ot like, as the expression of an
insipid and unoriginal character; besides, the memory of certain
of his love affairs of which he was now ashamed was associated with
such lanterns. Anna Akimovna's study with its bare walls and tasteless
furniture pleased him exceedingly. It was snug and comfortable for
him to sit on a Turkish divan and look at Anna Akimovna, who usually
sat on the rug before the fire, clasping her knees and looking into
the fire and thinking of something; and at such moments it seemed
to him that her peasant Old Believer blood was stirring within her.

Every time after dinner when coffee and liqueurs were handed, he
grew livelier and began telling her various bits of literary gossip.
He spoke with eloquence and inspiration, and was carried away by
his own stories; and she listened to him and thought every time
that for such enjoyment it was worth paying not only twelve thousand,
but three times that sum, and forgave him everything she disliked
in him. He sometimes told her the story of some tale or novel he
had been reading, and then two or three hours passed unnoticed like
a minute. Now he began rather dolefully in a failing voice with his
eyes shut.

"It's ages, my dear, since I have read anything," he said when she
asked him to tell her something. "Though I do sometimes read Jules
Verne."

"I was expecting you to tell me something new."

"H'm! . . . new," Lysevitch muttered sleepily, and he settled himself
further back in the corner of the sofa. "None of the new literature,
my dear, is any use for you or me. Of course, it is bound to be
such as it is, and to refuse to recognize it is to refuse to recognize
--would mean refusing to recognize the natural order of things,
and I do recognize it, but . . ." Lysevitch seemed to have fallen
asleep. But a minute later his voice was heard again:

"All the new literature moans and howls like the autumn wind in the
chimney. 'Ah, unhappy wretch! Ah, your life may be likened to a
prison! Ah, how damp and dark it is in your prison! Ah, you will
certainly come to ruin, and there is no chance of escape for you!'
That's very fine, but I should prefer a literature that would tell
us how to escape from prison. Of all contemporary writers, however,
I prefer Maupassant." Lysevitch opened his eyes. "A fine writer, a
perfect writer!" Lysevitch shifted in his seat. "A wonderful artist!
A terrible, prodigious, supernatural artist!" Lysevitch got up from
the sofa and r