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He at once shut himself up in his room, but his candle was burning long after midnight. Bersenyev had had time to read a page of Raumer, when a handful of fine gravel came rattling on his window-pane. He could not help starting; opening the window he saw Shubin as white as a sheet. 'What an irrepressible fellow you are, you night moth Bersenyev was beginning.
And he had plenty of work to do; he was studying Russian history and law, and political economy, translating the Bulgarian ballads and chronicles, collecting materials on the Eastern Question, and compiling a Russian grammar for the use of Bulgarians, and a Bulgarian grammar for the use of Russians. Bersenyev went up to him and began to discuss Feuerbach.
It seemed as if she understood everything in a single instant. A terrible pallor overspread her face, she went up to the screen, looked behind it, threw up her arms, and seemed turned to stone. A moment more and she would have flung herself on Insarov, but Bersenyev stopped her. 'What are you doing? he said in a trembling whisper, 'you might be the death of him! She was reeling.
'Pavel was making a fool of me, he thought; ... but she will love one day... whom will she love? In Bersenyev's room there was a piano, small, and by no means new, but of a soft and sweet tone, though not perfectly in tune. Bersenyev sat down to it, and began to strike some chords.
Why don't you dine with me, we would go halves over the cost. 'My means don't allow me to dine as you do, Insarov replied with a tranquil smile. There was something in that smile which forbade further insistence; Bersenyev did not add a word.
'Yes; I have a room to spare there upstairs. 'Thanks very much, Andrei Petrovitch; but I expect my means would not allow of it. 'How do you mean? 'My means would not allow of my living in a country house. It's impossible for me to keep two lodgings. 'But of course I' Bersenyev was beginning, but he stopped short. 'You would have no extra expense in that way, he went on.
'And Elena Nikolaevna's bust? inquired Bersenyev, 'is it getting on? 'No, my dear boy, it's not getting on. That face is enough to drive one to despair. The lines are pure, severe, correct; one would think there would be no difficulty in catching a likeness. It's not as easy as one would think though. It's like a treasure in a fairy-tale you can't get hold of it.
'You'd better at least wipe your tears away, Bersenyev shouted after him, and he could not refrain from laughing. But when he got home, his face had not a mirthful expression; he laughed no longer. He had not for a single instant believed what Shubin had told him, but the words he had uttered had sunk deep into his soul.
But, of course, his problem is easier, more intelligible: he has only to drive the Turks out, a mighty task. But all these qualities, thank God, don't please women. There's no fascination, no charm about them, as there is about you and me. 'Why do you bring me in? muttered Bersenyev.
It was already quite dark; the moon not yet at the full stood high in the sky, the milky way shone white, and the stars spotted the heavens, when Bersenyev, after taking leave of Anna Vassilyevna, Elena, and Zoya, went up to his friend's door. He found it locked. He knocked. 'Who is there? sounded Shubin's voice. 'I, answered Bersenyev. 'What do you want?
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