far as I was able, to give an idea of his soul; described his last
meeting with me and his end.

'And a man like that,' I cried, as I finished my story--'has left us,
unnoticed, almost unappreciated! But that's no great loss. What is the
use of man's appreciation? What pains me, what wounds me, is that such
a man, with such a loving and devoted heart, is dead without having
once known the bliss of love returned, without having awakened interest
in one woman's heart worthy of him!... Such as I may well know nothing
of such happiness; we don't deserve it; but Pasinkov!... And yet
haven't I met thousands of men in my life, who could not compare with
him in any respect, who were loved? Must one believe that some faults
in a man--conceit, for instance, or frivolity--are essential to gain a
woman's devotion? Or does love fear perfection, the perfection possible
on earth, as something strange and terrible?'

Sophia Nikolaevna heard me to the end, without taking her stern,
searching eyes off me, without moving her lips; only her eyebrows
contracted from time to time.

'What makes you suppose,' she observed after a brief silence, 'that no
woman ever loved your friend?'

'Because I know it, know it for a fact.'

Sophia Nikolaevna seemed about to say something, but she stopped. She
seemed to be struggling with herself.

'You are mistaken,' she began at last; 'I know a woman who loved your
dead friend passionately; she loves him and remembers him to this day