The younger sister, Genya, was silent while they were talking of the Zemstvo.  She took no part in serious conversation.  She was not looked upon as quite grown up by her family, and, like a child, was always called by the nickname of Misuce, because that was what she had called her English governess when she was a child.  She was all the time looking at me with curiosity, and when I glanced at the photographs in the album, she explained to me:  “That’s uncle . . . that’s god-father,” moving her finger across the photograph.  As she did so she touched me with her shoulder like a child, and I had a close view of her delicate, undeveloped chest, her slender shoulders, her plait, and her thin little body tightly drawn in by her sash.

We played croquet and lawn tennis, we walked about the garden, drank tea, and then sat a long time over supper.  After the huge empty room with columns, I felt, as it were, at home in this small snug house where there were no oleographs on the walls and where the servants were spoken to with civility.  And everything seemed to me young and pure, thanks to the presence of Lida and Misuce, and there was an atmosphere of refinement over everything.  At supper Lida talked to Byelokurov again of the Zemstvo, of Balagin, and of school libraries.  She was an energetic, genuine girl, with convictions, and it was interesting to listen to her, though she talked a great deal and in a loud voice—­perhaps because she was accustomed to talking at school.  On the other hand, Pyotr Petrovitch, who had retained from his student days the habit of turning every conversation into an argument, was tedious, flat, long-winded, and unmistakably anxious to appear clever and advanced.  Gesticulating, he upset a sauce-boat with his sleeve, making a huge pool on the tablecloth, but no one except me appeared to notice it.

It was dark and still as we went home.

“Good breeding is shown, not by not upsetting the sauce, but by not noticing it when somebody else does,” said Byelokurov, with a sigh.  “Yes, a splendid, intellectual family!  I’ve dropped out of all decent society; it’s dreadful how I’ve dropped out of it!  It’s all through work, work, work!”

He talked of how hard one had to work if one wanted to be a model farmer.  And I thought what a heavy, sluggish fellow he was!  Whenever he talked of anything serious he articulated “Er-er with intense effort, and worked just as he talked—­slowly, always late and behind-hand.  I had little faith in his business capacity if only from the fact that when I gave him letters to post he carried them about in his pocket for weeks together.

“The hardest thing of all,” he muttered as he walked beside me—­ “the hardest thing of all is that, work as one may, one meets with no sympathy from any one.  No sympathy!”

II