On the Eve: Chapter 19

Chapter 19

An hour later, Elena, with her hat in one hand, her cape in the other,
walked slowly into the drawing-room of the villa. Her hair was in
slight disorder; on each cheek was to be seen a small bright spot of
colour, the smile would not leave her lips, her eyes were nearly
shutting and half hidden under the lids; they, too, were smiling.
She could scarcely move for weariness, and this weariness was pleasant
to her; everything, indeed, was pleasant to her. Everything seemed
sweet and friendly to her. Uvar Ivanovitch was sitting at the window;
she went up to him, laid her hand on his shoulder, stretched a little,
and involuntarily, as it seemed, she laughed.

'What is it?' he inquired, astonished.

She did not know what to say. She felt inclined to kiss Uvar
Ivanovitch.

'How he splashed!' she explained at last.

But Uvar Ivanovitch did not stir a muscle, and continued to look with
amazement at Elena. She dropped her hat and cape on to him.

'Dear Uvar Ivanovitch,' she said, 'I am sleepy and tired,' and again
she laughed and sank into a low chair near him.

'H'm,' grunted Uvar Ivanovitch, flourishing his fingers, 'then you
ought--yes----'

Elena was looking round her and thinking, 'From all this I soon must
part . . . and strange--I have no dread, no doubt, no regret. . . .
No, I am sorry for mamma.' Then the little chapel rose again before
her mind, again her voice was echoing in it, and she felt his arms
about her. Joyously, though faintly, her heart fluttered; weighed
down by the languor of happiness. The old beggar-woman recurred to her
mind. 'She did really bear away my sorrow,' she thought. 'Oh, how
happy I am! how undeservedly! how soon!' If she had let herself go
in the least she would have melted into sweet, endless tears. She
could only restrain them by laughing. Whatever attitude she fell into
seemed to her the easiest, most comfortable possible; she felt as if
she were being rocked to sleep. All her movements were slow and soft;
what had become of her awkwardness, her haste? Zoya came in; Elena
decided that she had never seen a more charming little face; Anna
Vassilyevna came in; Elena felt a pang--but with what tenderness she
embraced her mother and kissed her on the forehead near the hair,
already slightly grey! Then she went away to her own room; how
everything smiled upon her there! With what a sense of shamefaced
triumph and tranquillity she sat down on her bed--the very bed on
which, only three hours ago, she had spent such bitter moments! 'And
yet, even then, I knew he loved me,' she thought, 'even before . . .
Ah, no! it's a sin. You are my wife,' she whispered, hiding her face
in her hands and falling on her knees.

Towards the evening, she grew more thoughtful. Sadness came upon her
at the thought that she would not soon see Insarov. He could not
without awakening suspicion remain at Bersenyev's, and so this was
what he and Elena had resolved on. Insarov was to return to Moscow and
to come over to visit them twice before the autumn; on her side she
promised to write him letters, and, if it were possible, to arrange a
meeting with him somewhere near Kuntsov. She went down to the
drawing-room to tea, and found there all the household and Shubin, who
looked at her sharply directly she came in; she tried to talk to him
in a friendly way as of old, but she dreaded his penetration, she was
afraid of herself. She felt sure that there was good reason for his
having left her alone for more than a fortnight. Soon Bersenyev
arrived, and gave Insarov's respects to Anna Vassilyevna with an
apology for having gone back to Moscow without calling to take leave
of her. Insarov's name was for the first time during the day
pronounced before Elena. She felt that she reddened; she realised at
the same time that she ought to express regret at the sudden departure
of such a pleasant acquaintance; but she could not force herself to
hypocrisy, and continued to sit without stirring or speaking, while
Anna Vassilyevna sighed and lamented. Elena tried to keep near
Bersenyev; she was not afraid of him, though he even knew part of her
secret; she was safe under his wing from Shubin, who still persisted
in staring at her--not mockingly but attentively. Bersenyev, too, was
thrown into perplexity during the evening: he had expected to see
Elena more gloomy. Happily for her, an argument sprang up about art
between him and Shubin; she moved apart and heard their voices as it
were through a dream. By degrees, not only they, but the whole room,
everything surrounding her, seemed like a dream--everything: the
samovar on the table, and Uvar Ivanovitch's short waistcoat, and
Zoya's polished finger-nails, and the portrait in oils of the Grand
Duke Constantine Pavlovitch on the wall; everything retreated,
everything was wrapped in mist, everything ceased to exist. Only she
felt sorry for them all. 'What are they living for?' she thought.

'Are you sleepy, Lenotchka?' her mother asked her. She did not hear
the question.

'A half untrue insinuation, do you say?' These words, sharply
uttered by Shubin, suddenly awakened Elena's attention. 'Why,' he
continued, 'the whole sting lies in that. A true insinuation makes one
wretched--that's unchristian--and to an untrue insinuation a man is
indifferent--that's stupid, but at a half true one he feels vexed and
impatient. For instance, if I say that Elena Nikolaevna is in love
with one of us, what sort of insinuation would that be, eh?'

'Ah, Monsieur Paul,' said Elena, 'I should like to show myself vexed,
but really I can't. I am so tired.'

'Why don't you go to bed?' observed Anna Vassilyevna, who was always
drowsy in the evening herself, and consequently always eager to send
the others to bed. 'Say good-night to me, and go in God's name;
Andrei Petrovitch will excuse you.'

Elena kissed her mother, bowed to all and went away. Shubin
accompanied her to the door. 'Elena Nikolaevna,' he whispered to her
in the doorway, 'you trample on Monsieur Paul, you mercilessly walk
over him, but Monsieur Paul blesses you and your little feet, and the
slippers on your little feet, and the soles of your little slippers.'

Elena shrugged her shoulders, reluctantly held out her hand to
him--not the one Insarov had kissed--and going up to her room, at
once undressed, got into bed, and fell asleep. She slept a deep,
unstirring sleep, as even children rarely sleep--the sleep of a child
convalescent after sickness, when its mother sits near its cradle and
watches it, and listens to its breathing.

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