to go on living in this house!" shouted the student,
crying, and looking angrily at his mother. "I don't want to live with
you!"

Varvara uttered a shriek behind the screen and broke into loud sobs.
With a wave of his hand, Shiryaev ran out of the house.

The student went to his own room and quietly lay down. He lay till
midnight without moving or opening his eyes. He felt neither anger nor
shame, but a vague ache in his soul. He neither blamed his father nor
pitied his mother, nor was he tormented by stings of conscience; he
realized that every one in the house was feeling the same ache, and God
only knew which was most to blame, which was suffering most....

At midnight he woke the labourer, and told him to have the horse ready
at five o'clock in the morning for him to drive to the station; he
undressed and got into bed, but could not get to sleep. He heard how his
father, still awake, paced slowly from window to window, sighing,
till early morning. No one was asleep; they spoke rarely, and only in
whispers. Twice his mother came to him behind the screen. Always with
the same look of vacant wonder, she slowly made the cross over him,
shaking nervously.

At five o'clock in the morning he said good-bye to them all
affectionately, and even shed tears. As he passed his father's room, he
glanced in at the door. Yevgraf Ivanovitch, who had not taken off his
clothes or gone to bed, was standing by the window, drumming on the
panes.

"Good-bye; I am going," said his son.

"Good-bye... the money is on the round table..." his father answered,
without turning round.

A cold, hateful rain was falling as the labourer drove him to the
station. The sunflowers were drooping their heads still lower, and the
grass seemed darker than ever.

THE GRASSHOPPER

I

ALL Olga Ivanovna's friends and acquaintances were at her wedding.

"Look at him; isn't it true that there is something in him?" she said
to her friends, with a nod towards her husband, as though she wanted
to explain why she was marrying a simple, very ordinary, and in no way
remarkable man.

Her husband, Osip Stepanitch Dymov, was a doctor, and only of the rank
of a titular councillor. He was on the staff of two hospitals: in one a
ward-surgeon and in the other a dissecting demonstrator. Every day
from nine to twelve he saw patients and was busy in his ward, and
after twelve o'clock he went by tram to the other hospital, where he
dissected. His private