“Shurochka!”—Romashov, who for a second was unable to breathe, slowly approached the bed on tiptoe—“Shurochka, you here?”
“S-sh; sit down,” she replied in a rapid whisper. “Put out the lamp.”
Romashov blew sharply into the chimney of the lamp. The little flickering, blue flame went out, and the room was at once dark and silent, but, in the next moment, the alarm on the table went off loudly. Romashov sat down by Alexandra Petrovna, but could not distinguish her features. A curious feeling of pain, nervousness, and faintness of heart took possession of him. He was unable to speak.
“Who is on the other side of that wall?” asked Shurochka. “Can we be overheard?”
“No, there’s no one there, only old furniture. My landlord is a joiner. One can speak out loud.”
But both spoke, all the same, in a low voice, and those shyly uttered words acquired, in the darkness, something in addition awful, disquieting, treacherously stealthy. Romashov sat so close to Shurochka that he almost touched her dress. There was a buzzing in his ears, and the blood throbbed in his veins with dull, heavy beats.
“Why, oh, why have you done this?” she asked quietly, but in a passionately reproachful tone. Shurochka laid her hand on his knee. Romashov felt through the cloth this light touch of her feverishly burning fingertips. He drew a deep breath, his eyes closed, and big black ovals, the sides of which sparkled with a dazzling, bluish gleam, took shape and ran into each other before his eyes, reminding him of the legend of the wonderful lakes. “Did you forget that I told you to keep your self-control when you met him? No, no—I don’t reproach you. You did not do it on purpose, I know that; but in that moment, when the wild beast within you was aroused, you had not even one thought of me. There was nothing to stay your arm. You never loved me.”
“I love you,” said Romashov softly, as with a shy movement he put his trembling fingers on her hand. Shurochka withdrew her hand, though not hastily, but at once and slowly, as though she were afraid of hurting him.
“I know that neither you nor he mixed my name up with this scandal; but I can tell you that all this chivalry has been wasted. There’s not a house in the town where they are not gossiping about it.”
“Forgive me; I could not control myself. I was blinded, beside myself with jealousy,” stammered Romashov.
Shurochka laughed for a while to herself. At last she answered him:
“You talk about ‘jealousy.’ Did you really think that my husband, after his fight with you, was high-minded enough to deny himself the pleasure of telling me where you had come from when you returned to the mess? He also told me one or two things about Nasanski.”
“Forgive me,” repeated Romashov. “It’s true I was there—but I did nothing to blush for in your presence. Pardon me.”
Shurochka suddenly raised her voice. Her voice acquired an energetic, almost severe accent, when she answered him.
“Listen, Georgi Alexievich, the minutes are precious. I waited here nearly half an hour for you. Let us, therefore, talk briefly and to the point. You know what Volodya is to me—I don’t love him, but, for his sake, I killed a part of my soul. I cherish greater ambition than he does. Twice he has failed to pass for the Staff College. This caused me far greater sorrow and disappointment than it did him. All this idea of trying to get on the Staff is mine, only mine. I have literally dragged him, whipped him on, crammed lessons into him, gone over them with him, filed and sharpened him, screwed up his pride and ambition, and cheered him in hours of apathy and depression. I live only for this, and I cannot even bear the thought of these hopes of mine being blighted. Whatever the cost, Volodya must pass his examination.”
Romashov sat with his head in his hands. Suddenly he felt Shurochka softly and caressingly drawing her fingers through his hair. Sorrowful and bewildered, he said to her:
“What can I do?”
She laid her arm round his neck and drew his head to her bosom. She was not wearing a corset, and Romashov felt her soft, elastic bosom pressed against his cheek, and inhaled the delicious, aromatic perfume that came from her young, absolutely healthy body. When she spoke he felt in his hair her irregular, nervous breathing.
“You remember, that evening—at the picnic? I told you then the whole truth: I did not love him; but think, now, only think, three years—three whole long years of the most arduous, repulsive work—of fancies, dreams, hopes. You know how I hate and despise this wretched little provincial hole, the odious set of officers. I always wanted to be dressed expensively and elegantly. I love power, flattery—slaves. And then comes this regimental scandal, this stupid fight between two drunken, irresponsible men accidentally brought together. Then all is over—all my dreams and hopes turned to ashes. Isn’t this dreadful? I have never been a mother; but I think I can imagine what it would be if I had a son—a son petted, idolized, even madly worshipped. He represents, so to speak, an incarnation or embodiment of my life’s dreams, sorrows, tears, sleepless nights, and then, suddenly, occurs a senseless accident. My little son is sitting playing at the window; the nurse turns away for a few minutes, and the child falls out on to the pavement. My dear, my sorrow and indignation can only be compared to this mother’s despair. But I am not blaming you.”
Romashov was sitting in a very cramped and uncomfortable position, and he was afraid that his heavy head might cause Shurochka pain or discomfort. But he had, however, for hours been used to sitting without moving, and, in a sort of intoxication, listen to the quick and regular beatings of his heart.
“Do you hear what I say?”
