Petrovitch talked to me in a sort of commiserating way.
What does it all mean? Why is everything around me and within me so
dark? I feel as if about me and within me, something mysterious were
happening, for which I want to find the right word.... I did not sleep
all night; my head aches. What's the good of writing? He went away so
quickly to-day and I wanted to talk to him.... He almost seems to avoid
me. Yes, he avoids me.

'... The word is found, light has dawned on me! My God, have pity on
me.... I love him!'

XVII

On the very day on which Elena had written this last fatal line in
her diary, Insarov was sitting in Bersenyev's room, and Bersenyev was
standing before him with a look of perplexity on his face. Insarov had
just announced his intention of returning to Moscow the next day.

'Upon my word!' cried Bersenyev. 'Why, the finest part of the summer is
just beginning. What will you do in Moscow? What a sudden decision! Or
have you had news of some sort?'

'I have had no news,' replied Insarov; 'but on thinking things over, I
find I cannot stop here.'

'How can that be?'

'Andrei Petrovitch,' said Insarov, 'be so kind... don't insist, please,
I am very sorry myself to be leaving you, but it can't be helped.'

Bersenyev looked at him intently.

'I know,' he said at last, 'there's no persuading you. And so, it's a
settled matter.'

'Is it?'

'Absolutely settled,' replied Insarov, getting up and going away.

Bersenyev walked about the room, then took his hat and set off for the
Stahovs.

'You have something to tell me,' Elena said to him, directly they were
left alone.

'Yes, how did you guess?'

'Never mind; tell me what it is.'

Bersenyev told her of Insarov's intention.

Elena turned white.

'What does it mean?' she articulated with effort

'You know,' observed Bersenyev, 'Dmitri Nikanorovitch does not care
to give reasons for his actions. But I think... let us sit down, Elena
Nikolaevna, you don't seem very well.... I fancy I can guess what is the
real cause of this sudden departure.'

'What--what cause?' repeated Elena, and unconsciously she gripped
tightly Bersenyev's hand in her chill ringers.

'You see,' began Bersenyev, with a pathetic smile, 'how can I explain to
you? I must go back to last spring, to the time when I began to be
more intimate with Insarov. I used to meet him then at the house of a
relative, who had a daughter, a very pretty girl I thought that Insaro