‘Dmitri Nikanorovitch,’ said Elena, ‘do you know that this is the first time you have been so unreserved with me?’
‘How’s that? I think I have always said everything I thought to you.’
‘No, this is the first time, and I am very glad, and I too want to be open with you. May I?’
Insarov began to laugh and said: ‘You may.’
‘I warn you I am very inquisitive.’
‘Never mind, tell me.’
‘Andrei Petrovitch has told me a great deal of your life, of your youth. I know of one event, one awful event.... I know you travelled afterwards in your own country.... Don’t answer me for goodness sake, if you think my question indiscreet, but I am fretted by one idea.... Tell me, did you meet that man?’
Elena caught her breath. She felt both shame and dismay at her own audacity. Insarov looked at her intently, slightly knitting his brows, and stroking his chin with his fingers.
‘Elena Nikolaevna,’ he began at last, and his voice was much lower than usual, which almost frightened Elena, ‘I understand what man you are referring to. No, I did not meet him, and thank God I did not! I did not try to find him. I did not try to find him: not because I did not think I had a right to kill him—I would kill him with a very easy conscience—but because now is not the time for private revenge, when we are concerned with the general national vengeance—or no, that is not the right word—when we are concerned with the liberation of a people. The one would be a hindrance to the other. In its own time that, too, will come... that too will come,’ he repeated, and he shook his head.
Elena looked at him from the side.