Nezhdanov sat down at last on a felled stump, surrounded by grey, ancient chips; they lay in little heaps as they had fallen, struck off by the axe. Many times had the winter snow covered them and melted from off them in the spring, and no one had touched them. Nezhdanov sat with his back to a thick hedge of young birches, in the dense, soft shade. He thought of nothing; he gave himself up utterly to that peculiar sensation of the spring in which, for young and old alike, there is always an element of pain . . . the restless pain of expectation in the young . . . the settled pain of regret in the old.. . .
Suddenly Nezhdanov heard the sound of approaching footsteps.
It was not one person coming, and not a peasant in shoes or heavy boots, nor a barefoot peasant woman. It seemed as though two persons were walking at a slow, even pace.. . . There was the light rustle of a woman's dress.. . .
Suddenly there came the sound of a hollow voice─the voice of a man: 'And so that is your last word?─never?'
'Never!' repeated another voice─a woman's─which seemed to Nezhdanov familiar, and an instant later, at a turn in the path, which at that point skirted the young birches, Marianna
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