as he always used to be called at
school. And, what do you suppose? He did not at first recognise him,
and stood still in surprise. Before him stood an irreproachably dressed
young man with wonderfully well-kept whiskers of a reddish hue, with
pince-nez, with patent-leather boots, and the freshest of gloves, in a
full overcoat from Sharmer's, and with a portfolio under his arm. Lembke
was cordial to his old schoolfellow, gave him his address, and begged
him to come and see him some evening. It appeared, too, that he was by
now not "Lembka" but "Von Lembke." The schoolfellow came to see him,
however, simply from malice perhaps. On the staircase, which was covered
with red felt and was rather ugly and by no means smart, he was met and
questioned by the house-porter. A bell rang loudly upstairs. But instead
of the wealth which the visitor expected, he found Lembke in a
very little side-room, which had a dark and dilapidated appearance,
partitioned into two by a large dark green curtain, and furnished with
very old though comfortable furniture, with dark green blinds on
high narrow windows. Von Lembke lodged in the house of a very distant
relation, a general who was his patron. He met his visitor cordially,
was serious and exquisitely polite. They talked of literature, too, but
kept within the bounds of decorum. A manservant in a white tie brought
them some weak tea and little dry, round biscuits. The schoolfellow,
from spite, asked for some seltzer water. It was given him, but after
some delays, and Lembke was somewhat embarrassed at having to summon the
footman a second time and give him orders. But of himself he asked his
visitor whether he would like some supper, and was obviously relieved
when he refused and went away. In short, Lembke was making his career,
and was living in dependence on his fellow-countryman, the influential
general.

He was at that time sighing for the general's fifth daughter, and it
seemed to him that his feeling was reciprocated. But Amalia was none the
less married in due time to an elderly factory-owner, a German, and
an old comrade of the general's. Andrey Antonovitch did not shed many
tears, but made a paper theatre. The curtain drew up, the actors came
in, and gesticulated with their arms. There were spectators in the
boxes, the orchestra moved their bows across their fiddles by machinery,
the conductor waved his baton, and in the stalls officers and dandies
clapped their hands. It was all