The next day was Sunday, and Natalya got up late. The day before she had been very silent all day; she was secretly ashamed of her tears, and she slept very badly. Sitting half-dressed at her little piano, at times she played some chords, hardly audibly for fear of waking Mlle. Boncourt, and then let her forehead fall on the cold keys and remained a long while motionless. She kept thinking, not of Rudin himself, but of some word he had uttered, and she was wholly buried in her own thought. Sometimes she recollected Volintsev. She knew that he loved her. But her mind did not dwell on him more than an instant. . . . She felt a strange agitation. In the morning she dressed hurriedly and went down, and after saying good-morning to her mother, seized an opportunity and went out alone into the garden. . . . It was a hot day, bright and sunny in spite of occasional showers of rain. Slight vapoury clouds sailed smoothly over the clear sky, scarcely obscuring the sun, and at times a downpour of rain fell suddenly in sheets, and was as quickly over. The thickly falling drops, flashing like diamonds, fell swiftly with a kind of dull thud; the sunshine glistened through their sparkling drops; the grass, that had been rustling in the wind, was still, thirstily drinking in the moisture; the drenched trees were languidly shaking all their leaves; the birds were busily singing, and it was pleasant to hear their twittering chatter mingling with the fresh gurgle and murmur of the running rain-water. The dusty roads were steaming and slightly spotted by the smart strokes of the thick drops. Then the clouds passed over, a slight breeze began to stir, and the grass began to take tints of emerald and gold. The trees seemed more transparent with their wet leaves clinging together. A strong scent arose from all around.

The sky was almost cloudless again when Natalya came into the garden. It was full of sweetness and peace — that soothing, blissful peace in which the heart of man is stirred by a sweet languor of undefined desire and secret emotion.

Natalya walked along a long line of silver poplars beside the pond; suddenly, as if he had sprung out of the earth, Rudin stood before her. She was confused. He looked her in the face.

‘You are alone?’ he inquired.

‘Yes, I am alone,’ replied Natalya, ‘but I was going back directly. It is time I was home.’

‘I will go with you.’

And he walked along beside her.

‘You seem melancholy,’ he said.

‘I— I was just going to say that I thought you were out of spirits.’

‘Very likely — it is often so with me. It is more excusable in me than in you.’

‘Why? Do you suppose I have nothing to be melancholy about?’

‘At your age you ought to find happiness in life.’

Natalya walked some steps in silence.

‘Dmitri Nikolaitch!’ she said.

‘Well?’

‘Do you remember — the comparison you made yesterday — do you remember — of the oak?’

‘Yes, I remember. Well?’

Natalya stole a look at Rudin.

‘Why did you — what did you mean by that comparison?’

Rudin bent his head and fastened his eyes on the distance.

‘Natalya Alexyevna!’ he began with the intense and pregnant intonation peculiar to him, which always made the listener believe that Rudin was not expressing even the tenth part of what he held locked in his heart —‘Natalya Alexyevna! you may have noticed that I speak little of my own past. There are some chords which I do not touch upon at all. My heart — who need know what has passed in it? To expose that to view has always seemed sacrilege to me. But with you I cast aside reserve; you win my confidence. . . . I cannot conceal from you that I too have loved and have suffered like all men. . . . When and how? it’s useless to speak of that; but my heart has known much bliss and much pain . . . .’

Rudin made a brief pause.

‘What I said to you yesterday,’ he went on, ‘might be applied in a degree to me in my present position. But again it is useless to speak of this. That side of life is over for me now. What remains for me is a tedious and fatiguing journey along the parched and dusty road from point to point . . . When I shall arrive — whether I arrive at all — God knows. . . . Let us rather talk of you.’

‘Can it be, Dmitri Nikolaitch,’ Natalya interrupted him, ‘you expect nothing from life?’

‘Oh, no! I expect much, but not for myself. . . . Usefulness, the content that comes from activity, I shall never renounce; but I have renounced happiness. My hopes, my dreams, and my own happiness have nothing in common. Love’—(at this word he shrugged his shoulders)—‘love is not for me; I am not worthy of it; a woman who loves has a right to demand the whole of a man, and I can never now give the whole of myself. Besides, it is for youth to win love; I am too old. How could I turn any one’s head? God grant I keep my own head on my shoulders.’

‘I understand,’ said Natalya, ‘that one who is bent on a lofty aim must not think of himself; but cannot a woman be capable of appreciating such a man? I should have thought, on the contrary, that a woman would be sooner repelled by an egoist. . . . All young men — the youth you speak of — all are egoists, they are all occupied only with themselves, even when they love. Believe me, a woman is not only able to value self-sacrifice; she can sacrifice herself.’

Natalya’s cheeks were slightly flushed and her eyes shining. Before her friendship with Rudin she would never have succeeded in uttering such a long and ardent speech.

‘You have heard my views on woman’s mission more than once,’ replied Rudin with a condescending smile. ‘You know that I consider that Joan of Arc alone could have saved France. . . . but that’s not the point. I wanted to speak of you. You are standing on the threshold of life. . . . To dwell on your future is both pleasant and not unprofitable. . . . Listen: you know I am your friend; I take almost a brother’s interest in you. And so I hope you will not think my question indiscreet; tell me, is your heart so far quite untouched?’

Natalya grew hot all over and said nothing, Rudin stopped, and she stopped too.

‘You are not angry with me?’ he asked.

‘No,’ she answered, ‘but I did not expect ——’

‘However,’ he went on, ‘you need not answer me. I know your secret.’

Natalya looked at him almost with dismay.

‘Yes, yes, I know who has won your heart. And I must say that you could not have made a better choice. He is a splendid man; he knows how to value you; he has not been crushed by life — he is simple and pure-hearted in soul . . . he will make your happiness.’

‘Of whom are you speaking, Dmitri Niklaitch?’

‘Is it possible you don’t understand? Of Volintsev, of course. What? isn’t it true?’

Natalya turned a little away from Rudin. She was completely overwhelmed.

‘Do you imagine he doesn’t love you? Nonsense! he does not take his eyes off you, and follows every movement of yours; indeed, can love ever be concealed? And do not you yourself look on him with favour? So far as I can observe, your mother, too, likes him. . . . Your choice ——’

‘Dmitri Nikolaitch,’ Natalya broke in, stretching out her hand in her confusion towards a bush near her, ‘it is so difficult, really, for me to speak of this; but I assure you . . . you are mistaken.’

‘I am mistaken!’ repeated Rudin. ‘I think not. I have not known you very long, but I already know you well. What is the meaning of the change I see in you? I see it clearly. Are you just the same as when I met you first, six weeks ago? No, Natalya Alexyevna, your heart is not free.’

‘Perhaps not,’ answered Natalya, hardly audibly, ‘but all the same you are mistaken.’

‘How is that?’ asked Rudin.

‘Let me go! don’t question me!’ replied Natalya, and with swift steps she turned towards the house.

She was frightened herself by the feelings of which she was suddenly conscious in herself.

Rudin overtook her and stopped her.

‘Natalya Alexyevna,’ he said, ‘this conversation cannot end like this; it is too important for me too. . . . How am I to understand you?’

‘Let me go!’ repeated Natalya.

‘Natalya Alexyevna, for mercy’s sake!’

Rudin’s face showed his agitation. He grew pale.

‘You understand everything, you must understand me too!’ said Natalya; she snatched away her hand and went on, not looking round.

‘Only one word!’ cried Rudin after her

She stood still, but did not turn round.

‘You asked me what I meant by that comparison yesterday. Let me tell you, I don’t want to deceive you. I spoke of myself, of my past — and of you.’

‘How? of me?’

‘Yes, of you; I repeat, I will not deceive you. You know now what was the feeling, the new feeling I spoke of then. ............