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A wry smile disfigured his pale face and he put an arm around my waist.

'You're a true friend,' he continued in hushed tones. 'I trust you, I profoundly respect you. Heaven sends us friendship so that we can open our hearts and find relief from the mysteries which oppress us. Let me exploit your afection, then, and tell you the full truth. My fanily life, which you think so enchanting ... it's my chief nisfortune, it's what scares me most. I made a strange and foolish marriage. I was madly in love with Mary before we married, I may say, and I courted her for nvo years. Five times I proposed, but she refused me because she didn't care for me at all. On the sixth occasion I went down on my knees, aflame with passion, and besought her hand like one begging for mercy. She said yes.

' "I don't love you," she told me, "but I will be faithful to you."

'I \vas delighted to accept this condition. It made sense to me at the time, but now, by God, it makes sense no more. "I don't love you, but I'll be faithful to you" . . . what does it mean? It's all so muzzy and obscure. I love her every bit as much now as I did on our wedding day, while she seems to care as little for me as ever and she must be glad when I'm away from home. \Vhether she likes me or not I don't know for sure, I just don't know, but we live under the same roof, don't we? We speak intimately to each other, we sleep together, we have children, we hold our property in common. But what on earth does it signify? What's it all in aid of? Do you understand anything, old man? Oh, it's sheer torture, this! Understanding nothing about our relationship, I hate her or myself by turns, or the two of us together, and my head's in, a complete whirl. I torment myself, I grow duller and duller, while she . . . she looks prettier every day, as if to spite me, quite fantastic she's becoming. She has such marvellous hair, I think, and her smile's unlike any other woman's. I love her, yet I know my love is hopeless. A hopeless love for a woman who has already borhe you two children . . . not easy to make sense of, that, is it? Pretty frightening, eh? More frightening than your ghosts, wouldn't you say?'

He was in a mood to go on ta^mg for some time, but luckily the coachman's voice rang out: our carriage had arrived. As we got in Forty Martyrs doffed his hat and helped us both into our seats, his expression suggesting that he had long been awaiting the opportunity to touch our precious bodies.

'May I come and see you, Mr. Silin?' he asked, blinking furiously, his head cocked to one side. 'Have pity on me, for God's sake, seeing as how I'm dying of hunger.'

'Oh, all right then/ said Silin. 'Come along for three days and we'll see how it goes.'

Forty Martyrs was delighted. 'Very good, sir, I'll be along tonight, sir.'

We were about four miles from the house. Content to have un- burdened himself to his great friend at last, Silin kept his arm round my waist all the way. He had put his griefs and fears behind him, and cheerfully explained that he would have gone back to St. Petersburg and taken up academic work had his family situation been favourable. The mood which had banished so many gifted yoWlg people to the countryside . . . it was a deplorable trend, said he. Russia had rye and wheat in plenty, but no civilized people whatever. Talented and healthy young folk should take up science, the arts, politics. Any other course was irrational. He enjoyed such theorizing and said how sorry he was that we must part early next morning as he had to go to a timber sale.

Now, I felt Wlcomfortable and depressed. I had the impression of deceiving the man, yet that feeling was also agreeable. Looking at the huge, crimson moon, I pictured that tall, shapely blonde with her pale face, always so well-dressed and smelling of some special musky scent, and I was somehow happy to think that she didn't love her husband.

We reached home and sat do^ to supper. Mary laughingly regaled us with our purchases. She really did have marvellous hair, I found, and a smile unlike any other woman's. Watching her, I sought signs in her every movemcnt and glance of her not loving her husband, and seemed to find them.

Silin was soon struggling with sleep.

'You two can do what you like,' he said, having sat with us for ten minutes after supper. 'But I have to be up at three o'clock in the morrung, you must excuse me.'

He kissed his wife tenderly, and he pressed my hand firmly and grate- fully, making me promise to come next week without fail. To a void oversleeping on the morrow he went to spend the night in a hut in the groWlds.

Mary always sat up late, in St. Petersburg style, and now I was rather glad of this.

'Well, now,' I began, when we were alone together. 'Well now, do please play me something.'

I didn't want music, but I didn't know what to start talking about. She sat down at the piano and played—what, I don't remember— while I sat near by, looking at her plump white arms and trying to read her cold, impassive expression. Then she smiled at some thought and looked at me.

'You miss your friend,' she said.

I laughed.

'For purposes offriendship one visit a month would be adequate, but I come here more than once a week.'

This said, I stood up and paced the room excitedly. She stood up too and moved away to the fireplace.

'What do you mean by that?' she asked, raising her large, clear eyes to me.

I made no answer.

'What you say is untrue,' she went on, after some thought. 'You only come hcre for Dmitry's sake. All right, I'm very glad you do, one doesn't often see such friendship these days.'

'Well, well,' thought I, and not knowing what to say I asked whether she would like a stroll in the garden. 'No.'

I went out on to the terrace. My scalp was tingling and I felt a chill of excitement. I was certain now that our conversation would be utterly trivial and that we shouldn't manage to say anything special to each other. And yet the thing I did not even dare to dream of. .. it was defmitely bound to come about this night: this night, most definitely, or never.

'What marvellous weather,' I said in a loud voice.

'I just don't care about it either way,' I heard in answer.

I went into the drawing-room. Mary was still standing by the fireplace with her hands behind her back, thinking and looking away.

'And why don't you care about it either way?' I asked.

'Because I'm so bored. You are only bored when your friend isn't here, but I'm bored all the time. Anyway, that's ofno interest to you.'

I sat down at the piano and struck a few chords, waiting to hear what she would say next.

'Pray don't stand on ceremony,' she said, looking at me angrily, as if ready to weep with vexation. 'If you're tired go to bed. Don't think that being Dmitry's friend means having to be bored by his wife. I don't require any sacrifices, so please go.'

I didn't go of course. She went out on to the terrace while I stayed in the drawing-room and spent five minutes leafmg through the music. Then I went out too. We stood side by side in the curtains' shadow above steps fiooded with moonlight. Black tree shadows lay across flower-beds and on the paths' yellow sand.

'I shall have to go away tomorrow too,' I said.

'But of course, you can't stay here if my husband's away,' she said mockingly. 'I can just think how miserable you would be if you fell in love with me. Just wait, one day I'll suddenly throw myself at you just

to see your look of outrage as you run away from me. It should be an interesting sight.'

Her words and her pale face were angry, but her eyes were full of the tenderest, the most passionate love. I was now looking at chis lovely creature as my own property and I noticed for the first time that she had golden eyebrows: exquisite eyebrows the like of which I had never seen before. The thought that I might take her in my arms, fondle her, touch that wonderful hair . . . it suddenly seemed so fantastic that I laughed and shut my eyes.