From behind the bed-curtain comes forth a hand; what a handsome hand! No; this wonderful hand does not belong to Bosio, and how does this hand come out from the curtain without pushing it apart?
The hand of the new visitor touches the page; from under the hand appear new lines, which were not there before.
“Read,” says the visitor.
And Viéra Pavlovna’s heart begins to feel oppressed; she has never seen these lines before; she did not know that they were written, but her heart is oppressed. She does not wish to read the new lines. “Read,” repeats the visitor.
Viéra Pavlovna reads: “No; it is tiresome for me to be alone. Once I did not feel the loneliness. Why is it tiresome for me now when it did not used to be?”
“Turn back a page,” says the visitor. Viéra Pavlovna turns a page:—
“The summer of this year!”
“Who writes diaries like that?” thinks Viéra Pavlovna; “it should have been written, ’1885, June or July,’ and have the day of the month; but here it stands: ‘The summer of this year’; who keeps diaries in that way?”
“The summer of this year; we go picnicking in our usual way into the suburbs, to the islands, and this time mílenki goes along with us. How enjoyable it is to me!—Akh! so it is August, is it? What day of the month? the fifteenth; or, no, the twelfth? Yes, yes, it was about the fifteenth; it was after that excursion that my poor mílenki became sick,” thinks Viéra Pavlovna.
“Is that all?”
“That’s all.”
“No, you don’t read everything. What is this?” says the visitor, and again through the unparted bed-curtain comes the wonderful hand; and again it touches the pages, and again on the pages appear new words, and again Viéra Pavlovna reads against her will the new words, “Why doesn’t my mílenki come along with us oftener?”
“Turn one leaf more,” says the visitor.
“My mílenki has so much to do, and it is all for my sake; for my sake he is working, my mílenki;—and that is the answer,” thinks Viéra Pavlovna, happy at the thought.
“Turn one page more.”
“What honest, noble people these students are, and how they respect my mílenki. And I enjoy myself with them just as though they were brothers, and we have no ceremoniousness.”
“Is that all?”
“That is all!”
“No, read further.”
And again appears the hand and touches the page, and again come forth new lines, and again Viéra reads the new lines:—
“The sixteenth of August—that is on the second day after our visit to the island; no, it was exactly the fifteenth,” thinks Viéra Pavlovna: “all the time the mílenki spoke with that Rakhmétof,38 or as they called him out of jest, the rigorist, and his comrades, but he spent hardly quarter of an hour with me.—That is not true; he spent nearly half an hour with me,” thinks Viéra Pavlovna, “besides the time when we were sitting together in the boat.”
“The seventeenth of August; yesterday the students spent a whole evening with us.”—Yes, it was on the evening when the mílenki was taken sick—“Mílenki talked with them the whole evening long. Why did he spend so much time with them and so little with me? He is not working all the time; he himself says that he is not working all the time; that without rest it is impossible to work; that he takes a great deal of rest, that he thinks about nothing else except taking a rest; why does he think by himself and not with me?”
“Turn over one leaf more.”
“July of the present year and every month of the present year, and until mílenki became sick, then last year and before that too. Five days ago the students called on us, and yesterday too. I carried on with them, it was so gay. Tomorrow or day after tomorrow they will call again, and again it will be gay.”
“Is that all?”
“That is all!”
“No, read further.”
Again appears the hand, touches the page, and again from under the hand come new lines; and again against her will Viéra Pavlovna is reading them:—
“The beginning of the present year, especially at the end of spring. Yes, it used to be gay with these students, but that was all. But now I often think it was childish nonsense; such nonsense will amuse me for a long time yet. Probably even when I have come to be an old woman, when I myself will not be of the age for playing, I shall delight in the youthful games which will remind me of my childhood; for even now I look upon the students as younger brothers, but I should not like to become a Viérotchka always when I want to rest from serious thoughts and labors. I am now Viéra Pavlovna, and to enjoy one’s self like Viérotchka is only agreeable at times, but not always. Viéra Pavlovna sometimes wants such happiness that she might still remain Viéra Pavlovna; and this happiness comes only with one’s equals in life.”
“Turn back several pages more.”
“I have opened a sewing union, and went to Julie to ask for orders. Mílenki stopped at her rooms to get me. She kept us to breakfast and she ordered champagne, and she forced me to drink two glasses. We began to sing, run, shout, wrestle; how gay it was! Mílenki looked on and laughed.”
“Is that really all?” asks the visitor, and again appears the hand, and again from under the hand appear new words, and again Viéra Pavlovna reads against her will:—
“Mílenki only looked on and laughed. Why didn’t he join in with us? That would have made it still gayer. Was it that it was improper, or didn’t he care to take a part in our sport? No, it was not in the least improper, and he might have done it! But he
