Then, quite suddenly, a sharp wind springs up.
The people leave the deck, flee to the cabin. Only some young men who, smoking and talking, do not care about the storm, have remained above. Mascha observes that they notice her. One of them makes a jest, the others laugh.
Heaven knows what they are laughing at! Mascha imagines they have guessed----
Like a leaping flame she feels permeated from head to foot with newly awakened, consuming, despairing shame. She springs up, bursts open the door of the little gate in the ship's railing. She holds both hands to her eyes. "Mother!" she cries in her death agony.
It is done.
XXVI.
The evening was already far advanced. Lensky sat alone in his sitting-room, a prey to all sorts of feelings. A kind of rage chokes him. "Why did I tell him all that?" he asked himself. Yes, why? Because he has a hatred for all falseness, which amounts to exaggeration; because it seemed to him as if he expiated some of the disgracefulness of his behavior to Nita by the exposure of his own shame.
When he had so suddenly looked into Nita's pure eyes, it had seemed to him as if it had all at once grown unbearably light around him. He saw his whole life so plainly as he had never before seen it, and it was repulsive to him. A short time ago he had sent the waiter to announce to Nikolai that dinner was served. Nikolai had excused himself.
Then Lensky had not even taken his place at the table. As if he were capable of forcing down anything!
The waiter had asked if he should light the lamps, but Lensky had only impatiently motioned him away. What need had he of more light? He saw plainly enough.