zing. . . . And I did not dream of making fun of you.
Should I dare to make fun of you, if we should take to making fun,
then there would be no respect for persons, there would be. . . ."

"Be off!" yelled the general, turning suddenly purple, and shaking
all over.

"What?" asked Tchervyakov, in a whisper turning numb with horror.

"Be off!" repeated the general, stamping.

Something seemed to give way in Tchervyakov's stomach. Seeing nothing
and hearing nothing he reeled to the door, went out into the street,
and went staggering along. . . . Reaching home mechanically, without
taking off his uniform, he lay down on the sofa and died.

A PINK STOCKING

A DULL, rainy day. The sky is completely covered with heavy clouds,
and there is no prospect of the rain ceasing. Outside sleet, puddles,
and drenched jackdaws. Indoors it is half dark, and so cold that
one wants the stove heated.

Pavel Petrovitch Somov is pacing up and down his study, grumbling
at the weather. The tears of rain on the windows and the darkness
of the room make him depressed. He is insufferably bored and has
nothing to do. . . . The newspapers have not been brought yet;
shooting is out of the question, and it is not nearly dinner-time
. . . .

Somov is not alone in his study. Madame Somov, a pretty little lady
in a light blouse and pink stockings, is sitting at his writing
table. She is eagerly scribbling a letter. Every time he passes her
as he strides up and down, Ivan Petrovitch looks over her shoulder
at what she is writing. He sees big sprawling letters, thin and
narrow, with all sorts of tails and flourishes. There are numbers
of blots, smears, and finger-marks. Madame Somov does not like ruled
paper, and every line runs downhill with horrid wriggles as it
reaches the margin. . . .

"Lidotchka, who is it you are writing such a lot to?" Somov inquires,
seeing that his wife is just beginning to scribble the sixth page.

"To sister Varya."

"Hm . . . it's a long letter! I'm so bored--let me read it!"

"Here, you may read it, but there's nothing interesting in it."

Somov takes the written pages and, still pacing up and down, begins
reading. Lidotchka leans her elbows on the back of her chair and
watches the expression of his face. . . . After the first page his
face lengthens and an expression of something almost like panic
comes into it. . . . At the third page Somov frowns and scratches
the back of his head. At the fourth he pauses