My wife went to the couch and lay down.

“Ideas,” she brought out, listlessly and reluctantly, “ideas, ideals, objects of life, principles....you always used to use those words when you wanted to insult or humiliate some one, or say something unpleasant.  Yes, that’s your way:  if with your views and such an attitude to people you are allowed to take part in anything, you would destroy it from the first day.  It’s time you understand that.”

She sighed and paused.

“It’s coarseness of character, Pavel Andreitch,” she said.  “You are well-bred and educated, but what a...  Scythian you are in reality!  That’s because you lead a cramped life full of hatred, see no one, and read nothing but your engineering books.  And, you know, there are good people, good books!  Yes... but I am exhausted and it wearies me to talk.  I ought to be in bed.”

“So I am going away, Natalie,” I said.

“Yes... yes.... Merci....”

I stood still for a little while, then went upstairs.  An hour later—­it was half-past one—­I went downstairs again with a candle in my hand to speak to my wife.  I didn’t know what I was going to say to her, but I felt that I must say some thing very important and necessary.  She was not in her study, the door leading to her bedroom was closed.

“Natalie, are you asleep?” I asked softly.

There was no answer.

I stood near the door, sighed, and went into the drawing-room.  There I sat down on the sofa, put out the candle, and remained sitting in the dark till the dawn.

VI

I went to the station at ten o’clock in the morning.  There was no frost, but snow was falling in big wet flakes and an unpleasant damp wind was blowing.

We passed a pond and then a birch copse, and then began going uphill along the road which I could see from my window.  I turned round to take a last look at my house, but I could see nothing for the snow.  Soon afterwards dark huts came into sight ahead of us as in a fog.  It was Pestrovo.

“If I ever go out of my mind, Pestrovo will be the cause of it,” I thought.  “It persecutes me.”

We came out into the village street.  All the roofs were intact, not one of them had been pulled to pieces; so my bailiff had told a lie.  A boy was pulling along a little girl and a baby in a sledge.  Another boy of three, with his head wrapped up like a peasant woman’s and with huge mufflers on his hands, was trying to catch the flying snowflakes on his tongue, and laughing.  Then a wagon loaded with fagots came toward us and a peasant walking beside it, and there was no telling whether his beard was white or whether it was covered with snow.  He recognized my coachman, smiled at him and said something, and mechanically took off his hat to me.  The dogs ran out of the yards and looked inquisitively at my horses.  Everything was quiet, ordinary,