The old butler made a great ado in the house at the approach of the New Year. In preparation for a great ball, he cleared the inlaid floors, spread carpets, filled the lamps; placed new candles here and there; took the silver and the dinner-services out of their chests, and all the for fortune-telling. By New Year's Eve the house was in order, the stately rooms glittering with lights, and uniformed village-lads stood by the doors.  
Kseniya Ippolytovna awoke late on that day and did not get up, lying without stirring in bed until dinner time, her hands behind her head. It was a clear, bright day and the sun's golden rays streamed in through the windows, and were reflected on the polished floor, casting shadows over the dark heavy on the walls. Outside was the cold blue glare of the snow, which was marked with the of birds' feet, and a vast stretch of clear sky.
 
The bedroom was large and gloomy; the polished floor was covered with rugs; a double bedstead stood against the further wall; a large wardrobe was placed in a corner.
 
Kseniya Ippolytovna looked haggard and unhappy. She took a bath before dinner; then had her meal—alone, in state, drowsing lingeringly over it with a book.
 
Crows, the birds of destruction, were cawing and gossiping outside in the park. At dusk the fragile new moon rose for a brief while. The frosty night was crisp and sparkling. The stars shone diamond-bright in the vast, all-embracing of blue; the snow was a soft, green.
 
Polunin arrived early. Kseniya Ippolytovna greeted him in the drawing-room. A bright fire burnt on the ; beside it were two deep armchairs. No lamps were alight, but the fire-flames cast warm, orange reflections; the round-topped windows seemed silvery in the hoar-frost.
 
Kseniya Ippolytovna wore a dark evening dress and had plaited her hair; she shook hands with Polunin.
 
"I am feeling sad to-day, Polunin," she said in a voice.
They sat down in the armchairs.
"I expected you at five. It is now six. But you are always churlish and inconsiderate towards women. You haven't once wanted to be alone with me—or guessed that I desired it!" She calmly, rather coldly, gazing into the fire, her cheeks cupped between her narrow palms. "You are so very silent, a perfect diplomat…. What is it like in the fields to-day? Cold? Warm? Tea will be served in a moment."
 
There was a pause.
 
At last Polunin broke the silence.
 
"Yes, it was bitterly cold, but fine." After a further pause he added: "When we last talked together you did not say all that was in your mind. Say it now."
 
Kseniya Ippolytovna laughed:
 
"I have already said everything! Isn't it cold? I have not been out to-day. I have been thinking about Paris and of that … that June…. Tea should be ready by this time!"
 
She rose and rung the bell, and the old butler came in.
 
"Will tea be long?"
 
"I will bring it now, Barina."
 
He went out and returned with a tray on which were two glasses of tea, a decanter of rum, some , , and honey, and laid them on the little table beside the armchairs.
 
"Will you have the lamps lighted, Barina?" he inquired, respectfully.
 
"No. You may go. Close the door."
 
The old butler looked at them knowingly; then withdrew.
 Kseniya turned at once to Polunin.
"I have told you everything. How is it you have not understood? Drink up your tea."
 
"Tell me again," he pleaded.
 
"Take your tea first; pour out the rum. I repeat I have already told you all. You remember about the mice? Did you not understand that?" Kseniya Ippolytovna sat in her chair; she spoke coldly, in the same distant tone in which she had addressed the butler.
 
Polunin shook his head: "No, I haven't understood."
 
"Dear me, dear me!" she mocked, "and you used to be so quick-witted, my . Still, health and happiness do not always sharpen the wits. You are healthy and happy, aren't you?"
 
"You are being unjust again," Polunin protested. "You know very well that I love you."
 
Kseniya Ippolytovna gave a short laugh: "Oh, come, come! None of that!" She drank her glass of tea , threw herself back in the chair, and was silent.
 
Polunin also took his, warming himself after his cold drive.
 
She spoke again after a while in a quiet dreamy tone: "In this stove, flames will suddenly up, then die away, and it will become cold. You and I have always had broken conversations. Perhaps the Arkhipovs are right—when it seems , kill! When it seems expedient, breed! That is wise, , honest…." Suddenly she sat erect, pouring out quick, , words:
 
"Do you love me? Do you desire me … as a woman?… to kiss, to ?… You understand? No, be silent! I am …. I come to you as you came to me that June…. You didn't understand about the mice?… Or perhaps you did.
 
"Have you noticed, have you ever reflected on that which does not change in man's life, but for ever the same? No, no, wait!… There have been hundreds of religions, , , sciences, systems: they have all changed and are still changing— only one law remains unaltered, that all living things—whether men, mice, or rye—are born, breed, and die.
 
"I was packing up for Nice, where a lover expected me, when suddenly I felt an overwhelming desire for a babe, a dear, sweet, little babe of my own, and I remembered you …. Then I travelled here, to Russia so as to bear it in reverence…. I am able to do so now!…"
 
Polunin rose and stood close to Kseniya Ippolytovna: his expression was serious and alarmed.
 
"Don't beat me," she murmured.
 
"You are innocent, Kseniya," he replied.
 
"Oh, there you go again!" she cried impatiently. "Always sin and ! I am a stupid woman, full of beliefs and superstitions— nothing more—like all women. I want to conceive here, to breed and bear a child here. Do you wish to be the father?"
 
She stood up, looking intently into Polunin's eyes.
 
"What are you saying, Kseniya?" he asked in a low, grave, pained tone.
 
"I have told you what I want. Give me a child and then go—anywhere— back to your Alena! I have not forgotten that June and July."
 
"I cannot," Polunin replied firmly; "I love Alena."
 
"I do not want love," she persisted; "I have no need of it. Indeed I have not, for I do not even love you!" She spoke in a low, faint voice, and passed her hand over her face.
 
"I must go," the man said at last.
 
She looked at him sharply. "Where to?"
 
"How do you mean 'where to'? I must go away altogether!"
 
"Ah, those tragedies, duties, and sins again!" she cried, her eyes burning into his with and contempt. "Isn't it all simple? Didn't you make a contract with me?"
 
"I have never made one without love. And I love only Alena. I must go."
 
"Oh, what cruel, ascetical egoism!" she cried violently. Then suddenly all her rage died down, and she sat quietly in the chair, covering her face with her hands.
 
Polunin stood by, his shoulders bowed, his arms hanging limply. His face betrayed grief and anxiety.
 
Kseniya looked up at him with a smile: "It is all right—there is no need to go… It was only my nonsense…. I was merely my anger…. Don't mind me …. I am tired and . Of course I have not been purged. I know that is impossible… We are the 'heisha-girls of lantern-light'…. You remember Annensky? … Give me your hand."
 
Polunin stretched out his large hand, took her yielding one in his and pressed its delicate fingers.
 
"You have forgiven me?" she murmured.
 
He looked at her helplessly, then muttered: "I cannot either forgive or not forgive. But … I cannot!"
 
"Never mind; we shall forget. We shall be cheerful and happy. You remember: 'Where beauty shines amidst and baseness there is only torment'…. You need not mind, it is all over!"
 
She uttered the last few words with a cry, raised herself erect, and laughed aloud with forced gaiety.
 
"We shall tell fortunes, jest, drink, be merry—like our grandfathers … you remember! …Had not our grandmothers their coachmen friends?"
 
She rang the bell and the butler came in.
 
"Bring in more tea. Light the fire and the lamps."
 
The fire burnt brig............