That cheerless autumn some kind soul, evidently wishing to alleviate my existence, sent me from time to time tea and lemons, or biscuits, or roast game.  Karpovna told me that they were always brought by a soldier, and from whom they came she did not know; and the soldier used to enquire whether I was well, and whether I dined every day, and whether I had warm clothing.  When the frosts began I was presented in the same way in my absence with a soft knitted scarf brought by the soldier.  There was a faint elusive smell of scent about it, and I guessed who my good fairy was.  The scarf smelt of lilies-of-the-valley, the favourite scent of Anyuta Blagovo.

Towards winter there was more work and it was more cheerful.  Radish recovered, and we worked together in the cemetery church, where we were putting the ground-work on the ikon-stand before gilding.  It was a clean, quiet job, and, as our fellows used to say, profitable.  One could get through a lot of work in a day, and the time passed quickly, imperceptibly.  There was no swearing, no laughter, no loud talk.  The place itself compelled one to quietness and decent behaviour, and disposed one to quiet, serious thoughts.  Absorbed in our work we stood or sat motionless like statues; there was a deathly silence in keeping with the cemetery, so that if a tool fell, or a flame spluttered in the lamp, the noise of such sounds rang out abrupt and resonant, and made us look round.  After a long silence we would hear a buzzing like the swarming of bees:  it was the requiem of a baby being chanted slowly in subdued voices in the porch; or an artist, painting a dove with stars round it on a cupola would begin softly whistling, and recollecting himself with a start would at once relapse into silence; or Radish, answering his thoughts, would say with a sigh:  “Anything is possible!  Anything is possible!” or a slow disconsolate bell would begin ringing over our heads, and the painters would observe that it must be for the funeral of some wealthy person. . . .

My days I spent in this stillness in the twilight of the church, and in the long evenings I played billiards or went to the theatre in the gallery wearing the new trousers I had bought out of my own earnings.  Concerts and performances had already begun at the Azhogins’; Radish used to paint the scenes alone now.  He used to tell me the plot of the plays and describe the tableaux vivants which he witnessed.  I listened to him with envy.  I felt greatly drawn to the rehearsals, but I could not bring myself to go to the Azhogins’.

A week before Christmas Dr. Blagovo arrived.  And again we argued and played billiards in the evenings.  When he played he used to take off his coat and unbutton his shirt over his chest, and for some reason tried altogether to assume the air of a desperate rake.  He did not drink much, but made a great uproar about it, and had a special faculty for getting through twenty roubles in an evening at such a poor cheap tavern as the Volga.