g, and even play a forbidden
game, stukushka.... I won't ask you to join us, but perhaps Mariana will
be good enough to play you something on the piano. You like music, I
hope." And without waiting for an answer Sipiagin took up a pack of
cards. Mariana sat down at the piano and played, rather indifferently,
several of Mendelssohn's "Songs Without Words." Charmant! Charmant! quel
touche! Kollomietzev called out from the other end of the room, but
the exclamation was only due to politeness, and Nejdanov, in spite of
Sipiagin's remark, showed no passion for music.

Meanwhile Sipiagin, his wife, Kollomietzev, and Anna Zaharovna sat
down to cards. Kolia came to say goodnight, and, receiving his parents'
blessing and a large glass of milk instead of tea, went off to bed. His
father called after him to inform him that tomorrow he was to begin his
lessons with Alexai Dmitritch. A little later, seeing Nejdanov wandering
aimlessly about the room and turning over the photographic albums,
apparently without any interest, Sipiagin begged him not to be on
ceremony and retire if he wished, as he was probably tired after the
journey, and to remember that the ruling principle of their house was
liberty.

Nejdanov took advantage of this and bowing to all present went out. In
the doorway he knocked against Mariana, and, looking into her eyes, was
convinced a second time that they would be comrades, although she
showed no sign of pleasure at seeing him, but, on the contrary, frowned
heavily.

When he went in, his room was filled with a sweet freshness; the windows
had stood wide open all day. In the garden, opposite his window, a
nightingale was trilling out its sweet song; the evening sky became
covered with the warm glow of the rising moon behind the rounded tops of
the lime trees. Nejdanov lit a candle; a grey moth fluttered in from the
dark garden straight to the flame; she circled round it, whilst a gentle
breeze from without blew on them both, disturbing the yellow-bluish
flame of the candle.

"How strange!" Nejdanov thought, lying in bed; "they seem good,
liberal-minded people, even humane... but I feel so troubled in my
heart. This chamberlain. Kollomietzev.... However, morning is wiser than
evening... It's no good being sentimental."

At this moment the watchman knocked loudly with his stick and called
out, "I say there--"

"Take care," answered another doleful voice. "Fugh! Heavens! It's like
being in prison!" Nejdanov e