of philosophy
can reconcile me to death, and I look on it simply as annihilation.
One wants to live."

"You love life, Gavrilitch?"

"Yes, I love it."

"Do you know, I can never understand myself about that. I'm always
in a gloomy mood or else indifferent. I'm timid, without self-confidence;
I have a cowardly conscience; I never can adapt myself to life, or
become its master. Some people talk nonsense or cheat, and even so
enjoy life, while I consciously do good, and feel nothing but
uneasiness or complete indifference. I explain all that, Gavrilitch,
by my being a slave, the grandson of a serf. Before we plebeians
fight our way into the true path, many of our sort will perish on
the way."

"That's all quite right, my dear fellow," said Yartsev, and he
sighed. "That only proves once again how rich and varied Russian
life is. Ah, how rich it is! Do you know, I feel more convinced
every day that we are on the eve of the greatest triumph, and I
should like to live to take part in it. Whether you like to believe
it or not, to my thinking a remarkable generation is growing up.
It gives me great enjoyment to teach the children, especially the
girls. They are wonderful children!"

Yartsev went to the piano and struck a chord.

"I'm a chemist, I think in chemical terms, and I shall die a chemist,"
he went on. "But I am greedy, and I am afraid of dying unsatisfied;
and chemistry is not enough for me, and I seize upon Russian history,
history of art, the science of teaching music. . . . Your wife asked
me in the summer to write an historical play, and now I'm longing
to write and write. I feel as though I could sit for three days and
three nights without moving, writing all the time. I am worn out
with ideas--my brain's crowded with them, and I feel as though
there were a pulse throbbing in my head. I don't in the least want
to become anything special, to create something great. I simply
want to live, to dream, to hope, to be in the midst of everything
. . . . Life is short, my dear fellow, and one must make the most of
everything."

After this friendly talk, which was not over till midnight, Laptev
took to coming to see Yartsev almost every day. He felt drawn to
him. As a rule he came towards evening, lay down on the sofa, and
waited patiently for Yartsev to come in, without feeling in the
least bored. When Yartsev came back from his work, he had dinner,
and sat down to work; but Laptev would ask him a questions a
co