certainly have been a famous musician.
The tears on her eyes dried. Nadya remembered that Gorny had declared his love at a
Symphony concert, and again downstairs by the hatstand where there was a tremendous
draught blowing in all directions.
"I am very glad that you have at last made the acquaintance of Gruzdev, our student friend,"
she went on writing. "He is a very clever man, and you will be sure to like him. He came to
see us yesterday and stayed till two o'clock. We were all delighted with him, and I regretted
that you had not come. He said a great deal that was remarkable."
Nadya laid her arms on the table and leaned her head on them, and her hair covered the
letter. She recalled that the student, too, loved her, and that he had as much right to a letter
from her as Gorny. Wouldn't it be better after all to write to Gruzdev? There was a stir of
joy in her bosom for no reason whatever; at first the joy was small, and rolled in her bosom
like an india-rubber ball; then it became more massive, bigger, and rushed like a wave.
Nadya forgot Gorny and Gruzdev; her thoughts were in a tangle and her joy grew and grew;
from her bosom it passed into her arms and legs, and it seemed as though a light, cool
breeze were breathing on her head and ruffling her hair. Her shoulders quivered with
subdued laughter, the table and the lamp chimney shook, too, and tears from her eyes
splashed on the letter. She could not stop laughing, and to prove to herself that she was not
laughing about nothing she made haste to think of something funny.
"What a funny poodle," she said, feeling as though she would choke with laughter. "What a
funny poodle! "
She thought how, after tea the evening before, Gruzdev had played with Maxim the poodle,
and afterwards had told them about a very intelligent poodle who had run after a crow in the
yard, and the crow had looked round at him and said: "Oh, you scamp! "
The poodle, not knowing he had to do with a learned crow, was fearfully confused and
retreated in perplexity, then began barking. . . .
"No, I had better love Gruzdev," Nadya decided, and she tore up the letter to Gorny.
She fell to thinking of the student, of his love, of her love; but the thoughts in her head
insisted on flowing in all directions, and she thought about everything -- about her mother,
about the street, about the pencil, about the piano. . . . She thought of them joyfully, and felt
that everything was good, splendid, and her joy told her that this was not all, that in a little
while it would be better still. Soon it would be spring, summer, going with her mother to
Gorbiki. Gorny would come for his furlough, would walk about the garden with her and
make love to her. Gruzdev would come too. He would play croquet and skittles with her,
and would tell her wonderful things. She had a passionate longing for the garden, the
darkness, the pure sky, the stars. Again her shoulders shook with laughter, and it seemed to
her that there was a scent of wormwood in the room and that a twig was tapping at the
window.
She went to her bed, sat down, and not knowing what to do with the immense joy which
filled her with yearning, she looked at the holy image hanging at the back of her bed, and