"I do not doubt your good-will, but I am ashamed that you should be troubled," she muttered. "Oh, I understand, I understand.... When Gruzin was here to-day, I felt that he was lying and concealing6 something. Well, so be it. But I am ashamed, anyway, that you should be troubled."
She still had her doubts. To dispel7 them finally, I asked the cabman to drive through Sergievsky Street; stopping him at Pekarsky's door, I got out of the cab and rang. When the porter came to the door, I asked aloud, that Zinaida Fyodorovna might hear, whether Georgy Ivanitch was at home.
"Yes," was the answer, "he came in half an hour ago. He must be in bed by now. What do you want?"
Zinaida Fyodorovna could not refrain from putting her head out.
"Has Georgy Ivanitch been staying here long?" she asked.
"Going on for three weeks."
"And he's not been away?"
"No," answered the porter, looking at me with surprise.
"Tell him, early to-morrow," I said, "that his sister has arrived from Warsaw. Good-bye."
Then we drove on. The cab had no apron8, the snow fell on us in big flakes9, and the wind, especially on the Neva, pierced us through and through. I began to feel as though we had been driving for a long time, that for ages we had been suffering, and that for ages I had been listening to Zinaida Fyodorovna's shuddering10 breath. In semi-delirium, as though half asleep, I looked back upon my strange, incoherent life, and for some reason recalled a melodrama11, "The Parisian Beggars," which I had seen once or twice in my childhood. And when to shake off that semi-delirium I peeped out from the hood and saw the dawn, all the images of the past, all my misty12 thoughts, for some reason, blended in me into one distinct, overpowering thought: everything was irrevocably over for Zinaida Fyodorovna and for me. This was as certain a conviction as though the cold blue sky contained a prophecy, but a minute later I was already thinking of something else and believed differently.
"What am I now?" said Zinaida Fyodorovna, in a voice husky with the cold and the damp. "Where am I to go? What am I to do? Gruzin told me to go into a nunnery. Oh, I would! I would change my dress, my face, my name, my thoughts ... everything—everything, and would hide myself for ever. But they will not take me into a nunnery. I am with child."
"We will go abroad together to-morrow," I said.
"That's impossible. My husband won't give me a passport."
"I will take you without a passport."
The cabman stopped at a wooden house of two storeys, painted a dark colour. I rang. Taking from me her small light basket—the only luggage we had brought with us—Zinaida Fyodorovna gave a wry13 smile and said:
"These are my bijoux."
But she was so weak that she could not carry these bijoux.
It was a long while before the door was opened. After the third or fourth ring a light gleamed in the windows, and there was a sound of steps, coughing and whispering; at last the key grated in the lock, and a stout14 peasant woman with a frightened red face appeared at the door. Some distance behind her stood a thin little old woman with short grey hair, carrying a candle in her hand. Zinaida Fyodorovna ran into the passage and flung her arms round the old woman's neck.
"Nina, I've been deceived," she sobbed15 loudly. "I've been coarsely, foully16 deceived! Nina, Nina!"
I handed the basket to the peasant woman. The door was closed, but still I heard her sobs17 and the cry "Nina!"
I got into the cab and told the man to drive slowly to the Nevsky Prospect18. I had to think of a night's lodging19 for myself.
Next day towards evening I went to see Zinaida Fyodorovna. She was terribly changed. There were no traces of tears on her pale, terribly sunken face, and her expression was different. I don't know whether it was that I saw her now in different surroundings, far from luxurious20, and that our relations were by now different, or perhaps that intense grief had already set its mark upon her; she did not strike me as so elegant and well dressed as before. Her figure seemed smaller; there was an abruptness21 and excessive nervousness about her as though she were in a hurry, and there was not the same softness even in her smile. I was dressed in an expensive suit which I had bought during the day. She looked first of all at that suit and at the hat in my hand, then turned an impatient, searching glance upon my face as though studying it.
"Your transformation22 still seems to me a sort of miracle," she said. "Forgive me for looking at you with such curiosity. You are an extraordinary man, you know."
I told her again who I was, and why I was living at Orlov's, and I told her at greater length and in more detail than the day before. She listened with great attention, and said without letting me finish:
"Everything there is over for me. You know, I could not refrain from writing a letter. Here is the answer."
On the sheet which she gave there was written in Orlov's hand:
"I am not going to justify23 myself. But you must own that it was your mistake, not mine. I wish you happiness, and beg you to make haste and forget.
"Yours sincerely,
"G. O.
"P. S.—I am sending on your things."
The trunks and baskets despatched by Orlov were standing24 in the passage, and my poor little portmanteau was there beside them.
"So ..." Zinaida Fyodorovna began, but she did not finish.
We were silent. She took the note and held it for a couple of minutes before her eyes, and during that time her face wore the same haughty25, contemptuous, proud, and harsh expression as the day before at the beginning of our explanation; tears came into her eyes—not timid, bitter tears, but proud, angry tears.
"Listen," she said, getting up abruptly26 and moving away to the window that I might not see her face. "I have made up my mind to go abroad with you tomorrow."
"I am very glad. I am ready to go to-day."
"Accept me as a recruit. Have you read Balzac?" she asked suddenly, turning round. "Have you? At the end of his novel 'Père Goriot' the hero looks down upon Paris from the top of a hill and threatens the town: 'Now we shall settle our account,' and after this he begins a new life. So when I look out of the train window at Petersburg for the last time, I shall say, 'Now we shall settle our account!'"
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1
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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2
lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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3
thaw
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| v.（使）融化，（使）变得友善；n.融化，缓和 | |
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4
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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5
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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6
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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7
dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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8
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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9
flakes
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| 小薄片( flake的名词复数 )； （尤指）碎片； 雪花； 古怪的人 | |
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10
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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11
melodrama
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| n.音乐剧；情节剧 | |
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12
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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13
wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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15
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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16
foully
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| ad.卑鄙地 | |
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17
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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18
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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19
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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20
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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21
abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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22
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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23
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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24
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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25
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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26
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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27
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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