“Come into the room!” I said.
“Never! . . . Every minute is precious! Poor Nadia has poisoned
herself, and the doctor cannot leave her side. . . . With difficulty
we saved the poor thing. . . . Such a misfortune! And you don't want
to hear it and slam the window to!”
“Still she is alive?”
“‘Still’! . . . My good friend, that is not the way to speak about
misfortunes! Who could have supposed that such a clever, honest nature
would want to depart this life on account of such a creature as that
Count? No, my friend, it is a misfortune for men that women cannot be
perfect! However clever a woman may be, with whatever perfections she
may be endowed, she has still a screw in her that prevents her and
other people from living. . . . For instance, let us take Nadia. . . .
Why did she do it? Self-love, nothing but self-love! Unhealthy
self-love! In order to wound you she conceived the idea of marrying
this Count. . . . She neither wanted his money nor his title . . .
she only wanted to satisfy her monstrous self-love. . . . Suddenly a
failure! You know that _his_ wife has arrived. . . . It appears that
this debauchee is married. . . . And people say that women are more
enduring, that they know how to suffer better than men! Where is there
endurance here, when such a miserable cause makes them snatch up
sulphur matches? This is not endurance, it is vanity!”
“You will catch cold. . . .”
“What I have just seen is worse than any cold. . . . Those eyes, that
pallor. . . . Oh! To unsuccessful love, to the unsuccessful attempt to
mortify you is now added unsuccessful suicide. . . . It is difficult
to imagine greater misfortunes! . . . My dear fellow, if you have but
a drop of compassion, if . . . if you would see her . . . Well, why
should you not go to her? You love her! Even if you do not love her,
why should you not sacrifice your leisure to her? Human life is
precious, and for it one can give . . . all! Save her life!”
Somebody knocked loudly at my door. I shuddered. . . . My heart
bled. . . . I do not believe in presentiments, but this time my alarm
was not without cause. . . . Somebody was knocking at my door from
without. . . .
“Who is there?” I cried out of the window.
“I come to beg your favour!”
“What do you want?”
“A letter from the Count, your Honour! There has been a murder!”
A dark figure muffled up in a sheepskin coat came to the window and,
swearing at the weather, handed me a letter. . . . I hurried away from
the window, lit a candle, and read the following: “For God's sake
forget everything in the world and come at once! Olga has been
murdered. I have lost my head and am going mad.—Yours, A. K.”
Olga murdered! My head grew dizzy, and it was black before my eyes,
from this short phrase. . . . I sat down on the bed and my hands fell
at my sides. I was unable to reason!
“Is that you, Pavel Ivanovich?” I heard the voice of the muzhik who
had been sent to me ask. “I was just going to drive on to you. . . . I
have a letter for you, too.”
Five minutes later “Screw” and I were driving in a closed carriage
towards the Count's estate. The rain rattled on the roof of the
carriage, and the whole time there were blinding flashes of lightning
in front of us.