an being who was devoted to
him; and, besides, would it not have been a grateful and worthy
task to give happiness, peace, and a home to that proud, clever,
overworked creature? Was it for him, he asked himself, to lay claim
to youth and beauty, to that happiness which could not be, and
which, as though in punishment or mockery, had kept him for the
last three months in a state of gloom and oppression. The honeymoon
was long over, and he still, absurd to say, did not know what sort
of person his wife was. To her school friends and her father she
wrote long letters of five sheets, and was never at a loss for
something to say to them, but to him she never spoke except about
the weather or to tell him that dinner was ready, or that it was
supper-time. When at night she said her lengthy prayers and then
kissed her crosses and ikons, he thought, watching her with hatred,
"Here she's praying. What's she praying about? What about?" In his
thoughts he showered insults on himself and her, telling himself
that when he got into bed and took her into his arms, he was taking
what he had paid for; but it was horrible. If only it had been a
healthy, reckless, sinful woman; but here he had youth, piety,
meekness, the pure eyes of innocence. . . . While they were engaged
her piety had touched him; now the conventional definiteness of her
views and convictions seemed to him a barrier, behind which the
real truth could not be seen. Already everything in his married
life was agonising. When his wife, sitting beside him in the theatre,
sighed or laughed spontaneously, it was bitter to him that she
enjoyed herself alone and would not share her delight with him. And
it was remarkable that she was friendly with all his friends, and
they all knew what she was like already, while he knew nothing about
her, and only moped and was dumbly jealous.

When he got home Laptev put on his dressing-gown and slippers, and
sat down in his study to read a novel. His wife was not at home.
But within half an hour there was a ring at the hall door, and he
heard the muffled footsteps of Pyotr running to open it. It was
Yulia. She walked into the study in her fur coat, her cheeks rosy
with the frost,

"There's a great fire in Pryesnya," she said breathlessly. "There's
a tremendous glow. I'm going to see it with Konstantin Ivanovitch."

"Well, do, dear!"

The sight of her health, her freshness, and the childish horror in
her eyes, reassured Laptev. He read f