On the Eve by Ivan Sergeyevich Turgenev

Author:Ivan Sergeyevich Turgenev [Turgenev, Ivan Sergeyevich]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Romance
Published: 1860-11-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 17

On the very day on which Elena had written this last fatal line in her diary, Insarov was sitting in Bersenyev's room, and Bersenyev was standing before him with a look of perplexity on his face. Insarov had just announced his intention of returning to Moscow the next day.

'Upon my word!' cried Bersenyev. 'Why, the finest part of the summer is just beginning. What will you do in Moscow? What a sudden decision! Or have you had news of some sort?'

'I have had no news,' replied Insarov; 'but on thinking things over, I find I cannot stop here.'

'How can that be?'

'Andrei Petrovitch,' said Insarov, 'be so kind … don't insist, please, I am very sorry myself to be leaving you, but it can't be helped.'

Bersenyev looked at him intently.

'I know,' he said at last, 'there's no persuading you. And so, it's a settled matter,

'Is it?

'Absolutely settled,' replied Insarov, getting up and going away.

Bersenyev walked about the room, then took his hat and set off for the Stahovs.

'You have something to tell me,' Elena said to him, directly they were left alone.

'Yes, how did you guess?'

'Never mind; tell me what it is.'

Bersenyev told her of Insarov's intention.

Elena turned white.

'What does it mean?' she articulated with effort

'You know,' observed Bersenyev, 'Dmitri Nikanorovitch does not care to give reasons for his actions. But I think … let us sit down, Elena Nikolaevna, you don't seem very well… . I fancy I can guess what is the real cause of this sudden departure.'

'What—what cause?' repeated Elena, and unconsciously she gripped tightly Bersenyev's hand in her chill ringers.

'You see,' began Bersenyev, with a pathetic smile, 'how can I explain to you? I must go back to last spring, to the time when I began to be more intimate with Insarov. I used to meet him then at the house of a relative, who had a daughter, a very pretty girl I thought that Insarov cared for her, and I told him so. He laughed, and answered that I was mistaken, that he was quite heart-whole, but if anything of that sort did happen to him, he should run away directly, as he did not want, in his own words, for the sake of personal feeling, to be false to his cause and his duty. "I am a Bulgarian," he said, "and I have no need of a Russian love——"

'Well—so—now you——' whispered Elena. She involuntarily turned away her head, like a man expecting a blow, but she still held the hand she had clutched.

'I think,' he said, and his own voice sank, 'I think that what I fancied then has really happened now.'

'That is—you think—don't torture me!' broke suddenly from Elena.

'I think,' Bersenyev continued hurriedly, 'that Insarov is in love now with a Russian girl, and he is resolved to go, according to his word.'

Elena clasped his hand still tighter, and her head drooped still lower, as if she would hide from other eyes the flush of shame which suddenly blazed over her face and neck.

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