On the Eve by Garnett, Constance, 1861-1946, Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich, 1818-1883

'. . . Restlessness again ... I am not quite well. . . . All these days I have written nothing in this book, because I have had no wish to write. I felt, whatever I write, it won't be what is in my heart. . . . And what is in my heart? I have had a long talk with him, which revealed a great deal. He told me his plan (by the way, I know now how he got the wound in his neck. . . . Good God! when I think he was actually condemned to death, that he was only just saved, that he was wounded. . . . ) He prophesies war and will be glad of it. And for all that, I never saw D. so depressed. What can he ... he! ... be depressed by? Papa arrived home from town and came upon us two. He looked rather queerly at us. Andrei Petrovitch came; I noticed he had grown very thin and pale. He reproved me, saying I behave too coldly and inconsiderately to Shubin. I had utterly forgotten Paul's existence. I will see him, and try to smooth over my offence. He is nothing to me now . . . nor any one else in the world. Andrei Petrovitch talked to me in a sort of commiserating way. What does it all mean? Why is everything around me and within me so dark? I feel as if about me and within me, something mysterious were happening, for which I want to find the right word. ... I did not sleep all night; my head aches. What's the good of writing? He went away so quickly to-day and I wanted to talk to him. . . . He almost seems to avoid me. Yes, he avoids me.

'. . . The word is found, light has dawned on me! My God, have pity on me. . . . I love him!'

XVII

On the very day on which Elena had written this last fatal line in her diary, Insarov was sitting in Bersenyev's room, and Bersenyev was standing before him with a look of perplexity on his face. Insarov had just announced his intention of returning to Moscow the next day.

'Upon my word!' cried Bersenyev. 'Why, the finest part of the summer is just beginning. What will you do in Moscow? What a sudden decision! Or have you had news of some sort?'

'I have had no news,' replied Insarov; 'but on thinking things over, I find I cannot stop here.'

'How can that be?'

'Andrei Petrovitch,' said Insarov, 'be so kind . . . don't insist, please, I am very sorry myself to be leaving you, but it can't be helped.'

Bersenyev looked at him intently.

'I know,' he said at last, 'there's no persuading you. And so, it's a settled matter,

'Is it?

'Absolutely settled,' replied Insarov, getting up and going away.

Bersenyev walked about the room, then took his hat and set off for the Stahovs.

'You have something to tell me,' Elena said to him, directly they were left alone.

'Yes, how did you guess?'

'Never mind; tell me what it is.'

Bersenyev told her of Insarov's intention.

Elena turned white.

'What does it mean?' she articulated with effort