eople; sleeping with the last, fast morning sleep, with open
mouths, with measured deep breathing, with a wilted pallor on their
faces, glistening from sleep; and through his head flashed the thought,
remote yet familiar since childhood, of how horrible sleeping people
are--far more horrible than dead people. Then he remembered about
Liubka. His subterranean, submerged, mysterious "I" rapidly, rapidly
whispered that he ought to drop into the room, and see if the girl were
all right, as well as make certain dispositions about tea in the
morning; but he made believe to himself that he was not at all even
thinking of this, and walked out into the street.

He walked, looking closely at everything that met his eyes, with an
idle and exact curiosity new to him; and every feature was drawn for
him in relief to such a degree that it seemed to him as though he were
feeling it with his fingers... There a peasant woman passed by. Over
her shoulder is a yoke staff, while at each end of the yoke is a large
pail of milk; her face is not young, with a net of fine wrinkles on the
temples and with two deep furrows from the nostrils to the corners of
the mouth; but her cheeks are rosy, and, probably, hard to the touch,
while her hazel eyes radiate a sprightly peasant smile. From the
movement of the heavy yoke and from the smooth walk her hips sway
rhythmically now to the left, now to the right, and in their wave-like
movements there is a coarse, sensual beauty.

"A mischievous dame, and she's lived through a checkered life,"
reflected Lichonin. And suddenly, unexpectedly to himself, he had a
feeling for, and irresistibly desired, this woman, altogether unknown
to him, homely and not young; in all probability dirty and vulgar, but
still resembling, as it seemed to him, a large Antonovka[17] apple
which had fallen to the ground-somewhat bored by a worm, and which had
lain just a wee bit too long, but which has still preserved its bright
colour and its fragrant, winey aroma.

[17] Somewhat like a Spitzbergen, but a trifle rounder.--Trans.

Getting ahead of her, an empty, black, funereal catafalque whirled by;
with two horses in harness, and two tied behind to the little rear
columns. The torch-bearers and grave-diggers, already drunk since
morning, with red, brutish faces, with rusty opera hats on their heads,
were sitting in a disorderly heap on their uniform liveries, on the
reticular horse-blankets, on the mourning lanterns; and w