vista of a new, wide, spacious life, and that life, still obscure
and full of mysteries, beckoned her and attracted her.

She went upstairs to her own room to pack, and next morning said
good-bye to her family, and full of life and high spirits left the
town--as she supposed for ever.

FROM THE DIARY OF A VIOLENT-TEMPERED MAN

I AM a serious person and my mind is of a philosophic bent. My
vocation is the study of finance. I am a student of financial law
and I have chosen as the subject of my dissertation--the Past and
Future of the Dog Licence. I need hardly point out that young ladies,
songs, moonlight, and all that sort of silliness are entirely out
of my line.

Morning. Ten o'clock. My _maman_ pours me out a cup of coffee. I
drink it and go out on the little balcony to set to work on my
dissertation. I take a clean sheet of paper, dip the pen into the
ink, and write out the title: "The Past and Future of the Dog
Licence."

After thinking a little I write: "Historical Survey. We may deduce
from some allusions in Herodotus and Xenophon that the origin of
the tax on dogs goes back to . . . ."

But at that point I hear footsteps that strike me as highly suspicious.
I look down from the balcony and see below a young lady with a long
face and a long waist. Her name, I believe, is Nadenka or Varenka,
it really does not matter which. She is looking for something,
pretends not to have noticed me, and is humming to herself:

"Dost thou remember that song full of tenderness?"

I read through what I have written and want to continue, but the
young lady pretends to have just caught sight of me, and says in a
mournful voice:

"Good morning, Nikolay Andreitch. Only fancy what a misfortune I
have had! I went for a walk yesterday and lost the little ball off
my bracelet!"

I read through once more the opening of my dissertation, I trim up
the tail of the letter "g" and mean to go on, but the young lady
persists.

"Nikolay Andreitch," she says, "won't you see me home? The Karelins
have such a huge dog that I simply daren't pass it alone."

There is no getting out of it. I lay down my pen and go down to
her. Nadenka (or Varenka) takes my arm and we set off in the direction
of her villa.

When the duty of walking arm-in-arm with a lady falls to my lot,
for some reason or other I always feel like a peg with a heavy cloak
hanging on it. Nadenka (or Varenka), between ourselves, of an ardent
temperament (her grandfather