that an immense happiness, to have met her, to have gained her friendship, her love? And these two walking in front of him at this moment, this Markelov, this Solomin, whom he knew so little as yet, but to whom he felt so drawn, were they not fine types of the Russian nature, of Russian life, and was not it a happiness, too, to know them, to be friends with them? Then why this undefined, vague, gnawing sensation? How and why this dejection? 'If you're a brooding pessimist,' his lips murmured again, 'a damned fine revolutionist you'll make! You ought to be writing rhymes, and sulking and nursing your own petty thoughts and sensations, and busying yourself with psychological fancies and subtleties of all sorts, but at least don't mistake your sickly, nervous whims and irritability for manly indignation, for the honest anger of a man of convictions! O Hamlet, Hamlet, how to escape from the shadow of your spirit! How cease to follow you in everything, even in the loathsome enjoyment of one's own self-depreciation!'
'Alexey! Friend! Hamlet of Russia!' he heard suddenly, like the echo of these reflections, in a familiar squeaky voice. 'Is it you I see before me?'
Nezhdanov raised his eyes, and with amazement beheld Paklin!─Paklin, in quite an Arc-
198
