Novikoff's heart beat faster. Within it, joy and grief seemed strangely

blended. His expression changed Somewhat, and he nervously fingered his

moustache.

"Well, what do you say? Shall we go?" repeated Sanine calmly, as if he

had decided to do something important. Novikoff felt that Sanine knew

all that was troubling him, and, though in a measure comforted, he Was

yet childishly abashed.

"Come along!" said Sanine gently, as taking hold of Novikoff's

shoulders he pushed him towards the door.

"Yes ... I ..." murmured the latter.

A sudden impulse to embrace Sanine almost overcame him, but he dared

not and could but glance at him with tearful eyes. It was dark in the

warm, fragrant garden, and the trunks of the trees formed Gothic arches

against the pale green of the sky.

A faint mist hovered above the parched surface of the lawn. It was as

if an unseen presence wandered along the silent walks and amid the

motionless trees, at whose approach the slumbering leaves and blossoms

softly trembled. The sunset still flamed in the west behind the river

which flowed in shining curves through the dark meadows. At the edge of

the stream sat Lida. Her graceful figure bending forward above the

water seemed like that of some mournful spirit in the dusk. The sense

of confidence inspired by the voice of her brother forsook her as

quickly as it had come, and once more shame and fear overwhelmed her.

She was obsessed by the thought that she had no right to happiness, nor

yet to live. She spent whole days in the garden, book in hand, unable

to look her mother in the face. A thousand times she said to herself

that her mother's anguish would be as nothing to what she herself was

now suffering, yet whenever she approached her parent her voice

faltered, and in her eyes there was a guilty look. Her blushes and

strange confusion of manner at last aroused her mother's suspicion, to

avoid whose searching glances and anxious questionings Lida preferred

to spend her days in solitude. Thus, on this evening she was seated by

the river, watching the sunset and brooding over her grief. Life, as it

seemed to her, was still incomprehensible. Her view of it was blurred

as by some hideous phantom. A series of books which she had read had

served to give her greater freedom of thought. As she believed, her

conduct was not only natural but almost worthy of praise. She had

brought harm to no one thereby, only providing herself and another with

sensual enjoyment. Without such enjoyment there would be no youth, and

life itself would be barren and desolate as a leafless tree in autumn.




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