d Christian. As the Brandenburger fears only God, I fear only
the ridiculous, and go."

A few minutes later the two friends were no longer in the
dwelling of Kranitski, who was sitting on his long chair again,
with drooping head, turning in his fingers the golden
cigarette-case. The street outside the window was lonely enough,
so the rumble of the departing carriage was audible. Kranitski
followed it with his ear, and when it was silent he regretted
passionately for a moment that he had not gone to where people
were singing and jesting, and eating, and drinking in bright
light, in waves of laughter. But, straightway, he felt an
invincible distaste for all that. He was so sad, crushed, sick.
Why had not those two young friends of his remained longer? He
had rendered them the most varied services frequently, he had
simply been at their service always, and had loved them;
especially Maryan, the dear child--and many others. How many
times had he nursed them, also, in sickness, consoled them,
rescued them, amused them. Now, when he cannot run after them, as
a dog after its mistress, his only comrades are darkness and
silence.

Darkness reigned in the little drawing-room, silence of the grave
in the whole dwelling. A clatter of overshoes broke this silence;
widow Clemens stood in the kitchen door. On her high forehead,
above her gray eyebrows, shone the glass eyes of her spectacles;
her left hand was covered with a man's sock which she was
darning. She stood in the door and looked at Kranitski, bent,
grown old, buried in gloomy silence, and shook her head. Then, as
quietly as ever was possible for her, she approached the
long-chair, sat on a stool which was near it, and asked:

"Well, why are you silent, and chewing sorrow alone? Talk with
me, you will feel easier."

As he gazed at her silently, she asked in a still lower tone:

"Well, the woman? Did she love you greatly? Was her love real?
How did you and she come to your senses?"

After a few minutes' hesitation, or thought, Kranitski, with his
elbows on the edge of the chair, and his forehead on his palms,
said:

"I can tell all, mother, for you are not of our society, and you
are noble, faithful; the only one on earth who remains with me."

Throughout the silent chamber was heard, as it were, the sound of
a trumpet: that sound was made by widow Clemens, who had drawn
from her pocket a coarse handkerchief and held it to her nose.
Her eyes were moist. Kranitski