holding the round piece of cardboard, carefully
set in a black frame with a mount of gold paper, not knowing what to do
with it. "Why, this is a man's whole life I'm holding in my hand," he
thought. He fully realised the sacrifice Markelov was making, but why,
why especially to him? Should he give back the portrait? No! that would
be the grossest insult. And after all, was not the face dear to him? Did
he not love her?

Nejdanov turned his gaze on Markelov not without some inward misgiving.
"Was he not looking at him, trying to guess his thoughts?" But Markelov
was standing in a corner biting his moustache.

The old servant came into the room carrying a candle. Markelov started.

"It's time we were in bed, Alexai," he said. "Morning is wiser than
evening. You shall have the horses tomorrow. Goodbye."

"And goodbye to you too, old fellow," he added turning to the servant
and slapping him on the shoulder. "Don't be angry with me!"

The old man was so astonished that he nearly dropped the candle, and
as he fixed his eyes on his master there was an expression in them of
something other, something more, than his habitual dejection.

Nejdanov retired to his room. He was feeling wretched. His head was
aching from the wine he had drunk, there were ringing noises in his
ears, and stars jumping about in front of his eyes, even though he shut
them. Golushkin, Vasia the clerk, Fomishka and Fimishka, were dancing
about before him, with Mariana's form in the distance, as if distrustful
and afraid to come near. Everything that he had said or done during the
day now seemed to him so utterly false, such useless nonsense, and the
thing that ought to be done, ought to be striven for, was nowhere to be
found; unattainable, under lock and key, in the depths of a bottomless
pit.

He was filled with a desire to go to Markelov and say to him, "Here,
take back your gift, take it back!"

"Ugh! What a miserable thing life is!" he exclaimed.

He departed early on the following morning. Markelov was already
standing at the door surrounded by peasants, but whether he had asked
them to come, or they had come of their own accord, Nejdanov did not
know.. Markelov said very little and parted with him coldly, but it
seemed to Nejdanov that he had something of importance to communicate to
him.

The old servant made his appearance with his usual melancholy
expression.

The carriage soon left the town behind it, and coming out into the open
c