In the evening of this day Olympiada sent a letter to Ilya by her
servant:
"Be at the corner of Kusnezkaya Street, by the Public Baths, at nine
o'clock."
As Ilya read the words, he felt his body contract internally, and he
shivered as if with cold. Once more he saw the contemptuous expression
on the face of his mistress, and in his ears rang her rough, insulting
words: "Couldn't you come some other time?"
He looked the letter all over, and could not determine why Olympiada
had appointed this particular meeting place. Then all at once, he
feared to understand, and his heart beat fiercely. He was punctual. The
sight of Olympiada's tall figure among the many women who were walking,
singly or in couples, near the public baths, increased his anxiety and
restlessness. She wore an old fur jacket and a veil. He could only see
her eyes. He stood before her in silence.
"Come!" she said, and added, softly: "Turn up your coat-collar!"
They walked through the passage of the building, keeping their faces
turned aside, and disappeared quickly into a private room. Olympiada
quickly threw aside her veil, and Ilya took new courage at the sight of
her calm face, its colour heightened by the cold. Almost immediately he
felt, however, that he disliked to see her so unmoved. She sat down on
the divan, and said, looking in his face in a friendly way:
"Well, my lad! We'll soon appear together before the police?"
"Why?" asked Ilya, and wiped the hoar frost from his moustache.
"How stupid you can seem! As if you didn't know!" cried Olympiada
quietly, with a tinge of mockery. Then her brows contracted, and she
said, seriously, in a low tone:
"D'you know the police agent was at my house to-day. What d'you say to
that?"
Ilya looked at her, and said, drily:
"What's that to me? Don't trouble me with your police, or anything
else. Tell me simply why you've brought me here, with all this
precaution."
Olympiada looked at him searchingly, then said, with a mocking laugh:
"Oh, you'll still play the innocent--but there's no time for that.
Listen. When the police officer examines you and asks you when you
got to know me, and whether you visited me often, say just the plain
truth--exactly--do you hear?"
"I hear," said Ilya, and smiled.
"And if he asks you about the old man, say you never saw him, never;
that you know nothing of him, that you never heard that any one was
keeping me--d'you understand?"
She looked Ilya through and through with an air of command. He felt an
evil thought push up in him, that yet gave him pleasure. He thought
that Olympiada feared him, and he found in himself a desire to torture
her. He knit his brows and looked in her face with a furtive smile, but
said nothing. A spasm of fear twitched her features, and she stepped
back a pace, pale, whispering softly: "What is the matter? Why do you
look like that? Ilya, Ilya!"
"Tell me, why should I lie?" he asked, showing his teeth scornfully. "I
have seen the old man at your house."
Then, resting his elbows on the marble-topped table, he went on slowly
and quietly, with a sudden access of bitter anger:
"I did see him once, and I thought: 'This is the man who stands in my
way and has spoilt my life;' and if I did not strangle him then and
there----"
"Don't tell lies!" cried Olympiada, loudly, and struck the table. "It
is a lie! He was not in your way."
"How was he not?"
"He did nothing to you. You had only to wish it, and I'd have given him
the go-by. Didn't I tell you I'd show him the door right away, if you
wanted it? You smile there and you don't say anything. You never really
loved me. It was your own choice to share with him. You worthless----"
"Stop! Be quiet!" cried Ilya. He sprang up, but at once sat down again,
as though the woman had crushed him by her accusation.
"I will not be quiet!" she cried aloud. "I loved you because you were
good-looking and wholesome; and you, what have you done to me? Did
you ever say: 'Choose--him or me!' Did you ever say it? No! You were
nothing but a love-sick tom-cat, like all the others."
Ilya started at this insulting reproach. There was a darkness before
his eyes, and with clenched fist he sprang up again.
"Stop! How dare you?"
"You'll strike me, will you? Well, then, do it!" and her eyes flashed
threateningly and she ground her teeth. "Strike me, and I'll tear the
door open and cry out that you killed him and planned it with me. Well,
do it!"
For a moment Ilya was paralysed with fear, but the feeling only touched
his heart and vanished at once. Only he breathed with difficulty, as
though unseen hands had him by the throat.
Again he sank back on the divan, was silent for a while, then gave a
forced laugh. He saw Olympiada bite her lips and look as if seeking
something round the dirty room, full of a damp, soapy vapour. Then she
sat down on the divan close to the door, let her head fall, and said:
"Laugh away, you devil!"
"I will, certainly."
"When I saw you, I said 'that's the man for me, he'll help me, save
me.'"
"Lipa," said Ilya gently.
She sat motionless and did not answer.
"Lipa," he repeated, and then with a sense as of hurling himself into
an abyss, he said slowly, clearly:
"I did strangle the old man, by God!"
She shuddered, lifted her head and looked at him with wide eyes. Her
lips began to tremble and she stammered:
"Silly boy, how frightened you are!"
Ilya understood that it was she who felt the fear, and did not want to
believe his words. He got up, moved nearer, and sat down beside her,
smiling vaguely. She caught his head to her breast, and whispered in
her deep voice, as she kissed his hair: "Ilushka! Ilushka! Why do you
hurt me so? I was so glad you killed him, the old sneak."
"Yes, I did it," he said, and nodded his head.
"Sh!" said the woman, anxiously. "I'm glad he's out of the way. That's
what should happen to them all--all who ever touched me. You are the
only man I ever met. You are the first, my dear one."
Her words drew him closer to her. He nestled with his face against her
breast, till he could hardly breathe, but would not loosen his embrace,
for he felt she was the only human being that was really near to him,
and that more than ever now he needed her.
"When you stand there fresh and healthy, and look at me angrily, then I
feel the degradation of my life, and I love you even for that, because
of your pride."
Great tears fell on Ilya's face, and as their falling moved him, over
his own cheeks flowed a stream that freed his soul. She took his head
in her hands, kissed eyes and cheeks, and lips, and said:
"I know it's only my beauty holds you--your heart doesn't love me, and
it condemns me. You can't forgive me my life, and that old man."
"Don't speak of him," said Ilya. He dried his face with her kerchief
and rose up calm.
"Let come what may," he said slowly and firmly. "If God means to
punish, He finds the way. I thank you, Lipa, for your words, what you
say is right. I am guilty towards you. I thought you were--only such a
one as----and you are----forgive me dear!"
He stammered with dry lips and dim eyes. Slowly, he smoothed his
disordered hair with a trembling hand, and said in a dull, hopeless way:
"I am guilty of everything. Why? Why? Oh! Satan!"
"Olympiada caught his hand; he sank on the divan beside her and said,
not heeding her whispered words:
"Do you understand? I strangled him; do you believe it?"
"Sh!" cried Olympiada, in an anxious muffled voice. "What are you
saying?"
She embraced him closely, and looked into his face with troubled eyes.
"Let me go! it--it happened all of a sudden--God knows I didn't mean to
do it. I only wanted to see his hateful face again, that's why I went
into the shop. I had no intention,--and then it came in a moment, the
devil urged me and God did not hold me back. I shouldn't have taken the
money, that was silly, ah!"
He sighed deeply, and the hard rind of his heart seemed to loosen.
Olympiada was quivering at his story, she held him even closer and
whispered brokenly, disconnectedly. Presently she said: "It was a good
thing you took the money, they'll think now it was for robbery, and not
for jealousy; that would be worse for us."
"I don't feel sorry," said Ilya thoughtfully. "I won't repent. God may
punish me! Men are not my judges; what sort of judges would they be! I
know no men without sin, not one. I'll wait."
"O God," stammered Olympiada. "What is it? What will happen? Dear, I'm
quite stupid. I can't think clearly--but let's go away from here--it's
time."
She stood up and swayed like a drunken woman. But when she had fastened
her veil, she said of a sudden, quite calmly:
"What's going to happen, Ilya? Will it go hard----?"
Ilya shook his head.
"Tell the magistrate everything, just as it was; that is, not
everything, but----"
"I'll say it. Do you think I won't stand up for myself, or that I want
to go to Siberia for this old wretch and a matter of two thousand
roubles? No? I've something else to do with my life!"
His face was red with excitement, and his eyes shone. She came close to
him and said in a whisper:
"Did you really only take two thousand roubles?"
"Two thousand and a little more."
"Poor boy; no luck even there!" and the tears shone in her eyes.
Ilya, smiled and said bitterly:
"Ah! d'you think I did it for the money? you know better--wait!--let me
go first."
"Come and see me soon; there's no need for us to hide; come soon."
They parted with a long passionate kiss. As soon as Ilya reached the
street he hailed a droshky. As he went he kept looking back to see if
he were followed. His heart was lighter and a warm, tender feeling for
Olympiada awaked in it. By no word or look had she wounded him, when
he made his confession, she had rather taken on herself a part of the
guilt than thrust him away. One minute before, when she did not know,
she was ready to destroy him; he had read it in her face; then suddenly
she had changed; he smiled gently as he thought of it.
Next day Ilya felt like the quarry that finds the huntsman on its
track. Petrusha met him in the bar room early; he answered Ilya's
greeting with a nod, and looked at him strangely, searchingly. Terenti
looked hard at him, sighed and said nothing, Jakov met him in Masha's
room, and said with a terrified face:
"Last night the Ward Superintendent was here; he asked father all about
you. Why did he do that?"
"What did he ask about?" said Ilya quietly.
"Everything--how you live, if you drink brandy, if you go with
women,--he mentioned some Olympiada; didn't you know her, he asked. Why
did he want to know all this?"
"Heaven knows;" answered Ilya, and left him.
That evening came another letter from Olympiada.
"They've questioned me about you. I have said everything exactly;
there's nothing in all that, and it isn't risky. Don't be anxious. I
kiss you dearest."
He threw the letter at once in the fire. In Filimonov's house as well
as in the bar, the talk was all of the murder. Ilya listened with
a distinct sense of pleasure. He liked to pass near men who were
discussing his deed, asking for details, which were invented freely,
and thought with pleasure what profound amazement he could bring on
them if he said:
"I did it--I!"
Some praised the cleverness of the criminal, some pointed out that he
had failed to get all the money, some seemed to fear, lest he should
yet be arrested, but not one single voice was heard to lament the
victim, no one uttered on his account so much as a friendly word. Ilya
despised them that they had no pity for the merchant, though he himself
had none. He thought no more of Poluektov, only realising that he had
taken a burden of guilt on himself and would be punished at some future
time. This thought, in the present, disturbed him not at all; he bound
it into his conscience and it became a part of his soul. It was like a
bruise from a blow, it did not hurt if it were not disturbed.
He was deeply convinced that the hour must come when the vengeance of
God would overtake him. God knows everything, and would not forgive the
transgressor of His law: but this calm steady readiness to meet the
punishment, any day, any hour, enabled Ilya to feel and behave as he
did before the murder. Only he watched men more closely, and traced
their weaknesses more zealously. This pleased him, though he realised
that he was in no way exonerated thereby.
He was gloomier, more reserved, but from morning to night, as usual, he
carried his wares about the town, visited alehouses, observed men, and
listened to their talk. One day he thought of the money he had hidden
and wondered if he would conceal it elsewhere. But at once he said
to himself: "It's no good. Let it be. If they look and find it, I'll
confess."
There was as yet no search after the money, and it was the sixth day
before Ilya was summoned before the magistrate. Before he went, he
changed his linen, put on his best jacket, and brushed his boots till
they shone. He went in a sleigh. It jolted over the uneven streets till
he had difficulty in holding himself upright and motionless. He felt
his body so tensely strung that he feared to break something in him by
a sudden movement. He mounted the steps of the Court House slowly and
carefully, as though he were wearing clothes of glass.
The magistrate was a young man, with curly hair and a hooked nose,
wearing gold-rimmed spectacles. When he saw Ilya, he first rubbed his
thin white hands, then removed his spectacles and polished the lenses
with his handkerchief, looking the while at Ilya with his big dark
eyes. Ilya bowed silently.
"Good-day! Sit down there."
He indicated a chair at a big table covered with a dull red cloth.
Ilya sat down, carefully pushing away with his elbow a pile of legal
documents lying at the edge of the table. The magistrate noticed the
movement, politely moved the papers, and sat down opposite Ilya.
Without speaking, he began to turn the leaves of a book, and measured
Ilya with sidelong glances. Ilya disliked the silence. He turned away
and looked round the room. It was the first time he had seen a place
so orderly and so richly furnished. All round the walls hung framed
portraits and pictures. In one Christ was represented, walking, lost in
thought, His head bowed, alone and sad, among ruins. Corpses of men
and scattered weapons lay at his feet, and in the background, a dense
black smoke rose up into the sky. Something was burning. Ilya looked
long at this picture, and tried to understand what it represented.
So much so that he was on the point of asking when suddenly the
magistrate shut his book with a bang. Ilya started and looked at
him. The magistrate's face wore a weary, dull expression, his lips
were depressed oddly at the corners, as though some one had hurt his
feelings.
"Well," he said, and tapped the table with his finger, "you are Ilya
Jakovlevitch Lunev, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"You can guess why I have summoned you?"
"No," answered Ilya, and took another fleeting look at the picture.
Then his eyes travelled over the solid, fine furniture, and he was
conscious of the perfume the magistrate had been using. It distracted
his thoughts and calmed him to observe his surroundings, and envy rose
in his heart.
"This is how distinguished people live." The thought went through his
head. "It must be very profitable to catch thieves and murderers. I
wonder what he gets."
"You can't guess?" repeated the magistrate. "Has Olympiada said nothing
to you?"
"No. It's some time since I saw her."
The magistrate threw himself back in his chair, and the corners of his
lips went down.
"How long?" he asked.
"I don't know, eight or nine days perhaps."
"Ah! is that so? tell me, did you often meet old Poluektov at her
house?"
"The old man who was murdered a little while ago?" asked Ilya, and
looked his questioner in the eyes.
"Yes, that's the man."
"I never met him."
"Never?"
"Never."
The magistrate fired off his questions quickly with a certain
nonchalance, and when Ilya, who answered very cautiously, was slow to
reply, he drummed impatiently on the table with his fingers.
"You knew that Olympiada Petrovna was kept by Poluektov?" he asked
suddenly, and looked sharply through his spectacles.
Ilya reddened at the glance, which seemed in some way to wound him.
"No," he said in a dull tone.
"Oh! yes, she was kept by him," repeated the magistrate, angrily,--"to
my thinking that is not good," he added, as he saw Ilya about to answer.
"How should there be anything good in it?" said Ilya softly, at length.
"True."
But Ilya said no more.
"And you--you've known her a long time?"
"More than a year."
"You were intimate with her before her acquaintance with Poluektov?"
"You're a cunning fox," thought Ilya, and said quietly:
"How can I say, when I didn't know that she lived with the man that's
dead."
The magistrate drew his lips together and whistled, and began to finger
the pile of documents. Ilya looked again at the picture; he felt that
his interest in it helped him to keep calm. From somewhere, the clear,
gay laugh of a child came to his ear. Then a happy, gentle, woman's
voice sang tenderly: "My Annie, my little one, my darling, my dear."
"That picture appears to interest you greatly."
"Where is Christ supposed to be going?" asked Ilya.
The magistrate looked in his face with a weary, disillusioned
expression, and said after a pause:
"You can see. He's come down to earth to see how men fulfil His
commands. He's going over a battle-field--round about are dead men,
houses destroyed, fire plundering."
"Can't He see that from Heaven?"
"H'm, it's rather an allegory, it's represented like that, so as to
be plainer, to show how little real life agrees with the teaching of
Christ, that is----But come, I must ask you a question or two yet."
Ilya turned from the picture and looked in the magistrate's face; a
number of little unimportant questions followed, annoying Ilya like
autumn flies. He grew tired and felt his attention growing slack and
his carefulness wither under the monotonous dull sound. He grew angry
with the magistrate, who set these questions, as he well understood, on
purpose to weary him.
"Can you tell me perhaps," said the magistrate quickly, apparently
without any particular intent, "where you were on Thursday between two
o'clock and three."
"In the ale-house; I was having tea."
"Ah! in which inn then? Where?"
"In the Plevna."
"How is it you are so certain that you were there just at that time?"
The magistrate's face looked tense, he leaned over the table and stared
into Ilya's face with flaming eyes. Ilya did not reply at once. After a
second or two he sighed and said with composure:
"Just before I went in, I asked the time of a policeman."
The magistrate leaned back again, and began to tap his finger-nails
with a blue pencil.
"The policeman told me it was twenty minutes to two, or something like
that."
"He knows you?"
"Yes."
"Have you no watch?"
"No."
"Have you ever before asked him the time?"
"Yes, it has happened."
"The town hall is near, there's a clock."
"One forgets to look, and then it was snowing."
"Were you long in the Plevna?"
"Till the news came of the murder."
"Where did you go then?"
"I went to look."
"Did any one see you there, in front of the shop?"
"That policeman saw me, he sent me off--pushed me."
"Very good, very important for you," said the magistrate approvingly,
then asked at once without looking at Ilya:
"Did you ask the time before the murder or after?"
Ilya saw the drift of the question. He turned sharp round in his chair
full of rage against this man with the shining white linen, the thin
fingers, well-tended nails, and gold spectacles in front of piercing
dark eyes.
Instead of answering, he asked:
"How can I tell?"
The magistrate coughed drily, and rubbed his hands till the fingers
cracked.
"Well done," he said in a tone of displeasure. "Splendid!--yes."
And he shifted his chair as though tired.
"Very good; one or two questions now and I'll let you go. Do you know,
by any chance, that policeman's name?"
"Jeremin, Matvey Ivanovitch."
The magistrate's tone was bored and indifferent; obviously he did not
expect now to hear anything interesting.
Ilya answered, always on the look out for another question like the one
as to the time of the murder. Every word echoed in his breast again as
though it plucked a tense string in an empty space. But no more cunning
questions came.
"As you went down the street that day, did you not meet a tall man in a
short fur jacket and black lambs-wool cap? Do you remember?"
"No," said Ilya harshly.
"Now, listen. I'll read over your statement to you, and you will sign
it."
He held a sheet of paper covered with writing before his face, and
began to read quickly and monotonously. When he had finished, he put
a pen in Ilya's hand. Ilya bent down, signed, rose slowly from his
chair, and said in a loud, assured voice, looking at the magistrate:
"Good-day!"
A short, condescending nod was his answer, and the magistrate bent over
his desk, and began to write. Ilya stood thinking. He would gladly have
said something more to this man who had held him so long on the rack.
In the quiet, only the scratch of the pen was heard, then the woman's
voice, singing, "Dance away, dance away, dolly."
"What do you want now?" asked the magistrate, and raised his head.
"Nothing," said Ilya gloomily.
"I told you, you can go."
"I'm going."
"All right, then."
They looked angrily at one another, and Ilya felt something heavy,
terrifying, grow in his breast. He turned sharp round and went out into
the street. A cold wind greeted him, and for the first time he noticed
that he was sweating profusely. Half-an-hour later he was sitting with
Olympiada. She opened the door to him herself, having seen him from the
window. She met him with almost a mother's joy. Her face was pale, and
she gazed restlessly about with wide-open eyes.
"My clever boy!" she cried, when Ilya told her that he had just come
from the magistrate. "Tell me, tell me, how did you get on?"
"The brute," said Ilya, in wrath. "He set traps for me."
"He can't help it," remarked Olympiada, in a tone of common sense. "Let
him be; it's his infernal duty."
"Why didn't he say straight out--'So-and-so, this is what people think
of you.'"
"Did you tell him everything straight out?" she asked, smiling.
"I!" cried Ilya in astonishment. "Why, yes--as a matter of fact--ah,
devil take him!"
He seemed quite abashed and said after a while:
"And as I sat there, I thought, by God, I was right!"
"Now, thank heaven, it's all passed over all right."
Ilya looked at her with a smile. "I didn't need to lie much. I'm lucky,
after all, Lipa!"
He laughed again in a strange way.
"The secret police are always at my heels," said Olympiada, in a low
voice, "and after you too."
"Of course," said Ilya, full of scorn and anger. "They go sniffing
around, and want to hem me in, like the beaters do to the wolf in the
forest. But they won't do it; they're not the men for that; and I'm not
a wolf, but an unlucky man. I didn't mean to strangle any one. Fate
strangles me--as Pashka says in his poem--and it strangles Pashka too,
and Jakov, and all of us."
"Never mind, Ilushka. Everything will go right now."
Ilya got up, walked to the window, and said, with a despairing voice,
as he looked at the street:
"All my life I've had to wallow in the mud. I've always been pushed
into things I disliked--hated. I've never met a soul I could look at
really happily. Is there nothing pure in life, nothing noble? Now, I've
strangled this--this man of yours,--why? I've only smirched myself, and
damned myself. I took money. I ought not."
"Don't be sorry!" She tried to console him. "He isn't worth it."
"I'm not sorry for him; only I want to get myself straight. Every one
tries, else he can't live. That magistrate, he lives like a sugar-plum
in its box. No one will strangle him. He can be good and upright in his
pretty nest."
"Never mind, we'll go away together from this place."
"No. I'll go nowhere," cried Ilya fiercely, and wheeled round to her,
and added, seeming to threaten some unknown person.
"No--no--patience! I'll wait and see what will come; I'll fight it
out still," and he strode up and down the room, and shook his head
defiantly.
"Oh!" said Olympiada, in an injured tone. "You won't go with me,
because you're afraid of me; you think I should always have a hold on
you, you think I should use what I know--you're wrong, my dear. I'll
never drag you with me by force."
She spoke quietly, but her lips twitched as though she were in pain.
"What did you say?" asked Ilya, quite surprised.
"I won't compel you, don't be frightened; go where you will!"
"Wait a moment," said Ilya, as he sat down near her, and took her hand.
"I didn't understand what you said."
"Don't pretend!" she cried, and drew away her hand. "I know you're
proud, and passionate; you can't forgive the old man; you hate my
life--you think that it's all come about through me."
"You're talking foolishly," said Ilya, quietly. "I don't blame you in
the very least, I know that for men like me there are no women who are
pretty and fine and pure as well. Such women are dear, they are only
for the rich, and we must love the soiled and those who are spat upon
and abused."
"Then leave me, the spat upon and abused!" cried Olympiada, springing
up from her chair. "Go away--go away!"
But suddenly tears shone in her eyes and she covered Ilya with a flood
of burning words, like hot coals.
"I myself, of my own will crept into this pit, because there's money
in it. I meant to climb up the ladder again with the money, begin a
decent life--and you helped me, I know, and I love you, and will love
you though you strangle twenty men; it isn't your goodness I love, but
your pride, and your youth, your curly head and your strong arms and
your dark eyes, and your reproaches that pierce my heart. I shall be
grateful for all this till I die.--I'll kiss your feet."
She threw herself at his feet, and embraced his knees.
"God is my witness, I sinned to save my soul. I must be dearer to Him
if I don't end my life in this filth, but struggle through it and lead
a clean life. Then I will entreat His forgiveness. I will not endure
this torment all my life; they have soiled me with mud and filth; all
my tears will never wash me clean."
At first Ilya tried to free himself and raise her from the ground, but
she clung close to him, pressed her head against his knees and laid her
cheek at his feet. And she spoke on with a low, passionate, gasping
voice. Presently he caressed her with a trembling hand, raised her,
embraced her, and laid her head on his shoulder, her hot cheek pressed
close to his, and as she lay supported by his arms on her knees before
him, she whispered:
"Does it do any one any good if a woman who has sinned once spends
almost her whole life in humiliation? When I was a girl and my
stepfather came near me to make me impure, I stuck a knife in him. I
did it without a thought. Then they made me drunk with wine and ruined
me. I was a girl, so tidy, so pretty and red-cheeked as an apple. I
cried for myself. I hurt myself. I cried for my beauty. I didn't want
it! I didn't want it! And then I said to myself: 'It's all the same
now. There's no going back. Good,' I thought, 'at least I'll sell my
shame as dear as I can.' I never kissed from my heart till I kissed
you. I always just lived in filth and rioting."
Her words were lost in a soft whisper. Suddenly she tore herself from
Ilya's embrace. "Let me go!" she cried, and thrust him away.
But he held her closer, and began to kiss her face, passionately,
despairingly.
"Let me go! You hurt me!" she said.
"I can say nothing," said Ilya, feverishly. "Only one thing--no one
has had pity on us, and we need have pity on no one. You spoke so
beautifully! Come, let me kiss you. How else can I make it up to you?
My dear! My dearest! I love you! Ah, I don't know how I love you. I've
no words to tell you."
Her lamentation had really roused in him a burning feeling of affection
for this woman. Her sorrow and his misfortune were molten together,
and their hearts came nearer and nearer. They held one another in a
close embrace, and softly told one another all the long sufferings they
had endured from life. A courageous, fierce feeling rose in Ilya's
heart.
"We were not born for fortune, we two," said the woman, and shook her
head hopelessly.
"Good! Then we will celebrate out misfortune! Shall we go to the mines,
to Siberia, together? Eh? Ah, there's time for that. As yet we will
enjoy our pain and our love. Now they might burn me with red-hot irons,
my heart is so light. I repent nothing!"
Outside the window, the sky was a monotonous grey. A cold mist
enwrapped the earth and settled in white rime on the trees. In the
little garden, a young birch-tree swayed its thin branches gently, and
shook the snow away. The winter evening came on.