‘Just as we do. When he was twenty (that was at the beginning of the year 1848) he began to want to return to his country. He stayed in Sophia and Tirnova, and travelled through the length and breadth of Bulgaria, spending two years there, and learning his mother tongue over again. The Turkish Government persecuted him, and he was certainly exposed to great dangers during those two years; I once caught sight of a broad scar on his neck, from a wound, no doubt; but he does not like to talk about it. He is reserved, too, in his own way. I have tried to question him about everything, but I could get nothing out of him. He answers by generalities. He’s awfully obstinate. He returned to Russia again in 1850, to Moscow, with the intention of educating himself thoroughly, getting intimate with Russians, and then when he leaves the university----’ ‘What then?’ broke in Elena. ‘What God wills. It’s hard to forecast the future.’ For a while Elena did not take her eyes off Bersenyev. ‘You have greatly interested me by what you have told me,’ she said. ‘What is he like, this friend of yours; what did you call him, Insarov?’ ‘What shall I say? To my mind, he’s good-looking. But you will see him for yourself.’ ‘How so?’ ‘I will bring him here to see you. He is coming to our little village the day after tomorrow, and is going to live with me in the same lodging.’ ‘Really? But will he care to come to see us?’ ‘I should think so. He will be delighted.’ ‘He isn’t proud, then?’ ‘Not the least. That’s to say, he is proud if you like, only not in the sense you mean. He will never, for instance, borrow money from any one.’ ‘Is he poor?’ ‘Yes, he isn’t rich. When he went to Bulgaria he collected some relics left of his father’s property, and his aunt helps him; but it all comes to very little.’ ‘He must have a great deal of character,’ observed Elena. ‘Yes. He is a man of iron. And at the same time you will see there is something childlike and frank, with all his concentration and even his reserve. It’s true, his frankness is not our poor sort of frankness--the frankness of people who have absolutely nothing to conceal.... But there, I will bring him to see you; wait a little.’ ‘And isn’t he shy?’ asked Elena again. ‘No, he’s not shy. It’s only vain people who are shy.’ ‘Why, are you vain?’ He was confused and made a vague gesture with his hands. ‘You excite my curiosity,’ pursued Elena. ‘But tell me, has he not taken vengeance on that Turkish aga?’ Bersenyev smiled ‘Revenge is only to be found in novels, Elena Nikolaevna; and, besides, in twelve years that aga may well be dead.’ ‘Mr. Insarov has never said anything, though, to you about it?’ ‘No, never.’ ‘Why did he go to Sophia?’ ‘His father used to live there.’ Elena grew thoughtful. ‘To liberate one’s country!’ she said. ‘It is terrible even to utter those words, they are so grand.’ At that instant Anna Vassilyevna came into the room, and the conversation stopped.