Then, as he passed the chest of
drawers, he gave a final touch to the half-dozen ragged-edged books which
composed his library--three volumes of Puschkin, of three different
editions, Ivan Kryloff's _Poems and Fables_, Gogol's _Terrible Revenge_,
Tolstoi's _How People Live_, and two or three more, including Koltsoff,
the shepherd poet, and an ancient guide to the city of Kiew--as
heterogeneous a collection of works as could be imagined, yet all notable
in their way, except, indeed, the guide-book, for beauty, power, or
touching truth.
And when he had touched and straightened everything in the room, he
returned to his seat, calmly expectant as ever, to wait for the footsteps
on the stairs, to rise and rub his hands, if the sound reached him, to
shake his head gravely if he were again disappointed, in short to go
through the same little round of performance as before until some chiming
clock suggested to his imagination that the train had come and brought no
one, and that he might enjoy an interval of distraction in looking out of
the window until the next one arrived. The Count must have had a very
exaggerated idea of the facility of communication between Munich and
Russia, for he assuredly stood waiting for his friends, combed, brushed,
and altogether at his best, more than twenty times between the morning and
the evening. As the day declined, indeed, his imaginary railway station
must have presented a scene of dangerous confusion, for his international
express trains seemed to come in quicker and quicker succession, until he
barely had time to look out of the window before it became necessary to
comb his hair again in order to be ready for the next possible arrival.
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