The game of forfeits did not continue long after this little scene; all felt somewhat awkward, not so much in consequence of the scene itself as from another, not entirely defined, but oppressive sensation. No one alluded to it, but each one was conscious of its existence within himself and in his neighbour. Maidánoff recited to us all his poems--and Malévsky lauded them with exaggerated warmth.
“How hard he is trying to appear amiable now,”--Lúshin whispered to me.
We soon dispersed. Zinaída had suddenly grown pensive; the old Princess sent word that she had a headache; Nirmátzky began to complain of his rheumatism....
For a long time I could not get to sleep; Zinaída’s narrative had impressed me.--“Is it possible that it contains a hint?”--I asked myself:--“and at whom was she hinting? And if there really is some one to hint about ... what must I decide to do? No, no, it cannot be,”--I whispered, turning over from one burning cheek to the other.... But I called to mind the expression of Zinaída’s face during her narration.... I called to mind the exclamation which had broken from Lúshin in the Neskútchny Park, the sudden changes in her treatment of me--and lost myself in conjectures. “Who is he?” Those three words seemed to stand in front of my eyes, outlined in the darkness; a low-lying, ominous cloud seemed to be hanging over me--and I felt its pressure--and waited every moment for it to burst. I had grown used to many things of late; I had seen many things at the Zasyékins’; their disorderliness, tallow candle-ends, broken knives and forks, gloomy Vonifáty, the shabby maids, the manners of the old Princess herself,--all that strange life no longer surprised me.... But to that which I now dimly felt in Zinaída I could not get used.... “An adventuress,”--my mother had one day said concerning her. An adventuress--she, my idol, my divinity! That appellation seared me; I tried to escape from it by burrowing into my pillow; I raged--and at the same time, to what would not I have agreed, what would not I have given, if only I might be that happy mortal by the fountain!...
My blood grew hot and seethed within me. “A garden ... a fountain,” ... I thought.... “I will go into the garden.” I dressed myself quickly and slipped out of the house. The night was dark, the trees were barely whispering; a quiet chill was descending from the sky, an odour of fennel was wafted from the vegetable-garden. I made the round of all the alleys; the light sound of my footsteps both disconcerted me and gave me courage; I halted, waiting and listening to hear how my heart was beating quickly and violently. At last I approached the fence and leaned against a slender post. All at once--or was it only my imagination?--a woman’s figure flitted past a few paces distant from me.... I strained my eyes intently on the darkness; I held my breath. What was this? Was it footsteps that I heard or was it the thumping of my heart again?--“Who is here?”--I stammered in barely audible tones. What was that again? A suppressed laugh?... or a rustling in the leaves?... or a sigh close to my very ear? I was terrified.... “Who is here?”--I repeated, in a still lower voice.