Still he never moved, and I could see that hand stopping the muzzle of my gun—a long, slender hand with fingers separate and outstretched, and I felt almost as if I were under the influence of some hallucination. It was not only his hand that I saw—I seemed in a kind of frenzy to see the hands of all men outstretched before me, ready to grasp me, to crush me, to beat me down. Doubtless a wave of madness swept over me; a convulsive spasm shook my wrist—and the gun went off. I saw the long, lithe hand drop like some wounded creature.
With a cry I let the rifle fall, and covered my face. But Bozevsky had sprung upon me, and with his other hand seized both mine and pressed them down. He was as white as death. “You little tigress,” he gasped. Then, as I was about to cry out again, he covered my mouth with his shattered hand, and I felt the blood gush over my face.
What distant heritage of madness broke upon us at that moment? What primitive frenzy lashed us together in a fierce embrace? I cannot tell. All I know is that from that hour I was his—tamed, vanquished, broken in spirit, and yet glad. He was the first, the last, the only lover of my devastated youth, and by his side the brief springtime of my happiness flowered and died. When the fearful death that was so soon to lay him low came upon him, when I saw him fall at my feet shot by Vassili—my reason gave way. The rest of my life lies behind me like a somber nightmare landscape, through which I wander, groping in the dark, stumbling forward on my way to perdition....
Yet sometimes I dream that it is all not true, that he still lives, that one day the door of my cell will open, and the lover of my youth appear to me again. I shall see him standing on the threshold, a halo of sunshine lighting his fair hair, like some young martyr-saint come to deliver me from my bondage. The hand I wounded will be filled with roses, and his clear voice will call me by my name.
Then rising from this gloomy prison bench I shall move to meet him. Shame and crime and captivity will fall away from me like a dark and worn-out cloak.
Free and fair as in those distant April days in which he loved me, with white, winged footsteps I shall follow him.
XIV
Suddenly, almost from one day to another, Vassili grew jealous. When I had adored him he had neglected and forsaken me. Now that he feared to lose me he was inconsolable.
“You and Tioka are very much alike,” I said to him one day when we were all at luncheon.