of it, as though everything
had conspired together to end as quickly as possible that sweet
delirium, that madness. Left alone on the platform, and gazing into
the dark distance, Gurov listened to the chirrup of the grasshoppers
and the hum of the telegraph wires, feeling as though he had only
just waked up. And he thought, musing, that there had been another
episode or adventure in his life, and it, too, was at an end, and
nothing was left of it but a memory. . . . He was moved, sad, and
conscious of a slight remorse. This young woman whom he would never
meet again had not been happy with him; he was genuinely warm and
affectionate with her, but yet in his manner, his tone, and his
caresses there had been a shade of light irony, the coarse condescension
of a happy man who was, besides, almost twice her age. All the time
she had called him kind, exceptional, lofty; obviously he had seemed
to her different from what he really was, so he had unintentionally
deceived her. . . .

Here at the station was already a scent of autumn; it was a cold
evening.

"It's time for me to go north," thought Gurov as he left the platform.
"High time!"

III

At home in Moscow everything was in its winter routine; the stoves
were heated, and in the morning it was still dark when the children
were having breakfast and getting ready for school, and the nurse
would light the lamp for a short time. The frosts had begun already.
When the first snow has fallen, on the first day of sledge-driving
it is pleasant to see the white earth, the white roofs, to draw
soft, delicious breath, and the season brings back the days of one's
youth. The old limes and birches, white with hoar-frost, have a
good-natured expression; they are nearer to one's heart than cypresses
and palms, and near them one doesn't want to be thinking of the sea
and the mountains.

Gurov was Moscow born; he arrived in Moscow on a fine frosty day,
and when he put on his fur coat and warm gloves, and walked along
Petrovka, and when on Saturday evening he heard the ringing of the
bells, his recent trip and the places he had seen lost all charm
for him. Little by little he became absorbed in Moscow life, greedily
read three newspapers a day, and declared he did not read the Moscow
papers on principle! He already felt a longing to go to restaurants,
clubs, dinner-parties, anniversary celebrations, and he felt flattered
at entertaining distinguished lawyers and artists, and at playi