The Avduhin pond, near which Natalya had fixed the place of meeting, had long ceased to be a pond. Thirty years before it had burst through its banks and it had been given up since then. Only by the smooth flat surface of the hollow, once covered with slimy mud, and the traces of the banks, could one guess that it had been a pond. A farm-house had stood near it. It had long ago passed away. Two huge pine-trees preserved its memory; the wind was for ever droning and sullenly murmuring in their high gaunt green tops. There were mysterious tales among the people of a fearful crime supposed to have been committed under them; they used to tell, too, that not one of them would fall without bringing death to some one; that a third had once stood there, which had fallen in a storm and crushed a girl.

The whole place near the old pond was supposed to be haunted; it was a barren wilderness, dark and gloomy, even on a sunny day — it seemed darker and gloomier still from the old, old forest of dead and withered oak-trees which was near it. A few huge trees lifted their grey heads above the low undergrowth of bushes like weary giants. They were a sinister sight; it seemed as though wicked old men had met together bent on some evil design. A narrow path almost indistinguishable wandered beside it. No one went near the Avduhin pond without some urgent reason. Natalya intentionally chose this solitary place. It was not more than half-a-mile from Darya Mihailovna’s house.

The sun had already risen some time when Rudin reached the Avduhin pond, but it was not a bright morning. Thick clouds of the colour of milk covered the whole sky, and were driven flying before the whistling, shrieking wind. Rudin began to walk up and down along the bank, which was covered with clinging burdocks and blackened nettles. He was not easy in his mind. These interviews, these new emotions had a charm for him, but they also troubled him, especially after the note of the night before. He felt that the end was drawing near, and was in secret perplexity of spirit, though none would have imagined it, seeing with what concentrated determination he folded his arms across his chest and looked around him. Pigasov had once said truly of him, that he was like a Chinese idol, his head was constantly overbalancing him. But with the head alone, however strong it may be, it is hard for a man to know even what is passing in himself. . . . Rudin, the clever, penetrating Rudin, was not capable of saying certainly whether he loved Natalya, whether he was suffering, and whether he would suffer at parting from her. Why then, since he had not the least disposition to play the Lovelace — one must do him that credit — had he turned the poor girl’s head? Why was he awaiting her with a secret tremor? To this the only answer is that there are none so easily carried away as those who are without passion.

He walked on the bank, while Natalya was hurrying to him straight across country through the wet grass.

‘Natalya Alexyevna, you’ll get your feet wet!’ said her maid Masha, scarcely able to keep up with her.

Natalya did not hear and ran on without looking round.

‘Ah, supposing they’ve seen us!’ cried Masha; ‘indeed it’s surprising how we got out of the house . . . and ma’mselle may wake up . . . It’s a mercy it’s not far. . . . Ah, the gentleman’s waiting already,’ she added, suddenly catching sight of Rudin’s majestic figure, standing out picturesquely on the bank; ‘but what does he want to stand on that mound for — he ought to have kept in the hollow.’

Natalya stopped.

‘Wait here, Masha, by the pines,’ she said, and went on to the pond.

Rudin went up to her; he stopped short in amazement. He had never seen such an expression on her face before. Her brows were contracted, her lips set, her eyes looked sternly straight before her.

‘Dmitri Nikolaitch,’ she began, ‘we have no time to lose. I have come for five minutes. I must tell you that my mother knows everything. Mr. Pandalevsky saw us the day before yesterday, and he told her of our meeting. He was always mamma’s spy. She called me in to her yesterday.’

‘Good God!’ cried Rudin, ‘this is terrible . . . . What did your mother say?’

‘She was not angry with me, she did not scold me, but she reproached me for my want of discretion.’

‘That was all?’

‘Yes, and she declared she would sooner see me dead than your wife!’

‘Is it possible she said that?’

‘Yes; and she said too that you yourself did not want to marry me at all, that you had only been flirting with me because you were bored, and that she had not expected this of you; but that she herself was to blame for having allowed me to see so much of you . . . that she relied on my good sense, that I had very much surprised her . . . and I don’t remember now all she said to me.’

Natalya uttered all this in an even, almost expressionless voice.

‘And you, Natalya Alexyevna, what did you answer?’ asked Rudin.

‘What did I answer?’ repeated Natalya. . . . ‘What do you intend to do now?’

‘Good God, good God!’ replied Rudin, ‘it is cruel! So soon . . . such a sudden blow! . . . And is your mother in such indignation?’

‘Yes, yes, she will not hear of you.’

‘It is terrible! You mean there is no hope?

‘None.’

‘Why should we be so unhappy! That abominable Pandalevsky! . . . You ask me, Natalya Alexyevna, what I intend to do? My head is going round — I cannot take in anything . . . I can feel nothing but my unhappiness . . . I am amazed that you can preserve such self-possession!’

‘Do you think it is easy for me?’ said Natalya.

Rudin began to walk along the bank. Natalya did not take her eyes off him.

‘Your mother did not question you?’ he said at last.

‘She asked me whether I love you.’

‘Well . . . and you?’

Natalya was silent a moment. ‘I told the truth.’

Rudin took her hand.

‘Always, in all things generous, noble-hearted! Oh, the heart of a girl — it’s pure gold! But did your mother really declare her decision so absolutely on the impossibility of our marriage?’

‘Yes, absolutely. I have told you already; she is convinced that you yourself don’t think of marrying me.’

‘Then she regards me as a traitor! What have I done to deserve it?’ And Rudin clutched his head in his hands.

‘Dmitri Nikolaitch!’ said Natalya, ‘we are losing our time. Remember I am seeing you for the last time. I came here not to weep and lament — you see I am not crying — I came for advice.’

‘And what advice can I give you, Natalya Alexyevna?’

‘What advice? You are a man; I am used to trusting to you, I shall trust you to the end. Tell me, what are your plans?’

‘My plans. . . . Your mother certainly will turn me out of the house.’

‘Perhaps. She told me yesterday that she must break off all acquaintance with you. . . . But you do not answer my question?’

‘What question?’

‘What do you think we must do now?’

‘What we must do?’ replied Rudin; ‘of course submit.’

‘Submit,’ repeated Natalya slowly, and her lips turned white.