But noticing that I was glancing at her and watching her closely, she looked at me rapidly and, as it were, wrathfully and with such intensity that her eyes seemed to blaze at me.
“She is miserable again,” I thought, “but she doesn’t want to speak to me about it.”
In answer to her question about my work I told her the whole story of Elena in full detail.
She was extremely interested and even impressed by my story.
“Good heavens!
And you could leave her alone, and ill! she cried.
I told her that I had meant not to come at all that day, but that I was afraid she would be angry with me and that she might be in need of me.
“Need,” she said to herself as though pondering. “Perhaps I do need you, Vanya, but that had better be another time.
Have you been to my people?
I told her.
“Yes, God only knows how my father will take the news.
Though what is there to take after all? . . .”
“What is there to take?” I repeated. “A transformation like this!”
“I don’t know about that. . . . Where can he have gone again?
That time before, you thought he was coming to me.
Do you know, Vanya, come to me tomorrow if you can.
I shall tell you something perhaps.... Only I’m ashamed to trouble you. But now you’d better be going home to your visitor.
I expect it’s two hours since you came out.”
“Yes, it is.
Goodbye, Natasha.
Well, and how was Alyosha with you today?”
“Oh, Alyosha. All right.... I wonder at your curiosity.”
“Goodbye for now, my friend.”
“Goodbye.”
She gave me her hand carelessly and turned away from my last, farewell look.
I went out somewhat surprised.
“She has plenty to think about, though,” I thought.
“It’s no jesting matter.
Tomorrow she’ll be the first to tell me all about it.”
I went home sorrowful, and was dreadfully shocked as soon as I opened the door.
By now it was dark.
I could make out Elena sitting on the sofa, her head sunk on her breast as though plunged in deep thought.
She didn’t even glance at me. She seemed lost to everything.
I went up to her. She was muttering something to herself.
“Isn’t she delirious?” I thought.
“Elena, my, dear, what’s the matter?” I asked, sitting beside her and putting my arm round her.
“I want to go away. . . . I’d better go to her,” she said, not raising her head to look at me.
“Where?
To whom?” I asked in surprise.
“To her. To Bubnov.
She’s always saying I owe her a lot of money; that she buried mother at her expense. I don’t want her to say nasty things about mother. I want to work there, and pay her back. . . . Then I’ll go away of myself.
But now I’m going back to her.”
“Be quiet, Elena, you can’t go back to her,” I said.
“She’ll torment you. She’ll ruin you.”
“Let her ruin me, let her torment me.” Elena caught up the words feverishly. “I’m not the first. Others better than I are tormented.
A beggar woman in the street told me that.
I’m poor and I want to be poor.
I’ll be poor all my life. My mother told me so when she was dying.
I’ll work.... I don’t want to wear this dress. . . .”
“I’ll buy you another one tomorrow.