it and his purchase remained afterwards in a box in the coach-house till it disappeared altogether.  Or going into a print shop, he would slowly and attentively examine the engravings and the bronzes, making various remarks on them, and would buy a common frame or a box of wretched prints.  At home he had pictures always of large dimensions but of inferior quality; the best among them were badly hung.  It had happened to him more than once to pay large sums for things which had afterwards turned out to be forgeries of the grossest kind.  And it was remarkable that, though as a rule timid in the affairs of life, he was exceedingly bold and self-confident at a picture exhibition.  Why?

Yulia Sergeyevna looked at the pictures as her husband did, through her open fist or an opera-glass, and was surprised that the people in the pictures were like live people, and the trees like real trees.  But she did not understand art, and it seemed to her that many pictures in the exhibition were alike, and she imagined that the whole object in painting was that the figures and objects should stand out as though they were real, when you looked at the picture through your open fist.

“That forest is Shiskin’s,” her husband explained to her.  “He always paints the same thing. . . .  But notice snow’s never such a lilac colour as that. . . .  And that boy’s left arm is shorter than his right.”

When they were all tired and Laptev had gone to look for Kostya, that they might go home, Yulia stopped indifferently before a small landscape.  In the foreground was a stream, over it a little wooden bridge; on the further side a path that disappeared in the dark grass; a field on the right; a copse; near it a camp fire—­no doubt of watchers by night; and in the distance there was a glow of the evening sunset.

Yulia imagined walking herself along the little bridge, and then along the little path further and further, while all round was stillness, the drowsy landrails calling and the fire flickering in the distance.  And for some reason she suddenly began to feel that she had seen those very clouds that stretched across the red part of the sky, and that copse, and that field before, many times before.  She felt lonely, and longed to walk on and on along the path; and there, in the glow of sunset was the calm reflection of something unearthly, eternal.

“How finely that’s painted!” she said, surprised that the picture had suddenly become intelligible to her.

“Look, Alyosha!  Do you see how peaceful it is?”

She began trying to explain why she liked the landscape so much, but neither Kostya nor her husband understood her.  She kept looking at the picture with a mournful smile, and the fact that the others saw nothing special in it troubled her.  Then she began walking through the rooms and looking at the pictures again.  She tried to understand them and no longer thought that a great many of them were alike.  When, on returning home, for the first time she looked attentively at the big picture that hung over the piano in the drawing-room, she felt a dislike for it, and said: