers-by to herself.)
'How do you do?' I responded; 'how do you do, Sophia Nikolaevna? Where is Tatiana Vassilievna?'
'She has gone to lie down,' answered Sophia, still pacing the room.
'We had pancakes,' observed Varvara, without turning round. 'Why didn't you come? … Where can that clerk be going?' 'Oh, I hadn't time.' ('Present arms!' the parrot screeched shrilly.) 'How Popka is shrieking to-day!'
'He always does shriek like that,' observed Sophia.
We were all silent for a time.
'He has gone in at the gate,' said Varvara, and she suddenly got up on the window-sill and opened the window.
'What are you about?' asked Sophia.
'There's a beggar,' responded Varvara. She bent down, picked up a five-copeck piece from the window; the remains of a fumigating pastille still stood in a grey heap of ashes on the copper coin, as she flung it into the street; then she slammed the window to and jumped heavily down to the floor….
'I had a very pleasant time yesterday,' I began, seating myself in an arm-chair. 'I dined with a friend of mine; Konstantin Alexandritch was there…. (I looked at Sophia; not an eyebrow quivered on her face.) 'And I must own,' I continued, 'we'd a good deal of wine; we emptied eight bottles between the four of us.'
'Really!' Sophia articulated serenely, and she shook her head.
'Yes,' I went on, slightly irritated at her composure: 'and do you know what, Sophia Nikolaevna, it's a true saying, it seems, that in wine is truth.'
'How so?'
'Konstantin Alexandritch made us laugh. Only fancy, he began all at once passing his hand over his forehead like this, and saying: 'I'm a fine fellow! I've an uncle a celebrated man!'….'
'Ha, ha!' came Varvara's short, abrupt laugh.
….'Popka! Popka! Popka!' the parrot dinned back at her.
Sophia stood still in front of me, and looked me straight in the face.
'And you, what did you say?' she asked; 'don't you remember?'
I could not help blushing.
'I don't remember! I expect I was pretty absurd too. It certainly is dangerous to drink,' I added with significant emphasis; 'one begins chattering at once, and one's apt to say what no one ought to know. One's sure to be sorry for it afterwards, but then it's too late.'
'Why, did you let out some secret?' asked Sophia.
'I am not referring to myself.'
Sophia turned away, and began walking up and down the room again. I stared at her, raging inwardly. 'Upon my word,' I thought, 'she is a child, a baby, and how she has herself in hand! She's made of stone, simply. But wait a bit….'
'Sophia Nikolaevna …' I said aloud.
Sophia stopped.
'What is it?'
'Won't you play me something on the piano? By the way, I've something I want to say to you,' I added, dropping my voice.
Sophia, without saying a word, walked into the other room; I followed her. She came to a standstill at the piano.
'What am I to play you?' she inquired.
'What you like … one of Chopin's nocturnes.'
