VIII
On his return home, Volintsev was so gloomy and dejected, he gave his sister such listless answers, and so quickly locked himself up in his room, that she decided to send a messenger to Lezhnyov. She always had recourse to him in times of difficulty. Lezhnyov sent her word that he would come in the next day.
Volintsev was no more cheerful in the morning. After tea he was starting to superintend the work on the estate, but he stayed at home instead, lay on the sofa, and took up a book—a thing he did not often do. Volintsev had no taste for literature, and poetry simply alarmed him. ‘This is as incomprehensible as poetry,’ he used to say, and, in confirmation of his words, he used to quote the following lines from a Russian poet:—
‘And till his gloomy lifetime’s close
Nor reason nor experience proud
Will crush nor crumple Destiny’s
Ensanguined forget-me-nots.’
Alexandra Pavlovna kept looking uneasily at her brother, but she did not worry him with questions. A carriage drew up at the steps.
‘Ah!’ she thought, ‘Lezhnyov, thank goodness!’
A servant came in and announced the arrival of Rudin.
Volintsev flung his book on the floor, and raised his head. ‘Who has come?’ he asked.
‘Rudin, Dmitri Nikolaitch,’ repeated the man. Volintsev got up.