Von Koren made haste. Throwing a knapsack over one shoulder, he kissed Samoylenko and the deacon, made a quite unnecessary tour of the house, said good-bye to orderly and cook—and went out of doors, feeling as ifhe had left something behind at the doctor's or in his own quarters. He walked down the street beside Samoylenko, with the deacon behind him carrying a chest, and the orderly bringing up the rear with two suitcases. Only Samoylenko and the deacon could discern the dim lights out at sea, the others stared unseeing into black- ness. The steamer had anchored far from shore.
'Hurry up,' Von Koren urged. 'I'm afraid of missing it.'
As he passed the cottage—it had only three windows—into which Layevsky had moved soon after the duel, Von Koren could not resist glancing through the window. Layevsky sat hunched over a table with his back to the window, writing.
'Wonderful how he's pulled himself together,' said the zoologist quietly.
'Well may you wonder,' Samoylenko sighed. 'He stays like that from dawn to dusk, just sits there working. He wants to pay off his debts. And he lives in direst poverty, old boy.'
Half a minute passed in silence. Zoologist, doctor and deacon all stood at the window, watching Layevsky.
'So the poor chap never got away after all,' Samoylenko said. 'Remember the trouble he went to?'
'Yes, he really has pulled himself together,' Von Koren repeated. 'His marriage, this day-long grind to earn his living, that new look on his face, his walk, evcn—it's all so out of the ordinary, I don't know what name to give it.'
The zoologist took Samoylenko by the sleeve and continued in an unsteady voice. 'Do tell him and his wife that I left here admiring him and wishing him all the best—and ask him not to think too badly of me if possible. He knows me. He knows I might have been his best friend could I have foreseen this change.'
'Then go in and say good-bye yourself.'
'No, it would be too awkward.'
'Why? God knows, you'll never see him again, perhaps.'
The zoologist thought for a moment, 'That's true.'
Samoylenko tapped a fmger on the window, and Layevsky looked round with a start.
'Nicholas Von Koren wants to bid you good-bye, Ivan,' said Samoy- lenko. 'He's just leaving.'
Layevsky stood up from the table, and went into the lobby to open the door. Samoylenko, Von Koren and the deacon entered the house.
'I only looked in for a moment,' began the zoologist, taking off his galoshes in the lobby and already regretting his sentimentality in calling here uninvited.
'I feel as ifl'm butting in,' he thought. 'A stupid thing to do.'
'Excuse me disturbing you,' he said, follo^mg Layevsky into his room. 'But I'm just leaving and I felt I had to see you. God knows if we'll ever meet again.'
'Delighted. Do come in,' said Layevsky, placing chaifs for his guests awkwardly as if trying to bar their way. He paused in the middle of the room, rubbing his hands.
'I wish I'd left the others in the street,' Von Koren thought.
'Don't think too badly of me, Layevsky,' he said in a steady voice. 'One can't forget the past, of course, for it was too lamentable, and I didn't come in here to apologize or tell you I wasn't to blame. I acted sincerely, nor have I changed my views in the meantime. Admittedly, I was wrong about you, as I'm now only too delighted to see. But even the most sure-footed of us can come an occasional cropper. And ifyou don't err in essentials, then you'll trip up over the details—it's only human nature. None of us knows the real truth.'
'Yes indeed, no one knows the truth,' said Layevsky.
'Well, good-bye. God speed and good luck.'
Von Korcn held out his hand to Layevsky, who pressed it and bowed.
'No hard feelings, then.' said Von Koren. 'My reg.nrds to your wife, and tell her how sorry I was not to be able to say good- bye.'
'But she's at home.'
Layevsky went to the door and spoke into the next room.
'Nadezhda dear, Nicholas Von Koren wants to say good-bye.'
Nadczhda came in and stood by the door, timidly glancing at the guests. Her expression was guilty and fearful, and she held her arms like a schoolgirl under reprimand.
'I'mjust leaving, Mrs. Layevsky,' said Von Koren. 'And I've come to say good-bye.'
She stretched out her hand timidly, and Layevsky bowed.
'How pathetic they both are, though,' Von Koren thought. 'This life is quite a struggle for them.'
'I shall be in Moscow and St. Petersburg,' he said. 'Is there anything I could send you ?'
'Oh/ said Nadezhda, exchanging a worried glance with her husband. 'I don't think so.'
'No, it's all right,' Layevsky said, rubbing his hands. 'Give them our regards.'
Von Koren did not know what else he could or should say, though when entering the house he had supposed himself about to utter a great many edifying, cheering and sigiuficant statements. He shook hands with Layevsky and his wife in silence, and left, feeling do^- cast.
'What wonderful people,' said the deacon in a low voice, following behind. 'Dear God, what people. Verily the Lord's right hand hath planted this vine. Lord, Lord, one hath conquered thousands and another tens of thousands. Von Koren,' he went on solemnly, 'know that you have this day conquered man's greatest enemy—pride.'
'Oh, come offit, Deacon. What sort of conquerors are we, Layevsky and I?.Conquerors look as if they were on top of the world, but he's pathetic, timid, do^-trodden. He bobs up and down like one of those Chinese mandarin-dolls, and I—I feel sad.'
Steps were heard behind them—it was Layevsky running after them to see them off. At the quayside the orderly was standing with the two suitcases, and there were four ferrymen a little way off.
'I say, it isn't half blowing!' said Samoylenko. 'There must be a tidy storm out there at sea. Phew! What a time to leave, Nicholas!'
'Tm not afraid ofbeing sea-sick.' 'That's not what I mean. I only hope these idiots don't capsize you. You should have taken the agent's dinghy. Where's the agent's dinghy?' he shouted to the ferrymen.
'It's already left, General.'
'And the customs boat?'
'She's gone too.'
'Then why didn't you tell me?' Samoylenko asked angrily. 'Imbe- ciles!'
'Don't let it upset you, anyway,' Von Koren said. 'Good-bye then, God preserve you.'
Samoylenko embraced Von Koren and made the sign of the cross over him three times.
'Now don't forget us, Nicholas. Be sure to write. We'll expect you next spring. '
'Good-bye, Deacon,' said Von Koren, shaking hands with the deacon. 'Thanks for your company and all the good talk. Think about the expedition.'
'Oh Lord yes—to the ends of the earth if you like,' laughed the deacon. 'I've nothing against it.'
Recognizing Layevsky in the darkness, Von Koren silently held out his hand. The ferrymen were already standing below, holding the boat as it made to crash into the breakwater, though protected from the real swell by the quay. Von Koren went down the ladder, jumped aboard and took the helm.
'Don't forget to write,' Samoylenko shouted after him. 'And look after yourself.'
'No one knows the real truth,' thought Layevsky, pulling up his overcoat collar and thrusting his hands into his sleeves.
Briskly rounding the quay, the boat emerged in the open sea. It van- ished in the waves and then straightway swooped up from a deep pit to a high crest, so that men, and even oars, could be distinguished. For every six yards which the boat made, she was thrown back about four.
'Mind you write,' shouted Samoylenko. 'But what the hell possessed you to leave in such weather?'
'Yes, no one knows the real truth,' thought Layevsky, looking sadly at the rough, dark sea.
'The boat is thrownwn back,' he thought. 'She makes two paces for- ward and one back. But the rowers a-re persistent, they ply their oars untiringly, they aren't afraid of the high waves. The boat kecps advancing. Now it's out ofsight, but in halfan hour's time the rowers will see the steamer lights cle.arly, and within an hour they'll be along- side her ladder. Such is life.