“I can’t. . . . I don’t know . . . . .I will,” she whispered, as though pondering and struggling with herself.
At that moment a clock somewhere struck.
She started, and with an indescribable look of heartsick anguish she whispered: “What time was that?”
“It must have been halfpast ten.”
She gave a cry of alarm.
“Oh, dear!” she cried and was making away.
But again I stopped her in the passage.
“I won’t let you go like that,” I said.
“What are you afraid of?
Are you late?”
“Yes, yes. I came out secretly.
Let me go!
She’ll beat me,” she cried out, evidently saying more than she meant to and breaking away from me.
“Listen, and don’t rush away; you’re going to Vassilyevsky Island, so am I, to Thirteenth Street.
I’m late, too. I’m going to take a cab.
Will you come with me?
I’ll take you.
You’ll get there quicker than on foot.
You can’t come back with me, you can’t!” she cried, even more panicstricken.
Her features positively worked with terror at the thought that I might come to the house where she was living.
“But I tell you I’m going to Thirteenth Street on business of my own. I’m not coming to your home!
I won’t follow you.
We shall get there sooner with a cab.
Come along!”
We hurried downstairs.
I hailed the first driver I met with a miserable droshky.
It was evident Elena was in great haste, since she consented to get in with me.
What was most baffling was that I positively did not dare to question her.
She flung up her arms and almost leapt off the droshky when I asked her who it was at home she was so afraid of.
“What is the mystery?” I thought.
It was very awkward for her to sit on the droshky.
At every jolt to keep her balance she clutched at my coat with her left hand, a dirty, chapped little hand.
In the other hand she held her books tightly. One could see that those books were very precious to her.
As she recovered her balance she happened to show her leg, and to my immense astonishment I saw that she had no stockings, nothing but torn shoes.
Though I had made up my mind not to question her, I could not restrain myself again.
“Have you really no stockings?” I asked.
“How can you go about barefoot in such wet weather and when it’s so cold?”
“No,” she answered abruptly.
“Good heavens! But you must be living with someone!
You ought to ask someone to lend you stockings when you go out.”
“I like it best. . . .”
“But you’ll get ill. You’ll die”
“Let me die.”
She evidently did not want to answer and was angry at my question.
“Look! this was where he died,” I said, pointing out the house where the old man had died.
She looked intently, and suddenly turning with an imploring look, said to me:
“For God’s sake don’t follow me.
But I’ll come, I’ll come again!
As soon as I’ve a chance I’ll come.”
“Very well. I’ve told you already I won’t follow you.