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remote part of Russia. Of the people in Petersburg the most intimate
and most possible were his chief secretary and his doctor.
Mihail Vassilievitch Sludin, the chief secretary, was a straightfor-
ward, intelligent, good-hearted, and conscientious man, and Alexey
Alexandrovitch was aware of his personal goodwill. But their five
years of official work together seemed to have put a barrier between
them that cut off warmer relations.
After signing the papers brought him, Alexey Alexandrovitch had
sat for a long while in silence, glancing at Mihail Vassilievitch, and
several times he attempted to speak, but could not. He had already
prepared the phrase: “You have heard of my trouble?” But he ended
by saying, as usual: “So you’ll get this ready for me?” and with that
dismissed him.
The other person was the doctor, who had also a kindly feeling for
him; but there had long existed a taciturn understanding between
them that both were weighed down by work, and always in a hurry.
Of his women friends, foremost amongst them Countess Lidia
Ivanovna, Alexey Alexandrovitch never thought. All women, simply
as women, were terrible and distasteful to him.
Chapter 22.
Alexey Alexandrovitch had forgotten the Countess Lidia Ivanovna,
but she had not forgotten him. At the bitterest moment of his lonely
despair she came to him, and without waiting to be announced, walked
straight into his study. She found him as he was sitting with his head
in both hands.
“J’ai force la consigne,” she said, walking in with rapid steps and
breathing hard with excitement and rapid exercise. “I have heard all!
Alexey Alexandrovitch! Dear friend!” she went on, warmly squeezing
his hand in both of hers and gazing with her fine pensive eyes into his.
Alexey Alexandrovitch, frowning, got up, and disengaging his hand,
moved her a chair.
“Won’t you sit down, countess? I’m seeing no one because I’m
unwell, countess,” he said, and his lips twitched.
“Dear friend!” repeated Countess Lidia Ivanovna, never taking
her eyes off his, and suddenly her eyebrows rose at the inner corners,
describing a triangle on her forehead, her ugly yellow face became still
uglier, but Alexey Alexandrovitch felt that she was sorry for him and
was preparing to cry. And he too was softened; he snatched her plump
hand and proceeded to kiss it.
“Dear friend!” she said in a voice breaking with emotion. “You
ought not to give way to grief. Your sorrow is a great one, but you ought