to steady myself against the ferment that was raging in my
breast, something happened. Valentina Ignatievna was then aged about
twenty-five, and very beautiful--marvellous, in fact! Also, she was an
orphan, since her father had been killed by the Chechentzes, and her
mother had died of smallpox at Samarkand. As regards her kinship with
the General, she stood to him in the relation of niece by marriage.
Golden-locked, and as skin-fair as enamelled porcelain, she had eyes
like emeralds, and a figure wholly symmetrical, though as slim as a
wafer. For bedroom she had a little corner apartment situated next to
the kitchen (the General possessed his own house, of course), while, in
addition, they allotted her a bright little boudoir in which she
disposed her curios and knickknacks, from cut-glass bottles and goblets
to a copper pipe and a glass ring mounted on copper. This ring, when
turned, used to emit showers of glittering sparks, though she was in no
way afraid of them, but would sing as she made them dance:

"Not for me the spring will dawn!
Not for me the Bug will spate!
Not for me love's smile will wait!
Not for me, ah, not for me!

"Constantly would she warble this.

"Also, once she flashed an appeal at me with her eyes, and said:

"'Alexei, please never touch anything in my room, for my things are too
fragile.'

"Sure enough, in HER presence ANYTHING might have fallen from my hands!

"Meanwhile her song about 'Not for me' used to make me feel sorry for
her. 'Not for you?' I used to say to myself. 'Ought not EVERYTHING to
be for you?' And this reflection would cause my heart to yearn and
stretch towards her. Next, I bought a guitar, an instrument which I
could not play, and took it for instruction to Lukianov, the clerk of
the Divisional Staff, which had its headquarters in our street. In
passing I may say that Lukianov was a little Jewish convert with dark
hair, sallow features, and gimlet-sharp eyes, but beyond all things a
fellow with brains, and one who could play the guitar unforgettably.

"Once he said: 'In life all things are attainable--nothing need we lose
for want of trying. For whence does everything come? From the plainest
of mankind. A man may not be BORN in the rank of a general, but at
least he may attain to that position. Also, the beginning and ending of
all things is woman. All that she requires for her captivation is
poetry. Hence, let me write you some verses, that you may tender th