half asleep, and as I passed the green seats I recalled the words
in some play of Shakespeare's: "How sweetly falls the moonlight on
yon seat!"

There was a mound in the garden; I went up it and sat down. I was
tormented by a delicious feeling. I knew for certain that in a
moment I should hold in my arms, should press to my heart her
magnificent body, should kiss her golden eyebrows; and I wanted to
disbelieve it, to tantalize myself, and was sorry that she had cost
me so little trouble and had yielded so soon.

But suddenly I heard heavy footsteps. A man of medium height appeared
in the avenue, and I recognized him at once as Forty Martyrs. He
sat down on the bench and heaved a deep sigh, then crossed himself
three times and lay down. A minute later he got up and lay on the
other side. The gnats and the dampness of the night prevented his
sleeping.

"Oh, life!" he said. "Wretched, bitter life!"

Looking at his bent, wasted body and hearing his heavy, noisy sighs,
I thought of an unhappy, bitter life of which the confession had
been made to me that day, and I felt uneasy and frightened at my
blissful mood. I came down the knoll and went to the house.

"Life, as he thinks, is terrible," I thought, "so don't stand on
ceremony with it, bend it to your will, and until it crushes you,
snatch all you can wring from it."

Marya Sergeyevna was standing on the verandah. I put my arms round