He told them
how life had tossed him hither and thither; how he had often been
hungry and a vagrant; how he had taken part in political struggles, and
how, when weary, he had renounced these.
Lida sat motionless, listening attentively, and looking as quaint and
pretty as any charming girl would look in summer twilight.
The more he told her, the more she became convinced that this life
which she had painted for herself in such glowing colours was really
most simple and commonplace. There was something strange in it as well.
What was it? That she could not define. At any rate, from her brother's
account, it seemed to her very simple, tedious and boring. Apparently
he had lived just anywhere, and had done just anything; at work one
day, and idle the next; it was also plain that he liked drinking, and
knew a good deal about women. But life such as this had nothing dark or
sinister about it; in no way did it resemble the life she imagined her
brother had led. He had no ideas to live for; he hated no one; and for
no one had he suffered. At some of his disclosures she was positively
annoyed, especially when he told her that once, being very hard up, he
was obliged to mend his torn trousers himself.
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