Political fiction; Russia -- History -- 1801-1917 -- Fiction; Russia -- Officials and employees -- Fiction
I knew I was speaking stiffly, artificially, even bookishly, in fact, I
could not speak except “like a book.” But that did not trouble me: I
knew, I felt that I should be understood and that this very bookishness
might be an assistance. But now, having attained my effect, I was
suddenly panic-stricken. Never before had I witnessed such despair! She
was lying on her face, thrusting her face into the pillow and clutching
it in both hands. Her heart was being torn. Her youthful body was
shuddering all over as though in convulsions. Suppressed sobs rent her
bosom and suddenly burst out in weeping and wailing, then she pressed
closer into the pillow: she did not want anyone here, not a living
soul, to know of her anguish and her tears. She bit the pillow, bit her
hand till it bled (I saw that afterwards), or, thrusting her fingers
into her dishevelled hair, seemed rigid with the effort of restraint,
holding her breath and clenching her teeth. I began saying something,
begging her to calm herself, but felt that I did not dare; and all at
once, in a sort of cold shiver, almost in terror, began fumbling in the
dark, trying hurriedly to get dressed to go. It was dark; though I
tried my best I could not finish dressing quickly. Suddenly I felt a
box of matches and a candlestick with a whole candle in it. As soon as
the room was lighted up, Liza sprang up, sat up in bed, and with a
contorted face, with a half insane smile, looked at me almost
senselessly. I sat down beside her and took her hands; she came to
herself, made an impulsive movement towards me, would have caught hold
of me, but did not dare, and slowly bowed her head before me.
“Liza, my dear, I was wrong ... forgive me, my dear,” I began, but she
squeezed my hand in her fingers so tightly that I felt I was saying the
wrong thing and stopped.
“This is my address, Liza, come to me.”
“I will come,” she answered resolutely, her head still bowed.
“But now I am going, good-bye ... till we meet again.”
I got up; she, too, stood up and suddenly flushed all over, gave a
shudder, snatched up a shawl that was lying on a chair and muffled
herself in it to her chin. As she did this she gave another sickly
smile, blushed and looked at me strangely. I felt wretched; I was in
haste to get away—to disappear.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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