t in a country town--as you all know--and two
balls to provide for!

"Poor Peter Volhofskoi was desperately in love with Anfisa Alexeyevna.
I don't know whether there was anything--I mean I don't know whether
he could possibly have indulged in any hope. The poor fellow was beside
himself to get her a bouquet of camellias. Countess Sotski and Sophia
Bespalova, as everyone knew, were coming with white camellia bouquets.
Anfisa wished for red ones, for effect. Well, her husband Platon was
driven desperate to find some. And the day before the ball, Anfisa's
rival snapped up the only red camellias to be had in the place, from
under Platon's nose, and Platon--wretched man--was done for. Now if
Peter had only been able to step in at this moment with a red bouquet,
his little hopes might have made gigantic strides. A woman's gratitude
under such circumstances would have been boundless--but it was
practically an impossibility.

"The night before the ball I met Peter, looking radiant. 'What is it?'
I ask. 'I've found them, Eureka!" 'No! where, where?' 'At Ekshaisk (a
little town fifteen miles off) there's a rich old merchant, who keeps
a lot of canaries, has no children, and he and his wife are devoted to
flowers. He's got some camellias.' 'And what if he won't let you have
them?' 'I'll go on my knees and implore till I get them. I won't go
away.' 'When shall you start?' 'Tomorrow morning at five o'clock.' 'Go
on,' I said, 'and good luck to you.'

"I was glad for the poor fellow, and went home. But an idea got hold of
me somehow. I don't know how. It was nearly two in the morning. I rang
the bell and ordered the coachman to be waked up and sent to me. He
came. I gave him a tip of fifteen roubles, and told him to get the
carriage ready at once. In half an hour it was at the door. I got in and
off we went.

"By five I drew up at the Ekshaisky inn. I waited there till dawn, and
soon after six I was off, and at the old merchant Trepalaf's.

"'Camellias!' I said, 'father, save me, save me, let me have some
camellias!' He was a tall, grey old man--a terrible-looking old
gentleman. 'Not a bit of it,' he says. 'I won't.' Down I went on my
knees. 'Don't say so, don't--think what you're doing!' I cried; 'it's a
matter of life and death!' 'If that's the case, take them,' says he.
So up I get, and cut such a bouquet of red camellias! He had a whole
greenhouse full of them--lovely ones. The old fellow sighs. I pull out a
hundred roubles