a kind of tempest of darkness pale shapes hovered about him; his heart
was numb with anguish; he seemed to be falling, falling--and a
bottomless abyss was opening at his feet. A familiar light rustle of a
silk dress roused him from his numbness; Varvara Pavlovna in her hat and
shawl was returning in haste from her walk. Lavretsky trembled all over
and rushed away; he felt that at that instant he was capable of tearing
her to pieces, beating her to death, as a peasant might do, strangling
her with his own hands. Varvara Pavlovna in amazement tried to stop him;
he could only whisper, "Betsy,"--and ran out of the house.

Lavretsky took a cab and ordered the man to drive him out of town. All
the rest of the day and the whole night he wandered about, constantly
stopping short and wringing his hands, at one moment he was mad, and the
next he was ready to laugh, was even merry after a fashion. By the
morning he grew calm through exhaustion, and went into a wretched tavern
in the outskirts, asked for a room and sat down on a chair before the
window. He was overtaken by a fit of convulsive yawning. He could
scarcely stand upright, his whole body was worn out, and he did not even
feel fatigue, though fatigue began to do its work; he sat and gazed and
comprehended nothing; he did not understand what had happened to him,
why he found himself alone, with his limbs stiff, with a taste of
bitterness in his mouth, with a load on his heart, in an empty
unfamiliar room; he did not understand what had impelled her, his Varya,
to give herself to this Frenchman, and how, knowing herself unfaithful,
she could go on being just as calm, just as affectionate, as
confidential with him as before! "I cannot understand it!" his parched
lips whispered. "Who can guarantee now that even in Petersburg" . . .
And he did not finish the question, and yawned again, shivering and
shaking all over. Memories--bright and gloomy--fretted him alike;
suddenly it crossed his mind how some days before she had sat down to