face eternal torments. . . . But half a minute passed and all that
vanished. Volodya saw only a fat, plain face, distorted by an
expression of repulsion, and he himself suddenly felt a loathing
for what had happened.

"I must go away, though," said Nyuta, looking at Volodya with
disgust. "What a wretched, ugly . . . fie, ugly duckling!"

How unseemly her long hair, her loose wrap, her steps, her voice
seemed to Volodya now! . . .

"'Ugly duckling' . . ." he thought after she had gone away. "I
really am ugly . . . everything is ugly."

The sun was rising, the birds were singing loudly; he could hear
the gardener walking in the garden and the creaking of his wheelbarrow
. . . and soon afterwards he heard the lowing of the cows and the
sounds of the shepherd's pipe. The sunlight and the sounds told him
that somewhere in this world there is a pure, refined, poetical
life. But where was it? Volodya had never heard a word of it from
his _maman_ or any of the people round about him.

When the footman came to wake him for the morning train, he pretended
to be asleep. . . .

"Bother it! Damn it all!" he thought.

He got up between ten and eleven.

Combing his hair before the looking-glass, and looking at his ugly