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It was almost the first time in my life that I had walked arm-in-arm with a woman. At first, I felt uncomfortable, and could not keep in step; but she helped me, and by the time we were halfway down the main avenue, I was more at my ease. Our steps resounded clearly under the overhanging branches. She leaned so close against me that I could feel the warmth and pressure of her hand, the touch of her shoulder, and hear her breath. We were silent, and I thought we were going too fast; I wished the avenue had been endless. I forgot everything that had happened—forgot even whose arm was in mine. I was overpowered by the sort of general impersonal enchantment of a woman’s presence—the sense of an incipient love and a coming tragedy in which I could not foresee whether I should be an actor or spectator. There were moments when it seemed as if another woman were walking with me—the girl from the Volga. Oh, if for any cause whatever she needed a fictitious marriage, how joyfully would I stand with her before the altar! …
In imagination I walked arm-in-arm with her, after a stormy scene on the lake shore. There I had given way and told her all I felt. But now I conquer myself, as befits a man and a future worker in the “Great Cause.” I tell her that she will never hear such words from me again—never see one offensive look. I will force my heart to be silent, though it should burst with grief. Then she leaning towards me, chastely and confidingly answers that she appreciates my generosity. Her voice quivers, and I guess suddenly her secret, and my heart is filled with rapture.
At this juncture we stopped, and I ceased dreaming. We had passed the Academy, gone some way down the road, and reached the villas. The little houses were lighted up; through the evening stillness we heard voices, laughter, and here and there the sound of soft whisperings; it all seemed to come from no one knew where, to fade away, and then be lost, awakening the evening into unseen life.
The American drew her hand from my arm.
“Thank you!” she said. “I took you by storm—you didn’t want to come. Now, I hope, we shall see more of you.”
She spoke the last words rapidly, and turned to her husband.
“I think papa is gone to bed. You needn’t come in. I will stop here tonight; he is not very well.”
She went quickly in at the gate, then returned to us.
“You live at Vyselki, Mr. Gavrilov, don’t you? So you will be going in the same direction as Nikolai. Good night!”
I did not live at Vyselki at all. Nevertheless, we both turned round and walked on together, as though in obedience to her command.
I still felt the warmth of her touch on my right arm, and wished the walk had not ended soon. My daydreams were broken and vanished. I was a mere boy again, she was on the Volga, and as she had not the slightest need of a fictitious marriage, there was very little likelihood that she would ever know the greatness of my generosity, and the vastness of my capacity for self-sacrifice.
I positively envied Urmánov, for whom all my dreams were reality; and although I observed something gloomy in his walk and bearing (I could not see his face), it seemed to me that at the bottom of his heart he must be very happy—even satisfied. I knew that in his place I should have been unspeakably happy.
The park was quite lonely. A couple, arm-in-arm, passed us and disappeared. By the lake the same bird greeted us once more with its hesitating chirp. I fancied twice that Urmánov groaned.
When we reached the crescent-shaped mooring-place, he stopped abruptly and crossed to the other side of the fence. I stood still in doubt and perplexity. We had remained thus for several seconds, when I heard his voice, hoarse, and quivering with rage.
“Well? I should like to know why you can’t go! Why the deuce do you tack yourself on to me?”
He said something more, but in a voice so thick with passion as to be inaudible. Raising his cane, he struck it with all his might on the stone wall, then, flinging away the fragments, as if not satisfied even with that, he dashed his hat on the ground, tore off his shawl and flung it into the water. He then turned away bareheaded, with his hair dishevelled, and paced rapidly towards the avenue.
I pulled the shawl out of the water, picked up the hat, and followed him.
Halfway across the landing-stage he slackened his pace; then turned back and came towards me. He was silent; and I thought he was probably speechless from agitation. I could hear his heavy, struggling, uneven breath. He put on his hat, threw the shawl over his arm, stood a moment in silence, and then suddenly caught hold of my hand.
“Forgive me, my friend,” he said hoarsely; “although—” He clasped my hand hard in a burst of excitement. Then dropping it, he leaned his head against an old willow which grew near the landing-stage. I ran down to the lake, filled my hat with water, and brought it to him. He drank a little and gasped for breath.
“There … thanks … forgive me, old man … friend! I’ll do everything, everything! … I’ll get her money for her, I will give her a passport. Don’t think … anybody … that Urmánov is a scoundrel. Oh! but if you only knew what that woman is like!”
Something like a spasm came in his throat; but when I would have fetched him more water, he stopped me.
“No, don’t,” he said squeezing my hand tight. He seemed afraid that he should not be able to finish what he wanted to say.
“You imagine that she is really interested in you; that she really … wanted to know you? … Stuff and nonsense! It just came into her head that minute. Just for a moment she found you useful so she took you and turned your head … She—I beg your pardon—made a complete ass of you. And now she doesn’t need you any more. For a moment. … I, too … I know, I know, it is my own fault!” Here he broke off suddenly, dropped my hand, and walked away.
I did not follow him I only watched his figure; passing the landing-stage, and disappearing down the road, under the faint glimmer of the rising moon.