his sleepiness, he began in his soft, cordial, almost imploring
voice, to talk about his really excellent ideas, I saw him not as
a farmer nor an agriculturist, but only as a worried and exhausted
man, and it was clear to me that he did not really care for farming,
but that all he wanted was for the day to be over and "Thank God
for it."

I liked to be with him, and I used to stay on his farm for two or
three days at a time. I liked his house, and his park, and his big
fruit garden, and the river--and his philosophy, which was clear,
though rather spiritless and rhetorical. I suppose I was fond of
him on his own account, though I can't say that for certain, as I
have not up to now succeeded in analysing my feelings at that time.
He was an intelligent, kind-hearted, genuine man, and not a bore,
but I remember that when he confided to me his most treasured secrets
and spoke of our relation to each other as friendship, it disturbed
me unpleasantly, and I was conscious of awkwardness. In his affection
for me there was something inappropriate, tiresome, and I should
have greatly preferred commonplace friendly relations.

The fact is that I was extremely attracted by his wife, Marya
Sergeyevna. I was not in love with her, but I was attracted by her
face, her eyes, her voice, her walk. I missed her when I did not
see her for a long time, and my imagination pictured no one at that
time so eagerly as that young, beautiful, elegant woman. I had no
definite designs in regard to her, and did not dream of anything
of the sort, yet for some reason, whenever we were left alone, I
remembered that her husband looked upon me as his friend, and I
felt awkward. When she played my favourite pieces on the piano or
told me something interesting, I listened with pleasure, and yet