On the day with which our story began, Elena did not leave the window till later than usual. She thought much of Bersenyev, and of her conversation with him. She liked him; she believed in the warmth of his feelings, and the purity of his aims. He had never before talked to her as on that evening. She recalled the expression of his timid eyes, his smiles—and she smiled herself and fell to musing, but not of him. She began to look out into the night from the open window. For a long time she gazed at the dark, low-hanging sky; then she got up, flung back her hair from her face with a shake of her head, and, herself not knowing why, she stretched out to it—to that sky—her bare chilled arms; then she dropped them, fell on her knees beside her bed, pressed her face into the pillow, and, in spite of all her efforts not to yield to the passion overwhelming her, she burst into strange, uncomprehending, burning tears.
VII
The next day at twelve o’clock, Bersenyev set off in a return coach to Moscow. He had to get some money from the post-office, to buy some books, and he wanted to seize the opportunity to see Insarov and have some conversation with him. The idea had occurred to Bersenyev, in the course of his last conversation with Shubin, to invite Insarov to stay with him at his country lodgings. But it was some time before he found him out; from his former lodging he had moved to another, which it was not easy to discover; it was in the court at the back of a squalid stone house, built in the Petersburg style, between Arbaty Road and Povarsky Street. In vain Bersenyev wandered from one dirty staircase to another, in vain he called first to a doorkeeper, then to a passerby. Porters even in Petersburg try to avoid the eyes of visitors, and in Moscow much more so; no one answered Bersenyev’s call; only an inquisitive tailor, in his shirt sleeves, with a skein of grey thread on his shoulder, thrust out from a high casement window a dirty, dull, unshorn face, with a blackened eye; and a black and hornless goat, clambering up on to a dung heap, turned round, bleated plaintively, and went on chewing the cud faster than before. A woman in an old cloak, and shoes trodden down at heel, took pity at last on Bersenyev and pointed out Insarov’s lodging to him. Bersenyev found him at home. He had taken a room with the very tailor who had stared down so indifferently at the perplexity of a wandering stranger; a large, almost empty room, with dark green walls, three square windows, a tiny bedstead in one corner, a little leather sofa in another, and a huge cage hung up to the very ceiling; in this cage there had once lived a nightingale. Insarov came to meet Bersenyev directly he crossed the threshold, but he did not exclaim, “Ah, it’s you!” or “Good Heavens, what happy chance has brought you?” He did not even say, “How do you do?” but simply pressed his hand and led him up to the solitary chair in the room.
“Sit down,” he said, and he seated himself on the edge of the table.
“I am, as you see, still in disorder,” added Insarov, pointing to a pile of papers and books on the floor, “I haven’t got settled in as I ought. I have not had time yet.”
Insarov spoke Russian perfectly correctly, pronouncing every word fully and purely; but his guttural though pleasant voice sounded somehow not Russian. Insarov’s foreign extraction (he was a Bulgarian by birth) was still more clearly marked in his appearance; he was a young man of five-and-twenty, spare and sinewy, with a hollow chest and knotted fingers; he had sharp features, a hooked nose, blue-black hair, a low forehead, small, intent-looking, deep-set eyes, and bushy eyebrows; when he smiled, splendid white teeth gleamed for an instant between his thin, hard, over-defined lips. He was in a rather old but tidy coat, buttoned up to the throat.
“Why did you leave your old lodging?” Bersenyev asked him.
“This is cheaper, and nearer to the university.”
“But now it’s vacation. … And what could induce you to stay in the town in summer! You should have taken a country cottage if you were determined to move.”
Insarov made no reply to this remark, and offered Bersenyev a pipe, adding: “Excuse me, I have no cigarettes or cigars.”
Bersenyev began smoking the pipe.
“Here have I,” he went on, “taken a little house near Kuntsovo, very cheap and very roomy. In fact there is a room to spare upstairs.”
Insarov again made no answer.
Bersenyev drew at the pipe: “I have even been thinking,” he began again, blowing out the smoke in a thin cloud, “that if anyone could be found—you, for instance, I thought of—who would care, who would consent to establish himself there upstairs, how nice it would be! What do you think, Dmitri Nikanorovitch?”
Insarov turned his little eyes on him. “You propose my staying in your country house?”
“Yes; I have a room to spare there upstairs.”
“Thanks very much, Andrei Petrovitch; but I expect my means would not allow of it.”
“How do you mean?”
“My means would not allow of my living in a country house. It’s impossible for me to keep two lodgings.”
“But of course I”—Bersenyev
