tinguish which was my tutor and which was
Tatyana Ivanovna's husband. Tatyana Ivanovna herself he sometimes
called Nastasya, sometimes Pelagea, and sometimes Yevdokia. Touched and
delighted by us, he laughed and behaved exactly as though in the company
of small children.... All this, of course, might well offend young men.
It was not a case of offended pride, however, but, as I realize now,
subtler feelings.

I remember one evening I was sitting on the box struggling with sleep.
My eyelids felt glued together and my body, tired out by running about
all day, drooped sideways. But I struggled against sleep and tried to
look on. It was about midnight. Tatyana Ivanovna, rosy and unassuming
as always, was sitting at a little table sewing at her husband's shirt.
Fyodor, sullen and gloomy, was staring at her from one corner, and in
the other sat Pobyedimsky, snorting angrily and retreating into the
high collar of his shirt. My uncle was walking up and down the room
thinking. Silence reigned; nothing was to be heard but the rustling of
the linen in Tatyana Ivanovna's hands. Suddenly my uncle stood still
before Tatyana Ivanovna, and said:

"You are all so young, so fresh, so nice, you live so peacefully in this
quiet place, that I envy you. I have become attached to your way of
life here; my heart aches when I remember I have to go away.... You may
believe in my sincerity!"

Sleep closed my eyes and I lost myself. When some sound waked me,
my uncle was standing before Tatyana Ivanovna, looking at her with a
softened expression. His cheeks were flushed.

"My life has been wasted," he said. "I have not lived! Your young face
makes me think of my own lost youth, and I should be ready to sit here
watching you to the day of my death. It would be a pleasure to me to
take you with me to Petersburg."

"What for?" Fyodor asked in a husky voice.

"I should put her under a glass case on my work-table. I should admire
her and show her to other people. You know, Pelagea Ivanovna, we have no
women like you there. Among us there is wealth, distinction,
sometimes beauty, but we have not this true sort of life, this healthy
serenity...."

My uncle sat down facing Tatyana Ivanovna and took her by the hand.

"So you won't come with me to Petersburg?" he laughed. "In that case
give me your little hand.... A charming little hand!... You won't give
it? Come, you miser! let me kiss it, anyway...."

At that moment there was the scrape of a c