“No,” she replied, “I am not in voice.”
“It really is time to be going,” observed Riasantzeff, for he remembered that early next morning he must be in the dissecting-room of the hospital. All the others wished that they could have stayed for a while. On their homeward way they were silent, feeling tired and contented. As before, though unseen, the tall stems of the grasses bent beneath the carriage-wheels, and the dust soon settled on the white road again. The bare grey fields looked vast and limitless in the faint light of the moon.
CHAPTER VII.
Three days afterwards, late in the evening, Lida came home sad, tired, and heavy-hearted. On reaching her room, she stood still, with hands clasped, and stared at the floor. She suddenly realized, to her horror, that in her relations with Sarudine she had gone too far. For the first time since that strange moment of irreparable weakness she perceived what a humiliating hold this empty-headed officer had over her, inferior as he was to herself in every way. She must now come if he called; she could no longer trifle with him as she liked, submitting to his kisses or laughingly resisting them. Now, like a slave, she must endure and obey.
How this had come about she could not comprehend. As always, she had ruled him, had borne with his amorous attentions; all had been as agreeable, amusing, and exciting, as heretofore. Then came a moment when her whole frame seemed on fire and her brain clouded as by a mist, annihilating all except the one mad desire to plunge into the abyss. It was as if the earth gave way beneath her feet; she lost control of her limbs, conscious only of two magnetic eyes that gazed boldly into hers. Her whole being was thrilled and shaken with passion; she became the sacrifice of overwhelming lust; and yet she longed once more that such passionate experiences might be repeated. At the very thought of it all Lida trembled; she raised her shoulders and hid her face in her hands. With faltering steps she crossed the room and opened the window. For a long while she gazed at the moon that hung just above the garden, and in distant foliage a nightingale sang. Grief oppressed her. She felt strangely agitated by a sense of remorse and of wounded pride to think that she had ruined her life for a silly, shallow man, and that her false step had been foolish, base, and, indeed, accidental. The future seemed threatening; but she sought to dissipate her fears by obstinate bravado.
“Well, I did it, and there’s an end of it!” she said to herself, frowning, and striving to find some sort of grim satisfaction from this hackneyed phrase. “What nonsense it all is! I wanted to do it and I did it; and I felt so happy—oh, so happy! It would have been silly not to enjoy myself when the moment came. I must not think of it; it can’t be helped, now.”
She languidly withdrew from the window and began to undress, letting her clothes slip from her on to the floor. “After all, one only lives once,” she thought, shivering at the touch of the cool night air on her bare shoulders and arms. “What should I have gained by waiting till I was lawfully married? And of what good would that have been to me? It’s all the same thing! What is there to worry about?”
All at once it seemed to her that in this hazard she had got all that was best and most interesting; and that now, free as a bird an eventful life of happiness and pleasure lay before her.
“I’ll love if I will; if I don’t, then I won’t!” sang Lida softly to herself, thinking meanwhile that her voice was a much better one than Sina Karsavina’s. “Oh! it’s all nonsense! If I like, I’ll give myself to the devil!” Thus she made sudden answer to her thoughts, holding her bare arms above her head so that her bosom shook.
“Aren’t you asleep yet, Lida?” said Sanine’s voice outside the window.