in the carriage in the dark, when I tried to get a
good view of him and was afraid of him. Yes,
he is not to be trifled with, and he is a splendid
champion. But why that wicked look, those trembling
lips, that angry fire in his eyes? Or is it,
perhaps, inevitable? Isn’t it possible to
be a man, a hero, and to remain soft and gentle?
“Life is a coarse business,” he said to
me once lately. I repeated that saying to Andrei
Petrovitch; he did not agree with D. Which of them
is right? But the beginning of that day!
How happy I was, walking beside him, even without speaking.
. . . But I am glad of what happened. I see
that it was quite as it should be.
’. . . Restlessness again ... I am
not quite well. . . . All these days I have written
nothing in this book, because I have had no wish to
write. I felt, whatever I write, it won’t
be what is in my heart. . . . And what is in
my heart? I have had a long talk with him, which
revealed a great deal. He told me his plan (by
the way, I know now how he got the wound in his neck.
. . . Good God! when I think he was actually
condemned to death, that he was only just saved, that
he was wounded. . . . ) He prophesies war and will
be glad of it. And for all that, I never saw
D. so depressed. What can he ... he! ... be depressed
by? Papa arrived home from town and came upon
us two. He looked rather queerly at us.
Andrei Petrovitch came; I noticed he had grown very
thin and pale. He reproved me, saying I behave
too coldly and inconsiderately to Shubin. I had
utterly forgotten Paul’s existence. I will
see him, and try to smooth over my offence. He
is nothing to me now . . . nor any one else in the
world. Andrei Petrovitch talked to me in a sort
of commiserating way. What does it all mean?
Why is everything around me and within me so dark?
I feel as if about me and within me, something mysterious
were happening, for which I want to find the right
word. ... I did not sleep all night; my head
aches. What’s the good of writing?
He went away so quickly to-day and I wanted to talk
to him. . . . He almost seems to avoid me.
Yes, he avoids me.
’. . . The word is found, light has dawned
on me! My God, have pity on me. . . . I
love him!’
XVII
On the very day on which Elena had written this last
fatal line in her diary, Insarov was sitting in Bersenyev’s
room, and Bersenyev was standing before him with a
look of perplexity on his face. Insarov had just
announced his intention of returning to Moscow the
next day.
‘Upon my word!’ cried Bersenyev.
’Why, the finest part of the summer is just
beginning. What will you do in Moscow? What
a sudden decision! Or have you had news of some
sort?’
‘I have had no news,’ replied Insarov;
’but on thinking things over, I find I cannot
stop here.’
‘How can that be?’
‘Andrei Petrovitch,’ said Insarov, ’be
so kind . . . don’t insist, please, I am very
sorry myself to be leaving you, but it can’t
be helped.’
