Meanwhile the time was slipping by, and it was already time for me to prepare for departure. But still I put it off. At times, when I thought, when I realised that soon I should see no more of this sweet girl I had grown so fond of, I felt sick at heart.… Berlin began to lose its attractive force. I had not the courage to acknowledge to myself what was going on within me, and, indeed, I didn’t understand what was taking place,--it was as though a cloud were overhanging my soul. At last one morning everything suddenly became clear to me. ‘Why seek further, what is there to strive towards? Why, I shall not attain to truth in any case. Isn’t it better to stay here, to be married?’ And, imagine, the idea of marriage had no terrors for me in those days. On the contrary, I rejoiced in it. More than that; that day I declared my intentions; only not to Vera Nikolaevna, as one would naturally suppose, but to Madame Eltsov. The old lady looked at me. ‘No,’ she said; ‘my dear boy, go to Berlin, get broken in thoroughly. You’re a good fellow; but it’s not a husband like you that’s needed for Vera.’ I hung my head, blushed, and, what will very likely surprise you still more, inwardly agreed with Madame Eltsov on the spot. A week later I went away, and since then I have not seen her nor Vera Nikolaevna. I have related this episode briefly because I know you don’t care for anything ‘meandering.’ When I got to Berlin I very quickly forgot Vera Nikolaevna.… But I will own that hearing of her so unexpectedly has excited me. I am impressed by the idea that she is so close, that she is my neighbour, that I shall see her in a day or two. The past seems suddenly to have sprung up out of the earth before my eyes, and to have rushed down upon me. Priemkov informed me that he was coming to call upon me with the very object of renewing our old acquaintance, and that he should look forward to seeing me at his house as soon as I could possibly come. He told me he had been in the cavalry, had retired with the rank of lieutenant, had bought an estate about six miles from me, and was intending to devote himself to its management, that he had had three children, but that two had died, and he had only a little girl of five surviving. ‘And does your wife remember me?’ I inquired. ‘Yes, she remembers you,’ he replied, with some slight hesitation. ‘Of course, she was a child, one may say, in those days; but her mother always spoke very highly of you, and you know how precious every word of her poor mother’s is to her.’