XXI


Elena's first sensation on awakening was one of happy consternation.
'Is it possible? Is it possible?' she asked herself, and her heart
grew faint with happiness. Recollections came rushing on her . . . she
was overwhelmed by them. Then again she was enfolded by the blissful
peace of triumph. But in the course of the morning, Elena gradually
became possessed by a spirit of unrest, and for the remainder of the
day she felt listless and weary. It was true she knew now what she
wanted, but that made it no easier for her. That never-to-be forgotten
meeting had cast her for ever out of the old groove; she was no
longer at the same standpoint, she was far away, and yet everything
went on about her in its accustomed order, everything pursued its own
course as though nothing were changed; the old life moved on its old
way, reckoning on Elena's interest and co-operation as of old. She
tried to begin a letter to Insarov, but that too was a failure; the
words came on to paper either lifeless or false. Her diary she had put
an end to by drawing a thick stroke under the last line. That was the
past, and every thought, all her soul, was turned now to the future.
Her heart was heavy. To sit with her mother who suspected nothing, to
listen to her, answer her and talk to her, seemed to Elena something
wicked; she felt the presence of a kind of falseness in her, she
suffered though she had nothing to blush for; more than once an almost
irresistible desire sprang up in her heart to tell everything without
reserve, whatever might come of it afterwards. 'Why,' she thought,