will descend; the entire face will age ten years and grow sombre—evidently my own face is thus at times. Now and then I frighten her with my gaze. You know how strange and somewhat awesome is the gaze of every deeply thoughtful man. Seeing me thus the eyes of Masha will open wide, the pupils will grow darker, and, approaching me noiselessly, with uplifted hand, she will do something friendy and unexpected—smooth my hair or arrange my dress.
"Your belt will become undone," she will say, while her face will maintain its frightened expression.
However, there are moments when I see her alone. And when she is alone her face strangely seems to lack all expression. It is pale, handsome and enigmatic, like the face of a corpse. Cry out: "Masha!" and she will turn, smiling with her own gentle and timorous smile, and ask:
"Is there anything I can bring you? . . ."
She is always bringing or taking away something, and if there is nothing to bring,
