'Yes.'
Pasinkov was silent again for a little.
'I thought so. And you went to her to-day and began reproaching her?…'
'Yes, yes, yes!…' I articulated desperately. 'Now you can despise me….'
Pasinkov walked a couple of times up and down the room.
'And she loves him?' he queried.
'She loves him….'
Pasinkov looked down, and gazed a long while at the floor without moving.
'Well, it must be set right,' he began, raising his head,' things can't be left like this.'
And he took up his hat.
'Where are you going?'
'To Asanov.'
I jumped up from the sofa.
'But I won't let you. Good heavens! how can you! what will he think?'
Pasinkov looked at me.
'Why, do you think it better to keep this folly up, to bring ruin on yourself, and disgrace on the girl?'
'But what are you going to say to Asanov?'
'I'll try and explain things to him, I'll tell him you beg his forgiveness …'
'But I don't want to apologise to him!'
'You don't? Why, aren't you in fault?'
I looked at Pasinkov; the calm and severe, though mournful, expression of his face impressed me; it was new to me. I made no reply, and sat down on the sofa.
Pasinkov went out.
In what agonies of suspense I waited for his return! With what cruel slowness the time lingered by! At last he came back—late.
'Well?' I queried in a timid voice.
'Thank goodness!' he answered; 'it's all settled.'
'You have been at Asanov's?'
'Yes.'
'Well, and he?—made a great to-do, I suppose?' I articulated with an effort.
'No, I can't say that. I expected more … He … he's not such a vulgar fellow as I thought.'
'Well, and have you seen any one else besides?' I asked, after a brief pause.
'I've been at the Zlotnitskys'.'
'Ah!…' (My heart began to throb. I did not dare look Pasinkov in the face.) 'Well, and she?'
'Sophia Nikolaevna is a reasonable, kind-hearted girl…. Yes, she is a kind-hearted girl. She felt awkward at first, but she was soon at ease. But our whole conversation only lasted five minutes.'
'And you … told her everything … about me … everything?'
'I told her what was necessary.'
'I shall never be able to go and see them again now!' I pronounced dejectedly….
'Why? No, you can go occasionally. On the contrary, you are absolutely bound to go and see them, so that nothing should be thought….'
'Ah, Yakov, you will despise me now!' I cried, hardly keeping back my tears.
'Me! Despise you? …' (His affectionate eyes glowed with love.) 'Despise you … silly fellow! Don't I see how hard it's been for you, how you're suffering?'
He held out his hand to me; I fell on his neck and broke into sobs.
After a few days, during which I noticed that Pasinkov was in very low spirits, I made up my mind at last to go to the Zlotnitskys'. What I felt, as I stepped into their drawing-room, it would be difficult to convey in words; I remember that I could hardly distinguish the persons in the room, and my voice failed me. Sophia was no less ill at ease; she obviously forced herself to address me, but her eyes avoided mine as mine did hers, and every movement she made, her whole being, expressed constraint, mingled … why conceal the truth? with secret aversion. I tried, as far as possible, to spare her and myself from such painful sensations. This meeting was happily our last—before her marriage. A sudden change in my fortunes carried me off to the other end of Russia, and I bade a long farewell to Petersburg, to the Zlotnitsky family, and, what was most grievous of all for me, to dear Yakov Pasinkov.
II
Seven years had passed by. I don't think it necessary to relate all that happened to me during that period. I moved restlessly about over Russia, and made my way into the remotest wilds, and thank God I did! The wilds are not so much to be dreaded as some people suppose, and in the most hidden places, under the fallen twigs and rotting leaves in the very heart of the forest, spring up flowers of sweet fragrance.
One day in spring, as I was passing on some official duties through a small town in one of the outlying provinces of Eastern Russia, through the dim little window of my coach I saw standing before a shop in the square a man whose face struck me as exceedingly familiar. I looked attentively at the man, and to my great delight recognised him as Elisei, Pasinkov's servant.
I at once told the driver to stop, jumped out of the coach, and went up to Elisei.
'Hullo, friend!' I began, with difficulty concealing my excitement; 'are you here with your master?'
'Yes, I'm with my master,' he responded slowly, and then suddenly cried out: 'Why, sir, is it you? I didn't know you.'
'Are you here with Yakov Ivanitch?'
'Yes, sir, with him, to be sure … whom else would I be with?'
'Take me to him quickly.'
'To be sure! to be sure! This way, please, this way … we're stopping here at the tavern.' Elisei led me across the square, incessantly repeating—'Well, now, won't Yakov Ivanitch be pleased!'
This man, of Kalmuck extraction, and hideous, even savage appearance, but the kindest-hearted creature and by no means a fool, was passionately devoted to Pasinkov, and had been his servant for ten years.
'Is Yakov Ivanitch quite well?' I asked him.
Elisei turned his dusky, yellow little face to me.
'Ah, sir, he's in a poor way … in a poor way, sir! You won't know his honour…. He's not long for this world, I'm afraid. That's how it is we've stopped here, or we had been going on to Odessa for his health.'
'Where do you come from?'
'From Siberia, sir.'
'From Siberia?'
'Yes, sir. Yakov Ivanitch was sent to a post out there. It was there his honour got his wound.'
'Do you mean to say he went into the military service?'
'Oh no, sir. He served in the civil service.'
'What a strange thing!' I thought.
Meanwhile we had reached the tavern, and Elisei ran on in front to announce me. During the first years of our separation, Pasinkov and I had written to each other pretty often, but his last letter had reached me four years before, and since then I had heard nothing of him.
'Please come up, sir!' Elisei shouted to me from the staircase; 'Yakov
Ivanitch is very anxious to see you.'
I ran hurriedly up the tottering stairs, went into a dark little room—and my heart sank…. On a narrow bed, under a fur cloak, pale as a corpse, lay Pasinkov, and he was stretching out to me a bare, wasted hand. I rushed up to him and embraced him passionately.
'Yasha!' I cried at last; 'what's wrong with you?'
