o'clock. Whom art thou looking for through the window?"
"The widow."
"The widow? Who is she?"
"I fear that she is sick."
"Is she thy acquaintance?"
"Evidently. If I did not know her I should not be occupied with her."
"Well, that is clear," answered Yosef. "Let us go in."
He raised the door-latch; they entered.
A smoky, hot atmosphere surrounded them. At some distance in the hall faces of various ages were visible. Amid clouds of smoke, which dimmed the light of the wall lamps, and outbursts of laughter, wandered the tones of a piano, as if wearied and indifferent. The piano was accompanied by a guitar, on which thrummed at intervals a tall, slender youth, with hair cut close to his skull and with scars on his face. He played with long fingers on the strings carelessly, fixed his great blue eyes on the ceiling, and was lost in meditation.
The person sitting at the piano had barely grown out of childhood. He had a milk-white complexion, dark hair combed toward the back of his head, sweetness on his red lips, and melancholy in his eyes. He was delicate, of a slight build of body, and good looking. It was evident that he had played a long time, for red spots on both cheeks showed great weariness.
With their backs to the light stood a number of men from the Pinsk region, all strong as oaks, and at the same time so eager for music of every sort given in the restaurant that they formed a circle around the player, drooped their heads, and listened with sighs or delight.
Other young fellows were on benches or in armchairs; a few tender girls, of the grasshopper order who sing away a summer, circled here and there. It was noisy; goblets clinked in places. In the room next the hall some were playing cards madly, and through a half-open door the face of one player was visible. Just then he was lighting a cigar at a candle standing on the corner of a table, and the flame either smothered or rising for an instant shone on his sharply cut features.
The woman at the refreshment counter examined near the light, with perfect indifference, the point of the pen with which she entered down daily sales; at her side, leaning on a table, slumbered her assistant in wondrous oblivion. A cat sitting on a corner of the counter opened his eyes at moments, and then closed them with an expression of philosophic calm and dignity.
Yosef cast a glance around the assembly.
"Ho! How art thou, Yosef?" called a number of voices.
"I am well. How are ye?"
"Hast come for good?"
"For good."
"I present him as a member of this respected society. Do thou on thy part know once for all the duty of coming here daily, and the privilege of never sleeping in human fashion," said Gustav.
"As a member? So much the better! Soon thou wilt hear a speech.—Hei, there, Augustinovich, begin!"
From that room of card-players came a young man with stooping shoulders and a head almost bald, ugly in appearance. He threw his cap on a table, and sitting in an armchair began—
"Gentlemen! If ye will not remain quiet, I shall begin to speak learnedly, and I know, my dear fellows, that for you there is nothing on earth so offensive as learned discourses. In Jove's name! Silence, I say, silence! I shall begin to discourse learnedly."
Indeed, under the influence of the threat silence reigned for a season. The speaker looked around in triumph, and continued—
"Gentlemen! If we have met here, we have met to seek in rest itself the remembrance of bitter moments. ["Very well."] Some one will say that we meet here every night. ["Very well."] I come here nightly, and I do not dream of denying it; I do not deny, either, that I am here on this occasion! [Applause; the speaker brightens and continues.] Silence! Were I forced to conclude that every effort of mine which is directed toward giving a practical turn to our meetings is shattered by general frivolousness, for I can call it general ["You can, you can!"], not directed by the current of universal agreement which breaks up in its very beginning ["Consider, gentlemen, in its very beginning"] the uniform efforts of individuals—if efforts marked by the regular object of uniting disconnected thoughts into some organic whole, will never issue from the region of imagination to the more real field of action, then, gentlemen, I am the first, and I say that there are many others with me who will agree to oppose the sense of the methods of our existence so far [Applause], and will take other methods ["Yes, yes!"] obliging, if not all, at least the chosen ones [Applause]."
"What does this mean?" asked Yosef.
"A speech," answered Gustav, shrugging his shoulders.
"With what object?"
"But how does that concern any one?"
"What kind of person is he?"
"His name is Augustinovich. He has a good head, but at this moment he is drunk, his words are confused. He knows, however, what he wants, and, as God lives, he is right."
"What does he want?"
"That we should not meet here in vain, that our meetings should have some object. But those present laugh at the object and the speech. Of necessity the change would bring dissension into the freedom and repose which thus far have reigned in these meetings."
"And what object does Augustinovich wish to give them?"
"Literary, scientific."
"That would be well."
"I have told him that he is right. If some one else were to make the proposal, the thing would pass, perhaps."
"Well, but in his case."
"On everything that he touches he leaves traces of his own ridiculousness and humiliation. Have a care, Yosef! Thou in truth art not like him in anything so far as I know, but here any man's feet may slip, if not in one, in another way."
Gustav looked with misty eyes on Augustinovich, shrugged his shoulders, and continued—
"Fate fixed itself wonderfully on that man. I tell thee that he is a collection of all the capacities, but he has little character. He has lofty desires, but his deeds are insignificant, an eternal dissension. There is no balance between his desires and his strength, hence he attains no result."
A number of Yosef's acquaintances approached; at the glass conversation grew general. Yosef inquired about the University.
"Do all the students live together?"
"Impossible," answered one of the Lithuanians. "There are people here of all the most varied conceptions, hence there are various coteries."
"That is bad."
"Not true! I admit unity as to certain higher objects; the unity of life in common is impossible, so there is no use in striving for it."
"But the German Universities?"
"In those are societies which live in themselves only. A life of feelings and
