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That
’
s
bad
!
There
’
s
something
common
,
vulgar
,
in
flirting
with
one
’
s
governess
.
But
what
a
governess
!
(
He
vividly
recalled
the
roguish
black
eyes
of
Mlle
.
Roland
and
her
smile
.
)
“
But
after
all
,
while
she
was
in
the
house
,
I
kept
myself
in
hand
.
And
the
worst
of
it
all
is
that
she
’
s
already
.
.
.
it
seems
as
if
ill
-
luck
would
have
it
so
!
Oh
,
oh
!
But
what
,
what
is
to
be
done
?
”
There
was
no
solution
,
but
that
universal
solution
which
life
gives
to
all
questions
,
even
the
most
complex
and
insoluble
.
That
answer
is
:
one
must
live
in
the
needs
of
the
day
—
that
is
,
forget
oneself
.
To
forget
himself
in
sleep
was
impossible
now
,
at
least
till
nighttime
;
he
could
not
go
back
now
to
the
music
sung
by
the
decanter
-
women
;
so
he
must
forget
himself
in
the
dream
of
daily
life
.
“
Then
we
shall
see
,
”
Stepan
Arkadyevitch
said
to
himself
,
and
getting
up
he
put
on
a
gray
dressing
-
gown
lined
with
blue
silk
,
tied
the
tassels
in
a
knot
,
and
,
drawing
a
deep
breath
of
air
into
his
broad
,
bare
chest
,
he
walked
to
the
window
with
his
usual
confident
step
,
turning
out
his
feet
that
carried
his
full
frame
so
easily
.
He
pulled
up
the
blind
and
rang
the
bell
loudly
.
It
was
at
once
answered
by
the
appearance
of
an
old
friend
,
his
valet
,
Matvey
,
carrying
his
clothes
,
his
boots
,
and
a
telegram
.
Matvey
was
followed
by
the
barber
with
all
the
necessaries
for
shaving
.
“
Are
there
any
papers
from
the
office
?
”
asked
Stepan
Arkadyevitch
,
taking
the
telegram
and
seating
himself
at
the
looking
-
glass
.
“
On
the
table
,
”
replied
Matvey
,
glancing
with
inquiring
sympathy
at
his
master
;
and
,
after
a
short
pause
,
he
added
with
a
sly
smile
,
“
They
’
ve
sent
from
the
carriage
-
jobbers
.
”
Stepan
Arkadyevitch
made
no
reply
,
he
merely
glanced
at
Matvey
in
the
looking
-
glass
.
In
the
glance
,
in
which
their
eyes
met
in
the
looking
-
glass
,
it
was
clear
that
they
understood
one
another
.
Stepan
Arkadyevitch
’
s
eyes
asked
:
“
Why
do
you
tell
me
that
?
don
’
t
you
know
?
”
Matvey
put
his
hands
in
his
jacket
pockets
,
thrust
out
one
leg
,
and
gazed
silently
,
good
-
humoredly
,
with
a
faint
smile
,
at
his
master
.
“
I
told
them
to
come
on
Sunday
,
and
till
then
not
to
trouble
you
or
themselves
for
nothing
,
”
he
said
.
He
had
obviously
prepared
the
sentence
beforehand
.
Stepan
Arkadyevitch
saw
Matvey
wanted
to
make
a
joke
and
attract
attention
to
himself
.
Tearing
open
the
telegram
,
he
read
it
through
,
guessing
at
the
words
,
misspelt
as
they
always
are
in
telegrams
,
and
his
face
brightened
.
“
Matvey
,
my
sister
Anna
Arkadyevna
will
be
here
tomorrow
,
”
he
said
,
checking
for
a
minute
the
sleek
,
plump
hand
of
the
barber
,
cutting
a
pink
path
through
his
long
,
curly
whiskers
.
