Part 12 (2/2)
Always the same! No interest in him; indifferent, absorbed in other things. How he longed to stay and talk to her, on and on, of everything; of the utter impossibility of life without love or sympathy, of the intensity of his own love, and the melancholy of his evenings. But he was silent.
”Is Asya asleep?” he inquired at last.
”Yes, she is asleep.”
A nickel tea-pot and a solitary tumbler stood on the table with its white cloth falling in straight folds. The ticking of the clock sounded monotonously.
”She does not deceive, nor betray, nor leave me,” he thought; ”but she is strange, strange--and a mother!”
II
At last the earth was cloaked in darkness, the torches hung like gleaming b.a.l.l.s of fire, the pattering of the rain echoed dismally, and above it, drowning all other sounds, was the dreary roar of the factory.
He sauntered through the straight-cut avenues of the park towards his club, but near the school turned aside and went in to see Nina. They had known each other from childhood, attending the same school, Nina his faithful comrade and devoted slave--and ever since he had remained for her the one and only man, for she was of those who love but once. Since then she had been flung about Russia, striven to retain her honour, vainly tilting against the windmills of poverty and temptation--had failed, been broken, and now had crept back that she might live near him.
He walked through the school's dark corridors and knocked.
”Come in.”
Alone, in a grey dress, plain-featured, her cheek red where it had rested against the palm of her hand, she sat beside a little table in the bare, simple room, a book on her lap. With a pang, Agrenev noted her sunken eyes. But at sight of him they brightened instantly, and she rose from her seat, putting the book aside.
”You darling? Welcome! Is it raining?”
”Greeting! Nina. I have just come in for a moment.”
”Take off your coat,” she urged. ”You will have some tea?” Her eyes and outstretched hands both said: ”Thank you, thank you.” ”How are you doing?” she asked him anxiously.
”I am bored. I can do nothing. I am utterly bored.”
She placed the tea-urn on the table in her tiny kitchen, laid some pots of jam by her copy-book, seated him in the solitary armchair, and bustled round, all smiles, her cheeks flus.h.i.+ng--the spot where she had rested her hand all the long evening still showing red,--all- loving, all-surrendering, yet undesired.
”You musn't wait on me like this, Nina,” Agrenev protested;”... Sit down and let us talk.”
Their hands touched caressingly, and she sat down beside him.
”What is it, my dear?” She stroked his hand and its touch warmed her!
”What is it?”
At times indignation overcame her at the thought of life; she wrung her hands, spoke with hatred, and her eyes darkened in anger. At times she fell on her knees in tears and supplication; but with Alexander Alexandrovitch she was always tender, with the tenderness of unrequited love.
”What is it, darling?”
”I am bored, Nina. She ... Anna ... does not love me; she does not leave me, nor deceive me, but neither does she love me. I know you love ...”
At home four walls ... Coldness ... The miner, Bitska, making jokes all day in the rain ... the fuse to be lighted in the quarry, the slow igniting to be watched. Thirty years had been lived ... five- tenths of his life ... a half ... ten-twentieths. It was like a blank cartridge ... no kindness ... a life without feeling ... all blank ...
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