void speaking. Nadenka looks at me sympathetically.

Soup, tongue and peas, roast fowl, and compote. I have no appetite,
but eat from politeness.

After dinner, while I am standing alone on the terrace, smoking,
Nadenka's mamma comes up to me, presses my hand, and says breathlessly:

"Don't despair, _Nicolas!_ She has such a heart, . . . such a heart!
. . ."

We go towards the wood to gather mushrooms. Varenka hangs on my arm
and clings to my side. My sufferings are indescribable, but I bear
them in patience.

We enter the wood.

"Listen, Monsieur Nicolas," says Nadenka, sighing. "Why are you so
melancholy? And why are you so silent?"

Extraordinary girl she is, really! What can I talk to her about?
What have we in common?

"Oh, do say something!" she begs me.

I begin trying to think of something popular, something within the
range of her understanding. After a moment's thought I say:

"The cutting down of forests has been greatly detrimental to the
prosperity of Russia. . . ."

"Nicolas," sighs Nadenka, and her nose begins to turn red, "Nicolas,
I see you are trying to avoid being open with me. . . . You seem
to wish to punish me by your silence. Your feeling is not returned,
and you wish to suffer in silence, in solitude . . . it is too
awful, Nicolas!" she cries impulsively seizing my hand, and I see
her nose beginning to swell. "What would you say if the girl you
love were to offer you her eternal friendship?"

I mutter something incoherent, for I really can't think what to say
to her.

In the first place, I'm not in love with any girl at all; in the
second, what could I possibly want her eternal friendship for? and,
thirdly, I have a violent temper.

Mashenka (or Varenka) hides her face in her hands and murmurs, as
though to herself:

"He will not speak; . . . it is clear that he will have me make the
sacrifice! I cannot love him, if my heart is still another's . . .
but . . . I will think of it. . . . Very good, I will think of it
. . . I will prove the strength of my soul, and perhaps, at the
cost of my own happiness, I will save this man from suffering!" . . .

I can make nothing out of all this. It seems some special sort of
puzzle.

We go farther into the wood and begin picking mushrooms. We are
perfectly silent the whole time. Nadenka's face shows signs of
inward struggle. I hear the bark of dogs; it reminds me of my
dissertation, and I sigh heavily. Between the trees I catch sight
o