Pelageia Petrovna did not notice it, and, wholly absorbed in her own thoughts, continued:
“I have a greeting for you. Lenochka writes that I should give Iván Ivanovich her regards, and should compel him to come with Vladímir and pay her a visit—You know yourself how she likes you, Iván Ivanovich!—No, it seems I am not able to keep it to myself. I must show you the letter. Just see for yourself how loving and sweet it is.”
And Pelageia Petrovna again took out the package of letters from her pocket, took from it a thin letter-sheet, closely written, and unfolded it before Iván Golubenko, whose face had become still gloomier, and he tried to push away with his hand the extended note, but Pelageia Petrovna had already started to read:
“Dear Pelageia Petrovna—When will the time arrive when I will be able to address you, not as above, but as my dear, sweet mother! I am anxiously awaiting the time, and hope so much that it will soon come that even now I do not want to call you otherwise than mama—”
Pelageia Petrovna lifted her head, and, ceasing to read, looked at Golubenko with eyes suffused with tears.
“You see, Iván Ivanovich!” she added; but seeing that Golubenko was biting his mustaches, and that his eyes too were moist, she rose, placed a trembling hand upon his hair, and quietly kissed him on the forehead. “Thank you, Iván Ivanovich,” she whispered, greatly moved. “I always thought that you and Vladímir were more like brothers than like simple friends—Forgive me—I am so very happy, God be thanked!”
Tears streamed down her cheeks, and Iván Golubenko was so disturbed and confused that he could only catch in his own her cold, bony hand and cover it with kisses; tears were suffocating him, and he could not utter a word, but in this outburst of motherly love he felt such a terrible reproach to himself that he would have preferred to be lying himself upon the field, shot through the head, than to hear himself praised for his friendship by this woman who would in half an hour find out the whole truth; what would she then think of him? Did not he, the friend, the almost brother, stand quietly by when a revolver was pointed at Vladímir? Did not this brother himself measure the space between the two antagonists and load the revolvers? All this he did himself, did consciously; and now this friend and brother silently sat there without having even the courage to fulfil his duty.
He was afraid; at this moment he despised himself, but could not prevail upon himself to say even one word. His soul was oppressed by a strange lack of harmony; he felt sick at heart and stifling. And in the meanwhile time flew—he knew it, and the more he knew it the less had he the courage to deprive Pelageia Petrovna of her few last happy moments. What should he say to her? How should he prepare her? Iván Golubenko lost his head entirely.
He had had already time enough to curse in his thoughts all duels, all quarrels, every kind of heroism, and all kinds of so-called questions of honor, and he at last rose from his seat ready to confess or to run away. Silently and quickly he caught the hand of Pelageia Petrovna, and stooping over it to touch it with his lips, thus hid his face, over which a torrent of tears suddenly streamed down; impetuously, without another thought, he ran out into the corridor, snatching his great coat, and then out of the house without having said a word.
Pelageia Petrovna looked after him with astonishment, and thought: