lked, hotly and genuinely; all three were excited, carried away.
To listen to them it would seem they had the future, fame, money,
in their hands. And it never occurred to either of them that time
was passing, that every day life was nearing its close, that they
had lived at other people's expense a great deal and nothing yet
was accomplished; that they were all bound by the inexorable law
by which of a hundred promising beginners only two or three rise
to any position and all the others draw blanks in the lottery,
perish playing the part of flesh for the cannon. . . . They were
gay and happy, and looked the future boldly in the face!

At one o'clock in the morning Kostyliov said good-bye, and smoothing
out his Shakespeare collar, went home. The landscape painter remained
to sleep at Yegor Savvitch's. Before going to bed, Yegor Savvitch
took a candle and made his way into the kitchen to get a drink of
water. In the dark, narrow passage Katya was sitting, on a box,
and, with her hands clasped on her knees, was looking upwards. A
blissful smile was straying on her pale, exhausted face, and her
eyes were beaming.

"Is that you? What are you thinking about?" Yegor Savvitch asked
her.

"I am thinking of how you'll be famous," she said in a half-whisper.
"I keep fancying how you'll become a famous man. . . . I overheard
all your talk. . . . I keep dreaming and dreaming. . . ."

Katya went off into a happy laugh, cried, and laid her hands
reverently on her idol's shoulders.

AN ARTIST'S STORY

I

IT was six or seven years ago when I was living in one of the
districts of the province of T----, on the estate of a young landowner
called Byelokurov, who used to get up very early, wear a peasant
tunic, drink beer in the evenings, and continually complain to me
that he never met with sympathy from any one. He lived in the lodge
in the garden, and I in the old seigniorial house, in a big room
with columns, where there was no furniture except a wide sofa on
which I used to sleep, and a table on which I used to lay out
patience. There was always, even in still weather, a droning noise
in the old Amos stoves, and in thunder-storms the whole house shook
and seemed to be cracking into pieces; and it was rather terrifying,
especially at night, when all the ten big windows were suddenly lit
up by lightning.

Condemned by destiny to perpetual idleness, I did absolutely nothing.
For hours together I gazed out of window at the sk