Arátoff attempted to apologise.
"Listen," broke in Anna once more:—"I insist upon it that you shall not believe that calumny yourself, and that you shall dissipate it, if possible! Here, you wish to write an article about her, or something of that sort:—here is an opportunity for you to defend her memory! That is why I am talking so frankly with you. Listen: Kátya left a diary…."
Arátoff started.—"A diary," he whispered.
"Yes, a diary … that is to say, a few pages only.—Kátya was not fond of writing … for whole months together she did not write at all … and her letters were so short! But she was always, always truthful, she never lied…. Lie, forsooth, with her vanity! I … I will show you that diary! You shall see for yourself whether it contains a single hint of any such unhappy love!"
Anna hastily drew from the table-drawer a thin copy-book, about ten pages in length, no more, and offered it to Arátoff. The latter grasped it eagerly, recognised the irregular, bold handwriting,—the handwriting of that anonymous letter,—opened it at random, and began at the following lines:
"Moscow—Tuesday … June. I sang and recited at a literary morning. To-day is a significant day for me. It must decide my fate." (These words were doubly underlined.) "Once more I have seen…." Here followed several lines which had been carefully blotted out.—And then: "No! no! no!… I must return to my former idea, if only…."
Arátoff dropped the hand in which he held the book, and his head sank quietly on his breast.
"Read!" cried Anna.—"Why don't you read? Read from the beginning…. You can read the whole of it in five minutes, though this diary extends over two whole years. In Kazán she wrote nothing…."
Arátoff slowly rose from his chair, and fairly crashed down on his knees before Anna!
She was simply petrified with amazement and terror.