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He was in fact expecting a letter from his wife in answer to one he had just written. Not long before, Juliana Andreevna had written to their housekeeper and had asked her to send her winter cloak. She indicated the address, but said not a word about her husband. Leonti dispatched the cloak himself with a glowing letter in which he asked her to come, and spoke of his love and friendship.
He watched his aunt, Leonti and his wife, and Marfinka, or looked at the villages and fields lying in an enchanted sleep along the banks of the Volga. In this ocean of silence he caught notes which he could interpret in terms of music, and determined, in his abundant leisure, to pursue the subject. One day, after a lonely walk along the shore, he climbed the cliff, and passed Koslov's house.
Give me the catalogue, and I'll send it to the Director to-morrow." He put his hand out for the catalogue, of which Leonti kept a tight hold. "The Gymnasium shall never get one of them," he cried. "You don't know the Director, who cares for books just about as much as I do for perfume and pomade. They will be destroyed, torn, and worse handled than by Mark." "Then take them."
"To give away such treasures all in a minute. It would be comprehensible if you were selling them to responsible hands. I have never wanted so much to be rich. I would give five thousand. I cannot accept, I cannot. You are a spendthrift, or rather a blind, ignorant child " "Many thanks." "I didn't mean that," cried Leonti in confusion.
He would shortly leave the place, but before that he must visit "Barabbas," take his last pair of trousers, and warn him against making a wager. He went to Leonti to ask where Mark was to be found and discovered them both at breakfast. "You might develop into a decent individual," cried Mark to him, "if you were a little bolder."
"You will not end your romance either, neither the paper one nor the real one." said Mark. Raisky was about to answer, but thought better of it, and was quickly gone. "Why do you think he won't finish the novel?" asked Leonti. "He is only half a man," replied Mark with a scornful, bitter laugh. Raisky walked in the direction of home.
Think of all this as a malady, a terrible misfortune, and don't succumb to it. You are not an old man, and have a long life before you." "My life is over, unless she returns to me," he whispered. "What! You could, you would take her back!" "You, too, Boris, fail to understand me!" cried Leonti in despair, as he thrust his hands into his hair and strode up and down.
Are you satisfied to spend your life here, as you are now doing, with no desires for anything further?" Leonti looked at him in astonishment, with wide opened eyes. "You do nothing for your generation," Raisky went on, "but creep backwards like a crab. Why are you for ever talking of the Greeks and Romans?
"What is not to be found in books is not to be found in life either, or if there is anything it is of no importance," said Leonti firmly. "The whole programme of public and private life lies behind us; we can find an example for everything." "You are still the same old student, Leonti, always worrying about what has been experienced in the past, and never thinking of what you yourself are."
"Painter and musician," broke in Leonti, "and now he is writing a novel. Take care, brother, he may put you in too." Raisky signed to him to be silent. "Yes, I am an artist," Mark went on, "but of a different kind. Your Aunt will have acquainted you with my works." "She won't hear your name mentioned." "There you have it.
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