every
one in the carriage began talking, though no one could hear what was
said; everything was drowned in the rattle of the cobbles under the two
carriages, and the hoofs of the eight horses. Long and wearisome seemed
the journey from Moscow to Kuntsovo; all the party were asleep or
silent, leaning with their heads pressed into their respective
corners; Elena did not close her eyes; she kept them fixed on Insarov's
dimly-outlined figure. A mood of sadness had come upon Shubin; the
breeze was blowing into his eyes and irritating him; he retired into the
collar of his cloak and was on the point of tears. Uvar Ivanovitch was
snoring blissfully, rocking from side to side. The carriages came to a
standstill at last. Two men-servants lifted Anna Vassilyevna out of
the carriage; she was all to pieces, and at parting from her fellow
travellers, announced that she was 'nearly dead'; they began thanking
her, but she only repeated, 'nearly dead.' Elena for the first time
pressed Insarov's hand at parting, and for a long while she sat at her
window before undressing; Shubin seized an opportunity to whisper to
Bersenyev:

'There, isn't he a hero; he can pitch drunken Germans into the river!'

'While you didn't even do that,' retorted Bersenyev, and he started
homewards with Insarov.

The dawn was already showing in the sky when the two friends reached
their lodging. The sun had not yet risen, but already the chill of
daybreak was in the air, a grey dew covered the grass, and the first
larks were trilling high, high up in the shadowy infinity of air, whence
like a solitary eye looked out the great, last star.

XVI

Soon after her acquaintance with Insarov, Elena (for the fifth or sixth
time) began a diary. Here are some extracts from it:

'_June_.... Andrei Petrovitch brings me books, but I can't read them.
I'm ashamed to confess it to him; but I don't like to give back the
books, tell lies, say I have read them. I feel that would mortify him.
He is always watching me. He seems devoted to me. A very good man,
Andrei Petrovitch.... What is it I want? Why is my heart so heavy, so
oppressed? Why do I watch the birds with envy as they fly past? I feel
that I could fly with them, fly, where I don't know, but far from here.
And isn't that desire sinful? I have here mother, father, home. Don't
I love them? No, I don't love them, as I should like to love. It's
dreadful to put that in words, but it's the truth. Perhaps I am a