She started.
‘Yes, write, write to him... what you like....
And here...’ She hurriedly fumbled in her
pocket and brought out a little manuscript book.
’This I was writing for him... before he ran
away.... But he believed... he believed him!’
I understood that her words referred to Viktor; Susanna
would not mention him, would not utter his detested
name.
‘But, Susanna Ivanovna, excuse me,’ I
began, ’what makes you suppose that Alexander
Daviditch had any conversation... with that person?’
’What? Why, he himself came to me and told
me all about it, and bragged of it... and laughed
just as his father laughs! Here, here, take it,’
she went on, thrusting the manuscript into my hand,
’read it, send it to him, burn it, throw it
away, do what you like, as you please.... But
I can’t die like this with no one knowing....
Now it is time.... I must go.’
She got up from the window-seat.... I stopped
her.
’Where are you going, Susanna Ivanovna, mercy
on us! Listen, what a storm is raging! You
are so lightly dressed.... And your home is not
near here. Let me at least go for a carriage,
for a sledge....’
‘No, no, I want nothing,’ she said resolutely,
repelling me and taking up her cloak and shawl.
’Don’t keep me, for God’s sake! or...
I can’t answer for anything! I feel an
abyss, a dark abyss under my feet.... Don’t
come near me, don’t touch me!’ With feverish
haste she put on her cloak, arranged her shawl....
’Good-bye... good-bye.... Oh, my unhappy
people, for ever strangers, a curse lies upon us!
No one has ever cared for me, was it likely he...’
She suddenly ceased. ’No; one man loved
me,’ she began again, wringing her hands, ’but
death is all about me, death and no escape! Now
it is my turn.... Don’t come after me,’
she cried shrilly. ‘Don’t come! don’t
come!’
I was petrified, while she rushed out; and an instant
later, I heard the slam downstairs of the heavy street
door, and the window panes shook again under the violent
onslaught of the blast.
I could not quickly recover myself. I was only
beginning life in those days: I had had no experience
of passion nor of suffering, and had rarely witnessed
any manifestation of strong feeling in others....
But the sincerity of this suffering, of this passion,
impressed me. If it had not been for the manuscript
in my hands, I might have thought that I had dreamed
it all—it was all so unlikely, and swooped
by like a passing storm. I was till midnight
reading the manuscript. It consisted of several
sheets of letter-paper, closely covered with a large,
irregular writing, almost without an erasure.
Not a single line was quite straight, and one seemed
in every one of them to feel the excited trembling
of the hand that held the pen. Here follows what
was in the manuscript. I have kept it to this
day.
MY STORY
