the sweetest
of musicians To the door of death be led. Bid them sound no strain
of sadness--Muted string or muffled drum; Come to me with songs of
gladness--Whirling in the wild waltz come! I would hear--ere yet I hear
not--Trembling strings their cadence keep, Chords that quiver: so I also
Tremble as I fall asleep. Memories of life and laughter, Memories of
earthly glee, As I go to the hereafter All my lullaby shall be.

When he wrote the word "friend" he thought of Silin. He read the verses
over to himself in an undertone, and was surprised at what had come from
his pen. This scepticism, this indifference, this almost frivolous lack
of faith--how did it all agree with his principles? How did it agree
with what he had said at Markelov's? He thrust the copybook into the
table drawer and went back to bed. But he did not fall asleep until
dawn, when the larks had already begun to twitter and the sky was
turning paler.

On the following day, soon after he had finished his lesson and was
sitting in the billiard room, Madame Sipiagina entered, looked round
cautiously, and coming up to him with a smile, invited him to come into
her boudoir. She had on a white barege dress, very simple, but extremely
pretty. The embroidered frills of her sleeves came down as far as the
elbow, a broad ribbon encircled her waist, her hair fell in thick curls
about her neck. Everything about her was inviting and caressing, with
a sort of restrained, yet encouraging, caressiveness, everything; the
subdued lustre of her half-closed eyes, the soft indolence of her voice,
her gestures, her very walk. She conducted Nejdanov into her boudoir, a
cosy, charming room, filled with the scent of flowers and perfumes, the
pure freshness of feminine garments, the constant presence of a woman.
She made him sit down in an armchair, sat down beside him, and began
questioning him about his visit, about Markelov's way of living, with
much tact and sweetness. She showed a genuine interest in her brother,
although she had not once mentioned him in Nejdanov's presence. One
could gather from what she said that the impression Mariana had made
on her brother had not escaped her notice. She seemed a little
disappointed, but whether it was due to the fact that Mariana did not
reciprocate his feelings, or that his choice should have fallen upon
a girl so utterly unlike him, was not quite clear. But most of all she
evidently strove to soften Nejdanov, to arouse his confiden