Everything began swimming before Kistunov’s eyes.  He breathed out all the air in his lungs in a prolonged sigh and sank helpless on a chair.

“How much do you want?” he asked in a weak voice.

“Twenty-four roubles and thirty-six kopecks.”

Kistunov took his pocket-book out of his pocket, extracted a twenty-five rouble note and gave it to Madame Shtchukin.

“Take it and . . . and go away!”

Madame Shtchukin wrapped the money up in her handkerchief, put it away, and pursing up her face into a sweet, mincing, even coquettish smile, asked: 

“Your Excellency, and would it be possible for my husband to get a post again?”

“I am going . . .  I am ill . . .” said Kistunov in a weary voice.  “I have dreadful palpitations.”

When he had driven home Alexey Nikolaitch sent Nikita for some laurel drops, and, after taking twenty drops each, all the clerks set to work, while Madame Shtchukin stayed another two hours in the vestibule, talking to the porter and waiting for Kistunov to return. . . .

She came again next day.

AN ENIGMATIC NATURE

ON the red velvet seat of a first-class railway carriage a pretty lady sits half reclining.  An expensive fluffy fan trembles in her tightly closed fingers, a pince-nez keeps dropping off her pretty little nose, the brooch heaves and falls on her bosom, like a boat on the ocean.  She is greatly agitated.

On the seat opposite sits the Provincial Secretary of Special Commissions, a budding young author, who from time to time publishes long stories of high life, or “Novelli” as he calls them, in the leading paper of the province.  He is gazing into her face, gazing intently, with the eyes of a connoisseur.  He is watching, studying, catching every shade of this exceptional, enigmatic nature.  He understands it, he fathoms it.  Her soul, her whole psychology lies open before him.

“Oh, I understand, I understand you to your inmost depths!” says the Secretary of Special Commissions, kissing her hand near the bracelet.  “Your sensitive, responsive soul is seeking to escape from the maze of ——­ Yes, the struggle is terrific, titanic.  But do not lose heart, you will be triumphant!  Yes!”

“Write about me, Voldemar!” says the pretty lady, with a mournful smile.  “My life has been so full, so varied, so chequered.  Above all, I am unhappy.  I am a suffering soul in some page of Dostoevsky.  Reveal my soul to the world, Voldemar.  Reveal that hapless soul.  You are a psychologist.  We have not been in the train an hour together, and you have already fathomed my heart.”

“Tell me!  I beseech you, tell me!”