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One day I was walking in the garden beside the familiar fence, and I caught sight of Zinaida; leaning on both arms, she was sitting on the grass, not stirring a muscle.

I was about to make off cautiously, but she suddenly raised her head and beckoned me imperiously.

My heart failed me; I did not understand her at first.

She repeated her signal.

I promptly jumped over the fence and ran joyfully up to her, but she brought me to a halt with a look, and motioned me to the path two paces from her.

In confusion, not knowing what to do, I fell on my knees at the edge of the path.

She was so pale, such bitter suffering, such intense weariness, was expressed in every feature of her face, that it sent a pang to my heart, and I muttered unconsciously, 'What is the matter?'

Zinaida stretched out her head, picked a blade of grass, bit it and flung it away from her.

'You love me very much?' she asked at last. 'Yes.'

I made no answer – indeed, what need was there to answer?

'Yes,' she repeated, looking at me as before.

'That's so.

The same eyes,' – she went on; sank into thought, and hid her face in her hands.

'Everything's grown so loathsome to me,' she whispered, 'I would have gone to the other end of the world first – I can't bear it, I can't get over it...

And what is there before me!... Ah, I am wretched...

My God, how wretched I am!'

'What for?' I asked timidly.

Zinaida made no answer, she simply shrugged her shoulders.

I remained kneeling, gazing at her with intense sadness.

Every word she had uttered simply cut me to the heart.

At that instant I felt I would gladly have given my life, if only she should not grieve.

I gazed at her – and though I could not understand why she was wretched, I vividly pictured to myself, how in a fit of insupportable anguish, she had suddenly come out into the garden, and sunk to the earth, as though mown down by a scythe.

It was all bright and green about her; the wind was whispering in the leaves of the trees, and swinging now and then a long branch of a raspberry bush over Zinaida's head.

There was a sound of the cooing of doves, and the bees hummed, flying low over the scanty grass, Overhead the sun was radiantly blue – while I was so sorrowful...

'Read me some poetry,' said Zinaida in an undertone, and she propped herself on her elbow; 'I like your reading poetry. You read it in sing-song, but that's no matter, that comes of being young. Read me "On the Hills of Georgia." Only sit down first.'

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