you
understand?"

"Very well, captain. But as to-day is December 31, allow me to offer
you my best wishes for a happy New Year."

"Thank you, my friend," replies Markov in a voice which has suddenly
become soft.

During the night the captain begins to rave. The old man whom he has
just condemned to death appears and speaks to him. He says that his
name is Cain, and confesses the murder of his brother. Cursed by
God, he wanders disconsolately through the centuries, followed by
the groaning of his victim.

Just before dawn the sergeant awakens Markov.

"What about those three men?" asks the captain eagerly.

"Shot, captain!"

"And the old man? The old man?... what have you done with him?"

"We shot him along with the others, captain."

The next day Captain Markov asks for his discharge, having decided
to leave the army for good.

This story, which is one of the most powerful in Russian literature,
would have been enough to bring the young writer renown, even if he
had never written anything else. But his work, which is already
imposing in amount, abounds in pages of great merit, and especially
in well-constructed, brief, tragic stories.

Under this class should be mentioned "Humble People," a short story,
the scene of which is laid in the extreme north. It is the story of
a close friendship between a nurse in a dispensary and a
school-teacher.

Snowed in by a terrible winter--a winter of seven months--these two
friends find in their daily meetings the only pleasure that can make
their enforced solitude easier for them. However, in spite of their
mutual friendship, they often find their lot hard to endure. And
they continually quarrel, only to become reconciled almost
immediately. But now an unexpected event comes to break the monotony
of their existence. They are invited to a dance, given by the priest
of the neighboring village, and there they fall in love with two
charming young girls, who, they are happy to find, are not
indifferent to them. Once at home, they bestow lavish praises on
their new friends. With the touching devotion of simple and starved
hearts they speak about them as if the young girls already were
theirs.

"Mine has eyes of velvet," says the one.

"And mine has hair of pure gold," replies the other.

Gradually, however, their recollections grow weaker, and fade, just
as flowers do. Their sad life would have begun again if the spring
had not come, and with it brought deliverance.