“Dmitri Osipitch, was wollen Sie?” he heard the voice of the German governess at his door a moment later.

“Ah, it’s you, Rosalia Karlovna!” Vaxin cried, delighted.  “Why do you trouble?  Gavrila might just . . .”

“Yourself Gavrila to the town sent.  And Glafira is somewhere all the evening gone. . . .  There’s nobody in the house. . . . Was wollen Sie doch?”

“Well, what I wanted . . . it’s . . . but, please, come in . . . you needn’t mind! . . . it’s dark.”

Rosalia Karlovna, a stout red-cheeked person, came in to the bedroom and stood in an expectant attitude at the door.

“Sit down, please . . . you see, it’s like this. . . .  What on earth am I to ask her for?” he wondered, stealing a glance at Uncle Klavdy’s portrait and feeling his soul gradually returning to tranquility.

“What I really wanted to ask you was . . .  Oh, when the man goes to town, don’t forget to tell him to . . . er . . . er . . . to get some cigarette-papers. . . .  But do, please sit down.”

“Cigarette-papers? good. . . . Was wollen Sie noch?”

“Ich will . . . there’s nothing I will, but. . .  But do sit down!  I shall think of something else in a minute.”

“It is shocking for a maiden in a man’s room to remain. . . .  Mr. Vaxin, you are, I see, a naughty man. . . .  I understand. . . .  To order cigarette-papers one does not a person wake. . . .  I understand you. . . .”

Rosalia Karlovna turned and went out of the room.

Somewhat reassured by his conversation with her and ashamed of his cowardice, Vaxin pulled the bedclothes over his head and shut his eyes.  For about ten minutes he felt fairly comfortable, then the same nonsense came creeping back into his mind. . . .  He swore to himself, felt for the matches, and without opening his eyes lighted a candle.

But even the light was no use.  To Vaxin’ s excited imagination it seemed as though someone were peeping round the corner and that his uncle’s eyes were moving.

“I’ll ring her up again . . . damn the woman!” he decided.  “I’ll tell her I’m unwell and ask for some drops.”

Vaxin rang.  There was no response.  He rang again, and as though answering his ring, he heard the church-bell toll the hour.

Overcome with terror, cold all over, he jumped out of bed, ran headlong out of his bedroom, and making the sign of the cross and cursing himself for his cowardice, he fled barefoot in his night-shirt to the governess’s room.

“Rosalia Karlovna!” he began in a shaking voice as he knocked at her door, “Rosalia Karlovna! . . .  Are you asleep? . . .  I feel . . . so . . . er . . . er . . . unwell. . . .  Drops! . . .”

There was no answer.  Silence reigned.

“I beg you . . . do you understand?  I beg you!  Why this squeamishness, I can’t understand . . . especially when a man . . . is ill . . .  How absurdly zierlich manierlich you are really . . . at your age. . . .”