Bourmin found Maria Gavrilovna near the pond, under a willow-tree with a book in her hands, and in a white dress: a veritable heroine of romance. After the first few questions and observations, Maria Gavrilovna purposely allowed the conversation to drop, thereby increasing their mutual embarrassment, from which there was no possible way of escape except only by a sudden and decisive declaration.
And this is what happened: Bourmin, feeling the difficulty of his position, declared that he had long sought for an opportunity to open his heart to her, and requested a moment’s attention. Maria Gavrilovna closed her book and cast down her eyes, as a sign of compliance with his request.
“I love you,” said Bourmin: “I love you passionately....”
Maria Gavrilovna blushed and lowered her head still more. “I have acted imprudently in accustoming myself to the sweet pleasure of seeing and hearing you daily....” Maria Gavrilovna recalled to mind the first letter of St. Preux.[3] “But it is now too late to resist my fate; the remembrance of you, your dear incomparable image, will henceforth be the torment and the consolation of my life, but there still remains a grave duty for me to perform—to reveal to you a terrible secret which will place between us an insurmountable barrier....”
“That barrier has always existed,” interrupted Maria Gavrilovna hastily: “I could never be your wife.”
“I know,” replied he calmly: “I know that you once loved, but death and three years of mourning.... Dear, kind Maria Gavrilovna, do not try to deprive me of my last consolation: the thought that you would have consented to make me happy, if——”
“Don’t speak, for Heaven’s sake, don’t speak. You torture me.”
“Yes, I know, I feel that you would have been mine, but—I am the most miserable creature under the sun—I am already married!”
Maria Gavrilovna looked at him in astonishment.
“I am already married,” continued Bourmin: “I have been married four years, and I do not know who is my wife, or where she is, or whether I shall ever see her again!”