Page:The Novels of Ivan Turgenev (volume X).djvu/81

Rh Aratov trembled. 'A diary?' he muttered. 'Yes, a diary. . . that is, only a few pages. Katia was not fond of writing. . . for months at a time she would write nothing, and her letters were so short. But she was always, always truthful, she never told a lie. . . . She, with her pride, tell a lie! I. . . I will show you this diary! You shall see for yourself whether there is the least hint in it of any unhappy love affair!' Anna quickly took out of a table-drawer a thin exercise-book, ten pages, no more, and held it out to Aratov. He seized it eagerly, recognised the irregular sprawling handwriting, the handwriting of that anonymous letter, opened it at random, and at once lighted upon the following lines. 'Moscow, Tuesday. . . June. — Sang and recited at a literary matinee. To-day is a vital day for me. It must decide my fate. (These words were twice underlined.) I saw again. . .Here followed a few lines carefully erased. And then, 'No ! no ! no ! . . . Must go back to the old way, if only. . .' Aratov dropped the hand that held the diary, and his head slowly sank upon his breast. 'Read it!' cried Anna. 'Why don't you read it? Read it through from the beginning. . . . It would take only five minutes to read it