"Don't go to him. Why do you go to him?" said Ordynov, hardly conscious of his own words.
"Why have I come to you? If you ask—I don't know either. . . . But he keeps saying to me, 'Pray, pray I' Sometimes I get up in the dark night and for a long time, for hours together, I pray; sometimes sleep overtakes me, but fear always wakes me, always wakes me and then I alwaj^ fancy that a storm is gathering round me, that harm is coming to me, that evil things will tear me to pieces and torment me, that my prayers will not reach the Scdnts, and that they will not save me from cruel grief. My soul is being torn, my whole body seems breaking to pieces through crying. . . . Tlien I begin praying again, and pray and pray until the Holy Mother looks down on me from the ikon, more lovingly. Then I get up and go away to sleep, utterly* shattered; sometimes I wake up on the floor, on my knees before the ikon. Then sometimes he wakes, calls me, begins to soothe me, caress me, comfort me, and then I feel better, and if any trouble comes I am not afraid with him. He is powerful! His word is mighty!"
"But what trouble, what sort of trouble have you?" . . . And Ordynov wrung his hands in despair.
Katerina turned fearfully pale. She looked at him like one condemned to death, without hope of pardon.
"Me? I am under a curse, I'm a murderess; my mother cursed me! I was the ruin of my own mother! ..."
Ordynov embraced her without a word. She nestled
tremulously to him. He felt a convulsive shiver pass all over her, and it semed as though her soul were parting from her body.
"I hid her in the damp earth," she said, overwhebned by the horror of her recollections, and lost in visions of her irrevocable past. "I have long wanted to tell it; he always forbade me with supplications, upbraidings, and angry words, and at times he himself will arouse all my anguish at though he were my enemy and adversary. At night, even as now—-it all comes into my mind. Listen, listen I It was long ago, very long ago"' I don't remember when, but it is aU before me as though it had been yesterday, like a dream of yesterday, devouring my heart aU night. Misery makes the time twice as long. Sit here, sit here beside me; I wiU tell you all my sorrow; may I be struck" down, accursed as I am, by a mother's curse. ... I am putting my life into your hands ..."
Ordynov tried to stop her, but she folded her hands, beseeching his love to attend, and then, with even greater agitation began to speak. Her story was incoherent, the turmoil of her spirit could be felt in her words, but Ordynov understood it all, because her life had become his life, her grief his grief, and because her foe stood visible before him, taking shape and growing up before bim with every word she uttered and, as it were, with inexhaustible strength crushing his heart and cursing him mahgnantly. His blood was in a turmoil, it flooded his heart and otecured his reason. The wicked old man of his dream (Ordynov believed this) was living before him.
"Well, it was a night Uke this," Katerina began, "only stormier, and the wind in our forest howled as I had never heard it before ... it was in that night that my ruin began! An oak was broken before our window, and an old grey-headed beggar came to our door, and he said that he remembered that Oc^ as a little child, and that it was the same then as when the wind blew it down. . . . That night—as I remember now—^my father's barge was wrecked on the river by a storm, and though he was afficted with illness, he drove to the place as soon as the fishermen ran to us at the factory. Mother and I were sitting alone. I was asleep. She was sad about something and weeping bitterly . . . and I knew what about! She had just been ill, she was still pale and kept telling me to get ready her shroud. . . . Suddenly, at midnight, we heard a knock at the gate; I jumped up, the blood rushed to my heart; mother cried out. ... I did not look at her, I was afraid. I took a lantern and
went myself to open the gate. ... It was he! 1 felt frightened, because I was always frightened when he came, and it was so with me from childhood ever smce I remembered anything! At that time he had not white hair; his beard was black as pitch, his eyes burnt like coals; until that time he had never once looked at me kindly. He asked me, 'Ts your mother at home?' Shutting the little gate, I answered tliat 'Father was not at home.' He said, 'I know,' and suddenly looked at me, looked at me in such a way ... it was the first time he had looked at me like that. I went on, but he still stood. 'Why don't you come in?' 'I am thinking.' By then we were going up to the room. 'Why did you say that father was not at home when I asked you whether mother was at home?' I said nothing. . . . Mother was terror-stricken—she rushed to him. ... He sccLTcely glanced at her. I saw it all. He was all wet and shivering; the storm had driven him fifteen miles, but whence he came and where he Uved neither mother nor I ever knew; we had not seen him for nine weeks. ... He threw down his cap, pulled off his gloves—did not pray to the ikon, nor bow to his hostess—^he sat down by the fire ..."
Katerina passed her hand over her face, as though something were weighing upon her and oppressing her, but a minute later she raised her head and began again:
"He began talking in Tatar to mother. Mother knew it, I don't understand a word. Other times when he came, they sent me away; but this time mother dau'ed not say a word to her own child. The unclean spirit gained possession of my soul and I looked at my mother, exalting mjrseU in my heart. I saw they were looking at me, they were talking about me; she began crying. I saw him clutch at his knife and more than once of late I had seen him clutch at the knife when he was talking with mother. I jumped up and caught at his belt, tried to tear the evil knife away from him. He clenched his teeth, cried out and tried to beat me back; he struck me in the breast but did not shake me off. I thought I should die on the spot, there was a mist before my eyes. I fell on the floor, but did not cry out. Though I could hardly see, I saw him. He took off his belt, tucked up his sleeve, with the hand with which he had struck me took out the knife and gave it to me. 'Here, cut it away, amuse yourself over it, even as I insulted you, while I, proud girl, will bow down to the earth to you for it.' I laid aside the knife; the blood began to stifle me, I did not look at him. I remember I laughed without opening my lips and
looked threateningly straight into mother's mournful eyes, and the shameless laugh never left my Ups, while mother sat pale, deathlike . . ."
With strained attention Ordynov listened to her incoherent story. By degrees her agitation subsided after the first outburst; her words grew calmer. The poor creature was completely carried away by her memories and her misery was spread over their limitless expanse.
"He took his cap without bowing. I took the lantern again to see him out instead of mother, who, though she was ill, would have foUowed him. We reached the gates. I opened the little gate to him, drove away the dogs in silence. I see him take off his cap and bow to me, I see hun feel in his bosom, take out a red morocco box, open the catch. I look in—^big pearls, an offering to me. 'I have a beauty,' says he, 'in the town. I got it to offer to her, but I did not take it to her; take it, fair maiden, cherish your beauty; take them, though you crush them imder foot.' I took them, but I did not want to stamp on them, I did not want to do them too much honour, but I took them like a viper, not sajdng a word. I came in and set them on the table before mother—^it was for that I took them. Mother was silent for a minute, aU white as a handkerchief. She speaks to me as though she fears me. 'What is this, Katya?' and I answer, 'The merchant brought them for you, my own— I know nothing.' I see the tears stream from her eyes. I see her gasp for breath. 'Not for me, Katya, not for me, wicked daughter, not for me.' I remember she said it so bitterly, so bitterly, as though she were weeping out her whole soul. I raised my eyes, I wanted to throw myself at her feet, but suddenly the evil one prompted me. 'Well, if not to you, most likely to father; I will give them to him when he comes back; I will say the merchants have been, they have forgotten their wares . . .' Then how she wept, my own. ... 'I will tell him myself what merchants have been, and for what wares they came. ... I will tell him whose daughter you are, whose bastard child! You are not my daughter now, you serpent's fry! You are my accursed child!' I say nothing, tears do not come me to me. ... I went up to my room and all night I listened to the storm, while I fitted my thoughts to its raging.