of the music and holding her dishevelled hair with both hands. Bobrov, who saw this from the far end of the clearing, hastily followed her, and placed himself by the door. It was almost dark there; the small dressing-room, built of planks behind the pavilion, was hidden in dense shade. Bobrov decided to wait till Nina came out and to make her speak. His heart was throbbing painfully; his fingers, which he clenched nervously, were moist and cold.
Nina stepped out five minutes later. Bobrov walked out of the shade and barred her way. She started back with a faint cry.
“Why are you torturing me like this, Nina Grigoryevna?” said Bobrov, clasping his hands in an involuntary gesture of entreaty. “Don’t you see how you hurt me? Ah! You’re making fun of my sorrow. You’re laughing at me.”
“I don’t understand what you want,” replied Nina, with wilful arrogance. “I never dreamed of laughing at you.”
It was her family traits showing through.
“You didn’t?” said Bobrov dejectedly. “Then what’s the meaning of your behaviour tonight?”
“What behaviour?”
“You’re cold to me, almost hostile. You keep turning, away from me. My very presence is disagreeable to you.”
“It makes absolutely no difference to me.”
“That’s worse still. I sense that some dreadful change I can’t understand has come over you. Please be frank, Nina, be as truthful as I thought you were till today. Tell me the truth, no matter how terrible it may be. We’d better settle the matter once and for all.”
“What is there to settle? I don’t know what you mean.”
Bobrov pressed his hands to his temples in which the blood was pulsating feverishly.
“O yes, you do. Don’t pretend. There is something to settle. We said loving words to each other, words that were almost a confession, we lived some beautiful moments that wove tender and delicate bonds between us. I know you’ll be telling me I’m mistaken. Perhaps I am. But wasn’t it you who told me to come to this picnic so that we might talk without being disturbed?”
Nina suddenly felt sorry for him.
“Yes, I did ask you to come,” she said, bending her head low. “I was going to tell you – to tell you that we must part for ever.”
“He reeled as if he had been struck in the chest. The pallor which spread over his face could be seen even in the dark.
“Part?” he gasped. “Nina Grigoryevna! Parting words are hard and bitter. Don’t say them!”
“I must.”
“You must?”
“Yes. It isn’t I who want it.”
“Who then?”
Someone was approaching them. Nina peered into the darkness.
“Here’s who,” she whispered.
It was Anna Afanasyevna. She eyed Bobrov and Nina suspiciously and took her daughter by the hand.
“Why did you run away, Nina?” she said in tone of censure. “Standing here chattering in the darkness. A fine thing to do, indeed. And here I am looking for you in every corner. As for you, sir,” she said suddenly, in a loud railing voice, turning to Bobrov, “if you can’t or don’t care to dance yourself, you should at least keep out of the way of young ladies, instead of compromising them by tete-a-tetes in shady nooks.”
She walked oft”, towing Nina after her.
“Don’t worry, madam, nothing can compromise your young lady!” Bobrov shouted after her, and suddenly he burst into laughter so strange and bitter that mother and daughter could not help looking back.
“There! Didn’t I tell you he was a fool and an impudent fellow?” Anna Afanasyevna tugged at Nina’s hand. “You can spit in his face, but still he’ll laugh and get over it. Now the ladies are going to pick partners,” she added more calmly. “Go and invite Kvashnin. He’s just finished playing. There he is, in the doorway of the pavilion.”
“But, Mother! How can he dance? He can hardly move.”
“Do as I tell you. He was once considered one of the best dancers in Moscow. Anyway, he’ll be pleased.”
A grey mist swam before Bobrov’s eyes. In it he saw Nina run nimbly across the clearing and stop in front of Kvashnin with a coquettish smile, her head tilted to one side in enticing appeal. Kvashnin listened to her, bending slightly over her. Suddenly a guffaw rocked his huge frame, and he shook his head. Nina insisted for a long time, then made a sulky face, and turned to walk away. But Kvashnin overtook her with an agility that contrasted with his size, and shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “Well, it can’t be helped. You’ve got to humour children.” He put out his hand to Nina. All the dancers stopped, staring at the new pair with curiosity. The sight of Kvashnin dancing a mazurka promised to be very funny.
Kvashnin waited for the beat and, suddenly turning to his partner with a heavy grace that was majestic in its own way, did his first step with such confident dexterity that everyone sensed in him a former excellent dancer.
Looking down at Nina, with a proud, challenging, and gay turn of his head, he at first walked rather than danced to the music with an elastic, slightly waddling gait. It seemed that his enormous height and bulk, far from handicapping him, added at the moment to the ponderous grace of his figure. As he reached the curve he halted for a second, clicked his heels, swung Nina round, and sped smoothly on his thick, springy legs across the centre of the clearing, an indulgent smile on his face. In front of the spot where he had started the dance, he again whirled her in a swift, graceful movement, and suddenly seating her on a chair, stood facing her with bowed head.
Ladies surrounded him at once, begging him to dance another turn. But the unaccustomed effort had exhausted him, and he was panting as he fanned his face with his handkerchief.
“That’ll do, mesdames, have pity on an old man,” he said, laughing and breathing heavily. “I’m past the dancing age. Let’s have supper instead.”
The picnickers started to take their seats at the tables, moving the chairs up with a grating noise. Bobrov remained standing where Nina had left him. He was alternately agonized by a feeling of humiliation and by a hopeless, desperate anguish. There were no tears, but he felt a burning sensation in his eyes, and a dry, prickly lump clogged his throat. The music continued to echo in his brain with painful monotony.
“Why, I’ve been looking for you for such a long time!” he heard the doctor’s cheerful voice beside him. “Where have you been hiding? The moment I arrived they dragged me to the card table. I’ve just managed to get away. Let’s go and have some food. I’ve reserved two seats so that we can eat together.”
“Go along yourself, doctor!” replied Bobrov with an effort. “I’m not coming – I don’t feel like eating.”
“You aren’t coming? Well, well!” The doctor gazed fixedly at Bobrov’s face. “But, my dear friend, what’s the matter with you? You’re quite down in the mouth.” He was now speaking with earnest sympathy. “Say what you like, I won’t leave you alone. Come along, don’t let’s argue any more.”
“I feel shabby, doctor, I feel terrible,”
