“The crisis is still a long way off,” he said as he put his hat on.
“And after the crisis?” asked Bersenev.
“After the crisis? There are two possible results: aut Caesar, aut nihil.”*
The doctor left. Bersenev took several turns up and down the street; he needed fresh air. He returned and took up his book. He had long since finished Raumer and was now studying Grote.*
Suddenly the door creaked open quietly and the head of the tailor’s little daughter, covered as usual by a thick kerchief, poked cautiously into the room.
“The young lady is here what give me ten copecks,” she said in an undertone.
The head of the landlord’s daughter abruptly disappeared and was replaced by Yelena.
Bersenev leapt up like a man stung, but Yelena did not stir or cry out… She seemed to take in everything in an instant. A terrible pallor covered her face; she went up to the screens, looked over them and threw up her hands as if petrified. Another moment and she would have rushed to Insarov’s side, but Bersenev stopped her.
“What are you doing?” he said in a tremulous voice. “You might kill him!”
She staggered. He guided her to the sofa and sat her down.
She looked him in the face, then measured him with her eyes, then stared at the floor.
“Is he dying?” she asked, so coldly and calmly that Bersenev took fright.
“For Heaven’s sake, Yelena Nikolayevna,” he began, “why do you say that? He’s ill, certainly – and rather dangerously ill… But we’ll save him, I guarantee you.”
“Is he unconscious?” she asked in the same tone of voice as before.
“Yes, he’s unconscious now… That’s how it always is at the beginning of these illnesses, but it signifies nothing. I assure you, nothing. Drink some water.”
She raised her eyes to him, and he realized she had not heard his answers.
“If he dies,” she said, still in the same tone of voice, “I’ll die too.”
At that moment Insarov gave a faint moan; she began to tremble, clutched her head, then began to untie the ribbons of her hat.
“What are you doing ?” asked Bersenev.
She did not answer.
“What are you doing?” he repeated.
“I’m staying here.”
“What? For long?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps all day. Perhaps for the night. Perhaps for ever… I don’t know.”
“For Heaven’s sake, Yelena Nikolayevna, think what you’re doing. Of course I could never have expected to see you here, but all the same… I assume you’ve called in briefly. Remember, they might miss you at home…”
“What of it?”
“They’ll come looking for you… They’ll find you…”
“So?”
“Yelena Nikolayevna! You can see for yourself… He cannot protect you now.”
She lowered her head, as if deep in thought, put her handkerchief to her lips and convulsive sobs suddenly broke from her with appalling force… She threw herself face down on the sofa in an attempt to stifle them, but her whole body heaved and struggled like a newly trapped bird.
“Yelena Nikolayevna, for Heaven’s sake…” Bersenev kept repeating the words over her.
“What is it?” Insarov’s voice broke in unexpectedly.
Yelena sat up, but Bersenev seemed frozen to the spot… After a brief pause, he went up to the bed… Insarov’s head lay inert on the pillow as before; his eyes were closed.
“Is he delirious?”
“It seems so,” Bersenev replied, “but that doesn’t matter. It’s also one of the things that always happens, especially if—”
“When did he fall ill?” Yelena interrupted.
“Two days ago. I’ve been here since yesterday. You can rely on me, Yelena Nikolayevna. I won’t leave him; all means will be employed. If necessary we’ll get a second opinion.”
“He’ll die without me,” she cried, wringing her hands.
“I give you my word to keep you informed every day about the progress of his illness, and if it becomes really life-threatening—”
“Swear that you’ll send for me at once, whenever it is, day or night. Send a note directly to me… Nothing else matters now. Do you hear? Promise you’ll do that.”
“I promise to God.”
“Swear it.”
“I swear it.”
Suddenly she seized his hand and, before he could snatch it away, pressed her lips to it.
“Yelena Nikolayevna, what are you doing…” he mumbled.
“No… No… You mustn’t…” said Insarov indistinctly, with a deep sigh.
Yelena went up to the screens, gripping her kerchief in her teeth, and gazed at the sick man for a long time. Silent tears flowed down her cheeks.
“Yelena Nikolayevna,” said Bersenev, “he might come round and recognize you; Heaven knows whether that’s good. Besides, I’m expecting the doctor any moment…”
Yelena took her hat from the sofa, put it on and stood still. Her eyes wandered sadly round the room.
26
For a whole eight days Insarov hovered between life and death. The doctor came continually, as a young man taking an additional interest in a severe case. Shubin heard about Insarov’s dangerous condition and visited him. His Bulgarian compatriots appeared; among them Bersenev recognized the two strange figures who had aroused his astonishment by their unexpected visit to the dacha. All expressed genuine concern, some of them offering to take Bersenev’s place at the sick man’s bedside. However, remembering his promise to Yelena, he did not agree to this. He saw her every day and surreptitiously conveyed to her – sometimes by word of mouth, sometimes by means of a short note – details of the progress of the illness. How her heart would skip a beat as she waited for him, how she would listen to him and question him! She was always anxious to go to Insarov herself, but Bersenev begged her not to; Insarov was rarely alone. The first day she learnt of his illness, she almost fell sick herself; as soon as she returned home, she locked herself in her room, but when called to dinner, she appeared in the dining room looking so dreadful that Anna Vasilyevna took fright and wanted to make sure she went to bed. However, Yelena succeeded in mastering her emotions, “If he dies,” she kept repeating, “that’ll be the end of me too.” This thought soothed her and gave her the strength to appear indifferent. However, no one caused her much concern: Anna Vasilyevna fussed about with her gumboils; Shubin worked frenziedly; Zoya lapsed into melancholia, intending to finish reading Werther;* Nikolai Artemyevich was displeased with the frequent visits of the “schoolboy”, the more so because his “preordinations” with regard to Kurnatovsky were making slow progress: the practical-minded chief secretary was dithering and biding his time. Yelena did not even thank Bersenev – there are services for which it is unpleasant, even shameful, to give thanks. Only once, during his fourth meeting with him (Insarov had had a very bad night and the doctor had hinted at a second opinion), only during this meeting did she remind Bersenev of his oath. “Well, in that case, let’s go,” he said. She stood up and was about to put on her coat. “No,” he said, “let’s wait until tomorrow.” By evening Insarov’s condition had improved somewhat.
The ordeal went on for eight days. Yelena seemed calm but could not eat anything or sleep at night. A dull pain affected all her limbs; a sort of dry, burning smoke seemed to fill her head. “Our young mistress is melting away like a candle,” her maid said of her.
Finally, on the ninth day, the crisis came. Yelena was sitting in the drawing room beside Anna Vasilyevna and, without understanding what she was doing, was reading the Moscow News to her. Bersenev came in. Yelena glanced at him (how quick, timid, penetrating and anxious was the first glance she cast at him each time!) and at once guessed that he had brought good news. He smiled and nodded to her; sh
e rose to greet him.
“He’s come round. He’s saved. In a week’s time he’ll have recovered completely,” he whispered to her.
Yelena stretched out her hands, as if deflecting a blow; she said nothing, but her lips trembled and a scarlet blush suffused her whole face. Bersenev began to talk to Anna Vasilyevna, while Yelena went to her room, fell on her knees and began to pray and offer thanks to God… Bright, gentle tears flowed from her eyes. Suddenly she felt extremely tired, laid her head on her pillow, whispered: “Poor Andrei Petrovich!” and at once fell asleep, her eyelashes and cheeks still wet. She had neither slept nor wept for a long time.
27
Bersenev’s words were only partially realized; the danger had passed, but Insarov only slowly regained his strength, and the doctor was talking about a profound and generalized shock to the system. Nevertheless the sick man left his bed and began to walk round his room; Bersenev went back to his flat, but called by every day to see his friend, who was still very weak, and as before he informed Yelena every day about the state of Insarov’s health. Insarov did not dare to write to her and only referred to her obliquely in conversations with Bersenev. Bersenev, however, feigning indifference, told him about his visits to the Stakhovs’, trying to convey to him that Yelena had been very distressed but was now calmer. Yelena did not write to Insarov either – she had something else in mind.
Once – Bersenev had just told her, with a cheerful look on his face, that the doctor had already allowed Insarov to eat a chop and that he would probably soon be able to go out – she became pensive and dropped her eyes.
“Guess what I want to tell you,” she said.
Bersenev was nonplussed. He understood her.
“Probably,” he replied, with a sideways look, “you want to tell me that you wish to see him.”
Yelena blushed, and said in a scarcely audible voice:
“Yes.”
“So what’s the problem? I imagine it’s very easy for you.”
“Ugh!” he thought. “What a vile feeling I have in my heart!”
“You mean I’ve already, earlier…” said Yelena. “But I’m afraid. You say he’s rarely alone now.”
“That’s not difficult to sort out,” Bersenev replied, still not looking directly at her. “Of course, I can’t forewarn him, but you can give me a note. Who can stop you writing to a good friend about whom you are concerned? There’s nothing reprehensible in that. Name a time… that is to say, write to him when you’re coming.”
“I’m ashamed to,” whispered Yelena.
“Give me a note. I’ll take it.”
“That’s not necessary, but I wanted to ask you… Don’t be angry with me, Andrei Petrovich, but don’t go and see him tomorrow.”
Bersenev bit his lip.
“Ah yes! I fully understand. Fully.” And, after a word or two more, he departed.
“So much the better, so much the better,” he thought as he hurried home. “I didn’t learn anything new, but so much the better. Why the desire to perch on the edge of someone else’s nest? I don’t repent of anything. I did what my conscience dictated. But enough’s enough. Good luck to them! Not for nothing did my father used to say: ‘You and I, my boy, are not sybarites, not aristocrats, not favourites of Fortune or Nature, not even martyrs. We’re workers, double-dyed workers. Put on your leather apron, worker, and stand by your bench in your dark workshop! Let the sun shine on other people! Even in our humdrum lives there is pride and happiness.’”
The next morning Insarov received a short note through the post. “Wait for me,” Yelena wrote, “and have entrance refused to everyone. A.P. will not be coming.”
28
Insarov read Yelena’s note – and at once began to tidy his room, asked his landlady to remove bottles of medicine, took off his dressing gown and put on his frock coat. His head was spinning from weakness and happiness and his heart thumping. His legs were giving way beneath him, so he sat down on the sofa and began to look at his watch. “It’s quarter to twelve now,” he said to himself. “She can’t come before twelve. I’ll think about something else for a quarter of an hour, or I won’t be able to stand it. She can’t possibly before twelve…”
The door burst open and a pale, fresh, young, happy Yelena came in, wearing a light silk dress. With a faint cry of joy she fell on his breast.
“You’re alive and you’re mine,” she kept repeating, encircling his head with her arms and caressing it. His heart grew faint and his breath failed him at this intimacy, at her touch, at this happiness.
She sat down beside him, snuggled up to him and began to contemplate him with a look at once laughing and tender such as shines only in loving, feminine eyes.
Suddenly her face clouded over.
“My poor Dmitry, how thin you’ve got,” she said, running her hand over his cheek. “What a beard you’ve got!”
“My poor Yelena, you’ve got thin too,” he replied, kissing her fingers.
She shook her ringlets happily.
“That doesn’t matter. Just watch us get better! The storm struck, like it did on the day we met in the shrine; it struck, and then passed. Now we will live!”
He merely smiled in reply.
“Oh, what days, Dmitry, what cruel days! How do people outlive those they love? I knew in advance every time what Andrei Petrovich would say – honestly I did – my life rose and fell with yours. Oh, my dear Dmitry, may you prosper and be in good health!”
He did not know what to say to her. He wanted to throw himself at her feet.
“There’s something else I observed,” she went on, pushing back his hair. “I observed lots of things during all that time when I had nothing to do. When someone is very, very unhappy, how stupidly attentive they are to everything going on around them! Honestly, sometimes I would watch a fly with rapt attention while in my heart there was such horror and cold! But all this has long passed, hasn’t it? There is nothing but light ahead of us, isn’t there?”
“There is you ahead, so there is light ahead for me,” Insarov replied.
“And for me too! But do you remember when I was here, not the last time… no, not the last time,” she repeated with an involuntary shudder, “but when we talked and I mentioned death, I’ve no idea why myself. I never suspected at the time that it was stalking us. But you’re better now, aren’t you?”
“Much better. I’m almost back to full health.”
“You’re back to full health. You didn’t die. Oh, how happy I am!”
A short silence ensued.
“Yelena,” said Insarov.
“What is it, my darling?”
“Tell me, has it not occurred to you that this illness was sent to us as a punishment?”
Yelena looked at him gravely.
“That thought did occur to me, Dmitry. But I thought: what would I be punished for? How have I failed in my duty? Against what have I sinned? Perhaps my conscience is not the same as other people’s, but it did not trouble me. Or maybe I’m guilty before you? I will hinder you, stop you…”
“You won’t stop me, Yelena. We shall go together.”
“Yes, Dmitry, we shall go together. I will follow you. It is my duty to do so. I love you… I know no other duty.”
“Oh, Yelena!” said Insarov. “What adamantine chains your every word places upon me!”
“Why do you talk about chains?” she replied. “You and I are free people. Yes,” she went on, gazing thoughtfully at the floor and, as before, stroking his hair with one hand. In recent times I’ve been through a great deal about which I’d never previously had any notion! If anyone had predicted that I, a genteel young lady, would leave home alone under various fictitious pretexts and go – where? – to a young man’s lodgings, how indignant I would have been! And all this happened, and I’m not at all indignant. Indeed I’m not!” she added, turn
ing to Insarov.
He was looking at her so adoringly that she gently lowered her hand from his hair to his eyes.
“Dmitry!” she began once more. “You don’t know, do you, that I saw you there, on that dreadful bed, saw you in the talons of death, unconscious…”
“You saw me?”
“Yes.”
He fell silent.
“Was Bersenev here too?”
She nodded.
Insarov leant towards her.
“Oh, Yelena!” he whispered. “I dare not look at you.”
“Why not? Andrei Petrovich is so kind! I did not feel ashamed in front of him. And what was there to be ashamed of? I’m ready to tell the whole world that I’m yours… And I trust Andrei Petrovich like a brother.”
“He saved me!” exclaimed Insarov. “He’s the noblest and kindest of men!”
“Yes… And do you know, I’m indebted to him for everything? Do you know he was the first to tell me that you loved me? And if I could reveal everything… yes, he’s the noblest of men.”
Insarov gazed fixedly at Yelena.
“He’s in love with you, isn’t he?”
Yelena lowered her eyes.
“He did love me,” she said in an undertone.
Insarov squeezed her hand firmly.
“Oh you Russians,” he said, “you have hearts of gold! And Bersenev – he cared for me, he went without sleep at night. And you, my angel… Never a reproach, never any hesitation… And all this for me, for me…”
“Yes, yes, all for you, because you are loved. Oh, Dmitry! How strange this is! I think I’ve already told you about this, but all the same, I like repeating it and you’ll like hearing it. When I saw you the first time—”
“Why are there tears in your eyes?” Insarov interrupted.
“Tears? In my eyes?” She wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. “Oh, the foolish boy! He still doesn’t know that one can weep from happiness too. This is what I meant: when I saw you for the first time I honestly didn’t find anything special in you. I remember that at first I liked Shubin much better, although I never loved him, and as for Andrei Petrovich – oh yes, there was a moment when I thought: is he the man for me? You were nothing to me, but then… then… you seized my heart with both hands!”
On the Eve (Alma Classics) Page 14