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Show 72 THE M RIC rmmsr TIIE ,INYlb‘lltldi l1.\'l"l‘l.E draw closer to the house. I t'elt that it, had invaded the garden and that its very hrauehes were ruhhing agains t the windows. ‘With all ot' this I was aware that: ,l was imagining some occurrence that I had already seen. that was hot, in any way. new to me, I was assured ot' the next event. \Yhen we, all of us. Marie lvanovna. Hemyonov, Kikitin and the rest. were ready we should move out into the forest, would stand. a vast company. with our dogs and horses. . . . "Vhy, it was rI‘renchard‘s dream that I was seeing! I was merely repeating to myself his own imaginations~ and with that I had suddenly. as though some one had hvpnotised me, fallen hack into a heavy dreamless sleep. I It was already midday when I was wakened hy little Andrey Vassilicvitch, who, sitting on my bed and evidently in a state of the very greatest. excitement, informed me that Dr. Semyonov and the. Sisters Marie lvanovna and Anna I'etrovna had arrived from , and that we might he otI at any moment. I was aware, as he spoke, of a great stir hc‘ yond the window and saw, passing up through the valley, a flood of soldiers. infantry, cavalry, kitchens with clumsy black funnels bobhing on their unsteady wheels, cannon. hundreds of carts; the soldiers came up through our own garden treading down the cahbagcs, stopping at the well near our door and filling their tin kettles, tramping up the. road, spreading, like smoke, in the far distance, up the high road that led into the furthest forest. "They say-to-night~for certain," said Andrey Vassilic- vitch, his fat hand tren'ibling on my bed. He began to talk, his voice shaking with excitement. "Do you know, Ivan Andreievitch, I am continually surprised at myself: ‘llerc 73 to all of you something of a comic tigure. \Yhen my with was alive-how I, wish that you could have known herl Such a. remarkahle woman: every one who met her was struck hy her tine characterrdwhen my wiIe was alive I had my position to support. That I should have heen a comic ligure would have distressed her. ,Ihtt now, who cares? Xohody, you may very truly say. . . . \Vell. well. Ilut the. point is that this evening we shall really he in the thick of it. AndAmay I tell you something, Ivan .\ndreievitch? Italy for ymu‘selt, hecause you are an l'lnglishman and can he trusted: to speak quite trutht'ully I‘m t'rightened. I say to myself that one is at the war and that one must he t'right encd at nothing, and still I remain t'rightened. . . . Fright.ened of what! . . . I really cannot tell you. lleath, perhapsf lint no. I should not he sorry to did-there are rea- >Irll.\'. . . "And yet although I should not he sorry to die. I remain Irightencd-all night I was awakcm I do my utmost to con trol it. hut there is something stronger than l , something. I tlcel as though it' I once discovered what that something was I should not he Irightcncd any longer. Sonn'thing' deti nite that you could meet and say to yourselt': "'l‘lzerc, .\n IlrI-y \Vassilicvitch, you're not Irightened ot' ///«1/, are you? What is there to he trightein-d ot'f . . . Why then, you lnow. l don‘t la‘livw‘ I should he t'rightcned any inoref' .. l rcmemher that he then explained to me that he wished \il-dtin had heen sent instead ot' Seutyonov. Nikitiu was much more sympathetic. you are, Andrey Vassilievitch. here, at the war. What do you make of it ?' I say to myself. Just consider. "You seem \cry t'ond ot‘ Nikitin." I said. "We are t‘riends . . . we have lwelt friends for many )cars. .\ly witc was very l'ond ot' him. I am a lonely :‘Io, hut seriously, Ivan Andreicvitch, of course I must seem man. Ivan .\tnlreie\'itch. since the death ot' my wit'e, and |