"It must be a very interesting letter and a great secret," he said with a forced laugh, "since you conceal it so quickly."

With her eyes still upon him she sat down on the divan.

"Show me the letter," he laughed, betraying his agitation by a tremor of the voice. "You will not show it?" he went on as she looked at him in amazement and pressed her hand tighter in her pocket.

She shook her head.

"I don't need to read it. What possible interest could I have in another person's letter? I only wanted a proof of your confidence, of your friendly disposition towards me. You see my indifference. See, I am not as I was," he said, telling himself at the same time that the letter obsessed him.

She tried, to read in his face the indifference in which he was insisting. His face indeed wore an aspect of indifference, but his voice sounded as if he were pleading for alms.

"You will not show it," he said. "Then G.o.d be with you," and he turned to the door.

"Wait," she said, putting her hand in her pocket and drawing out a letter which she showed him.

He looked at both sides, and glanced at the signature, Pauline Kritzki.

"That is not the letter," he said, returning it.

"Do you see another?" she asked drily.

He replied that he had not, fearing that she might accuse him of spying, and at her request began to read:

"Ma belle chamante divine Vera Va.s.silievna! I am enraptured and fall on my knees before your dear, n.o.ble, handsome cousin; he has avenged me, and I am triumphant and weep for joy. He was great. Tell him that he is ever my knight, that I am his devoted slave. Ah, how I admire him, I would say--the word is on the tip of my tongue--but I dare not. Yet why should I not? Yes, I love him, I adore him. Everyone must adore him...."

Here Raisky attempted to return the letter, but Vera bade him continue, as there was a request for him. He skipped a few lines and proceeded:--

"Implore your cousin (he adores you. Do not deny it, for I have seen his pa.s.sionate glances. What would I not give to be in your place).

"Implore your cousin, darling Vera Va.s.silievna, to paint my portrait. I don't really care about the portrait, but to be with an artist to admire him, to speak to him, to breathe the same air with him! _Ma pauvre tete, je deviens folle. Je compte sur vous, ma belle et bonne amie, et j'attends la reponse_."

"What answer shall I give her?" asked Vera, as Raisky laid the letter on the table.

He was thinking of the other letter, wondering why she had hidden it, and did not hear her question.

"May I write that you agree?"

"G.o.d forbid! on no account."

"How is it to be done then? She wants to breathe the same air as you."

"I should stifle in that atmosphere."

"But if I ask you to do it?" whispered Vera.

"You, what difference can it make to you?" he asked trembling.

"I should like to say something pleasant to her," she returned, but did not add that she seized this means of detaching him from herself.

Paulina Karpovna would not lightly let him out of her hands.

"Should you accept it as a sign of friendship if I fulfilled your wish?

Well, then," as she nodded, "I make two conditions, one that you should be present at the sittings. Otherwise I should be clearing out at the first sitting. Do you agree?" Then, as she nodded unwillingly, "the second is that you show me the other letter."

"Which letter?"

"The one you hid so quickly in your pocket."

"There isn't another."

"You would not have hidden this letter in terror; will you show the other?"

"You are beginning again," she said reproachfully.

"You need not trouble. I was only jesting. But for G.o.d's sake do not look on me as a despot or a spy; it was mere curiosity. G.o.d be with you and your secrets."

"I have no secrets," she returned drily as he rose to go.

"Do you know that I am soon leaving?" he asked suddenly.

"I heard so; is it true?"

"Why do you doubt?"

She dropped her eyes and said nothing.

"You will be glad for me to go?"

"Yes," she answered in a whisper.

"Why," he said sadly, and came nearer.

She thought for a moment, drew out another letter, glanced through it, carefully scratching out a word or a line here and there, and handed it to him.

"Read that letter," she said, again slipping her hand into her pocket.

He began to read the delicate handwriting: "I am sorry, dear Natasha,"

and then asked, "Who is Natasha?"

"The priest's wife, my school friend."

"Ah! the pope's wife. It is your own letter. That is interesting," and he became absorbed in the reading.

"I am sorry, dear Natasha," the letter ran, "that I have not written to you since my return. As usual I have been idle, but I had other reasons, which you shall learn. The chief reason you already know (here some words were scratched out), which agitates me very much. But of that we will speak when we meet.

"The other reason is the arrival of our relative, Boris Pavlovich Raisky.

For my misfortune he scarcely ever leaves the house, so that for a fortnight I did hardly anything except hide from him. What an abundance of reason, of different kinds of knowledge, of brilliance, of talent he brought with him, and with it all what unrest. He upsets the whole household. He had hardly arrived before he was seized with the firm conviction that not only the estate, but all that lived on it, were his property. Taking his stand on a relationship, which hardly deserves the name, and on the fact that he knew us when we were little, he treated us as if we were children or schoolgirls. Although I have hidden myself from him, I have only just succeeded in preventing him from seeing how I sleep and dream, and what I hope and wait for.

"This pursuit has almost made me ill, and I have seen no one, written to no one. I feel like a prisoner. It is as if he were playing with me, perhaps quite against his own will. One day he is cold and indifferent, the next his eyes are ablaze, and I fear him as I would a madman. The worst of all seems to me to be that he does not know himself, so that no reliance can be placed on his plans and promises; he decides on one course, and the next day takes another. He himself says he is nervous, susceptible and pa.s.sionate, and he may be right. He is no play actor, and does not disguise himself; he is, I think, too sensible and well-bred, indeed, too honest, for that.