On The Eve:Chapters XXIII-XXIX

XXIII

Three weeks after Kurnatovsky's first visit, Anna Vassilyevna, to Elena's great delight, returned to Moscow, to her large wooden house near Prechistenka; a house with columns, white lyres and wreaths over every window, with an attic, offices, a palisade, a huge green court, a well in the court and a dog's kennel near the well. Anna Vassilyevna had never left her country villa so early, but this year with the first autumn chills her face swelled; Nikolai Artemyevitch for his part, having finished his cure, began to want his wife; besides, Augustina Christianovna had gone away on a visit to her cousin in Revel; a family of foreigners, known as 'living statues,' _des poses plastiques_, had come to Moscow, and the description of them in the _Moscow Gazette_ had aroused Anna Vassilyevna's liveliest curiosity. In short, to stay longer at the villa seemed inconvenient, and even, in Nikolai Artemyevitch's words, incompatible with the fulfilment of his 'cherished projects.' The last fortnight seemed very long to Elena. Kurnatovsky came over twice on Sundays; on other days he was busy. He came really to see Elena, but talked more to Zoya, who was much pleased with him. '_Das ist ein Mann_!' she thought to herself, as she looked at his full manly face and listened to his self-confident, condescending talk. To her mind, no one had such a wonderful voice, no one could pronounce so nicely, 'I had the hon-our,' or, 'I am most de-lighted.' Insarov did not come to the Stahovs, but Elena saw him once in secret in a little copse by the Moskva river, where she arranged to meet him. They hardly had time to say more than a few words to each other. Shubin returned to Moscow with Anna Vassilyevna; Bersenyev, a few days later.

Insarov was sitting in his room, and for the third time looking through the letters brought him from Bulgaria by hand; they were afraid to send them by post. He was much disturbed by them. Events were developing rapidly in the East; the occupation of the Principalities by Russian troops had thrown all men's minds into a ferment; the storm was growing – already could be felt the breath of approaching inevitable war. The fire was kindling all round, and no one could foresee how far it would go – where it would stop. Old wrongs, long cherished hopes – all were astir again. Insarov's heart throbbed eagerly; his hopes too were being realised. 'But is it not too soon, will it not be in vain?' he thought, tightly clasping his hands. 'We are not ready, but so be it! I must go.'

Something rustled lightly at the door, it flew quickly open, and into the room ran Elena.

Insarov, all in a tremor, rushed to her, fell on his knees before her, clasped her waist and pressed it close against his head.

'You didn't expect me?' she said, hardly able to draw her breath, she had run quickly up the stairs. 'Dear one! dear one! – so this is where you live? I've quickly found you. The daughter of your landlord conducted me. We arrived the day before yesterday. I meant to write to you, but I thought I had better come myself. I have come for a quarter of an hour. Get up, shut the door.'

He got up, quickly shut the door, returned to her and took her by the hands. He could not speak; he was choking with delight. She looked with a smile into his eyes . . . there was such rapture in them . . . she felt shy.

'Stay,' she said, fondly taking her hand away from him, 'let me take off my hat.'

She untied the strings of her hat, flung it down, slipped the cape off her shoulders, tidied her hair, and sat down on the little old sofa. Insarov gazed at her, without stirring, like one enchanted.

'Sit down,' she said, not lifting her eyes to him and motioning him to a place beside her.

Insarov sat down, not on the sofa, but on the floor at her feet.

'Come, take off my gloves,' she said in an uncertain voice. She felt afraid.

He began first to unbutton and then to draw off one glove; he drew it half off and greedily pressed his lips to the slender, soft wrist, which was white under it.

Elena shuddered, and would have pushed him back with the other hand; he began kissing the other hand too. Elena drew it away, he threw back his head, she looked into his face, bent above him, and their lips touched.

An instant passed . . . she broke away, got up, whispered 'No, no,' and went quickly up to the writing-table.

'I am mistress here, you know, so you ought not to have any secrets from me,' she said, trying to seem at ease, and standing with her back to him. 'What a lot of papers! what are these letters?'

Insarov knitted his brows. 'Those letters?' he said, getting up, 'you can read them.'

Elena turned them over in her hand. 'There are so many of them, and the writing is so fine, and I have to go directly … let them be. They're not from a rival, eh? … and they're not in Russian,' she added, turning over the thin sheets.

Insarov came close to her and fondly touched her waist. She turned suddenly to him, smiled brightly at him and leant against his shoulder.

'Those letters are from Bulgaria, Elena; my friends write to me, they want me to come.'

'Now? To them?'

'Yes . . . now, while there is still time, while it is still possible to come.'

All at once she flung both arms round his neck, 'You will take me with you, yes?'

He pressed her to his heart. 'O my sweet girl, O my heroine, how you said that! But isn't it wicked, isn't it mad for me, a homeless, solitary man, to drag you with me . . . and out there too!'

She shut his mouth. . . . 'Sh – or I shall be angry, and never come to see you again. Why isn't it all decided, all settled between us? Am I not your wife? Can a wife be parted from her husband?'

'Wives don't go to war,' he said with a half-mournful smile.

'Oh yes, when they can't stay behind, and I cannot stay here?'

'Elena, my angel! . . but think, I have, perhaps, to leave Moscow in a fortnight. I can't think of university lectures, or finishing my work.'

'What!' interrupted Elena, 'you have to go soon? If you like, I will stop at once this minute with you for ever, and not go home, shall I? Shall we go at once?'

Insarov clasped her in his arms with redoubled warmth. 'May God so reward me then,' he cried, 'if I am doing wrong! From to-day, we are one for ever!'

'Am I to stay?' asked Elena.

'No, my pure girl; no, my treasure. You shall go back home to-day, only keep yourself in readiness. This is a matter we can't manage straight off; we must plan it out well. We want money, a passport – – '

'I have money,' put in Elena. 'Eighty roubles.'

'Well, that's not much,' observed Insarov; 'but everything's a help.'

'But I can get more. I will borrow. I will ask mamma. . . . No, I won't ask mamma for any. . . . But I can sell my watch. … I have earrings, too, and two bracelets . . . and lace.'

'Money's not the chief difficulty, Elena; the passport; your passport, how about that?'

'Yes, how about it? Is a passport absolutely necessary?'

'Absolutely.'

Elena laughed. 'What a queer idea! I remember when I was little … a maid of ours ran away. She was caught, and forgiven, and lived with us a long while . . . but still every one used to call her Tatyana, the runaway. I never thought then that I too might perhaps be a runaway like her.'

'Elena, aren't you ashamed?'

'Why? Of course it's better to go with a passport. But if we can't – – '

'We will settle all that later, later, wait a little,' said Insarov. 'Let me look about; let me think a little. We will talk over everything together thoroughly. I too have money.'

Elena pushed back the hair that fell over on his forehead.

'O Dmitri! how glorious it will be for us two to set off together!'

'Yes,' said Insarov, 'but there, when we get there – – '

'Well?' put in Elena, 'and won't it be glorious to die together too? but no, why should we die? We will live, we are young. How old are you? Twenty-six?'

'Yes, twenty-six.'

'And I am twenty. There is plenty of time before us. Ah, you tried to run away from me? You did not want a Russian's love, you Bulgarian! Let me see you trying to escape from me now! What would have become of us, if I hadn't come to you then!'

'Elena, you know what forced me to go away.'

'I know; you were in love, and you were afraid. But surely you must have suspected that you were loved?'

'I swear on my honour, Elena, I didn't.'

She gave him a quick unexpected kiss. 'There, I love you for that too. And goodbye.'

'You can't stop longer?' asked Insarov.

'No, dearest. Do you think it's easy for me to get out alone? The quarter of an hour was over long ago.' She put on her cape and hat. 'And you come to us to-morrow evening. No, the day after to-morrow. We shall be constrained and dreary, but we can't help that; at least we shall see each other. Good-bye. Let me go.'

He embraced her for the last time. 'Ah, take care, you have broken my watch-chain. Oh, what a clumsy boy! There, never mind. It's all the better. I will go to Kuznetsky bridge, and leave it to be mended. If I am asked, I can say I have been to Kuznetsky bridge.' She held the door-handle. 'By-the-way, I forgot to tell you, Monsieur Kurnatovsky will certainly make me an offer in a day or two. But the answer I shall make him – will be this – – ' She put the thumb of her left hand to the tip of her nose and flourished the other fingers in the air. 'Good-bye till we see each other again. Now, I know the way … And don't lose any time.'

Elena opened the door a little, listened, turned round to Insarov, nodded her head, and glided out of the room.

For a minute Insarov stood before the closed door, and he too listened. The door downstairs into the court slammed. He went up to the sofa, sat down, and covered his eyes with his hands. Never before had anything like this happened to him. 'What have I done to deserve such love?' he thought. 'Is it a dream?'

But the delicate scent of mignonette left by Elena in his poor dark little room told of her visit. And with it, it seemed that the air was still full of the notes of a young voice, and the sound of a light young tread, and the warmth and freshness of a young girlish body.

XXIV

Insarov decided to await more positive news, and began to make preparations for departure. The difficulty was a serious one. For him personally there were no obstacles. He had only to ask for a passport – but how would it be with Elena? To get her a passport in the legal way was impossible. Should he marry her secretly, and should they then go and present themselves to the parents? . . . 'They would let us go then,' he thought 'But if they did not? We would go all the same. But suppose they were to make a complaint . . . if … No, better try to get a passport somehow.'

He decided to consult (of course mentioning no names) one of his acquaintances, an attorney, retired from practice, or perhaps struck off the rolls, an old and experienced hand at all sorts of clandestine business. This worthy person did not live near; Insarov was a whole hour in getting to him in a very sorry droshky, and, to make matters worse, he did not find him at home; and on his way back got soaked to the skin by a sudden downpour of rain. The next morning, in spite of a rather severe headache, Insarov set off a second time to call on the retired attorney. The retired attorney listened to him attentively, taking snuff from a snuff-box decorated with a picture of a full-bosomed nymph, and glancing stealthily at his visitor with his sly, and also snuff-coloured little eyes; he heard him to the end, and then demanded 'greater definiteness in the statement of the facts of the case'; and observing that Insarov was unwilling to launch into particulars (it was against the grain that he had come to him at all) he confined himself to the advice to provide himself above all things with 'the needful,' and asked him to come to him again, 'when you have,' he added, sniffing at the snuff in the open snuff-box, 'augmented your confidence and decreased your diffidence' (he talked with a broad accent). 'A passport,' he added, as though to himself, 'is a thing that can be arranged; you go a journey, for instance; who's to tell whether you're Marya Bredihin or Karolina Vogel-meier?' A feeling of nausea came over Insarov, but he thanked the attorney, and promised to come to him again in a day or two.

The same evening he went to the Stahovs. Anna Vassilyevna met him cordially, reproached him a little for having quite forgotten them, and, finding him pale, inquired especially after his health. Nikolai Artemyevitch did not say a single word to him; he only stared at him with elaborately careless curiosity; Shubin treated him coldly; but Elena astounded him. She was expecting him; she had put on for him the very dress she wore on the day of their first interview in the chapel; but she welcomed him so calmly, and was so polite and carelessly gay, that no one looking at her could have believed that this girl's fate was already decided, and that it was only the secret consciousness of happy love that gave fire to her features, lightness and charm to all her gestures. She poured out tea in Zoya's place, jested, chattered; she knew Shubin would be watching her, that Insarov was incapable of wearing a mask, and incapable of appearing indifferent, and she had prepared herself beforehand. She was not mistaken; Shubin never took his eyes off her, and Insarov was very silent and gloomy the whole evening. Elena was so happy that she even felt an inclination to tease him.

'Oh, by the way,' she said to him suddenly, 'is your plan getting on at all?'

Insarov was taken aback.

'What plan?' he said.

'Why, have you forgotten?' she rejoined, laughing in his face; he alone could tell the meaning of that happy laugh: 'Your Bulgarian selections for Russian readers?'

'_Quelle bourde_!' muttered Nikolai Artemyevitch between his teeth.

Zoya sat down to the piano. Elena gave a just perceptible shrug of the shoulders, and with her eyes motioned Insarov to the door. Then she twice slowly touched the table with her finger, and looked at him. He understood that she was promising to see him in two days, and she gave him a quick smile when she saw he understood her. Insarov got up and began to take leave; he felt unwell. Kurnatovsky arrived. Nikolai Artemyevitch jumped up, raised his right hand higher than his head, and softly dropped it into the palm of the chief secretary. Insarov would have remained a few minutes longer, to have a look at his rival. Elena shook her head unseen; the host did not think it necessary to introduce them to one another, and Insarov departed, exchanging one last look with Elena. Shubin pondered and pondered, and threw himself into a fierce argument with Kurnatovsky on a legislative question, about which he had not a single idea.

Insarov did not sleep all night, and in the morning he felt very ill; he set to work, however, putting his papers into order and writing letters, but his head was heavy and confused. At dinner time he began to be in a fever; he could eat nothing. The fever grew rapidly worse towards evening; he had aching pains in all his limbs, and a terrible headache. Insarov lay down on the very little sofa on which Elena had lately sat; he thought: 'It serves me right for going to that old rascal,' and he tried to sleep. . . . But the illness had by now complete mastery of him. His veins were throbbing violently, his blood was on fire, his thoughts were flying round like birds. He sank into forgetfulness. He lay like a man felled by a blow on his face, and suddenly, it seemed to him, some one was softly laughing and whispering over him: he opened his eyes with an effort, the light of the flaring candle smote him like a knife. . . . What was it? the old attorney was before him in an Oriental silk gown belted with a silk handkerchief, as he had seen him the evening before. . . . 'Karolina Vogelmeier,' muttered his toothless mouth. Insarov stared, and the old man grew wide and thick and tall, he was no longer a man, he was a tree. . . . Insarov had to climb along its gnarled branches. He clung, and fell with his breast on a sharp stone, and Karolina Vogelmeier was sitting on her heels, looking like a pedlar-woman, and lisping: 'Pies, pies, pies for sale'; and there were streams of blood and swords flashing incessantly. . . . Elena! And everything vanished is a crimson chaos.

XXV

'There's some one here looks like a locksmith or something of the sort,' Bersenyev was informed the following evening by his servant, who was distinguished by a severe deportment and sceptical turn of mind towards his master; 'he wants to see you.'

'Ask him in,' said Bersenyev.

The 'locksmith' entered. Bersenyev recognised in him the tailor, the landlord of Insarov's lodgings.

'What do you want?' he asked him.

'I came to your honour,' began the tailor, shifting from one foot to the other, and at times waving his right hand with his cuff clutched in his three last fingers. 'Our lodger, seemingly, is very ill.'

'Insarov?'

'Yes, our lodger, to be sure; yesterday morning he was still on his legs, in the evening he asked for nothing but drink; the missis took him some water, and at night he began talking away; we could hear him through the partition-wall; and this morning he lies without a word like a log, and the fever he's in, Lord have mercy on us! I thought, upon my word, he'll die for sure; I ought to send word to the police station, I thought. For he's so alone; but the missis said: “Go to that gentleman,” she says, “at whose country place our lodger stayed; maybe he'll tell you what to do, or come himself.” So I've come to your honour, for we can't, so to say – – '

Bersenyev snatched up his cap, thrust a rouble into the tailor's hand, and at once set off with him post haste to Insarov's lodgings.

He found him lying on the sofa, unconscious and not undressed. His face was terribly changed. Bersenyev at once ordered the people of the house to undress him and put him to bed, while he rushed off himself and returned with a doctor. The doctor prescribed leeches, mustard-poultices, and calomel, and ordered him to be bled.

'Is he dangerously ill?' asked Bersenyev.

'Yes, very dangerously,' answered the doctor. 'Severe inflammation of the lungs; peripneumonia fully developed, and the brain perhaps affected, but the patient is young. His very strength is something against him now. I was sent for too late; still we will do all that science dictates.'

The doctor was young himself, and still believed in science.

Bersenyev stayed the night. The people of the house seemed kind, and even prompt directly there was some one to tell them what was to be done. An assistant arrived, and began to carry out the medical measures.

Towards morning Insarov revived for a few minutes, recognised Bersenyev, asked: 'Am I ill, then?' looked about him with the vague, listless bewilderment of a man dangerously ill, and again relapsed into unconsciousness. Bersenyev went home, changed his clothes, and, taking a few books along with him, he returned to Insarov's lodgings. He made up his mind to stay there, at least for a time. He shut in Insarov's bed with screens, and arranged a little place for himself by the sofa. The day passed slowly and drearily. Bersenyev did not leave the room except to get his dinner. The evening came. He lighted a candle with a shade, and settled down to a book. Everything was still around. Through the partition wall could be heard suppressed whispering in the landlord's room, then a yawn, and a sigh. Some one sneezed, and was scolded in a whisper; behind the screen was heard the patient's heavy, uneven breathing, sometimes broken by a short groan, and the uneasy tossing of his head on the pillow. . . . Strange fancies came over Bersenyev. He found himself in the room of a man whose life was hanging on a thread, the man whom, as he knew, Elena loved. . . . He remembered that night when Shubin had overtaken him and declared that she loved him, him, Bersenyev! And now. . . . 'What am I to do now?' he asked himself. 'Let Elena know of his illness? Wait a little? This would be worse news for her than what I told her once before; strange how fate makes me the go-between between them!' He made up his mind that it was better to wait a little. His eyes fell on the table covered with heaps of papers. . . 'Will he carry out his dreams?' thought Bersenyev. 'Can it be that all will come to nothing?' And he was filled with pity for the young life struck down, and he vowed to himself to save it.

The night was an uneasy one. The sick man was very delirious. Several times Bersenyev got up from his little sofa, approached the bed on tip-toe, and listened with a heavy heart to his disconnected muttering. Only once Insarov spoke with sudden distinctness: 'I won't, I won't, she mustn't. . . .' Bersenyev started and looked at Insarov; his face, suffering and death-like at the same time, was immovable, and his hands lay powerless. 'I won't,' he repeated, scarcely audibly.

The doctor came in the morning, shook his head and wrote fresh prescriptions. 'The crisis is a long way off still,' he said, putting on his hat.

'And after the crisis?' asked Bersenyev.

'The crisis may end in two ways, _aut Caesar aut nihil_.

The doctor went away. Bersenyev walked a few times up and down the street; he felt in need of fresh air. He went back and took up a book again. Raumer he had finished long ago; he was now making a study of Grote.

Suddenly the door softly creaked, and the head of the landlord's daughter, covered as usual with a heavy kerchief, was cautiously thrust into the room.

'Here is the lady,' she whispered, 'who gave me a silver piece.'

The child's head vanished quickly, and in its place appeared Elena.

Bersenyev jumped up as if he had been stung; but Elena did not stir, nor cry out. It seemed as if she understood everything in a single instant. A terrible pallor overspread her face, she went up to the screen, looked behind it, threw up her arms, and seemed turned to stone.

A moment more and she would have flung herself on Insarov, but Bersenyev stopped her. 'What are you doing?' he said in a trembling whisper, 'you might be the death of him!'

She was reeling. He led her to the sofa, and made her sit down.

She looked into his face, then her eyes ran over him from head to foot, then stared at the floor.

'Will he die?' she asked so coldly and quietly that Bersenyev was frightened.

'For God's sake, Elena Nikolaevna,' he began, 'what are you saying? He is ill certainly – and rather seriously – but we will save him; I promise you that'

'He is unconscious?' she asked in the same tone of voice as before.

'Yes, he is unconscious at present. That's always the case at the early stage of these illnesses, but it means nothing, nothing – I assure you. Drink some water.'

She raised her eyes to his, and he saw she had not heard his answer.

'If he dies,' she said in the same voice,' I will die too.'

At that instant Insarov uttered a slight moan; she trembled all over, clutched at her head, then began untying the strings of her hat.

'What are you doing?' Bersenyev asked her.

'I will stay here.'

'You will stay – for long?'

'I don't know, perhaps all day, the night, always – I don't know.'

'For God's sake, Elena Nikolaevna, control yourself. I could not of course have any expectation of seeing you here; but still I – assume you have come for a short time. Remember they may miss you at home.'

'What then?'

'They will look for you – find you – – '

'What then?'

'Elena Nikolaevna! You see. He cannot now protect you.'

She dropped her head, seemed lost in thought, raised a handkerchief to her lips, and convulsive sobs, tearing her by their violence, were suddenly wrung from her breast. She threw herself, face downwards, on the sofa, trying to stifle them, but still her body heaved and throbbed like a captured bird.

'Elena Nikolaevna – for God's sake,' Bersenyev was repeating over her.

'Ah! What is it?' suddenly sounded the voice of Insarov.

Elena started up, and Bersenyev felt rooted to the spot. After waiting a little, he went up to the bed. Insarov's head lay on the pillow helpless as before; his eyes were closed.

'Is he delirious?' whispered Elena.

'It seems so,' answered Bersenyev, 'but that's nothing; it's always so, especially if – – '

'When was he taken ill?' Elena broke in.

'The day before yesterday; I have been here since yesterday. Rely on me, Elena Nikolaevna. I will not leave him; everything shall be done. If necessary, we will have a consultation.'

'He will die without me,' she cried, wringing her hands.

'I give you my word I will let you hear every day how his illness goes on, and if there should be immediate danger – – '

'Swear you will send for me at once whenever it may be, day or night, write a note straight to me – I care for nothing now. Do you hear? you promise you will do that?'

'I promise before God'

'Swear it.'

'I swear.'

She suddenly snatched his hand, and before he had time to pull it away, she had bent and pressed her lips to it.

'Elena Nikolaevna, what are you – – ' he stammered.

'No – no – I won't have it – – ' Insarov muttered indistinctly, and sighed painfully.

Elena went up to the screen, her handkerchief pressed between her teeth, and bent a long, long look on the sick man. Silent tears rolled down her cheeks.

'Elena Nikolaevna,' Bersenyev said to her, 'he might come to himself and recognise you; there's no knowing if that wouldn't do harm. Besides, from hour to hour I expect the doctor.'

Elena took her hat from the sofa, put it on and stood still. Her eyes strayed mournfully over the room. She seemed to be remembering. …

'I cannot go away,' she whispered at last.

Bersenyev pressed her hand: 'Try to pull yourself together,' he said, 'calm yourself; you are leaving him in my care. I will come to you this very evening.'

Elena looked at him, said: 'Oh, my good, kind friend!' broke into sobs and rushed away.

Bersenyev leaned against the door. A feeling of sorrow and bitterness, not without a kind of strange consolation, overcame him. 'My good, kind friend!' he thought and shrugged his shoulders.

'Who is here?' he heard Insarov's voice.

Bersenyev went up to him. 'I am here, Dmitri Nikanorovitch. How are you? How do you feel?'

'Are you alone?' asked the sick man.

'Yes.'

'And she?'

'Whom do you mean?' Bersenyev asked almost in dismay.

Insarov was silent. 'Mignonette,' he murmured, and his eyes closed again.

XXVI

For eight whole days Insarov lay between life and death. The doctor was incessantly visiting him, interested as a young man in a difficult case. Shubin heard of Insarov's critical position, and made inquiries after him. His compatriots – Bulgarians – came; among them Bersenyev recognised the two strange figures, who had puzzled him by their unexpected visit to the cottage; they all showed genuine sympathy, some offered to take Bersenyev's place by the patient's bed-side; but he would not consent to that, remembering his promise to Elena. He saw her every day and secretly reported to her – sometimes by word of mouth, sometimes in a brief note – every detail of the illness. With what sinkings of the heart she awaited him, how she listened and questioned him! She was always on the point of hastening to Insarov herself; but Bersenyev begged her not to do this: Insarov was seldom alone. On the first day she knew of his illness she herself had almost fallen ill; directly she got home, she shut herself up in her room; but she was summoned to dinner, and appeared in the dining-room with such a face that Anna Vassilyevna was alarmed, and was anxious to put her to bed. Elena succeeded, however, in controlling herself. 'If he dies,' she repeated, 'it will be the end of me too.' This thought tranquillised her, and enabled her to seem indifferent. Besides no one troubled her much; Anna Vassilyevna was taken up with her swollen face; Shubin was working furiously; Zoya was given up to pensiveness, and disposed to read _Werther_; Nikolai Artemyevitch was much displeased at the frequent visits of 'the scholar,' especially as his 'cherished projects' in regard to Kurnatovsky were making no way; the practical chief secretary was puzzled and biding his time. Elena did not even thank Bersenyev; there are services for which thanks are cruel and shameful. Only once at her fourth interview with him – Insarov had passed a very bad night, the doctor had hinted at a consultation – only then she reminded him of his promise. 'Very well, then let us go,' he said to her. She got up and was going to get ready. 'No,' he decided, 'let us wait till to-morrow.' Towards evening Insarov was rather better.

For eight days this torture was prolonged. Elena appeared calm; but she could eat nothing, and did not sleep at night. There was a dull ache in all her limbs; her head seemed full of a sort of dry burning smoke. 'Our young lady's wasting like a candle,' her maid said of her.

At last by the ninth day the crisis was passing over. Elena was sitting in the drawing-room near Anna Vassilyevna, and, without knowing herself what she was doing, was reading her the _Moscow Gazette_; Bersenyev came in. Elena glanced at him – how rapid, and fearful, and penetrating, and tremulous, was the first glance she turned on him every time – and at once she guessed that he brought good news. He was smiling; he nodded slightly to her, she got up to go and meet him.

'He has regained consciousness, he is saved, he will be quite well again in a week,' he whispered to her.

Elena had stretched out her arm as though to ward off a blow, and she said nothing, only her lips trembled and a flush of crimson overspread her whole face. Bersenyev began to talk to Anna Vassilyevna, and Elena went off to her own room, dropped on her knees and fell to praying, to thanking God. Light, shining tears trickled down her cheeks. Suddenly she was conscious of intense weariness, laid her head down on the pillow, whispered 'poor Andrei Petrovitch!' and at once fell asleep with wet eheeks and eyelashes. It was long since she had slept or wept.

XXVII

Bersenyev's words turned out only partly true; the danger was over, but Insarov gained strength slowly, and the doctor talked of a complete undermining of the whole system. The patient left his bed for all that, and began to walk about the room; Bersenyev went home to his own lodging, but he came every day to his still feeble friend; and every day as before he informed Elena of the state of his health. Insarov did not dare to write to her, and only indirectly in his conversations with Bersenyev referred to her; but Bersenyev, with assumed carelessness, told him about his visits to the Stahovs, trying, however, to give him to understand that Elena had been deeply distressed, and that now she was calmer. Elena too did not write to Insarov; she had a plan in her head.

One day Bersenyev had just informed her with a cheerful face that the doctor had already allowed Insarov to eat a cutlet, and that he would probably soon go out; she seemed absorbed, dropped her eyes.

'Guess, what I want to say to you,' she said. Bersenyev was confused. He understood her.

'I suppose,' he answered, looking away, 'you want to say that you wish to see him.'

Elena crimsoned, and scarcely audibly, she breathed, 'Yes.'

'Well, what then? That, I imagine, you can easily do.' – 'Ugh!' he thought, 'what a loath-some feeling there is in my heart!'

'You mean that I have already before . . .' said Elena. 'But I am afraid – now he is, you say, seldom alone.'

'That's not difficult to get over,' replied Bersenyev, still not looking at her. 'I, of course, cannot prepare him; but give me a note. Who can hinder your writing to him as a good friend, in whom you take an interest? There's no harm in that. Appoint – I mean, write to him when you will come.

'I am ashamed,' whispered Elena.

'Give me the note, I will take it.'

'There's no need of that, but I wanted to ask you – don't be angry with me, Andrei Petrovitch – don't go to him to-morrow!'

Bersenyev bit his lip.

'Ah! yes, I understand; very well, very well,' and, adding two or three words more, he quickly took leave.

'So much the better, so much the better,' he thought, as he hurried home. 'I have learnt nothing new, but so much the better. What possessed me to go hanging on to the edge of another man's happiness? I regret nothing; I have done what my conscience told me; but now it is over. Let them be! My father was right when he used to say to me: “You and I, my dear boy, are not Sybarites, we are not aristocrats, we're not the spoilt darlings of fortune and nature, we are not even martyrs – we are workmen and nothing more. Put on your leather apron, workman, and take your place at your workman's bench, in your dark workshop, and let the sun shine on other men! Even our dull life has its own pride, its own happiness!”'

The next morning Insarov got a brief note by the post. 'Expect me,' Elena wrote to him, 'and give orders for no one to see you. A. P. will not come.'

XXVIII

Insarov read Elena's note, and at once began to set his room to rights; asked his landlady to take away the medicine-glasses, took off his dressing-gown and put on his coat. His head was swimming and his heart throbbing from weakness and delight. His knees were shaking; he dropped on to the sofa, and began to look at his watch. 'It's now a quarter to twelve,' he said to himself. 'She can never come before twelve: I will think of something else for a quarter of an hour, or I shall break down altogether. Before twelve she cannot possibly come.'

The door was opened, and in a light silk gown, all pale, all fresh, young and joyful, Elena came in, and with a faint cry of delight she fell on his breast.

'You are alive, you are mine,' she repeated, embracing and stroking his head. He was almost swooning, breathless at such closeness, such caresses, such bliss.

She sat down near him, holding him fast, and began to gaze at him with that smiling, and caressing, and tender look, only to be seen shining in the eyes of a loving woman.

Her face suddenly clouded over.

'How thin you have grown, my poor Dmitri,' she said, passing her hand over his neck; 'what a beard you have.'

'And you have grown thin, my poor Elena,' he answered, catching her fingers with his lips.

She shook her curls gaily.

'That's nothing. You shall see how soon we'll be strong again! The storm has blown over, just as it blew over and passed away that day when we met in the chapel. Now we are going to live.'

He answered her with a smile only.

'Ah, what a time we have had, Dmitri, what a cruel time! How can people outlive those they love? I knew beforehand what Andrei Petrovitch would say to me every day, I did really; my life seemed to ebb and flow with yours. Welcome back, my Dmitri!'

He did not know what to say to her. He was longing to throw himself at her feet.

'Another thing I observed,' she went on, pushing back his hair – 'I made so many observations all this time in my leisure – when any one is very, very miserable, with what stupid attention he follows everything that's going on about him! I really sometimes lost myself in gazing at a fly, and all the while such chill and terror in my heart! But that's all past, all past, isn't it? Everything's bright in the future, isn't it?'

'You are for me in the future,' answered Insarov, 'so it is bright for me.'

'And for me too! But do you remember, when I was here, not the last time – no, not the last time,' she repeated with an involuntary shudder, 'when we were talking, I spoke of death, I don't know why; I never suspected then that it was keeping watch on us. But you are well now, aren't you?'

'I'm much better, I'm nearly well.'

'You are well, you are not dead. Oh, how happy I am!'

A short silence followed.

'Elena?' said Insarov.

'Well, my dearest?'

'Tell me, did it never occur to you that this illness was sent us as a punishment?'

Elena looked seriously at him.

'That idea did come into my head, Dmitri. But I thought: what am I to be punished for? What duty have I transgressed, against whom have I sinned? Perhaps my conscience is not like other people's, but it was silent; or perhaps I am guilty towards you? I hinder you, I stop you.'

'You don't stop me, Elena; we will go together.'

'Yes, Dmitri, let us go together; I will follow you. . . . That is my duty. I love you. … I know no other duty.'

'O Elena!' said Insarov, 'what chains every word of yours fastens on me!'

'Why talk of chains?' she interposed. 'We are free people, you and I. Yes,' she went on, looking musingly on the floor, while with one hand she still stroked his hair, 'I experienced much lately of which I had never had any idea! If any one had told me beforehand that I, a young lady, well brought up, should go out from home alone on all sorts of made-up excuses, and to go where? to a young man's lodgings – how indignant I should have been! And that has all come about, and I feel no indignation whatever. Really!' she added, and turned to Insarov.

He looked at her with such an expression of adoration, that she softly dropped her hand from his hair over his eyes.

'Dmitri!' she began again, 'you don't know of course, I saw you there in that dreadful bed, I saw you in the clutches of death, unconscious.'

'You saw me?'

'Yes.'

He was silent for a little. 'And Bersenyev was here?'

She nodded.

Insarov bowed down before her. 'O Elena!' he whispered, 'I don't dare to look at you.'

'Why? Andrei Petrovitch is so good. I was not ashamed before him. And what have I to be ashamed of? I am ready to tell all the world that I am yours. . . . And Andrei Petrovitch I trust like a brother.'

'He saved me!' cried Insarov. 'He is the noblest, kindest of men!'

'Yes . .. And do you know I owe everything to him? Do you know that it was he who first told me that you loved me? And if I could tell you everything. . . . Yes, he is a noble man.'

Insarov looked steadily at Elena. 'He is in love with you, isn't he?'

Elena dropped her eyes. 'He did love me,' she said in an undertone.

Insarov pressed her hand warmly. 'Oh you Russians,' he said, 'you have hearts of pure gold! And he, he has been waiting on me, he has not slept at night. And you, you, my angel. . . . No reproaches, no hesitations . . . and all this for me, for me – – '

'Yes, yes, all for you, because they love you, Ah, Dmitri! How strange it is! I think I have talked to you of it before, but it doesn't matter, I like to repeat it, and you will like to hear it. When I saw you the first time – – '

'Why are there tears in your eyes?' Insarov interrupted her.

'Tears? Are there?' She wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. 'Oh, what a silly boy! He doesn't know yet that people weep from happiness. I wanted to tell you: when I saw you the first time, I saw nothing special in you, really. I remember, Shubin struck me much more at first, though I never loved him, and as for Andrei Petrovitch – oh, there was a moment when I thought: isn't this he? And with you there was nothing of that sort; but afterwards – afterwards – you took my heart by storm!'

'Have pity on me,' began Insarov. He tried to get up, but dropped down on to the sofa again at once.

'What's the matter with you?' inquired Elena anxiously.

'Nothing. … I am still rather weak. I am not strong enough yet for such happiness.'

'Then sit quietly. Don't dare to move, don't get excited,' she added, threatening him with her finger. 'And why have you left off your dressing-gown? It's too soon to begin to be a dandy! Sit down and I will tell you stories. Listen and be quiet. To talk much is bad for you after your illness.'

She began to talk to him about Shubin, about Kurnatovsky, and what she had been doing for the last fortnight, of how war seemed, judging from the newspapers, inevitable, and so directly he was perfectly well again, he must, without losing a minute, make arrangements for them to start. All this she told him sitting beside him, leaning on his shoulder. . . .

He listened to her, listened, turning pale and red. Sometimes he tried to stop her; suddenly he drew himself up.

'Elena,' he said to her in a strange, hard voice 'leave me, go away.'

'What?' she replied in bewilderment 'You feel ill?' she added quickly.

'No . . . I'm all right . . . but, please, leave me now.'

'I don't understand you. You drive me away? . . What are you doing?' she said suddenly; he had bent over from the sofa almost to the ground, and was pressing her feet to his lips. 'Don't do that, Dmitri. . . . Dmitri – – '

He got up.

'Then leave me! You see, Elena, when I was taken ill, I did not lose consciousness at first; I knew I was on the edge of the abyss; even in the fever, in delirium I knew, I felt vaguely that it was death coming to me, I took leave of life, of you, of everything; I gave up hope. . . . And this return to life so suddenly; this light after the darkness, you – you – near me, with me – your voice, your breath. . . . It's more than I can stand! I feel I love you passionately, I hear you call yourself mine, I cannot answer for myself. . . You must go!'

'Dmitri,' whispered Elena, and she nestled her head on his shoulder. Only now she understood him.

'Elena,' he went on, 'I love you, you know that; I am ready to give my life for you. . . . Why have you come to me now, when I am weak, when I can't control myself, when all my blood's on fire . . . you are mine, you say . . . you love me – – – '

'Dmitri,' she repeated; she flushed all over, and pressed still closer to him.

'Elena, have pity on me; go away, I feel as if I should die. … I can't stand these violent emotions . . . my whole soul yearns for you . . . think, death was almost parting us . . and now you are here, you are in my arms . . . Elena – – '

She was trembling all over. 'Take me, then,' she whispered scarcely above her breath.

XXIX

Nikolai Artemyevitch was walking up and down in his study with a scowl on his face. Shubin was sitting at the window with his legs crossed, tranquilly smoking a cigar.

'Leave off tramping from corner to corner, please,' he observed, knocking the ash off his cigar. 'I keep expecting you to speak; there's a rick in my neck from watching you. Besides, there's something artificial, melodramatic in your striding.'

'You can never do anything but joke,' responded Nikolai Artemyevitch. 'You won't enter into my position, you refuse to realise that I am used to that woman, that I am attached to her in fact, that her absence is bound to distress me. Here it's October, winter is upon us. . . . What can she be doing in Revel?'

'She must be knitting stockings – for herself; for herself – not for you.'

'You may laugh, you may laugh; but I tell you I know no woman like her. Such honesty; such disinterestedness.'

'Has she cashed that bill yet?' inquired Shubin.

'Such disinterestedness,' repeated Nikolai Artemyevitch; 'it's astonishing. They tell me there are a million other women in the world, but I say, show me the million; show me the million, I say; _ces femmes, qu'on me les montre_! And she doesn't write – that's what's killing me!'

'You're eloquent as Pythagoras,' remarked Shubin; 'but do you know what I would advise you?'

'What?'

'When Augustina Christianovna comes back – you take my meaning?'

'Yes, yes; well, what?'

'When you see her again – you follow the line of my thought?'

'Yes, yes, to be sure.'

'Try beating her; see what that would do.'

Nikolai Artemyevitch turned away exasperated.

'I thought he was really going to give me some practical advice. But what can one expect from him! An artist, a man of no principles – – '

'No principles! By the way, I'm told your favourite Mr. Kurnatovsky, the man of principle, cleaned you out of a hundred roubles last night. That was hardly delicate, you must own now.'

'What of it? We were playing high. Of course, I might expect – but they understand so little how to appreciate him in this house – – '

'That he thought: get what I can!' put in Shubin: 'whether he's to be my father-in-law or not, is still on the knees of the gods, but a hundred roubles is worth something to a man who doesn't take bribes.'

'Father-in-law! How the devil am I his father-in-law? _Vous revez, mon cher_. Of course, any other girl would be delighted with such a suitor. Only consider: a man of spirit and intellect, who has gained a position in the world, served in two provinces – – '

'Led the governor in one of them by the nose,' remarked Shubin.

'Very likely. To be sure, that's how it should be. Practical, a business man – – '

'And a capital hand at cards,' Shubin remarked again.

'To be sure, and a capital hand at cards. But Elena Nikolaevna. … Is there any understanding her? I should be glad to know if there is any one who would undertake to make out what it is she wants. One day she's cheerful, another she's dull; all of a sudden she's so thin there's no looking at her, and then suddenly she's well again, and all without any apparent reason – – '

A disagreeable-looking man-servant came in with a cup of coffee, cream and sugar on a tray.

'The father is pleased with a suitor,' pursued Nikolai Artemyevitch, breaking off a lump of sugar; 'but what is that to the daughter! That was all very well in the old patriarchal days, but now we have changed all that. _Nous avons change tout ca_. Nowadays a young girl talks to any one she thinks fit, reads what she thinks fit; she goes about Moscow alone without a groom or a maid, just as in Paris; and all that is permitted. The other day I asked, “Where is Elena Nikolaevna?” I'm told she has gone out. Where? No one knows. Is that – the proper thing?'

'Take your coffee, and let the man go,' said Shubin. 'You say yourself that one ought not _devant les domestiques_' he added in an undertone.

The servant gave Shubin a dubious look, while Nikolai Artemyevitch took the cup of coffee, added some cream, and seized some ten lumps of sugar.

'I was just going to say when the servant came in,' he began, 'that I count for nothing in this house. That's the long and short of the matter. For nowadays every one judges from appearances; one man's an empty-headed fool, but gives himself airs of importance, and he's respected; while another, very likely, has talents which might – which might gain him great distinction, but through modesty – – '

'Aren't you a born statesman?' asked Shubin in a jeering voice.

'Give over playing the fool!' Nikolai Artemyevitch cried with heat. 'You forget yourself! Here you have another proof that I count for nothing in this house, nothing!'

'Anna Vassilyevna ill-uses you . . . poor fellow!' said Shubin, stretching. 'Ah, Nikolai Artemyevitch, we're a pair of sinners! You had much better be getting a little present ready for Anna Vassilyevna, It's her birthday in a day or two, and you know how she appreciates the least attention on your part.'

'Yes, yes,' answered Nikolai Artemyevitch hastily. 'I'm much obliged to you for reminding me. Of course, of course; to be sure. I have a little thing, a dressing-case, I bought it the other day at Rosenstrauch's; but I don't know really if it will do.'

'I suppose you bought it for her, the lady at Revel?'

'Why, certainly. – I had some idea.'

'Well, in that case, it will be sure to do.' Shubin got up from his seat.

'Are we going out this evening, Pavel Yakovlitch, eh?' Nikolai Artemyevitch asked with an amicable leer.

'Why yes, you are going to your club.'

'After the club … after the club.'

Shubin stretched himself again.

'No, Nikolai Artemyevitch, I want to work to-morrow. Another time.' And he walked off.

Nikolai Artemyevitch scowled, walked twice up and down the room, took a velvet box with the dressing-case out of the bureau and looked at it a long while, rubbing it with a silk handkerchief. Then he sat down before a looking-glass and began carefully arranging his thick black hair, turning his head to right and to left with a dignified countenance, his tongue pressed into his cheek, never taking his eyes off his parting. Some one coughed behind his back; he looked round and saw the manservant who had brought him in his coffee.

'What do you want?' he asked him.

'Nikolai Artemyevitch,' said the man with a certain solemnity, 'you are our master?'

'I know that; what next!'

'Nikolai Artemyevitch, graciously do not be angry with me; but I, having been in your honour's service from a boy, am bound in dutiful devotion to bring you – – '

'Well what is it?'

The man shifted uneasily as he stood.

'You condescended to say, your honour,' he began, 'that your honour did not know where Elena Nikolaevna was pleased to go. I have information about that.'

'What lies are you telling, idiot?'

'That's as your honour likes, but T saw our young lady three days ago, as she was pleased to go into a house!'

'Where? what? what house?'

'In a house, near Povarsky. Not far from here. I even asked the doorkeeper who were the people living there.'

Nikolai Artemyevitch stamped with his feet.

'Silence, scoundrel! How dare you? … Elena Nikolaevna, in the goodness of her heart, goes to visit the poor and you … Be off, fool!'

The terrified servant was rushing to the door.

'Stop!' cried Nikolai Artemyevitch. 'What did the doorkeeper say to you?'

'Oh no – nothing – he said nothing – He told me – a stu – student – – '

'Silence, scoundrel! Listen, you dirty beast; if you ever breathe a word in your dreams even – – '

'Mercy on us – – '

'Silence! if you blab – if any one – if I find out – you shall find no hiding-place even underground! Do you hear? You can go!'

The man vanished.

'Good Heavens, merciful powers! what does it mean?' thought Nikolai Artemyevitch when he was left alone. 'What did that idiot tell me? Eh? I shall have to find out, though, what house it is, and who lives there. I must go myself. Has it come to this! . . . _Un laquais! Quelle humiliation!_'

And repeating aloud: '_Un laquais!_' Nikolai Artemyevitch shut the dressing-case up in the bureau, and went up to Anna Vassilyevna. He found her in bed with her face tied up. But the sight of her sufferings only irritated him, and he very soon reduced her to tears.