f a solitary bachelor existence.

"He spoke with enthusiasm of his future wife, of the sweets of
ordinary family life, and was so eloquent, so sincere in his ecstasies
that by the time we had reached his door, I was in despair.

"'What are you doing to me, you horrible man?' I said, gasping.
'You have ruined me! Why did you make me write that cursed letter?
I love her, I love her!'

"And I protested my love. I was horrified at my conduct which now
seemed to me wild and senseless. It is impossible, gentlemen, to
imagine a more violent emotion than I experienced at that moment.
Oh, what I went through, what I suffered! If some kind person had
thrust a revolver into my hand at that moment, I should have put a
bullet through my brains with pleasure.

"'Come, come . . .' said the lawyer, slapping me on the shoulder,
and he laughed. 'Give over crying. The letter won't reach your
fiancee. It was not you who wrote the address but I, and I muddled
it so they won't be able to make it out at the post-office. It will
be a lesson to you not to argue about what you don't understand.'

"Now, gentlemen, I leave it to the next to speak."

The fifth juryman settled himself more comfortably, and had just
opened his mouth to begin his story when we heard the clock strike
on Spassky Tower.

"Twelve . . ." one of the jurymen counted. "And into which class,
gentlemen, would you put the emotions that are being experienced
now by the man we are trying? He, that murderer, is spending the
night in a convict cell here in the court, sitting or lying down
and of course not sleeping, and throughout the whole sleepless night
listening to that chime. What is he thinking of? What visions are
haunting him?"

And the jurymen all suddenly forgot about strong impressions; what
their companion who had once written a letter to his Natasha had
suffered seemed unimportant, even not amusing; and no one said
anything more; they began quietly and in silence lying down to
sleep.

DRUNK

A MANUFACTURER called Frolov, a handsome dark man with a round
beard, and a soft, velvety expression in his eyes, and Almer, his
lawyer, an elderly man with a big rough head, were drinking in one
of the public rooms of a restaurant on the outskirts of the town.
They had both come to the restaurant straight from a ball and so
were wearing dress coats and white ties. Except them and the waiters
at the door there was not a soul in the room; by Frolov's orders
no one el