"Kazanovitch can tell Professor Kennedy something, Doctor. I am
too weak to talk, even at this critical time. Take him to see
Boris and Ekaterina."
Almost reverently we withdrew, and Kharkoff led us down the hall
to another room. The door was ajar, and a light disclosed a man
in a Russian peasant's blouse, bending laboriously over a
writing-desk. So absorbed was he that not until Kharkoff spoke
did he look up. His figure was somewhat slight and his face pointed
and of an ascetic mould.
"Ah!" he exclaimed. "You have recalled me from a dream. I fancied
I was on the old mir with Ivan, one of my characters. Welcome,
comrades."
It flashed over me at once that this was the famous Russian novelist,
Boris Kazanovitch. I had not at first connected the name with that
of the author of those gloomy tales of peasant life. Kazanovitch
stood with his hands tucked under his blouse.
"Night is my favourite time for writing," he explained. "It is then
that the imagination works at its best."
I gazed curiously about the room. There seemed to be a marked touch
of a woman's hand here and there; it was unmistakable. At last my
eye rested on a careless heap of dainty wearing apparel on a chair
in the corner.
"Where is Nevsky?" asked Dr.
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