And again she went out into the fields.  And wandering aimlessly about, she made up her mind that when she was married she would look after the house, doctor the peasants, teach in the school, that she would do all the things that other women of her circle did.  And this perpetual dissatisfaction with herself and every one else, this series of crude mistakes which stand up like a mountain before one whenever one looks back upon one’s past, she would accept as her real life to which she was fated, and she would expect nothing better. . . .  Of course there was nothing better!  Beautiful nature, dreams, music, told one story, but reality another.  Evidently truth and happiness existed somewhere outside real life. . . .  One must give up one’s own life and merge oneself into this luxuriant steppe, boundless and indifferent as eternity, with its flowers, its ancient barrows, and its distant horizon, and then it would be well with one. . . .

A month later Vera was living at the works.

EXPENSIVE LESSONS

FOR a cultivated man to be ignorant of foreign languages is a great inconvenience.  Vorotov became acutely conscious of it when, after taking his degree, he began upon a piece of research work.

“It’s awful,” he said, breathing hard (although he was only twenty-six he was fat, heavy, and suffered from shortness of breath).

“It’s awful!  Without languages I’m like a bird without wings.  I might just as well give up the work.”

And he made up his mind at all costs to overcome his innate laziness, and to learn French and German; and began to look out for a teacher.

One winter noon, as Vorotov was sitting in his study at work, the servant told him that a young lady was inquiring for him.

“Ask her in,” said Vorotov.

And a young lady elaborately dressed in the last fashion walked in.  She introduced herself as a teacher of French, Alice Osipovna Enquete, and told Vorotov that she had been sent to him by one of his friends.

“Delighted!  Please sit down,” said Vorotov, breathing hard and putting his hand over the collar of his nightshirt (to breathe more freely he always wore a nightshirt at work instead of a stiff linen one with collar).  “It was Pyotr Sergeitch sent you?  Yes, yes . . .  I asked him about it.  Delighted!”

As he talked to Mdlle.  Enquete he looked at her shyly and with curiosity.  She was a genuine Frenchwoman, very elegant and still quite young.  Judging from her pale, languid face, her short curly hair, and her unnaturally slim waist, she might have been eighteen; but looking at her broad, well-developed shoulders, the elegant lines of her back and her severe eyes, Vorotov thought that she was not less than three-and-twenty and might be twenty-five; but then again he began to think she was not more than eighteen.  Her face looked as cold and business-like as the face of a person who has come to speak about money.  She did not once smile or frown, and only once a look of perplexity flitted over her face when she learnt that she was not required to teach children, but a stout grown-up man.