Page:Chernyshevsky.whatistobedone.djvu/255

Rh me. I returned home with D. very despondent. I was thinking, in my room, before dinner, that it would be better to die than to live as I am living now; and suddenly, at dinner, D. says: 'Viéra Pavlovna, let us drink to the health of my bride and your bridegroom.' I could hardly refrain from tears, in the presence of all, from joy at such an unexpected salvation. After dinner, I talked a long time with D. about how we should live. How I love him! He is leading me out from the cellar!"

"Read it all."

"There is nothing more to read."

"Look!"

Again from under the visitor's hand appear new lines.

"I do not want to read," says Viéra Pavlovna, in fear. She has not yet distinguished what is written in those new lines, but already it is horrible to her.

"You cannot help reading, when I bid you to read. Read!"

Viéra Pavlovna reads:—

"Do I only love him because he led me out from the cellar—not himself, but my salvation from the cellar?"

"Just turn back once more, and read the very first page."

"It is my birthday, to-day; to-day I spoke for the first time with D., and fell in love with him. I never before heard such noble and consoling words from any one. How he sympathizes with everything that demands sympathy, wants to help everything that needs help! How sure he is that happiness is possible for all people, that it must be, and that anger and woe are not forever; that a new and bright life is rapidly approaching us! How joyfully my heart expanded when I heard these assurances from this learned and serious man, for they confirmed my own thoughts. How kind he was when he spoke about us poor women! Every woman would love such a man. How clever he is! how generous! how kind!"

"Good! Turn again to the last page."

"But I have read that page!"

"No; that is not the last one yet. Turn one leaf more."

"But there is nothing on this leaf!"

"Just read! Do you see how much is written on it?" And again from the touch of the visitor's hand appear lines which were not there before. Viéra Pavlovna's heart grows cold.

"I do not want to read! I cannot read!"