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72 do anything for me except what is agreeable to himself; I would sooner die than admit the possibility of his doing anything for my sake under compulsion or at inconvenience to himself.' Such a passion, speaking this way, is love. But passion that speaks otherwise is passion and not love. I am going home now; I have told you everything, Viéra Pavlovna."

Viérotchka pressed his hand. "Au revoir, but why don't you congratulate me? to-day is my birthday."

Lopukhóf looked at her. "Maybe, maybe! if you have not made this mistake, then I am glad."

" soon this came, how unexpected," thinks Viérotchka alone in her room at the close of the evening. "We spoke for the first time, and yet we became such good friends; half an hour before not to know each other, and in an hour's time to become such good friends, how strange!"

No; it is not strange at all, Viérotchka. People like Lopukhóf have magical words, which attract to them every abused and persecuted creature. It is their "bride" that whispers such words into their ears. But here is something that is indeed strange, Viérotchka,—but not for you and me,—that you are so calm. Here people think that love is an exciting feeling, and you will fall asleep as gently as a child, and you will be neither frightened nor disturbed by dreams; you may dream of happy childish games, forfeits, tag, or maybe dances, also gay and unconcerned. It seems strange to some people, but you do not know that it is strange, and I know that it is not strange. Agitation in love does not point to love; agitation in it is something that should not exist, for love in itself is joyous and unconcerned.

"How strange this is," thinks Viérotchka; "here I myself, again and again have thought and felt all that he said about the poor and about women and how one should love. Where could I have got my ideas, or was it in the books which I have read? No; there is nothing of the sort there. What I found in books was either doubts or reservations, and everything like this seemed extraordinary, incredible, like ideals that are good but are impossible to be realized; and all this seems to me so simple, simpler than anything else, a perfectly ordinary thing, it cannot help being, it must be