re-writing of his whole book), and he died in the winter of 1853, before his son’s time at the university was over, but he was able beforehand to congratulate him on his degree, and to consecrate him to the service of science. ‘I pass on the torch to you,’ he said to him two hours before his death. ‘I held it while I could; you, too, must not let the light grow dim before the end.’ Bersenyev talked a long while to Elena of his father. The embarrassment he had felt in her presence disappeared, and his lisp was less marked. The conversation passed on to the university. ‘Tell me,’ Elena asked him, ‘were there any remarkable men among your comrades?’ Bersenyev was again reminded of Shubin’s words. ‘No, Elena Nikolaevna, to tell you the truth, there was not a single remarkable man among us. And, indeed, where are such to be found! There was, they say, a good time once in the Moscow university! But not now. Now it’s a school, not a university. I was not happy with my comrades,’ he added, dropping his voice. ‘Not happy,’ murmured Elena. ‘But I ought,’ continued Bersenyev, ‘to make an exception. I know one student--it’s true he is not in the same faculty--he is certainly a remarkable man.’ ‘What is his name?’ Elena inquired with interest. ‘Insarov Dmitri Nikanorovitch. He is a Bulgarian.’ ‘Not a Russian?’ ‘No, he is not a Russian,’ ‘Why is he living in Moscow, then?’ ‘He came here to study. And do you know with what aim he is studying? He has a single idea: the liberation of his country. And his story is an exceptional one. His father was a fairly well-to-do merchant; he came from Tirnova. Tirnova is now a small town, but it was the capital of Bulgaria in the old days when Bulgaria was still an independent state. He traded with Sophia, and had relations with Russia; his sister, Insarov’s aunt, is still living in Kiev, married to a senior history teacher in the gymnasium there. In 1835, that is to say eighteen years ago, a terrible crime was committed; Insarov’s mother suddenly disappeared without leaving a trace behind; a week later she was found murdered.’ Elena shuddered. Bersenyev stopped. ‘Go on, go on,’ she said. ‘There were rumours that she had been outraged and murdered by a Turkish aga; her husband, Insarov’s father, found out the truth, tried to avenge her, but only succeeded in wounding the aga with his poniard.... He was shot.’ ‘Shot, and without a trial?’ ‘Yes. Insarov was just eight years old at the time. He remained in the hands of neighbours. The sister heard of the fate of her brother’s family, and wanted to take the nephew to live with her. They got him to Odessa, and from there to Kiev. At Kiev he lived twelve whole years. That’s how it is he speaks Russian so well.’ ‘He speaks Russian?’