ography!
If one talks to you of love, you will ask one at once, 'What was
the date of the Battle of Kalka?' Confound you, with your battles
and your capes in Siberia!"

"What are you cross about?"

"Why, it is vexatious!"

And vexed that he had not spoken to Masha, and that he had no one
to talk to of his love, he went to his study and lay down upon the
sofa. It was dark and still in the study. Lying gazing into the
darkness, Nikitin for some reason began thinking how in two or three
years he would go to Petersburg, how Masha would see him off at the
station and would cry; in Petersburg he would get a long letter
from her in which she would entreat him to come home as quickly as
possible. And he would write to her. . . . He would begin his letter
like that: "My dear little rat!"

"Yes, my dear little rat!" he said, and he laughed.

He was lying in an uncomfortable position. He put his arms under
his head and put his left leg over the back of the sofa. He felt
more comfortable. Meanwhile a pale light was more and more perceptible
at the windows, sleepy cocks crowed in the yard. Nikitin went on
thinking how he would come back from Petersburg, how Masha would
meet him at the station, and with a shriek of delight would fling
herself on his neck; or, better still, he would cheat her and come
home by stealth late at night: the cook would open the door, then
he would go on tiptoe to the bedroom, undress noiselessly, and jump
into bed! And she would wake up and be overjoyed.

It was beginning to get quite light. By now there were no windows,
no study. On the steps of the brewery by which they had ridden that
day Masha was sitting, saying something. Then she took Nikitin by
the arm and went with him to the suburban garden. There he saw the
oaks and, the crows' nests like hats. One of the nests rocked; out
of it peeped Shebaldin, shouting loudly: "You have not read Lessing!"

Nikitin shuddered all over and opened his eyes. Ippolit Ippolititch
was standing before the sofa, and throwing back his head, was putting
on his cravat.

"Get up; it's time for school," he said. "You shouldn't sleep in
your clothes; it spoils your clothes. You should sleep in your bed,
undressed."

And as usual he began slowly and emphatically saying what everybody
knew.

Nikitin's first lesson was on Russian language in the second class.
When at nine o'clock punctually he went into the classroom, he saw
written on the blackboard two large let