the open carriage, well-packed, rolled out of the Stahovs’ court-yard. In the coach were the ladies, a maid, and Bersenyev; Insarov was seated on the box; and in the open carriage were Uvar Ivanovitch and Shubin. Uvar Ivanovitch had himself beckoned Shubin to him; he knew that he would tease him the whole way, but there existed a queer sort of attachment, marked by abusive candour, between the ‘primeval force’ and the young artist. On this occasion, however, Shubin left his fat friend in peace; he was absent-minded, silent, and gentle. The sun stood high in a cloudless blue sky when the carriage drove up to the ruins of Tsaritsino Castle, which looked gloomy and menacing, even at mid-day. The whole party stepped out on to the grass, and at once made a move towards the garden. In front went Elena and Zoya with Insarov; Anna Vassilyevna, with an expression of perfect happiness on her face, walked behind them, leaning on the arm of Uvar Ivanovitch. He waddled along panting, his new straw hat cut his forehead, and his feet twinged in his boots, but he was content; Shubin and Bersenyev brought up the rear. ‘We will form the reserve, my dear boy, like veterans,’ whispered Shubin to Bersenyev. ‘Bulgaria’s in it now!’ he added, indicating Elena with his eyebrows. The weather was glorious. Everything around was flowering, humming, singing; in the distance shone the waters of the lakes; a light-hearted holiday mood took possession of all. ‘Oh, how beautiful; oh, how beautiful!’ Anna Vassilyevna repeated incessantly; Uvar Ivanovitch kept nodding his head approvingly in response to her enthusiastic exclamations, and once even articulated: ‘To be sure! to be sure!’ From time to time Elena exchanged a few words with Insarov; Zoya held the brim of her large hat with two fingers while her little feet, shod in light grey shoes with rounded toes, peeped coquettishly out from under her pink barège dress; she kept looking to each side and then behind her. ‘Hey!’ cried Shubin suddenly in a low voice, ‘Zoya Nikitishna is on the lookout, it seems. I will go to her. Elena Nikolaevna despises me now, while you, Andrei Petrovitch, she esteems, which comes to the same thing. I am going; I’m tired of being glum. I should advise you, my dear fellow, to do some botanising; that’s the best thing you could hit on in your position; it might be useful, too, from a scientific point of view. Farewell!’ Shubin ran up to Zoya, offered her his arm, and saying: ‘_Ihre Hand, Madame_’ caught hold of her hand, and pushed on ahead with her. Elena stopped, called to Bersenyev, and also took his arm, but continued talking to Insarov. She asked him the words for lily-of-the-valley, clover, oak, lime, and so on in his language... ‘Bulgaria’s in it!’ thought poor Andrei Petrovitch.