I like talking to Andrei Petrovitch; never a word of self, always of something sensible, useful. Very different from Shubin. Shubin’s as fine as a butterfly, and admires his own finery; which butterflies don’t do. But both Shubin and Andrei Petrovitch…. I know what I mean.

‘… He enjoys coming to us, I see that. But why? what does he find in me? It’s true our tastes are alike; he and I, both of us don’t care for poetry; neither of us knows anything of art. But how much better he is than I! He is calm, I am in perpetual excitement; he has chosen his path, his aim—while I—where am I going? where is my home? He is calm, but all his thoughts are far away. The time will come, and he will leave us for ever, will go home, there over the sea. Well? God grant he may! Any way I shall be glad that I knew him, while he was here.

‘Why isn’t he a Russian? No, he could not be Russian.

‘Mamma too likes him; she says: an unassuming young man. Dear mamma! She does not understand him. Paul says nothing; he guessed I didn’t like his hints, but he’s jealous of him. Spiteful boy! And what right has he? Did I ever… All that’s nonsense! What makes all that come into my head?

‘… Isn’t it strange though, that up till now, up to twenty, I have never loved any one! I believe that the reason why D.’s (I shall call him D.—I like that name Dmitri) soul is so clear, is that he is entirely given up to his work, his ideal. What has he to trouble about? When any one has utterly… utterly… given himself up, he has little sorrow, he is not responsible for anything. It’s not I want, but it wants. By the way, he and I both love the same flowers. I picked a rose this morning, one leaf fell, he picked it up…. I gave him the whole rose.

‘… D. often comes to us. Yesterday he spent the whole evening. He wants to teach me Bulgarian. I feel happy with him, quite at home, more than at home.

‘… The days fly past…. I am happy, and somehow discontent and I am thankful to God, and tears are not far off. Oh these hot bright days!

‘… I am still light-hearted as before, and only at times, and only a little, sad. I am happy. Am I happy?

‘… It will be long before I forget the expedition yesterday. What strange, new, terrible impressions when he suddenly took that great giant and flung him like a ball into the water. I was not frightened … yet he frightened me. And afterwards—what an angry face, almost cruel! How he said, «He will swim out!» It gave me a shock. So I did not understand him. And afterwards when they all laughed, when I was laughing, how I felt for him! He was ashamed, I felt that he was ashamed before me. He told me so afterwards 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.’

Bersenyev looked at him intently.

‘I know,’ he said at last, ‘there’s no persuading you. And so, it’s a settled matter.’

‘Is it?’

‘Absolutely settled,’ replied Insarov, getting up and going away.

Bersenyev walked about the room, then took his hat and set off for the Stahovs.

‘You have something to tell me,’ Elena said to him, directly they were left alone.

‘Yes, how did you guess?’

‘Never mind; tell me what it is.’

Bersenyev told her of Insarov’s intention.

Elena turned white.

‘What does it mean?’ she articulated with effort

‘You know,’ observed Bersenyev, ‘Dmitri Nikanorovitch does not care to give reasons for his actions. But I think… let us sit down, Elena Nikolaevna, you don’t seem very well…. I fancy I can guess what is the real cause of this sudden departure.’

‘What—what cause?’ repeated Elena, and unconsciously she gripped tightly Bersenyev’s hand in her chill ringers.

‘You see,’ began Bersenyev, with a pathetic smile, ‘how can I explain to you? I must go back to last spring, to the time when I began to be more intimate with Insarov. I used to meet him then at the house of a relative, who had a daughter, a very pretty girl I thought that Insarov cared for her, and I told him so. He laughed, and answered that I was mistaken, that he was quite heart-whole, but if anything of that sort did happen to him, he should run away directly, as he did not want, in his own words, for the sake of personal feeling, to be false to his cause and his duty. «I am a Bulgarian,» he said, «and I have no need of a Russian love——»

‘Well—so—now you——’ whispered Elena. She involuntarily turned away her head, like a man expecting a blow, but she still held the hand she had clutched.

‘I think,’ he said, and his own voice sank, ‘I think that what I fancied then has really happened now.’

‘That is—you think—don’t torture me!’ broke suddenly from Elena.

‘I think,’ Bersenyev continued hurriedly, ‘that Insarov is in love now with a Russian girl, and he is resolved to go, according to his word.’

Elena clasped his hand still tighter, and her head drooped still lower, as if she would hide from other eyes the flush of shame which suddenly blazed over her face and neck.

‘Andrei Petrovitch, you are kind as an angel,’ she said, ‘but will he come to say goodbye?’

‘Yes, I imagine so; he will be sure to come. He wouldn’t like to go away——’

‘Tell him, tell him——’

But here the poor girl broke down; tears rushed streaming from her eyes, and she ran out of the room.

‘So that’s how she loves him,’ thought Bersenyev, as he walked slowly home. ‘I didn’t expect that; I didn’t think she felt so strongly. I am kind, she says:’ he pursued his reflections:… ‘Who can tell what feelings, what impulse drove me to tell Elena all that? It was not kindness; no, not kindness. It was all the accursed desire to make sure whether the dagger is really in the wound. I ought to be content. They love each other, and I have been of use to them…. The future go-between between science and the Russian public Shubin calls me; it seems as though it had been decreed at my birth that I