rms; then
she dropped them, fell on her knees beside her bed, pressed her face
into the pillow, and, in spite of all her efforts not to yield to the
passion overwhelming her, she burst into strange, uncomprehending,
burning tears.

VII

The next day at twelve o'clock, Bersenyev set off in a return coach
to Moscow. He had to get some money from the post-office, to buy some
books, and he wanted to seize the opportunity to see Insarov and have
some conversation with him. The idea had occurred to Bersenyev, in the
course of his last conversation with Shubin, to invite Insarov to stay
with him at his country lodgings. But it was some time before he found
him out; from his former lodging he had moved to another, which it was
not easy to discover; it was in the court at the back of a squalid stone
house, built in the Petersburg style, between Arbaty Road and Povarsky
Street. In vain Bersenyev wandered from one dirty staircase to another,
in vain he called first to a doorkeeper, then to a passer-by. Porters
even in Petersburg try to avoid the eyes of visitors, and in Moscow much
more so; no one answered Bersenyev's call; only an inquisitive tailor,
in his shirt sleeves, with a skein of grey thread on his shoulder,
thrust out from a high casement window a dirty, dull, unshorn face, with
a blackened eye; and a black and hornless goat, clambering up on to a
dung heap, turned round, bleated plaintively, and went on chewing the
cud faster than before. A woman in an old cloak, and shoes trodden
down at heel, took pity at last on Bersenyev and pointed out Insarov's
lodging to him. Bersenyev found him at home. He had taken a room with
the very tailor who had stared down so indifferently at the perplexity
of a wandering stranger; a large, almost empty room, with dark green
walls, three square windows, a tiny bedstead in one corner, a little
leather sofa in another, and a huge cage hung up to the very ceiling;
in this cage there had once lived a nightingale. Insarov came to meet
Bersenyev directly he crossed the threshold, but he did not exclaim,
'Ah, it's you!' or 'Good Heavens, what happy chance has brought you?' He
did not even say, 'How do you do?' but simply pressed his hand and led
him up to the solitary chair in the room.

'Sit down,' he said, and he seated himself on the edge of the table.

'I am, as you see, still in disorder,' added Insarov, pointing to a pile
of papers and books on the floor, 'I haven't got settled