At last, one bright winter day (Varia had been somehow peculiarly enchanting the previous evening), I dressed myself in my best, slowly and solemnly sallied out from my room, took a first-rate sledge, and drove down to Ivan Semyonitch’s. Varia was sitting alone in the drawing-room reading Karamzin. On seeing me she softly laid the book down on her knees, and with agitated curiosity looked into my face; I had never been to see them in the morning before…. I sat down beside her; my heart beat painfully. ‘What are you reading?’ I asked her at last. ‘Karamzin.’ ‘What, are you taking up Russian literature?…’ She suddenly cut me short. ‘Tell me, haven’t you come from Andrei?’ That name, that trembling, questioning voice, the half-joyful, half-timid expression of her face, all these unmistakable
