On the Eve: Chapter 24

Chapter 24

Insarov decided to await more positive news, and began to make
preparations for departure. The difficulty was a serious one. For him
personally there were no obstacles. He had only to ask for a
passport--but how would it be with Elena? To get her a passport in
the legal way was impossible. Should he marry her secretly, and should
they then go and present themselves to the parents? . . . 'They
would let us go then,' he thought 'But if they did not? We would go
all the same. But suppose they were to make a complaint . . . if ...
No, better try to get a passport somehow.'

He decided to consult (of course mentioning no names) one of his
acquaintances, an attorney, retired from practice, or perhaps struck
off the rolls, an old and experienced hand at all sorts of clandestine
business. This worthy person did not live near; Insarov was a whole
hour in getting to him in a very sorry droshky, and, to make matters
worse, he did not find him at home; and on his way back got soaked to
the skin by a sudden downpour of rain. The next morning, in spite of a
rather severe headache, Insarov set off a second time to call on the
retired attorney. The retired attorney listened to him attentively,
taking snuff from a snuff-box decorated with a picture of a
full-bosomed nymph, and glancing stealthily at his visitor with his
sly, and also snuff-coloured little eyes; he heard him to the end, and
then demanded 'greater definiteness in the statement of the facts of
the case'; and observing that Insarov was unwilling to launch into
particulars (it was against the grain that he had come to him at all)
he confined himself to the advice to provide himself above all things
with 'the needful,' and asked him to come to him again, 'when you
have,' he added, sniffing at the snuff in the open snuff-box,
'augmented your confidence and decreased your diffidence' (he talked
with a broad accent). 'A passport,' he added, as though to himself,
'is a thing that can be arranged; you go a journey, for instance;
who's to tell whether you're Marya Bredihin or Karolina Vogel-meier?'
A feeling of nausea came over Insarov, but he thanked the attorney,
and promised to come to him again in a day or two.

The same evening he went to the Stahovs. Anna Vassilyevna met him
cordially, reproached him a little for having quite forgotten them,
and, finding him pale, inquired especially after his health. Nikolai
Artemyevitch did not say a single word to him; he only stared at him
with elaborately careless curiosity; Shubin treated him coldly; but
Elena astounded him. She was expecting him; she had put on for him
the very dress she wore on the day of their first interview in the
chapel; but she welcomed him so calmly, and was so polite and
carelessly gay, that no one looking at her could have believed that
this girl's fate was already decided, and that it was only the secret
consciousness of happy love that gave fire to her features, lightness
and charm to all her gestures. She poured out tea in Zoya's place,
jested, chattered; she knew Shubin would be watching her, that
Insarov was incapable of wearing a mask, and incapable of appearing
indifferent, and she had prepared herself beforehand. She was not
mistaken; Shubin never took his eyes off her, and Insarov was very
silent and gloomy the whole evening. Elena was so happy that she even
felt an inclination to tease him.

'Oh, by the way,' she said to him suddenly, 'is your plan getting on
at all?'

Insarov was taken aback.

'What plan?' he said.

'Why, have you forgotten?' she rejoined, laughing in his face; he
alone could tell the meaning of that happy laugh: 'Your Bulgarian
selections for Russian readers?'

'_Quelle bourde_!' muttered Nikolai Artemyevitch between his teeth.

Zoya sat down to the piano. Elena gave a just perceptible shrug of the
shoulders, and with her eyes motioned Insarov to the door. Then she
twice slowly touched the table with her finger, and looked at him. He
understood that she was promising to see him in two days, and she gave
him a quick smile when she saw he understood her. Insarov got up and
began to take leave; he felt unwell. Kurnatovsky arrived. Nikolai
Artemyevitch jumped up, raised his right hand higher than his head,
and softly dropped it into the palm of the chief secretary. Insarov
would have remained a few minutes longer, to have a look at his rival.
Elena shook her head unseen; the host did not think it necessary to
introduce them to one another, and Insarov departed, exchanging one
last look with Elena. Shubin pondered and pondered, and threw himself
into a fierce argument with Kurnatovsky on a legislative question,
about which he had not a single idea.

Insarov did not sleep all night, and in the morning he felt very ill;
he set to work, however, putting his papers into order and writing
letters, but his head was heavy and confused. At dinner time he began
to be in a fever; he could eat nothing. The fever grew rapidly worse
towards evening; he had aching pains in all his limbs, and a terrible
headache. Insarov lay down on the very little sofa on which Elena had
lately sat; he thought: 'It serves me right for going to that old
rascal,' and he tried to sleep. . . . But the illness had by now
complete mastery of him. His veins were throbbing violently, his blood
was on fire, his thoughts were flying round like birds. He sank into
forgetfulness. He lay like a man felled by a blow on his face, and
suddenly, it seemed to him, some one was softly laughing and
whispering over him: he opened his eyes with an effort, the light of
the flaring candle smote him like a knife. . . . What was it? the old
attorney was before him in an Oriental silk gown belted with a silk
handkerchief, as he had seen him the evening before. . . . 'Karolina
Vogelmeier,' muttered his toothless mouth. Insarov stared, and the
old man grew wide and thick and tall, he was no longer a man, he was a
tree. . . . Insarov had to climb along its gnarled branches. He
clung, and fell with his breast on a sharp stone, and Karolina
Vogelmeier was sitting on her heels, looking like a pedlar-woman, and
lisping: 'Pies, pies, pies for sale'; and there were streams of blood
and swords flashing incessantly. . . . Elena! And everything vanished
is a crimson chaos,

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