poor devil, unloved, I am a jester,
an artist, a buffoon; but what unutterable ecstasy would I quaff in the
night wind under the stars, if I knew that I were loved!... Bersenyev,
are you happy?'

Bersenyev was silent as before, and walked quickly along the smooth
path. In front, between the trees, glimmered the lights of the little
village in which he was staying; it consisted of about a dozen small
villas for summer visitors. At the very beginning of the village, to the
right of the road, a little shop stood under two spreading birch-trees;
its windows were all closed already, but a wide patch of light fell
fan-shaped from the open door upon the trodden grass, and was cast
upwards on the trees, showing up sharply the whitish undersides of
the thick growing leaves. A girl, who looked like a maid-servant, was
standing in the shop with her back against the doorpost, bargaining
with the shopkeeper; from beneath the red kerchief which she had wrapped
round her head, and held with bare hand under her chin, could just be
seen her round cheek and slender throat. The young men stepped into the
patch of light; Shubin looked into the shop, stopped short, and cried
'Annushka!' The girl turned round quickly. They saw a nice-looking,
rather broad but fresh face, with merry brown eyes and black eyebrows.
'Annushka!' repeated Shubin. The girl saw him, looked scared and
shamefaced, and without finishing her purchases, she hurried down the
steps, slipped quickly past, and, hardly looking round, went along the
road to the left. The shopkeeper, a puffy man, unmoved by anything in
the world, like all country shopkeepers gasped and gaped after her,
while Shubin turned to Bersenyev with the words: 'That's... you see...
there's a family here I know... so at their house... you mustn't
imagine' ... and, without finishing his speech, he ran after the
retreating girl.

'You'd better at least wipe your tears away,' Bersenyev shouted after
him, and he could not refrain from laughing. But when he got home, his
face had not a mirthful expression; he laughed no longer. He had not for
a single instant believed what Shubin had told him, but the words he had
uttered had sunk deep into his soul.

'Pavel was making a fool of me,' he thought; '... but she will love one
day... whom will she love?'

In Bersenyev's room there was a piano, small, and by no means new, but
of a soft and sweet tone, though not perfectly in tune. Bersenyev sat
down to it, and