It was a five miles' drive home. Dmitri Petrovitch, glad that he
had at last opened his heart to his friend, kept his arm round my
waist all the way; and speaking now, not with bitterness and not
with apprehension, but quite cheerfully, told me that if everything
had been satisfactory in his home life, he should have returned to
Petersburg and taken up scientific work there. The movement which
had driven so many gifted young men into the country was, he said,
a deplorable movement. We had plenty of rye and wheat in Russia,
but absolutely no cultured people. The strong and gifted among the
young ought to take up science, art, and politics; to act otherwise
meant being wasteful. He generalized with pleasure and expressed
regret that he would be parting from me early next morning, as he
had to go to a sale of timber.

And I felt awkward and depressed, and it seemed to me that I was
deceiving the man. And at the same time it was pleasant to me. I
gazed at the immense crimson moon which was rising, and pictured
the tall, graceful, fair woman, with her pale face, always well-dressed
and fragrant with some special scent, rather like musk, and for
some reason it pleased me to think she did not love her husband.

On reaching home, we sat down to supper. Marya Sergeyevna, laughing,
regaled us with our purchases, and I thought that she certainly had
wonderful hair and that her smile was unlike any other woman's. I
watched her, and I wanted to detect in every look and movement that
she did not love her husband, and I fancied that I did see it.

Dmitri Petrovitch was soon struggling with sleep. After supper he
sat with us for ten minutes and said:

"Do as you please, my friends, but I have to be up at three o'clock
tomorrow morning. Excuse my leaving you."

He kissed his wife tenderly, pressed my hand with warmth and
gratitude, and made me promise that I would certainly come the
following week. That he might not oversleep next morning, he went
to spend the night in the lodge.

Marya Sergeyevna always sat up late, in the Petersburg fashion, and
for some reason on this occasion I was glad of it.

"And now," I began when we were left alone, "and now you'll be kind
and play me something."

I felt no desire for music, but I did not know how to begin the
conversation. She sat down to the piano and played, I don't remember
what. I sat down beside her and looked at her plump white hands and
tried to read something on her cold,