Her gay talk, her quick gestures, the mockery in her voice, all these things seemed unnatural, and he recognised beneath it all weariness, strain, an effort to conceal the collapse of her strength. When they reached the end of the avenue he tried to lead her to an open spot, where he could see her face.
“Let me look at you! How gay and merry you are, Vera!” he said timidly.
“What is there to see?” she interrupted impatiently, and tried to draw him into the shadow again. He felt that her hands were trembling, and for the moment his own passion was stilled, and he shared her suffering.
“Why do you look at me like that? I am not crazy,” she said, turning her face away.
He was stricken with horror. The insane are always assuring everyone of their sanity. What was wrong with Vera? She did not confide in him, she would not speak out, she was determined to fight her own battles. Who could support and shelter her? An inner voice told him that Tatiana Markovna alone could do it.
“Vera, you are ill,” he said earnestly. “Give Grandmother your confidence.”
“Silence! Not a word of Grandmother! Goodbye! To-morrow we will go for a stroll, do some shopping, go down by the river, anything you like.”
“I will go away, Vera,” he cried, filled with inexpressible fear. “I am worn out. Why do you deceive me? Why did you call me back to find you still here? Was it to mock my sufferings?”
“So that we could suffer together,” she answered. “Passion is beautiful, as you yourself have said; it is life itself. You have taught me how to love, have educated passion in me, and now you may admire the result of your labour,” she ended, drawing in a deep breath of the cool evening air.
“I warned you, Vera. I told you passion was a fierce wolf.”