the
virtue of patience, and, as he did so, look upon a person he did
not love as an object indispensable for his moral exercises; but I
have not yet fallen so low. If I want to exercise myself in patience,
I will buy dumb-bells or a frisky horse, but I'll leave human beings
alone."

Samoylenko asked for some white wine with ice. When they had drunk
a glass each, Laevsky suddenly asked:

"Tell me, please, what is the meaning of softening of the brain?"

"How can I explain it to you? . . . It's a disease in which the
brain becomes softer . . . as it were, dissolves."

"Is it curable?"

"Yes, if the disease is not neglected. Cold douches, blisters. . . .
Something internal, too."

"Oh! . . . Well, you see my position; I can't live with her: it is
more than I can do. While I'm with you I can be philosophical about
it and smile, but at home I lose heart completely; I am so utterly
miserable, that if I were told, for instance, that I should have
to live another month with her, I should blow out my brains. At the
same time, parting with her is out of the question. She has no
friends or relations; she cannot work, and neither she nor I have
any money. . . . What could become of her? To whom could she go?
There is nothing one can think of. . . . Come, tell me, what am I
to do?"

"H'm! . . ." growled Samoylenko, not knowing what to answer. "Does
she love you?"

"Yes, she loves me in so far as at her age and with her temperament
she wants a man. It would be as difficult for her to do without me
as to do without her powder or her curl-papers. I am for her an
indispensable, integral part of her boudoir."

Samoylenko was embarrassed.

"You are out of humour to-day, Vanya," he said. "You must have had
a bad night."

"Yes, I slept badly. . . . Altogether, I feel horribly out of sorts,
brother. My head feels empty; there's a sinking at my heart, a
weakness. . . . I must run away."

"Run where?"

"There, to the North. To the pines and the mushrooms, to people and
ideas. . . . I'd give half my life to bathe now in some little
stream in the province of Moscow or Tula; to feel chilly, you know,
and then to stroll for three hours even with the feeblest student,
and to talk and talk endlessly. . . . And the scent of the hay! Do
you remember it? And in the evening, when one walks in the garden,
sounds of the piano float from the house; one hears the train
passing. . . ."

Laevsky laughed with pleasure; tears came into his