Alexis Bobrov, at the age of fifty-one, was an impressive figure who looked rather older. His body was heavyset. His grey hair was cut short; his cheeks had filled out with age so that his long, hawkish face had become squarer, more massive. His nose had thickened at the bottom and curved down over his mouth so that, with his long, drooping grey moustache, he put one in mind of some Turkish pasha of unshakable authority. Upon his uniform were numerous medals and orders including that of Alexander Nevsky.

Having been widowed a second time, and suffering from an old wound acquired in the Polish rising, which gave him a slight limp, he had taken an honourable retirement that year and had come to live permanently on the Bobrovo estate.

When he told his mother and brother Ilya about the offer, they were both adamant: he should take it. In Tatiana's case, the argument was simple. As well as her private sympathy for Savva, it was clear to her that the money was needed. 'With that,' she reasoned, 'you could clear all the debts we've incurred from the crop failures, make the necessary improvements in the estate, and have plenty to spare.' For a generation at least, the Bobrovs would be out of trouble.

Ilya's argument was slightly different. Though he had never realized his mistake over the stolen money, he had always a vaguely guilty feeling over the way his family had treated the Suvorins. But even aside from that, there was another consideration. 'For the fact is forgive me putting it like this, my dear brother but every civilized man in Russia finds serfdom repulsive. Even our Tsar, who most people think of as reactionary, is known to think that serfdom should be abolished. A major committee has already sat on the subject for years, and each season there's a new rumour from the capital that something is going to be done. One day, I think that rumour will be true. A proposal, at least, will be made. And what will Suvorin offer you then, if he believes that in a year or two he may get his freedom anyway? Quite apart from my own feelings about serfdom, I say your own self-interest should make you take his offer.'

Yet as Alexis listened, he was not convinced. Ilya's argument he rejected out of hand. 'People have been talking about freeing the serfs all my life,' he said, 'but it never happens. The gentry won't allow it: not in my lifetime. Perhaps not in Misha's either.'

There was also something else that he found offensive about the business. He was shrewd enough to guess at once the likely source of Savva's finance. Even he couldn't come up with that much. It must be those damned Theodosians, he thought. And he remembered something the red-headed priest at Russka had told him the previous year. 'You know, Alexis Alexandrovich, wherever these Old Believers set up factories, they start converting all the local peasants and the Orthodox Church loses its flock.' Alexis could imagine just what might happen if Suvorin were free of his authority. The whole place would be riddled with Schismatics. As an upholder of the doctrine of Official Nationality he was appalled by the idea.

And thirdly, most important of all, he was secretly convinced of something else. My mother, he told himself, is admirable in her way, but now I'm here to manage the estate full-time, things are going to change. All that was needed to increase the income dramatically, he believed, was the bringing of what he called 'a bit more discipline' to things. Moreover, while his respect and affection for Tatiana would not allow him to offend her by doing so yet, she would not always be there; and when she was gone, he faithfully promised himself: I'll squeeze that schismatic Suvorin until the pips squeak. He might not get fifty thousand roubles out of him, but over the years, he'd surely get enough. Let him make money, he vowed, but I'll see he dies poor.

And so, when Savva appeared the next day, Alexis Bobrov looked at him coldly and declared: 'I thank you for your offer, Suvorin, but the answer is no.' And when the dumbfounded serf who knew that this decision could not possibly be in Bobrov's own interest asked him when he might discuss the matter again, Alexis gave a smile and replied: 'Never.'

That night, therefore, when Savva discussed it with his wife, he told her: 'That obstinate fool is immune to reason.' And when she suggested that perhaps, one day, something would change his mind, Savva grimly replied: 'He'll never give in, until he's ruined.'

And he wondered when that might be.

It was at this time that Ilya began to behave strangely. No one quite knew what had got into him. Usually, as the warm weather approached, he would be found sitting by the window in the salon, or about on the verandah, reading. Seldom before high summer would he spend much time out in the open.

Now, however, his pattern of life had completely changed. He spent hours up in his room, from which he would emerge with a furrowed brow, frequently muttering, and generally locking the door, so that the servants could not clean it. He would pace up and down in the alley above the house for an hour at a time. And if Alexis or Tatiana asked him what he was up to, he would give them some meaningless reply such as 'Aha!' or 'Why, nothing at all!' so that they could only wonder what his secret was.

It was on one of these days, when Ilya had been pacing excitedly in the alley, that Tatiana experienced the first sign. It was nothing much: a sudden dizziness. But a few hours later, as she was sitting in the salon, she blacked out for about half a minute.

She said nothing to anyone. What was there to say? She went about her daily business. But from that moment the thought entered her mind and remained there quietly but insistently: the days to come were numbered, and the number might not be large. A week later, she had another blackout.

If these signs were not unexpected, Tatiana still felt rather lonely and afraid. She found she liked to go to church each day; but the red-headed priest at Russka was not much comfort. She visited the monastery and conversed with the monks, which was a little better. But it was after a Sunday service, when the bread that had been blessed was distributed, that a peasant woman she scarcely knew came up to her with a kindly smile and said: 'You should go and see the old hermit beyond the skit skit.'

She had heard of this man. He was one of the monks at the little skit skit beyond the springs who, two years before, had been allowed to move further into the woods to a hermitage of his own. Stories had come back that he was a man of great holiness, but nothing more definite than that. There was no talk of miracles; he kept to himself and few knew much about him. His name was Father Basil. beyond the springs who, two years before, had been allowed to move further into the woods to a hermitage of his own. Stories had come back that he was a man of great holiness, but nothing more definite than that. There was no talk of miracles; he kept to himself and few knew much about him. His name was Father Basil.

For a week Tatiana put the idea at the back of her mind. It was far away, and she felt rather shy. But then she had another blackout and a pain in the chest which frightened her. And so it was, two days later, that she had the coachman harness up a little single-seated cart and, without saying where she was going, she set off.

It took them all morning. She had to leave the coachman and walk the last part on foot. But the place, when she got there, was not what she expected.

The clearing was quite large. In the middle stood a simple but well-built hut. Before the hut was a little vegetable garden. To one side, near the trees, two beehives made of hollow logs. Just in front of the door was a table with some books and papers upon it, and sitting at the table was a monk. She could see from a hoe beside the vegetable garden that he had been working that recently, but now he was engaged in writing. Seeing her, he looked up pleasantly. She had heard that he was an ascetic and that he was seventy-five, so she was surprised to see before her a refined but vigorous-looking man whose beard was still mostly black and a face that might have belonged to a man of fifty. His brown eyes were clear and looked at her with great straightforwardness. 'Ah, yes,' he said, 'I thought I felt somebody coming.'

He nodded politely when she introduced herself, and produced a stool for her to sit on. Then, as if he were waiting for something, he said, 'Perhaps you would sit here for a little while, until I return,' and disappeared into the hut, she supposed to pray.

It was warm and pleasant. The light breeze that rustled the leaves could hardly be felt in the glade below. While she waited she tried to work out what it was, exactly, she wanted to ask this holy man, how she should say it. And in this way some twenty minutes passed.

When she saw the bear she very nearly screamed. It seemed to come from nowhere and lumbered across the clearing straight towards her. She had just risen to rush into the hut when the hermit appeared.

'Ah, Misha,' he said gently. 'Back so soon?' He smiled at Tatiana. 'He comes to beg for honey because he knows he's not allowed to touch the beehives.' And he stroked the bear's head affectionately. 'Off you go, you naughty fellow,' he said kindly, and the bear lumbered away.

When the bear was gone Father Basil resumed his seat and indicated that she should do the same. Then, without asking her any questions, he began to speak quietly, in a deep, firm voice.

'On the subject of our life after death, the Orthodox faith is very clear and quite explicit. You must not think that, at the moment of death, you suffer any loss of consciousness, for this is not the case. Indeed, quite the opposite. Not for an instant do we cease our existence. You will see the familiar world around you, but be unable to communicate with it. At the same time, you will encounter the spirits of those who have departed, probably those you have known and loved. Your soul, released from the clinging dross of the body, will be more lively than before; but you will by no means be free of temptations: you will encounter spirits both good and evil and be drawn to them according to your disposition.

'For two days I speak in terms familiar to us here on earth you will be free to roam the world. But on the third day you will face a great and terrible trial. For, as we know from the story of the dormition of the Virgin, the Mother of God herself trembled at the thought of that day when, as she put it, the soul passes through the toll houses. This day you must fear. You will encounter first one and then another evil spirit; and the extent of your struggle with those evils in life will give you strength, or not, to pass through. Those who do not, go straight to Gehenna. On this day, the prayers of those on earth are of great assistance.'

Tatiana looked at the hermit thoughtfully. If she had hoped for comfort, she had not found it. Who would pray for her upon that day? Her family perhaps? Stern Alexis?

The hermit gave her a quiet smile. 'I will pray for you then, if you like,' he said.

Tatiana bowed her head. 'But perhaps you will not know of my death,' she suggested. The hermitage was so cut off.

'I shall know,' he replied. Then he continued. 'For thirty-seven more days, after the third, you will visit the regions of heaven and hell, but without knowing your own destiny. Then you will be allotted your place to await the Last Day of Judgement and the Second Coming.'

He turned to her kindly. 'I remind you of this so that you may know that your soul suffers no loss at death, but rather passes instantly into another state. Your life is only a preparing of the spirit for its ultimate journey. Prepare yourself, therefore, without fear. Repent your sins, which stand against you. Beg for forgiveness. Make sure that your spirit, on the threshold of its journey, is humble.' He got up.

Tatiana also rose. 'Will it be soon?' she asked.

'The hour is always late,' he replied quietly. 'You must prepare. That is all.'

He gave her his blessing, and a little wooden cross. And then, just as she was leaving, he motioned her to stop.

'I see,' he said thoughtfully, 'that before you pass over, you are to undergo a trial.' He paused, gazing past her; then, turning his eyes back to her, he remarked: 'Pray earnestly, therefore, as you prepare to receive a visitor.'

As she walked slowly back to the cart, she wondered what he meant.

It was a week later that a modest carriage, driven by an ill-dressed and rather grumpy-looking coachman, drew up to the house. In it sat Sergei. And with him was his wife.

At the age of forty-two, Sergei Bobrov looked what he was a man whose talents had brought him minor standing, and who hoped for more. The two literary geniuses of his generation his old friend Pushkin and, more recently, young Lermontov had both appeared like meteors in the sky only to lose their lives in their prime. People looked to Sergei as a man who might, in his middle age, continue what they had begun when young. And perhaps part of the reason for the deepening of the lines upon his face was that, so far, he had not quite managed to justify this hope. His dark hair, worn long, had thinned at the front. He had thick side whiskers now, which were greying. His eyes looked somewhat strained. He had a slight paunch, which somehow suggested a kind of irritability. He came only seldom to Russka, and Tatiana knew he had constant problems with money; but he never complained.

And now, as soon as the couple were inside the house and the first civilities were done with, Sergei drew his mother to one side and explained: 'The fact is, I've come to ask you all a favour.'

His old friend Karpenko, now living in Kiev, had invited him to tour the Ukraine. An arduous journey was planned, some of it on horseback and quite unsuitable for a woman. 'If I'm going to do any good work,' he confided, 'I need a change of scene, the chance to get away.' He expected to return in two months. In the meantime, he had come to ask: 'Could I leave my wife with you?'

It would have seemed strange to Tatiana to refuse.

It was a pleasant gathering at dinner. In particular, it made Tatiana happy to see Alexis and Sergei together.

Over the years they had achieved a measure of reconciliation. And they had evolved a cast-iron rule for avoiding quarrels which was simply never to discuss certain matters like the military or Savva Suvorin. And if she knew they had done all this chiefly for her sake, at least it was something.

If Alexis went out of his way to be agreeable, Ilya was beaming with pleasure. It was hard for this highly educated man to share many of his thoughts with her still less with Alexis. But ever since Sergei's appearance, Ilya had been galvanized, and before dinner she had heard him waddling about in his room, pulling out books and papers and muttering: 'Ah, Seriozha! There are so many things we must discuss.' If anyone would discover Ilya's secret it would certainly be Sergei.

The one figure of mystery at the table was Sergei's young wife. What could one make of her?

Sergei had married Nadia three years before. She was wellborn, a general's daughter, whose fair hair and pretty appearance upon the dance floor had made her referred to in society, one year, as an 'ethereal beauty'. It happened, that year, that Sergei too had been briefly in fashion. And it seemed that the girl and the rake had each fallen in love with each other's reputation in the short-lived season. 'She's certainly blonde,' Ilya had complained after their first meeting. 'But I can't see anything ethereal about her.' Since the marriage, Sergei's family had seen little of the girl. There had been a baby, lost when it was a week old, and no news of further pregnancies since. And now she sat quietly, looking a little bored but talking mostly to Alexis with whom, it seemed, she felt more at ease than with Ilya. If she was staying there all summer, Tatiana thought, no doubt she would know all about her before long.

At the end of the meal, Tatiana and Nadia both felt tired and decided to retire, while the men moved out on to the verandah to smoke their pipes and talk. The atmosphere between them now was mellow. Even Alexis, after talking to Sergei's wife, was in a cheerful good humour; and when Sergei had given them the latest gossip from the capital, he turned to Ilya and remarked: 'Well, brother, now that Seriozha is here, are you going to tell us, at last, what the devil you've been up to these last few weeks?'

And it was then that Ilya revealed his secret.

'The fact is,' he replied with a placid smile, 'I'm leaving Russka.' And as they gazed at him in astonishment he explained: 'I'm going abroad to write a book. I'm calling it Russia and the West Russia and the West. It will be my life's work.'

Perhaps it had been a sudden inspiration; perhaps the culmination of years of study. Or perhaps it had been the sight of Alexis's medals, especially the Nevsky Order resting so ceremoniously upon his brother's chest, which had suddenly brought it home to Ilya that while Alexis had already retired with proof of a lifetime's accomplishment, he himself had absolutely nothing to show for his fifty-five years on earth. Whatever the cause, he had now decided to make a supreme effort: Ilya Bobrov, too, would leave some memorial.

He had spent a lifetime in study; he was a European, a progressive: what, then, could be better than to write the book which would lead his beloved Russia forward upon her destiny, so that future generations might look back and say: 'Ilya Bobrov showed us the way'?

And now, with obvious pride, he outlined his plan. 'My thesis,' he explained, 'is very simple. Russia has never, in all her history, been capable of governing herself. It has always been outsiders who brought order and culture to our land. In the days of golden Kiev it was norsemen who ruled us and the Greeks who gave us our religion. For centuries we lived in darkness under the Tartar yoke; but when we emerged, who led us forward into the modern world? Why the English, Dutch and German scientists and technicians imported by Peter the Great. Who gave us our present culture? Catherine the Great who brought us the Enlightenment from France. What philosophers inspire you and me, Sergei? Why, today's great thinkers from Germany.

'It must be so, for Russia has so little to offer of its own, and what we have belongs to the Dark Ages. Look at our laws!' He turned from one to the other. 'Just a few years ago our noble Speransky at last completed the great codification of Russian laws, and what do they reveal? A concept of justice that would have looked barbaric in the west a thousand years ago. The individual has no rights; there are no independent judges; no trial by jury. Everything may be done even to landowners like us at the whim of the Tsar. And to this we Russians cheerfully submit like oriental slaves. No wonder progress is impossible.

'My plan is simple. I shall go to England, France and Germany to gather material for an outline for a new Russia. A Russia modelled on the west. A complete re-structuring of our society.' And he gazed at them in triumph.

'But, my dear brother,' Sergei laughed, 'if you say things like that, people will think you are mad.' It was true that only a few years before, a distinguished Russian thinker who had espoused a similar view had been declared officially mad by the infuriated authorities.

Ilya, however, was not at all abashed. 'The fault of that author,' he declared, 'was that even he did not go far enough. For here,' he tapped the arm of his chair excitedly with his finger, 'here is the true originality of my approach. I shall show that the key to our spiritual salvation lies not in religion, not in politics, not even in justice, but in economics. And here,' he smiled complacently, 'I have my bible and my prophet: I refer of course to the great Scotsman, Adam Smith, and his book The Wealth of Nations The Wealth of Nations.'

Indeed, the writings of Adam Smith, the father of capitalist economics and free markets, were well known to Russian intellectuals at this time. The first Russian translation of Smith had appeared back in 1803. Ilya now expounded, with relish, the great economist's ideas on enlightened self-interest and economic efficiency. 'Everything flows from this,' he declared, 'even the freeing of the serfs.'

If Alexis had looked bemused during most of this, he now suddenly became attentive.

'Freeing the serfs?' he demanded. 'Why?'

'Because, my dear brother,' Ilya explained, 'numerous Russian economists over the last two decades have conclusively shown that, all other considerations aside, if you free your serfs, you yourself will actually be better off.' He smiled. 'Think of it. A free peasant, paid for what he produces, has incentive. Your serf, forced to work for no reward, does as little as he can get away with. It's as simple as that.' He paused. 'I promise you, this view is well understood even in official circles. Only our Russian inertia holds us back.'

For several moments Alexis was quiet while he considered this. But when at last he spoke, he did so not in any anger but in genuine puzzlement.

'Do you really mean then,' he asked, 'that each individual in society should act for himself, considering his own interest paramount? Do you mean that the peasant should strive to get as rich as he can and rely only upon his own hard work?'

'Yes. Pretty much.'

'And if his fellow peasant, who is weaker, falls behind, is he to be allowed to suffer?'

'He may be helped, but, yes.'

'And what about families like ours? Our whole role in history has been to serve the Tsar and our country. Should I be at home looking for profit like a merchant instead?' He shook his head sorrowfully.

'We all want to serve a cause, Alexis,' Ilya explained, 'but I am speaking of money and of markets.'

'No,' the other rejoined. 'You are speaking of men and their actions. And if all men act only for themselves, as you suggest, then where is religion, where is discipline, where is obedience and humility? I see only chaos and greed.' It was not often that Alexis was brought to such eloquence. It was obviously heartfelt. 'I'm sorry, Ilya, but if that is your idea of progress, it is not mine. This is the evil, self-centred way of the west and you are certainly right that it comes from the west. It is what Russia has fought against for centuries. I, and our Church, and even I suspect our serfs, will oppose it as long as we have breath.'

And sadly he got up, bade them both goodnight, and left them.

For a long time after he had left Sergei and Ilya continued to talk. They discussed Ilya's journey, which he planned to begin that very autumn; they discussed literature, philosophy and many other matters. And it was far, far into the night when Sergei finally turned and said: 'You know, my dear brother, Alexis was not altogether wrong about your ideas. You insult our poor old Russia, yet you are also wrong about her.'

'How so?'

Sergei sighed. 'In the first place, you want to bring efficiency to Russia. I tell you frankly, it cannot be done. Why? Because Russia is too big, and the weather is too bad. This is the wasteland the Romans never conquered. The west joins its towns by roads. Yet what have we got? One! One metalled road in the whole empire, from Moscow to St Petersburg planned by Peter the Great but not executed until 1830 when he'd been dead a hundred years. Europe has railways. What have we? They started building one from the Russian to the Austrian capital last year and the Tsar himself has declared he thinks it is dangerous for people to move about so much. Russia is not the bustling west, my brother, and it never can be. Russia will be slow and inefficient until the Second Coming. And shall I tell you something? It doesn't matter.

'Which brings me to my second objection. Your prescription for Russia comes from the head. It is logical, reasonable, clear-cut. Which is exactly why it has nothing to do with the case.

'The Russians will never be moved by such things. That is what the west will never comprehend. It is the deep weakness of the west, as we see it, that it does not know that to move Russia, you must move her heart. The heart, Ilya, not the mind. Inspiration, understanding, desire, energy all four come from the heart. Our sense of holiness, of true justice, of community these are of the spirit: they cannot be codified into laws and rules. We are not Germans, Dutch, or English. We are part of Holy Russia, which is superior to all of these. I, an intellectual, a European like yourself, say this to you.'

'You are one of this new group then, who claim a special destiny for Russia, apart from the rest of Europe, whom people call Slavophiles, I take it?' Ilya remarked. He had read a little of this group lately.

'I am,' Sergei said, 'and I promise you, Ilya, it's the only way.'

And so at last, their minds full of these grand and universal thoughts, the two brothers affectionately embraced each other and retired to their beds.

At eleven o'clock the next morning, Sergei departed for the Ukraine.

As he strolled through Vladimir that August morning, Alexis Bobrov was in a rather good temper.

Just before leaving, he had received a letter from his son Misha announcing that he would be joining his family at Russka for ten days on his way from his regiment to St Petersburg. He should be arriving at the very time I get back, Alexis thought contentedly. How pleasant that would be.

The summer had gone rather well. That accursed Savva Suvorin had kept quiet. On the estate, despite widespread failures in some areas, prospects for an excellent harvest looked promising. In the village there had been a marriage: Arina's daughter Varya had married young Timofei Romanov, Misha's childhood playmate. He liked them both. The Romanovs were always respectful. He had taken a particular interest, let the young couple off a year's obrok obrok, and thoroughly enjoyed giving them his blessing at the wedding. Whatever Ilya might say, that was how things were meant to be in Russia.

He had been busy in the district too. He had become an assistant to the Marshal of the Nobility whose duties largely consisted of keeping up the registers of the gentry in the area. But it gave him a sense that he was participating in the province, and now, with time on his hands, he was making numerous visits to his fellow landowners 'To make sure I'm in touch,' as he put it.

Above all, he had been pleasantly surprised by Sergei's wife. It was amazing really, he thought, that such a sensible young woman should have married Sergei. He found they agreed about most matters, and though he was too well-bred to pursue the matter, certain hints she had dropped suggested that she had a sensible view of Sergei's writing too. 'I must confess,' she had confided in him the previous week, 'I didn't realize when I married him that he just scribbled all the time. I supposed he did something else as well.' It must be very trying for her, he thought.

It was a pity that Tatiana and Ilya didn't seem to get on with her very well. But she certainly put herself out to be pleasant to him. 'I really do think it's too bad of Sergei to leave me in the country like this,' she said to Alexis, 'where there's nothing to think about all day.' And then she gave him a pretty smile. 'I'm so grateful to have you for company.'

Alexis was in Vladimir that morning because he was on his way to spend a few days with a landowner nearby. He had just seen the governor and was planning to visit the great cathedral. And no person, certainly, could have been further from his mind when he suddenly paused, opened his arms, and cried out: 'My dear fellow! What brings you here? Aren't you coming to see us?'

It was Pinegin.

The house party was delightful. Misha was so happy to be home. He had arrived at Bobrovo a couple of days earlier than expected and been pleased to find Sergei's wife Nadia there. She was only a few years older than he was and he thought her rather beautiful.

It was easy to see why young Misha Bobrov was popular in his regiment. Though he looked like his father Alexis, there were some important differences. Physically, he was an inch or two shorter, and more thickset. Intellectually, he was far more advanced. He loved to sit with his Uncle Ilya and discuss life. 'And though I shall never read a hundredth part of what he has, I like to think a bit of his learning has rubbed off on me,' he would say pleasantly. And lastly, by temperament he was optimistic and easy-going, so that even Alexis once remarked to Tatiana: 'Frankly, he's the best fellow this family has produced for a long time: I'm the first to admit it.' He had the same little gesture as his grandfather, that gentle, caressing motion of the hand when he touched someone's arm or ushered them into a room. Even Alexis's occasional dark moods would usually dissolve at the sight of his son.

As was his habit, Misha spent the first day visiting all those he loved. He sat with his grandmother for an hour. The rest of the morning he spent with Ilya. He found his Uncle in a strange and excitable state, but put it down to the great book he was writing. He also visited the village, kissed Arina, and called upon his childhood playmate Timofei Romanov and his wife Varya. In short, Misha was home, and all was well in the world.

He was curious about the stranger, Pinegin. He had a vague memory of this man from his early childhood a figure then, as now, in a white tunic and usually smoking a pipe. Pinegin was somewhere in his forties now, but scarcely changed except for a few more lines around the eyes, and the fact that his sandy hair had turned iron grey. He greeted Misha with a friendly, if slightly guarded, smile and Misha's only thought about him was: Ah, there's another of those quiet, rather lonely fellows from the frontier forts. He was glad to see that Pinegin was making himself pleasant to Sergei's wife Nadia, sitting with her and Tatiana on the verandah telling them anecdotes, or accompanying her if she wanted to walk in the alley. After all, that was what a house-guest was meant to do.

And therefore, on the second afternoon, as he strolled up to join them in the alley above the house, Misha was completely dumbfounded when he caught sight of them, standing in the glade just off the park, and saw that Nadia was folded in Pinegin's arms.

Misha stood quite silently, hardly able to believe it. And still Nadia and Pinegin kissed.

How easy it had been. Perhaps in a way, Pinegin thought, it would have been better still if the girl had, at least a little, loved her husband. But it was not so, and so it was futile to concern oneself with that.

It was strange to be back at Russka. 'You must come, my dear fellow. I'll return in a few days to join you. Amuse the ladies at least, I beg you, until then.' Those had been Alexis's words. And as he bumped along the road, Pinegin shrugged. How strange that they should have met like that in the street, when he was on his way to take some leave in Moscow. But then, if one believed in fate, nothing was surprising.

Seventeen long years had passed: seventeen long years of distant campaigns, border fortresses and frontier posts. Often he had been in danger; always he had been cool, protected by fate. A man could be a hero though, but still be forgotten at the centre, where promotions were made. A rich man, the husband of Olga, would find himself promoted: but Pinegin was still a captain. Possibly, one day, he would be a major. But something about him, something distant and rather lonely, made that uncertain. He preferred, it seemed, to remain a law unto himself.

Seventeen long years. After the Turkish campaign of '27, he had lost touch with Alexis. But even in distant places, he had received news. He knew when Olga had remarried. He heard of Sergei's return from exile; read his works when they appeared. Word of Sergei's marriage to a general's daughter reached him and a fellow he knew even managed to send him a little miniature picture of the girl. He heard that they had lost a child. And always these little items about the family who had insulted him were filed quietly away in his memory, like a weapon in an armoury, locked up but kept always burnished in case of some future use.

For to Pinegin, believing as he did in fate, there was nothing to do but wait for the gods, in their proper time, to give him their signal. When it came, they would find him ready. And clearly now, the sign had come; and with icy calm Pinegin had gone about the business. It was very simple, quite inevitable. Tit for tat: humiliation. He would seduce Sergei's wife.