glasses, and wineglasses containing fluids of various colours.
Volodya took up from the table a newspaper, opened it and read the
title _Figaro_. . . There was a strong and pleasant scent about the
paper. Then he took a revolver from the table. . . .

"There, there! Don't take any notice of it." The music teacher was
comforting _maman_ in the next room. "He is young! Young people of
his age never restrain themselves. One must resign oneself to that."

"No, Yevgenya Andreyevna; he's too spoilt," said _maman_ in a
singsong voice. "He has no one in authority over him, and I am weak
and can do nothing. Oh, I am unhappy!"

Volodya put the muzzle of the revolver to his mouth, felt something
like a trigger or spring, and pressed it with his finger. . . .
Then felt something else projecting, and once more pressed it.
Taking the muzzle out of his mouth, he wiped it with the lapel of
his coat, looked at the lock. He had never in his life taken a
weapon in his hand before. . . .

"I believe one ought to raise this . . ." he reflected. "Yes, it
seems so."

Avgustin Mihalitch went into the "general room," and with a laugh
began telling them about something. Volodya put the muzzle in his
mouth again, pressed it with his teeth, and pressed something with
his fingers. There was a sound of a shot. . . . Something hit Volodya
in the back of his head with terrible violence, and he fell on the
table with his face downwards among the bottles and glasses. Then
he saw his father, as in Mentone, in a top-hat with a wide black