Without a word I bowed my head in sign of assent, and parted from the
youthful Puritan.

All that evening I stayed at home, but I did not think of her; I kept
thinking and thinking of my dear, never-to-be-forgotten Pasinkov--the
last of the idealists; and emotions, mournful and tender, pierced with
sweet anguish into my soul, rousing echoes on the strings of a heart
not yet quite grown old.... Peace to your ashes, unpractical man,
simple-hearted idealist! and God grant to all practical men--to whom
you were always incomprehensible, and who, perhaps, will laugh even now
over you in the grave--God grant to them to experience even a hundredth
part of those pure delights in which, in spite of fate and men, your
poor and unambitious life was so rich!




ANDREI KOLOSOV


In a small, decently furnished room several young men were sitting
before the fire. The winter evening was only just beginning; the
samovar was boiling on the table, the conversation had hardly taken a
definite turn, but passed lightly from one subject to another. They
began discussing exceptional people, and in what way they differed from
ordinary people. Every one expounded his views to the best of his
abilities; they raised their voices and began to be noisy. A small,
pale man, after listening long to the disquisitions of his companions,
sipping tea and smoking a cigar the while, suddenly got up and
addressed us all (I was one of the disputants) in the following