she presented herself to his imagination in the shape of a Circassian slave, with a slender figure, long braid, and submissive, deep eyes. He saw in the mountains a lonely cabin, and her on the threshold, waiting for him while he returned to her tired, covered with dust, blood, and glory; and he dreamed of her kisses, her shoulders, her sweet voice, her submissiveness. She was charming, but uneducated, wild, coarse.
In the long winter evenings he would begin to educate her. She was intelligent, quick-witted, gifted, and rapidly acquired all the necessary information. Why not? She might easily learn the languages, read the productions of French literature, and understand them. "Notre Dame de Paris," for example, would no doubt please her. She might even speak French. In the drawing-room she might possess more native dignity than a lady of the highest circles of society. She could sing, simply, powerfully, and passionately.
"Oh, what bosh!" he said to himself.
Just then they arrived at some station, and it was necessary to climb from one sleigh into another, and to give a pourboire. But he again searched with his imagination for the nonsense which he had left off, and again there stood before him Circassian maidens, glory, return to Russia, an aid-de-campship, a charming wife. "But there is no love!" he said to himself. "Honours are nonsense. And the six hundred and seventy-eight roubles? And the conquered territory which would give me more wealth than I should need for all my life? Indeed, it will not be well to make use of all that wealth by myself. I shall have to distribute it. But to whom? Six hundred and seventy-eight roubles to Capelle, and then we will see—"
And dim visions shrouded his thoughts, and only Vanyúsha's voice and a feeling of interrupted motion disturbed his sound, youthful sleep, and, without being
