And when in the morning I saw quivering patches of sunlight and the shadows of the lime trees on my bed, what had happened yesterday rose vividly in my memory.  Life seemed to me rich, varied, full of charm.  Humming, I dressed quickly and went out into the garden....

And what happened afterwards?  Why—­nothing.  In the winter when we lived in town Pyotr Sergeyitch came to see us from time to time.  Country acquaintances are charming only in the country and in summer; in the town and in winter they lose their charm.  When you pour out tea for them in the town it seems as though they are wearing other people’s coats, and as though they stirred their tea too long.  In the town, too, Pyotr Sergeyitch spoke sometimes of love, but the effect was not at all the same as in the country.  In the town we were more vividly conscious of the wall that stood between us.  I had rank and wealth, while he was poor, and he was not even a nobleman, but only the son of a deacon and a deputy public prosecutor; we both of us—­I through my youth and he for some unknown reason—­thought of that wall as very high and thick, and when he was with us in the town he would criticize aristocratic society with a forced smile, and maintain a sullen silence when there was anyone else in the drawing-room.  There is no wall that cannot be broken through, but the heroes of the modern romance, so far as I know them, are too timid, spiritless, lazy, and oversensitive, and are too ready to resign themselves to the thought that they are doomed to failure, that personal life has disappointed them; instead of struggling they merely criticize, calling the world vulgar and forgetting that their criticism passes little by little into vulgarity.

I was loved, happiness was not far away, and seemed to be almost touching me; I went on living in careless ease without trying to understand myself, not knowing what I expected or what I wanted from life, and time went on and on....  People passed by me with their love, bright days and warm nights flashed by, the nightingales sang, the hay smelt fragrant, and all this, sweet and overwhelming in remembrance, passed with me as with everyone rapidly, leaving no trace, was not prized, and vanished like mist....  Where is it all?

My father is dead, I have grown older; everything that delighted me, caressed me, gave me hope—­the patter of the rain, the rolling of the thunder, thoughts of happiness, talk of love—­all that has become nothing but a memory, and I see before me a flat desert distance; on the plain not one living soul, and out there on the horizon it is dark and terrible....

A ring at the bell....  It is Pyotr Sergeyitch.  When in the winter I see the trees and remember how green they were for me in the summer I whisper: 

“Oh, my darlings!”

And when I see people with whom I spent my spring-time, I feel sorrowful and warm and whisper the same thing.

He has long ago by my father’s good offices been transferred to town.  He looks a little older, a little fallen away.  He has long given up declaring his love, has left off talking nonsense, dislikes his official work, is ill in some way and disillusioned; he has given up trying to get anything out of life, and takes no interest in living.  Now he has sat down by the hearth and looks in silence at the fire....