"What need is there of introduction! You came in by the same way, and both know who the other is."

"Words of wisdom from the scholar!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Mark.

"That same Mark of whom I wrote to you, don't you remember!" said Leonti.

"Wait, I will introduce myself," cried Mark, springing from the easy chair. He posed ceremoniously, and bowed.

"I have the honour to present myself, Mark Volokov, under police surveillance, involuntary citizen of this town."

He puffed away at his cigar, and again rolled himself up in a ball.

"What do you do with yourself here?" asked Raisky.

"I think, as you do."

"You love art, are perhaps an artist?"

"And are you an artist?"

"Painter and musician," broke in Leonti, "and now he is writing a novel.

Take care, brother, he may put you in too."

Raisky signed to him to be silent.

"Yes, I am an artist," Mark went on, "but of a different kind. Your Aunt will have acquainted you with my works."

"She won't hear your name mentioned."

"There you have it. But it was only a matter of a hundred apples or so that I plucked from over the fence."

"The apples are mine; you may take as many as you like."

"Many thanks. But why should I need your permission? I am accustomed to do everything in this life without permission. Therefore I will take the apples without your permission, they taste better."

"I was curious to make your acquaintance. I hear so many tales about you."

"What do they say?"

"Little that is good."

"Probably they tell you I am a thief, a monster, the terror of the neighbourhood."

"That's about it."

"But if this reputation precedes me, why should you seek my acquaintance.

I have torn your books, as no doubt our friend there has informed you."

"There he is to the point," cried Leonti. "I am glad he began the subject himself. He is a good sort at the bottom. If one is ill, he waits on one like a nurse, runs to the chemist, and takes any amount of trouble. But the rascal wanders round and gives no one any peace."

"Don't chatter so," interrupted Mark.

"For that matter," said Raisky, "everybody does not abuse you. Tiet Nikonich Vatutin, for instance, goes out of his way to speak well of you."

"Is it possible! The sugar marquis! I left him some souvenirs of my presence. More than once I have waked him in the night by opening his bedroom window. He is always fussing about his health, but in all the forty years since he came here no one remembers him to have been ill. I shall never return the money he lent me. What more provocation would he have? And yet he praises me."

"So that is your department of art," said Raisky gaily.

"What kind of an artist are you? It is your turn to tell me."

"I love and adore beauty. I love art, draw, and make music, and just now I am trying to write a great work, a novel."

"Yes, yes, I see. You are an artist of the kind we all are."

"All?"

"With us Russians everybody is an artist. They use the chisel, paint, strum, write poetry, as you and your like do. Others drive in the mornings to the courts or the government offices, others sit before their stalls playing draughts, and still others stick on their estates--Art is everywhere."

"Do you feel no desire to enter any of these categories."

"I have tried, but don't know how to. What brought you here?"

"I don't know myself. It is all the same to me where I go. I had a letter summoning me here from my Aunt, and I came."

Mark busied himself in his thoughts, and took no further interest in Raisky. Raisky on the other hand examined the extraordinary person before him attentively, studied the expression of his face, followed his movements, and tried to grasp the outline of a strong character. "Thank G.o.d," he said to himself, "that I am not the only idle, aimless person here. In this man there is something similar; he wanders about, reconciles himself to his fate, and does nothing. I at least draw and try to write my novel, while he does nothing. Is he the victim of secret discord like myself? Is he always struggling between two fires?

Imagination striving upward to the ideal lures him on on the one hand--man, nature and life in all its manifestations; on the other he is attracted by a cold, destructive a.n.a.lysis which allows nothing to live, and will forget nothing, an a.n.a.lysis that leads to eternal discontent and blighting cold. Is that his secret?" He glanced at Mark, who was already drowsing.

"Good-bye, Leonti," he said, "it's time I was going home."

"What am I to do with him?"

"He can stay here all right."

"Think of the books. It's leaving the goat loose in the vegetable garden."

"I might wheel him in the armchair into that dark little room, and lock him in," thought Leonti, "but if he woke, he might pull the roof down."

Mark helped him out of his dilemma by jumping to his feet.

"I am going with you," he said to Raisky. "It is time for you to go to bed, philosopher," he said to Leonti. "Don't sit up at nights. You have already got a yellow patch in your face, and your eyes are hollow."

He put out the light, stuffed on his cap, and leapt out of the window.

Raisky followed his example, and they went down the garden once more, climbed the fence, and came out in the street.

"Listen," said Mark. "I am hungry, and Leonti has nothing to give me.

Can you help me to storm an inn?"

"As far as I am concerned. But the thing can be managed without the application of force."

"It is late, and the inns are shut. No one will open willingly, especially when it is known that I am in the case; consequently we must enter by storm. We will call 'Fire!' and then they will open at once, and we can get in."