He was in the mood to have talked on a good deal longer, but luckily we heard the coachman's voice. Our horses had arrived. We got into the carriage, and Forty Martyrs, taking off his cap, helped us both into the carriage with an expression that suggested that he had long been waiting for an opportunity to come in contact with our precious persons.
'Dmitri Petrovitch, let me come to you,' he said, blinking furiously and tilting his head on one side. 'Show divine mercy! I am dying of hunger!'
'Very well,' said Silin. 'Come, you shall stay three days, and then we shall see.'
'Certainly, sir,' said Forty Martyrs, overjoyed. 'I'll come today, sir.'
It was a five miles' drive home. Dmitri Petrovitch, glad that he had at last opened his heart to his friend, kept his arm round my waist all the way; and speaking now, not with bitterness and not with apprehension, but quite cheerfully, told me that if everything had been satisfactory in his home life, he should have returned to Petersburg and taken up scientific work there. The movement which had driven so many gifted young men into the country was, he said, a deplorable movement. We had plenty of rye and wheat in Russia, but absolutely no cultured people. The strong and gifted among the young ought to take up science, art, and politics; to act otherwise meant being wasteful. He generalized with pleasure and expressed regret that he would be parting from me early next morning, as he had to go to a sale of timber.
And I felt awkward and depressed, and it seemed to me that I was deceiving the man. And at the same time it was pleasant to me. I gazed at the immense crimson moon which was rising, and pictured the tall, graceful, fair woman, with her pale face, always well-dressed and fragrant with some special scent, rather like musk, and for some reason it pleased me to think she did not love her husband.
On reaching home, we sat down to supper. Marya Sergeyevna, laughing, regaled us with our purchases, and I thought that she certainly had wonderful hair and that her smile was unlike any other woman's. I watched her, and I wanted to detect in every look and movement that she did not love her husband, and I fancied that I did see it.
Dmitri Petrovitch was soon struggling with sleep. After supper he sat with us for ten minutes and said:
'Do as you please, my friends, but I have to be up at three o'clock tomorrow morning. Excuse my leaving you.'
He kissed his wife tenderly, pressed my hand with warmth and gratitude, and made me promise that I would certainly come the following week. That he might not oversleep next morning, he went to spend the night in the lodge.
Marya Sergeyevna always sat up late, in the Petersburg fashion, and for some reason on this occasion I was glad of it.
'And now,' I began when we were left alone, 'and now you'll be kind and play me something.'
I felt no desire for music, but I did not know how to begin the conversation. She sat down to the piano and played, I don't remember what. I sat down beside her and looked at her plump white hands and tried to read something on her cold, indifferent face. Then she smiled at something and looked at me.
'You are dull without your friend,' she said.
I laughed.
'It would be enough for friendship to be here once a month, but I turn up oftener than once a week.'
Saying this, I got up and walked from one end of the room to the other. She too got up and walked away to the fireplace.
'What do you mean to say by that?' she said, raising her large, clear eyes and looking at me.
I made no answer.
'What you say is not true,' she went on, after a moment's thought. 'You only come here on account of Dmitri Petrovitch. Well, I am very glad. One does not often see such friendships nowadays.'
'Aha!' I thought, and, not knowing what to say, I asked: 'Would you care for a turn in the garden?'
I went out upon the verandah. Nervous shudders were running over my head and I felt chilly with excitement. I was convinced now that our conversation would be utterly trivial, and that there was nothing particular we should be able to say to one another, but that, that night, what I did not dare to dream of was bound to happen -- that it was bound to be that night or never.
'What lovely weather!' I said aloud.
'It makes absolutely no difference to me,' she answered.
I went into the drawing-room. Marya Sergeyevna was standing, as before, near the fireplace, with her hands behind her back, looking away and thinking of something.
'Why does it make no difference to you?' I asked.
'Because I am bored. You are only bored without your friend, but I am always bored. However . . . that is of no interest to you.'
I sat down to the piano and struck a few chords, waiting to hear what she would say.
'Please don't stand on ceremony,' she said, looking angrily at me, and she seemed as though on the point of crying with vexation. 'If you are sleepy, go to bed. Because you are Dmitri Petrovitch's friend, you are not in duty bound to be bored with his wife's company. I don't want a sacrifice. Please go.'
I did not, of course, go to bed. She went out on the verandah while I remained in the drawing-room and spent five minutes turning over the music. Then I went out, too. We stood close together in the shadow of the curtains, and below us were the steps bathed in moonlight. The black shadows of the trees stretched across the flower beds and the yellow sand of the paths.
'I shall have to go away tomorrow, too,' I said.
'Of course, if my husband's not at home you can't stay here,' she said sarcastically. 'I can imagine how
