Three weeks after Kurnatovsky’s first visit, Anna Vassilyevna, to Elena’s great delight, returned to Moscow, to her large wooden house near Prechistenka; a house with columns, white lyres and wreaths over every window, with an attic, offices, a palisade, a huge green court, a well in the court and a dog’s kennel near the well. Anna Vassilyevna had never left her country villa so early, but this year with the first autumn chills her face swelled; Nikolai Artemyevitch for his part, having finished his cure, began to want his wife; besides, Augustina Christianovna had gone away on a visit to her cousin in Revel; a family of foreigners, known as ‘living statues,’ des poses plastiques, had come to Moscow, and the description of them in the Moscow Gazette had aroused Anna Vassilyevna’s liveliest curiosity. In short, to stay longer at the villa seemed inconvenient, and even, in Nikolai Artemyevitch’s words, incompatible with the fulfilment of his ‘cherished projects.’ The last fortnight seemed very long to Elena. Kurnatovsky came over twice on Sundays; on other days he was busy. He came really to see Elena, but talked more to Zoya, who was much pleased with him. ‘Das ist ein Mann!’ she thought to herself, as she looked at his full manly face and listened to his self-confident, condescending talk. To her mind, no one had such a wonderful voice, no one could pronounce so nicely, ‘I had the hon-our,’ or, ‘I am most de-lighted.’ Insarov did not come to the Stahovs, but Elena saw him once in secret in a little copse by the Moskva river, where she arranged to meet him. They hardly had time to say more than a few words to each other. Shubin returned to Moscow with Anna Vassilyevna; Bersenyev, a few days later.

Insarov was sitting in his room, and for the third time looking through the letters brought him from Bulgaria by hand; they were afraid to send them by post. He was much disturbed by them. Events were developing rapidly in the East; the occupation of the Principalities by Russian troops had thrown all men’s minds into a ferment; the storm was growing — already could be felt the breath of approaching inevitable war. The fire was kindling all round, and no one could foresee how far it would go — where it would stop. Old wrongs, long cherished hopes — all were astir again. Insarov’s heart throbbed eagerly; his hopes too were being realised. ‘But is it not too soon, will it not be in vain?’ he thought, tightly clasping his hands. ‘We are not ready, but so be it! I must go.’

Something rustled lightly at the door, it flew quickly open, and into the room ran Elena.

Insarov, all in a tremor, rushed to her, fell on his knees before her, clasped her waist and pressed it close against his head.

‘You didn’t expect me?’ she said, hardly able to draw her breath, she had run quickly up the stairs. ‘Dear one! dear one! — so this is where you live? I’ve quickly found you. The daughter of your landlord conducted me. We arrived the day before yesterday. I meant to write to you, but I thought I had better come myself. I have come for a quarter of an hour. Get up, shut the door.’

He got up, quickly shut the door, returned to her and took her by the hands. He could not speak; he was choking with delight. She looked with a smile into his eyes . . . there was such rapture in them . . . she felt shy.

‘Stay,’ she said, fondly taking her hand away from him, ‘let me take off my hat.’

She untied the strings of her hat, flung it down, slipped the cape off her shoulders, tidied her hair, and sat down on the little old sofa. Insarov gazed at her, without stirring, like one enchanted.

‘Sit down,’ she said, not lifting her eyes to him and motioning him to a place beside her.

Insarov sat down, not on the sofa, but on the floor at her feet.

‘Come, take off my gloves,’ she said in an uncertain voice. She felt afraid.

He began first to unbutton and then to draw off one glove; he drew it half off and greedily pressed his lips to the slender, soft wrist, which was white under it.

Elena shuddered, and would have pushed him back with the other hand; he began kissing the other hand too. Elena drew it away, he threw back his head, she looked into his face, bent above him, and their lips touched.

An instant passed . . . she broke away, got up, whispered ‘No, no,’ and went quickly up to the writing-table.

‘I am mistress here, you know, so you ought not to have any secrets from me,’ she said, trying to seem at ease, and standing with her back to him. ‘What a lot of papers! what are these letters?’

Insarov knitted his brows. ‘Those letters?’ he said, getting up, ‘you can read them.’

Elena turned them over in her hand. ‘There are so many of them, and the writing is so fine, and I have to go directly . . . let them be. They’re not from a rival, eh? . . . and they’re not in Russian,’ she added, turning over the thin sheets.

Insarov came close to her and fondly touched her waist. She turned suddenly to him, smiled brightly at him and leant against his shoulder.

‘Those letters are from Bulgaria, Elena; my friends write to me, they want me to come.’

‘Now? To them?’

‘Yes . . . now, while there is still time, while it is still possible to come.’

All at once she flung both arms round his neck, ‘You will take me with you, yes?’

He pressed her to his heart. ‘O my swe............