a purple
vase with a broken handle.

"An exquisite picture," said Andrey Andreitch, and he gave a
respectful sigh. "It's the work of the artist Shismatchevsky."

Then there was the drawing-room with the round table, and a sofa
and easy chairs upholstered in bright blue. Above the sofa was a
big photograph of Father Andrey wearing a priest's velvet cap and
decorations. Then they went into the dining-room in which there was
a sideboard; then into the bedroom; here in the half dusk stood two
bedsteads side by side, and it looked as though the bedroom had
been decorated with the idea that it would always be very agreeable
there and could not possibly be anything else. Andrey Andreitch led
Nadya about the rooms, all the while keeping his arm round her
waist; and she felt weak and conscience-stricken. She hated all the
rooms, the beds, the easy chairs; she was nauseated by the naked
lady. It was clear to her now that she had ceased to love Andrey
Andreitch or perhaps had never loved him at all; but how to say
this and to whom to say it and with what object she did not understand,
and could not understand, though she was thinking about it all day
and all night. . . . He held her round the waist, talked so
affectionately, so modestly, was so happy, walking about this house
of his; while she saw nothing in it all but vulgarity, stupid,
naive, unbearable vulgarity, and his arm round her waist felt as
hard and cold as an iron hoop. And every minute she was on the point
of running away, bursting into sobs, throwing herself out of a
window. Andrey Andreitch led her into the bathroom and here he
touched a tap fixed in the wall and at once water flowed.

"What do you say to that?" he said, and laughed. "I had a tank
holding two hundred gallons put in the loft, and so now we shall
have water."

They walked across the yard and went out into the street and took
a cab. Thick clouds of dust were blowing, and it seemed as though
it were just going to rain.

"You are not cold?" said Andrey Andreitch, screwing up his eyes at
the dust.

She did not answer.

"Yesterday, you remember, Sasha blamed me for doing nothing," he
said, after a brief silence. "Well, he is right, absolutely right!
I do nothing and can do nothing. My precious, why is it? Why is it
that the very thought that I may some day fix a cockade on my cap
and go into the government service is so hateful to me? Why do I
feel so uncomfortable when I see a lawyer or a Lati