a and myself departed in a post-chaise for the country.
Turning over various Moscow recollections in my head as we drove along,
I suddenly recalled Sonetchka Valakhin--though not until evening, and
when we had already covered five stages of the road. "It is a strange
thing," I thought, "that I should be in love, and yet have forgotten all
about it. I must start and think about her," and straightway I proceeded
to do so, but only in the way that one thinks when travelling--that is
to say, disconnectedly, though vividly. Thus I brought myself to such a
condition that, for the first two days after our arrival home, I somehow
considered it incumbent upon me always to appear sad and moody in the
presence of the household, and especially before Katenka, whom I looked
upon as a great connoisseur in matters of this kind, and to whom I threw
out a hint of the condition in which my heart was situated. Yet, for
all my attempts at dissimulation and assiduous adoption of such signs
of love sickness as I had occasionally observed in other people, I
only succeeded for two days (and that at intervals, and mostly towards
evening) in reminding myself of the fact that I was in love, and
finally, when I had settled down into the new rut of country life and
pursuits, I forgot about my affection for Sonetchka altogether.

We arrived at Petrovskoe in the night time, and I was then so soundly
asleep that I saw nothing of the house as we approached it, nor yet of
the avenue of birch trees, nor yet of the household--all of whom had
long ago betaken themselves to bed and to slumber. Only old hunchbacked
Foka--bare-footed, clad in some sort of a woman's wadded nightdress, and
carrying a candlestick--opened the door to us. As soon as he saw who
we were, he trembled all over with joy, kissed us on the shoulders,
hurriedly put on his felt slippers, and started to dress himself
properly. I passed in a semi-waking condition through the porch and up
the steps, but in the hall the lock of the door, the bars and bolts,
the crooked boards of the flooring, the chest, the ancient candelabrum
(splashed all over with grease as of old), the shadows thrown by the
crooked, chill, recently-lighted stump of candle, the perennially dusty,
unopened window behind which I remembered sorrel to have grown--all was
so familiar, so full of memories, so intimate of aspect, so, as it were,
knit together by a single idea, that I suddenly became conscious of a
tenderness for th