at the bell of the Dolzhikovs' gate, broke it, and ran along the
street like some naughty boy, with a feeling of terror in my heart,
expecting every moment that they would come out and recognize me.
When I stopped at the end of the street to take breath I could hear
nothing but the sound of the rain, and somewhere in the distance a
watchman striking on a sheet of iron.

For a whole week I did not go to the Dolzhikovs'. My serge trousers
were sold. There was nothing doing in the painting trade. I knew
the pangs of hunger again, and earned from twopence to fourpence a
day, where I could, by heavy and unpleasant work. Struggling up to
my knees in the cold mud, straining my chest, I tried to stifle my
memories, and, as it were, to punish myself for the cheeses and
preserves with which I had been regaled at the engineer's. But all
the same, as soon as I lay in bed, wet and hungry, my sinful
imagination immediately began to paint exquisite, seductive pictures,
and with amazement I acknowledged to myself that I was in love,
passionately in love, and I fell into a sound, heavy sleep, feeling
that hard labour only made my body stronger and younger.

One evening snow began falling most inappropriately, and the wind
blew from the north as though winter had come back again. When I
returned from work that evening I found Mariya Viktorovna in my
room. She was sitting in her fur coat, and had both hands in her
muff.

"Why don't you come to see me?" she asked, raising her clear, clever
eyes, and I was utterly confused with delight and stood stiffly
upright before her, as I used to stand facing my father when he was
going to beat me; she looked into my face and I could see from her