_“Je vous remercie, monsieur Vikentev, vous êtes bien amiable.”_ He stared first at Marfinka, then at her aunt, and asked whether she would try over a song with him. “I will try it by myself, or in company with Grandmother.” “Let us go into the park, and I will read you the new novel,” he then said, picking up the book. “How could I do such a thing?” asked Marfinka, looking demurely at her aunt. “Do you think I am a child?” “What is the meaning of this, Tatiana Markovna,” stammered Vikentev in amazement. “Marfa Vassilievna is unendurable.” He looked at both of them, walked into the middle of the room, assumed a sugary smile, bowed slightly, put his hat under his arm, and struggling in vain to drag his gloves on his moist hands began: “_Mille pardons, mademoiselle, de vous avoir dérangée. Sacrebleu, ca n’entre pas. Oh mille pardons, mademoiselle_.” “Do stop, you foolish boy!” Marfinka bit her lips, but could not help laughing. “Just look at him, Granny! How can anybody keep serious when he mimics Monsieur Charles so nicely?” “Stop, children,” cried Tatiana Markovna, her frown relaxing into smiles. “Go, and God be with you. Do whatever you like.” CHAPTER XI Raisky’s patience had to suffer a hard trial in Vera’s indifference. His courage failed him, and he fell into a dull, fruitless boredom. In this idle mood he drew village scenes in his sketch album--he had already sketched nearly every aspect of the Volga to be seen from the house or the cliff--and he made notes in his note books. He hoped by these occupations to free himself from his obsessing thoughts of Vera. He knew he would do better to begin a big piece of work, instead of these trifles. But he told himself that Russians did not understand hard work, or that real work demanded rude strength, the use of the hands, the shoulders and the back. He thought that in work of this kind a man lost consciousness of his humanity, and experienced no pleasures in his exertions; he shouldered his burden like a horse that seeks to ward off the whip with his tail. Rough manual labour left no place for boredom. Yet no one seeks distractions in work, but in pleasure. Work, not appearances, he repeated, oppressed by the overpowering dulness which drove him nearly mad, and created a frame of mind quite contrary to his gentle temperament. I have no work, I cannot create as do artists who are absorbed in their work, and are ready to die for it.