“You must own you are not quite at home in your new character,” she said to me one day.  “Your workman’s dress does not feel natural to you; you are awkward in it.  Tell me, isn’t that because you haven’t a firm conviction, and are not satisfied?  The very kind of work you have chosen—­your painting—­surely it does not satisfy you, does it?” she asked, laughing.  “I know paint makes things look nicer and last longer, but those things belong to rich people who live in towns, and after all they are luxuries.  Besides, you have often said yourself that everybody ought to get his bread by the work of his own hands, yet you get money and not bread.  Why shouldn’t you keep to the literal sense of your words?  You ought to be getting bread, that is, you ought to be ploughing, sowing, reaping, threshing, or doing something which has a direct connection with agriculture, for instance, looking after cows, digging, building huts of logs. . . .”

She opened a pretty cupboard that stood near her writing-table, and said: 

“I am saying all this to you because I want to let you into my secret. Voila! This is my agricultural library.  Here I have fields, kitchen garden and orchard, and cattleyard and beehives.  I read them greedily, and have already learnt all the theory to the tiniest detail.  My dream, my darling wish, is to go to our Dubetchnya as soon as March is here.  It’s marvellous there, exquisite, isn’t it?  The first year I shall have a look round and get into things, and the year after I shall begin to work properly myself, putting my back into it as they say.  My father has promised to give me Dubetchnya and I shall do exactly what I like with it.”

Flushed, excited to tears, and laughing, she dreamed aloud how she would live at Dubetchnya, and what an interesting life it would be!  I envied her.  March was near, the days were growing longer and longer, and on bright sunny days water dripped from the roofs at midday, and there was a fragrance of spring; I, too, longed for the country.

And when she said that she should move to Dubetchnya, I realized vividly that I should remain in the town alone, and I felt that I envied her with her cupboard of books and her agriculture.  I knew nothing of work on the land, and did not like it, and I should have liked to have told her that work on the land was slavish toil, but I remembered that something similar had been said more than once by my father, and I held my tongue.

Lent began.  Viktor Ivanitch, whose existence I had begun to forget, arrived from Petersburg.  He arrived unexpectedly, without even a telegram to say he was coming.  When I went in, as usual in the evening, he was walking about the drawing-room, telling some story with his face freshly washed and shaven, looking ten years younger:  his daughter was kneeling on the floor, taking out of his trunks boxes, bottles, and books, and handing them to Pavel the footman.  I involuntarily drew back a step when I saw the engineer, but he held out both hands to me and said, smiling, showing his strong white teeth that looked like a sledge-driver’s: