“Good heavens!” Ognev had thought in wonder; “can it be that there’s always air like this to breathe here, or is this scent only to-day, in honour of my coming?”

Expecting a cold business-like reception, he went in to Kuznetsov’s diffidently, looking up from under his eyebrows and shyly pulling his beard.  At first Kuznetsov wrinkled up his brows and could not understand what use the Zemstvo could be to the young man and his statistics; but when the latter explained at length what was material for statistics and how such material was collected, Kuznetsov brightened, smiled, and with childish curiosity began looking at his notebooks.  On the evening of the same day Ivan Alexeyitch was already sitting at supper with the Kuznetsovs, was rapidly becoming exhilarated by their strong home-made wine, and looking at the calm faces and lazy movements of his new acquaintances, felt all over that sweet, drowsy indolence which makes one want to sleep and stretch and smile; while his new acquaintances looked at him good-naturedly and asked him whether his father and mother were living, how much he earned a month, how often he went to the theatre. . . .

Ognev recalled his expeditions about the neighbourhood, the picnics, the fishing parties, the visit of the whole party to the convent to see the Mother Superior Marfa, who had given each of the visitors a bead purse; he recalled the hot, endless typically Russian arguments in which the opponents, spluttering and banging the table with their fists, misunderstand and interrupt one another, unconsciously contradict themselves at every phrase, continually change the subject, and after arguing for two or three hours, laugh and say:  “Goodness knows what we have been arguing about!  Beginning with one thing and going on to another!”

“And do you remember how the doctor and you and I rode to Shestovo?” said Ivan Alexeyitch to Vera as they reached the copse.  “It was there that the crazy saint met us:  I gave him a five-kopeck piece, and he crossed himself three times and flung it into the rye.  Good heavens!  I am carrying away such a mass of memories that if I could gather them together into a whole it would make a good nugget of gold!  I don’t understand why clever, perceptive people crowd into Petersburg and Moscow and don’t come here.  Is there more truth and freedom in the Nevsky and in the big damp houses than here?  Really, the idea of artists, scientific men, and journalists all living crowded together in furnished rooms has always seemed to me a mistake.”

Twenty paces from the copse the road was crossed by a small narrow bridge with posts at the corners, which had always served as a resting-place for the Kuznetsovs and their guests on their evening walks.  From there those who liked could mimic the forest echo, and one could see the road vanish in the dark woodland track.

“Well, here is the bridge!” said Ognev.  “Here you must turn back.”

Vera stopped and drew a breath.