Maidanov recited fragments from his poem The Murderer (this was at the height of the romantic period) which he intended to bring out in a black cover, with the title printed in blood-red letters. We stole the official’s cap off his knee and made him, as a ransom, dance a Cossack dance. We dressed up old Vonifaty in a bonnet, and the young princess put on a man’s hat…. We went on endlessly.

Byelovzorov alone kept to his corner, scowling and glowering. Sometimes his eyes would become bloodshot, his face would turn red, and then he looked as if he might, at any moment, suddenly hurl himself at us and scatter us like chaff in all directions. But the princess would glance at him now and then, shake her finger, and he would once more retreat to his corner.

At last we were completely worn out. Even the old princess who, to use her own expression, could take anything (no amount of noise seemed to upset her) – even she began to feel a little tired and decided to go and rest. Towards midnight, supper was brought in. It consisted of a piece of stale, dry cheese and some sort of small cold ham patties, which seemed to me more delicious than any pasty. There was only one bottle of wine, and a very queer one at that. The bottle was dark, with a wide neck, and the wine inside was vaguely pink; in point of fact, no one drank it. Exhausted but happy, almost collapsing, I left the lodge. Zinaida pressed my hand as I left, and again smiled mysteriously.

The night air was raw and heavy against my burning face. A storm seemed to be gathering, the black thunder clouds grew and slowly crept across the sky, visibly changing their misty outlines; a light wind shuddered restlessly in the dark trees, and from somewhere far beyond the horizon came the muffled sound of thunder, as if muttering angrily to itself.

I crept to my room by the back stairs. My man was sleeping on the floor, and I had to step over him. He woke up, saw me, and reported that my mother had again been angry with me, and had again wished to send for me, but that my father had restrained her. (I never went to bed without saying goodnight to my mother, and asking her blessing.)

But there was nothing to be done! I told my man that I would undress and get myself to bed, and then I put out the candle. But I did not undress, and did not lie down. I sat down on a chair, and remained so for a long time, as if under a spell. What I felt was so new, so sweet. I sat quite still, hardly looking round, and breathing very slowly; only from time to time I laughed silently at some memory, or grew cold at the thought that I was in love – it was here – this was love. Zinaida’s face swam gently before me in the darkness, floated, but did not float away. Her lips wore the same mysterious smile: her eyes looked at me, a little from one side, inquiring, tender, pensive, as she had looked when I left her.

At last I got up, tiptoed to my bed and, without undressing, laid my head carefully on the pillow, as if afraid of upsetting, by some sudden movement, that which filled my entire being.

I lay down, but did not even close my eyes. Soon I noticed feeble gleams of light constantly lighting the room. I sat up and looked at the window. The frame stood out sharply from the mysterious light of the panes. A storm, I thought, and I was right. A storm it was, very far away, so that the thunder could not be heard; only pale, long forks of lightning flashed ceaselessly across the sky; not flashing so much as quivering and twitching, like the wing of a dying bird.

I rose, went to the window, and stood there till morning…the lightning did not cease for an instant. It was what the peasants call a Sparrow Night. I looked at the silent, sandy stretch, at the dark mass of the Neskootchny Gardens, at the yellowish façades of distant buildings which seemed to quiver too, with each faint flash.