“Well, no! ... It isn’t so much that I’m weary; but somehow everything—everything is all the same ... I look at you, at the table, at the bottle; at my hands and feet; and I’m thinking, that all this is alike and everything is to no purpose ... There’s no sense in anything ... Just like on some old, old picture. Look there—there’s a soldier walking on the street, but it’s all one to me, as though they had wound up a doll, and it’s moving ... And that he’s wet under the ram, is also all one to me ... And that he’ll die, and I’ll die, and you, Tamara, will die—in this also I see nothing frightful, nothing amazing... So simple and wearisome is everything to me...” Jennka was silent for a while; drank one more wine-glass; sucked the sugar, and, still looking out at the street, suddenly asked: “Tell me, please, Tamara, I’ve never asked you about it—from where did you get in here, into the house? You don’t at all resemble all of us; you know everything; for everything that turns up you have a good, clever remark ... Even French, now—how well you spoke it that time! But none of us knows anything at all about you ... Who are you?” “Darling Jennechka, really, it’s not worth while ... A life like any life ... I went to boarding school; was a governess; sang in a choir; then kept a shooting gallery in a summer garden; and then got mixed up with a certain charlatan and taught myself to shoot with a Winchester ... I traveled with circuses—I represented an American Amazon. I used to shoot splendidly ... Then I found myself in a monastery. There I passed two years ... I’ve been through a lot ... Can’t recall everything ... I used to steal...” “You’ve lived through a great deal ... Checkered-like.” “But then, my years are not a few. Well, what do you think—how many?” “Twenty-two, twenty-four? ...” “No, my angel! It just struck thirty-two a week ago. I, if you like, am older than all of you here in Anna Markovna’s. Only I didn’t wonder at anything, didn’t take anything near to heart. As you see, I never drink ... I occupy myself very carefully with the care of my body; and the main thing, the very main thing—I don’t allow myself ever to be carried away with men...” “Well, but what about your Senka? ...” “Senka—that’s a horse of another colour; the heart of woman is foolish, inconsistent ... Can it possibly live without love? And even so, I don’t love him, but just so ... a self-deception ... But, however, I shall be in very great need of Senka soon.” Jennka suddenly grew animated and looked at her friend with curiosity. “But how did you come to get stuck right here, in this hole? So clever, handsome, sociable...”