'did not Dmitri take me away then, from that little chapel, wherever
he wanted to go? Didn't he tell me I was his wife before God? What am
I here for?' She suddenly began to feel shy of every one, even of Uvar
Ivanovitch, who was flourishing his fingers in more perplexity than
ever. Now everything about her seemed neither sweet nor friendly, nor
even a dream, but, like a nightmare, lay, an immovable dead load, on
her heart; seeming to reproach her and be indignant with her, and not
to care to know about her. . . .'You are ours in spite of
everything,' she seemed to hear. Even her poor pets, her ill-used
birds and animals looked at her--so at least she fancied--with
suspicion and hostility. She felt conscience-stricken and ashamed of
her feelings. 'This is my home after all,' she thought, 'my family, my
country.' . . . 'No, it's no longer your country, nor your family,'
another voice affirmed within her. Terror was overmastering her, and
she was vexed with her own feebleness. The trial was only beginning
and she was losing patience already. . . Was this what she had
promised?

She did not soon gain control of herself. But a week passed and then
another. . . . Elena became a little calmer, and grew used to her new
position. She wrote two little notes to Insarov, and carried them
herself to the post: she could not for anything--through shame and
through pride--have brought herself to confide in a maid. She was
already beginning to expect him in person. . . . But instead of
Insarov, one fine morning Nikolai Artemyevitch made his appearance.




XXII