. . . At one minute
such joy would swoop down upon her that she longed to fly away to
the clouds and there pray to God, at another moment she would
remember that in August she would have to part from her home and
leave her father; or, goodness knows why, the idea would occur to
her that she was worthless--insignificant and unworthy of a great
man like Kovrin--and she would go to her room, lock herself in,
and cry bitterly for several hours. When there were visitors, she
would suddenly fancy that Kovrin looked extraordinarily handsome,
and that all the women were in love with him and envying her, and
her soul was filled with pride and rapture, as though she had
vanquished the whole world; but he had only to smile politely at
any young lady for her to be trembling with jealousy, to retreat
to her room--and tears again. These new sensations mastered her
completely; she helped her father mechanically, without noticing
peaches, caterpillars or labourers, or how rapidly the time was
passing.

It was almost the same with Yegor Semyonitch. He worked from morning
till night, was always in a hurry, was irritable, and flew into
rages, but all of this was in a sort of spellbound dream. It seemed
as though there were two men in him: one was the real Yegor Semyonitch,
who was moved to indignation, and clutched his head in despair when
he heard of some irregularity from Ivan Karlovitch the gardener;
and another--not the real one--who seemed as though he were
half drunk, would interrupt a business conversation at half a word,
touch the gardener on the shoulder, and begin muttering:

"Say what you like, there is a great deal in blood. His mother was
a wonderful woman, most high-minded and intelligent. It was a
pleasure to look at her good, candid, pure face; it was like the
face of an angel. She drew splendidly, wrote verses, spoke five
foreign languages, sang. . . . Poor thing! she died of consumption.
The Kingdom of Heaven be hers."

The unreal Yegor Semyonitch sighed, and after a pause went on:

"When he was a boy and growing up in my house, he had the same
angelic face, good and candid. The way he looks and talks and moves
is as soft and elegant as his mother's. And his intellect! We were
always struck with his intelligence. To be sure, it's not for nothing
he's a Master of Arts! It's not for nothing! And wait a bit, Ivan
Karlovitch, what will he be in ten years' time? He will be far above
us!"

But at this point the real Ye