could not give a definite shape, but which made me blush and feel
bewildered.... Towards Christmas came his son, Mihail Semyonitch.

Ah, I feel I cannot go on as I have begun; these memories are too
painful. Especially now I cannot tell my story calmly.... But what is
the use of concealment? I loved Michel, and he loved me.

How it came to pass--I am not going to describe that either. From the
very evening when he came into the drawing-room--I was at the piano,
playing a sonata of Weber's when he came in--handsome and slender, in a
velvet coat lined with sheepskin and high gaiters, just as he was,
straight from the frost outside, and shaking his snow-sprinkled, sable
cap, before he had greeted his father, glanced swiftly at me, and
wondered--I knew that from that evening I could never forget him--I
could never forget that good, young face. He began to speak... and his
voice went straight to my heart.... A manly and soft voice, and in every
sound such a true, honest nature!

Semyon Matveitch was delighted at his son's arrival, embraced him, but
at once asked, 'For a fortnight, eh? On leave, eh?' and sent me away.

I sat a long while at my window, and gazed at the lights flitting to and
fro in the rooms of the big house. I watched them, I listened to the
new, unfamiliar voices; I was attracted by the cheerful commotion, and
something new, unfamiliar, bright, flitted into my soul too.... The next
day before dinner I had my first conversation with him. He had come
across to see my stepfather with some message from Semyon Matveitch, and
he found me in our little sitting-room. I was getting up to go; he
detained me. He was very lively and unconstrained in all his movements
and words, but of superciliousness or arrogance, of the tone of