and considered it his duty to scoff at all idealism. He had an
affectionate heart, but held himself aloof from everybody, was
easily exasperated, but never bore ill-will. He was furious with
his father for having made him take up "aesthetics," openly
interested himself in politics and social questions, professed
the most extreme views (which meant more to him than mere words),
but secretly took a delight in art, poetry, beauty in all its
manifestations, and in his inspired moments wrote verses. It is
true that he carefully hid the copy-book in which they were
written, and none of his St. Petersburg friends, with the
exception of Paklin, and he only by his peculiar intuitiveness,
suspected its existence. Nothing hurt or offended Nejdanov more
than the smallest allusion to his poetry, which he regarded as an
unpardonable weakness in himself. His Swiss schoolmaster had
taught him a great many things, and he was not afraid of hard
work. He applied himself readily and zealously, but did not work
consecutively. All his friends loved him. They were attracted by
his natural sense of justice, his kindness, and his pure-
mindedness, but Nejdanov was not born under a lucky star, and did
not find life an easy matter. He was fully conscious of this fact
and felt utterly lonely in spite of the untiring devotion of his
friends.

He stood meditating at the window. Sad, oppressive thoughts rose
up in his mind one after another about the prospective journey,
the new and unexpected change that was coming into his life. He
had no regrets at the thought of leaving St. Petersburg, as he
would leave nothing behind that was especially dear to him, and
he knew that he would be back in the autumn; but he was pervaded
by the spirit of indecision, and an involuntary melancholy came