Mlle. Ilovaisky was suddenly ashamed of her heat and, turning away from Liharev, walked to the window.

“No, no, you can’t go there,” she said, moving her fingers rapidly over the pane.

Not only in her heart, but even in her spine she felt that behind her stood an infinitely unhappy man, lost and outcast, while he, as though he were unaware of his unhappiness, as though he had not shed tears in the night, was looking at her with a kindly smile.  Better he should go on weeping!  She walked up and down the room several times in agitation, then stopped short in a corner and sank into thought.  Liharev was saying something, but she did not hear him.  Turning her back on him she took out of her purse a money note, stood for a long time crumpling it in her hand, and looking round at Liharev, blushed and put it in her pocket.

The coachman’s voice was heard through the door.  With a stern, concentrated face she began putting on her things in silence.  Liharev wrapped her up, chatting gaily, but every word he said lay on her heart like a weight.  It is not cheering to hear the unhappy or the dying jest.

When the transformation of a live person into a shapeless bundle had been completed, Mlle. Ilovaisky looked for the last time round the “travellers’ room,” stood a moment in silence, and slowly walked out.  Liharev went to see her off. . . .

Outside, God alone knows why, the winter was raging still.  Whole clouds of big soft snowflakes were whirling restlessly over the earth, unable to find a resting-place.  The horses, the sledge, the trees, a bull tied to a post, all were white and seemed soft and fluffy.

“Well, God help you,” muttered Liharev, tucking her into the sledge.  “Don’t remember evil against me . . . .”

She was silent.  When the sledge started, and had to go round a huge snowdrift, she looked back at Liharev with an expression as though she wanted to say something to him.  He ran up to her, but she did not say a word to him, she only looked at him through her long eyelashes with little specks of snow on them.

Whether his finely intuitive soul were really able to read that look, or whether his imagination deceived him, it suddenly began to seem to him that with another touch or two that girl would have forgiven him his failures, his age, his desolate position, and would have followed him without question or reasonings.  He stood a long while as though rooted to the spot, gazing at the tracks left by the sledge runners.  The snowflakes greedily settled on his hair, his beard, his shoulders. . . .  Soon the track of the runners had vanished, and he himself covered with snow, began to look like a white rock, but still his eyes kept seeking something in the clouds of snow.

ROTHSCHILD’S FIDDLE