My downfall was rapid and irretrievable.
I soon became familiar with expedients and intrigues, I trod the tortuous paths that lead down into the valley of dishonor. For the outside world I might still appear a person of distinction, I might still call myself the Countess Tarnowska, but I had ceased to be that simple, ordinary, peerless being—an honest woman. I seemed to be surrounded by that peculiar atmosphere which envelops the adventuress as in an invisible mist—that imperceptible emanation by which persons of repute are instinctively repelled, and which draws within its ambit the idler and adventurer, the depredator and outcast of society.
I had accepted money to which I had no claim. From this want of dignity to the want of rectitude how brief is the step! Between indiscretion and transgression how uncertain is the boundary! And suddenly there comes a day when one awakes to find oneself—a criminal!
Ah, then we stop short in horror. We look back and see the abyss, the impassable gulf that henceforward separates us from the distant, candid summits of innocence. How has it been possible for us to travel along that vertiginous road which knows no return? What evil spirits have bandaged our eyes, have placed for our feet bridges and stepping stones so that almost without noticing it we have crossed ravines and precipices which never in this life we may traverse again? We can but go forward and downward: we can turn back no more.
Not at this period did I realize the irrevocable character of the fate I had chosen. Rather did I seem to perceive a new life opening out before me, leading me back once more to rectitude and honor, a return to that peaceful, conventional existence so often scorned by those who lead it, so bitterly regretted and desired by those who have forfeited and forsaken it.
Prilukoff still held me bound to him by the triple bonds of gratitude, of affection and of complicity. But Count Kamarowsky was swaying me towards a brighter and securer future. My marriage with Vassili, so long merely an empty and nominal tie, was about to be dissolved by a decree from the Holy Synod, and Kamarowsky implored me to marry him. His sadness and the loneliness of his little son moved me deeply; the thought of bringing light and joy into their lives was unspeakably sweet to me, while for my part I rejoiced to think that by the side of a worthy and honorable man I might take my place in the world once more, rehabilitated and redeemed. With Prilukoff, as I could see, downfall and ruin were imminent. He had left Moscow for a few days; but he would return, and alas! he would resume his dominion over me. I knew that with him the ultimate plunge into dishonor was inevitable.
And so with bitter tears of repentance, clasping the two fair heads of Tioka and Grania to my breast, I vowed to Heaven that I would be to them both a tender and a faithful mother, worthy of the lofty duty that by Divine grace was to be once more assigned to me.
Count Kamarowsky's gratitude and joy were boundless.
“You are giving back life to me,” he said, his kind eyes shining with emotion. “I do not feel worthy of so much happiness.”
“Don't, don't!” I said, turning away my face and flushing deeply at the thought of my recent unprincipled life. “It is I, I who am unworthy—”