s of an actor's
life, promised me all sorts of things--and brought tears and
sorrow. . . . An actor's lot is a bitter one! I have lost youth,
sobriety, and the divine semblance. . . . I haven't a half-penny
to bless myself with, my shoes are down at heel, my breeches are
frayed and patched, and my face looks as if it had been gnawed by
dogs. . . . My head's full of freethinking and nonsense. . . . He
robbed me of my faith--my evil genius! It would have been something
if I had had talent, but as it is, I am ruined for nothing. . . .
It's cold, honoured friends. . . . Won't you have some? There is
enough for all. . . . B-r-r-r. . . . Let us drink to the rest of
his soul! Though I don't like him and though he's dead, he was the
only one I had in the world, the only one. It's the last time I
shall visit him. . . . The doctors say I shall soon die of drink,
so here I have come to say good-bye. One must forgive one's enemies."

We left the actor to converse with the dead Mushkin and went on.
It began drizzling a fine cold rain.

At the turning into the principal avenue strewn with gravel, we met
a funeral procession. Four bearers, wearing white calico sashes and
muddy high boots with leaves sticking on them, carried the brown
coffin. It was getting dark and they hastened, stumbling and shaking
their burden. . . .

"We've only been walking here for a couple of hours and that is the
third brought in already. . . . Shall we go home, friends?"

HUSH!

IVAN YEGORITCH KRASNYHIN, a fourth-rate journalist, returns home
late at night, grave and careworn, with a peculiar air of concentration.
He looks like a man expecting a police-raid or contemplating suicide.
Pacing about his rooms he halts abruptly, ruffles up his hair, and
says in the tone in which Laertes announces his intention of avenging
his sister:

"Shattered, soul-weary, a sick load of misery on the heart . . .
and then to sit down and write. And this is called life! How is it
nobody has described the agonizing discord in the soul of a writer
who has to amuse the crowd when his heart is heavy or to shed tears
at the word of command when his heart is light? I must be playful,
coldly unconcerned, witty, but what if I am weighed down with misery,
what if I am ill, or my child is dying or my wife in anguish!"

He says this, brandishing his fists and rolling his eyes. . . .
Then he goes into the bedroom and wakes his wife.

"Nadya," he says, "I am sitting down to wri