I felt really wretched—­more from cold than from the words of my neighbour.  I groaned softly and ground my teeth.

Almost at the same moment I felt two little arms about me—­one of them touched my neck and the other lay upon my face—­and at the same time an anxious, gentle, friendly voice uttered the question: 

“What ails you?”

I was ready to believe that some one else was asking me this and not Natasha, who had just declared that all men were scoundrels, and expressed a wish for their destruction.  But she it was, and now she began speaking quickly, hurriedly.

“What ails you, eh?  Are you cold?  Are you frozen?  Ah, what a one you are, sitting there so silent like a little owl!  Why, you should have told me long ago that you were cold.  Come ... lie on the ground ... stretch yourself out and I will lie ... there!  How’s that?  Now put your arms round me?... tighter!  How’s that?  You shall be warm very soon now...  And then we’ll lie back to back...  The night will pass so quickly, see if it won’t.  I say ... have you too been drinking?...  Turned out of your place, eh?...  It doesn’t matter.”

And she comforted me...  She encouraged me.

May I be thrice accursed!  What a world of irony was in this single fact for me!  Just imagine!  Here was I, seriously occupied at this very time with the destiny of humanity, thinking of the re-organisation of the social system, of political revolutions, reading all sorts of devilishly-wise books whose abysmal profundity was certainly unfathomable by their very authors—­at this very time.  I say, I was trying with all my might to make of myself “a potent active social force.”  It even seemed to me that I had partially accomplished my object; anyhow, at this time, in my ideas about myself, I had got so far as to recognise that I had an exclusive right to exist, that I had the necessary greatness to deserve to live my life, and that I was fully competent to play a great historical part therein.  And a woman was now warming me with her body, a wretched, battered, hunted creature, who had no place and no value in life, and whom I had never thought of helping till she helped me herself, and whom I really would not have known how to help in any way even if the thought of it had occurred to me.

Ah!  I was ready to think that all this was happening to me in a dream—­in a disagreeable, an oppressive dream.

But, ugh! it was impossible for me to think that, for cold drops of rain were dripping down upon me, the woman was pressing close to me, her warm breath was fanning my face, and—­despite a slight odor of vodka—­it did me good.  The wind howled and raged, the rain smote upon the skiff, the waves splashed, and both of us, embracing each other convulsively, nevertheless shivered with cold.  All this was only too real, and I am certain that nobody ever dreamed such an oppressive and horrid dream as that reality.

But Natasha was talking all the time of something or other, talking kindly and sympathetically, as only women can talk.  Beneath the influence of her voice and kindly words a little fire began to burn up within me, and something inside my heart thawed in consequence.