I had not given him the grouse or the jelly. When he had
satisfied his hunger he grew more lively, and began laughingly
telling some story about the Birshov household, but perceiving that
it was tiresome and that Zinaida Fyodorovna was not laughing, he
ceased. And there was a sudden feeling of dreariness. After he had
finished his dinner they sat in the drawing-room by the light of a
single lamp, and did not speak; it was painful to him to lie to
her, and she wanted to ask him something, but could not make up her
mind to. So passed half an hour. Gruzin glanced at his watch.

"I suppose it's time for me to go."

"No, stay a little. . . . We must have a talk."

Again they were silent. He sat down to the piano, struck one chord,
then began playing, and sang softly, "What does the coming day bring
me?" but as usual he got up suddenly and tossed his head.

"Play something," Zinaida Fyodorovna asked him.

"What shall I play?" he asked, shrugging his shoulders. "I have
forgotten everything. I've given it up long ago."

Looking at the ceiling as though trying to remember, he played two
pieces of Tchaikovsky with exquisite expression, with such warmth,
such insight! His face was just as usual--neither stupid nor
intelligent--and it seemed to me a perfect marvel that a man whom
I was accustomed to see in the midst of the most degrading, impure
surroundings, was capable of such purity, of rising to a feeling
so lofty, so far beyond my reach. Zinaida Fyodorovna's face glowed,
and she walked about the drawing-room in emotion.

"Wait a bit, Godmother; if I can remember it, I will play you
something," he said; "I heard it played on the violoncello."

Beginning timidly and picking out the notes, and then gathering
confidence, he played Saint-Saens's "Swan Song." He played it
through, and then played it a second time.

"It's nice, isn't it?" he said.

Moved by the music, Zinaida Fyodorovna stood beside him and asked:

"Tell me honestly, as a friend, what do you think about me?"

"What am I to say?" he said, raising his eyebrows. "I love you and
think nothing but good of you. But if you wish that I should speak
generally about the question that interests you," he went on, rubbing
his sleeve near the elbow and frowning, "then, my dear, you know
. . . . To follow freely the promptings of the heart does not always
give good people happiness. To feel free and at the same time to
be happy, it seems to me, one must not conceal f