'But, as it is, I don't expect to see you again. Either you will end your days there in a tent somewhere'—Anna Vassilyevna pictured Bulgaria as something after the nature of the Siberian swamps,—'or I shall not survive the separation——'
'Don't say that, mamma dearest, we shall see each other again, please God. There are towns in Bulgaria just as there are here.'
'Fine towns there, indeed! There is war going on there now; wherever you go, I suppose they are firing cannons off all the while... Are you meaning to set off soon?'
'Soon... if only papa. He means to appeal to the authorities; he threatens to separate us.'
Anna Vassilyevna turned her eyes heavenwards.
'No, Lenotchka, he will not do that. I would not myself have consented to this marriage. I would have died first; but what's done can't be undone, and I will not let my daughter be disgraced.'
So passed a few days. At last Anna Vassilyevna plucked up her courage, and one evening she shut herself up alone with her husband in her room. The whole house was hushed to catch every sound. At first nothing was to be heard; then Nikolai Artemyevitch's voice began to tune up, then a quarrel broke out, shouts were raised, even groans were discerned.... Already Shubin was plotting with the maids and Zoya to rush in to the rescue; but the uproar in the bedroom began by degrees to grow less, passed into quiet talk, and ceased. Only from time to time a faint sob was to be heard, and then those, too, were still. There was the jingling of keys, the creak of a bureau being unfastened.... The door was opened, and Nikolai Artemyevitch appeared. He looked surlily at every one who met him, and went out to the club; while Anna Vassilyevna sent for Elena, embraced her warmly, and, with bitter tears flowing down her cheeks, she said:
'Everything is settled, he will not make a scandal, and there is nothing now to hinder you from going—from abandoning us.'
'You will let Dmitri come to thank you?' Elena begged her mother, as soon as the latter had been restored a little.
'Wait a little, my darling, I cannot bear yet to see the man who has come between us. We shall have time before you go.'
'Before we go,' repeated Elena mournfully.
Nikolai Artemyevitch had consented 'not to make a scandal,' but Anna Vassilyevna did not tell her daughter what a price he had put on his consent. She did not tell her that she had promised to pay all his debts, and had given him a thousand roubles down on the spot. Moreover, he had declared decisively to Anna Vassilyevna that he had no wish to meet Insarov, whom he persisted in calling 'the Montenegrin vagrant,' and when he got to the club, he began, quite without occasion, talking of Elena's marriage, to his partner at cards, a retired general of engineers. 'You have heard,' he observed with a show of carelessness, 'my daughter, through the higher education, has gone and married a student.' The general looked at him through his spectacles, muttered, 'H'm!' and asked him what stakes would he play for.
XXXII
The day of departure drew near. November was already over; the latest date for starting had come. Insarov had long ago made his preparations, and was burning with anxiety to get out of Moscow as soon as possible. And the doctor was urging him on. 'You need a warm climate,' he told him; 'you will not get well here.' Elena, too, was fretting with impatience; she was worried by Insarov's pallor, and his emaciation. She often looked with involuntary terror at his changed face. Her position in her parents' house had become insupportable. Her mother mourned over her, as over the dead, while her father treated her with contemptuous coldness; the approaching separation secretly pained him too, but he regarded it as his duty—the duty of an offended father—to disguise his feelings, his weakness. Anna Vassilyevna at last expressed a wish to see Insarov. He was taken up to her secretly by the back stairs. After he had entered her room, for a long time she could not speak to him, she could not even bring herself to look at him; he sat down near her chair, and waited, with quiet respectfulness, for her first word. Elena sat down close, and held her mother's hand in hers. At last Anna Vassilyevna raised her eyes, saying: 'God is your judge, Dmitri Nikanorovitch'—she stopped short: the reproaches died away on her lips. 'Why, you are ill,' she cried: 'Elena, your husband's ill!'
'I have been unwell, Anna Vassilyevna,' answered Insarov; 'and even now I am not quite strong yet: but I hope my native air will make me perfectly well again.'
'Ah—Bulgaria!' murmured Anna Vassilyevna, and she thought: 'Good God, a Bulgarian, and dying; a voice as hollow as a drum; and eyes like saucers, a perfect skeleton; his coat hanging loose on his shoulders, his face as yellow as a guinea, and she's his wife—she loves him—it must be a bad dream. But——' she checked herself at once: 'Dmitri Nikanorovitch,' she said, 'are you absolutely, absolutely bound to go away?'
'Absolutely, Anna Vassilyevna.'
Anna Vassilyevna looked at him.
'Ah, Dmitri Nikanorovitch, God grant you never have to go through what I am going through now. But you will promise me to take care of her—to love her. You will not have to face poverty while I am living!'
Tears choked her voice. She opened her arms, and Elena and Insarov flung themselves into her embrace.
The fatal day had come at last. It had been arranged that Elena should say good-bye to her parents at home, and should start on the journey from Insarov's lodgings. The departure was fixed for twelve o'clock. About a quarter of an hour before the appointed time Bersenyev arrived. He had expected to find Insarov's compatriots at his lodgings, anxious to see him off; but they had already gone before; and with them the two mysterious persons known to the reader (they had been witnesses at Insarov's wedding). The tailor met the 'kind gentlemen' with a bow; he, presumably, to drown his grief, but possibly to celebrate his delight at getting the furniture, had been drinking heavily; his wife soon led him away. In the room everything was by this time ready; a trunk, tied up with cord, stood on the floor. Bersenyev sank into thought: many memories came rushing upon him.
Twelve o'clock had long ago struck; and the driver had already brought round the horses, but the 'young people' still did not appear. At last hurrying steps were heard on the stairs, and Elena came out escorted by Insarov and Shubin. Elena's eyes were red; she had left her mother lying unconscious; the parting had been terrible. Elena had not seen Bersenyev for more than a week: he had been seldom of late at the Stahovs'. She had not expected to meet him; and crying, 'You! thank you!' she threw herself on his neck; Insarov, too, embraced him. A painful silence followed. What could these three say to one another? what were they feeling in their hearts? Shubin realised the necessity of cutting short everything painful with light words.
'Our trio has come together again,' he began, 'for the last time. Let us submit to the decrees of fate; speak of the past with kindness; and in God's name go forward to the new life! In God's name, on our distant way,' he began to hum, and stopped short. He felt suddenly ashamed and awkward. It is a sin to sing where the dead are lying: and at that instant, in that room, the past of which he had spoken was dying, the past of the people met together in it. It was dying to be born again in a new life—doubtless—still it was death.
'Come, Elena,' began Insarov, turning to his wife, 'I think everything is done? Everything paid, and everything packed. There's nothing more except to take the box down.' He called his landlord.
The tailor came into the room, together with his wife and daughter. He listened, slightly reeling, to Insarov's instructions, dragged the box up on to his shoulders, and ran quickly down the staircases, tramping heavily with his boots.
'Now, after the Russian custom, we must sit down,' observed Insarov.
They all sat down; Bersenyev seated himself on the old sofa, Elena sat next him; the landlady and her daughter squatted in the doorway. All were silent; all smiled constrainedly, though no one knew why he was smiling; each of them wanted to say something at parting, and each (except, of course, the landlady and her daughter, they were simply rolling their eyes) felt that at such moments it is only permissible to utter common- places, that any word of importance, of sense, or even of deep feeling, would be somehow out of place, almost insincere. Insarov was the first to get up, and he began crossing himself. 'Farewell, our little room!' he cried.
Then came kisses, the sounding but cold kisses of leave-taking, good wishes—half expressed—for the
