journey--good wishes----' He began pouring out the champagne: his
hands were shaking, the foam rose over the edge and fell on to the
snow. He took one glass, and gave the other two to Elena and Insarov,
who by now was seated beside hen 'God give you----' began Nikolai
Artemyevitch, and he could not go on: he drank off the wine; they,
too, drank off their glasses. 'Now you should drink, gentlemen,' he
added, turning to Shubin and Bersenyev, but at that instant the driver
started the horses. Nikolai Artemyevitch ran beside the sledge. 'Mind
and write to us,' he said in a broken voice. Elena put out her head,
saying: 'Good-bye, papa, Andrei Petrovitch, Pavel Yakovlitch, good-bye
all, good-bye, Russia!' and dropped back in her place. The driver
flourished his whip, and gave a whistle; the sledge, its runners
crunching on the snow, turned out of the gates to the right and
disappeared.




XXXIII


It was a bright April day. On the broad lagoon which separates Venice
from the narrow strip of accumulated sea sand, called the Lido, a
gondola was gliding--swaying rhythmically at every push made by the
gondolier as he leaned on the big pole. Under its low awning, on soft
leather cushions, were sitting Elena and Insarov.

Elena's features had not changed much since the day of her departure
from Moscow, but their expression was different; it was more
thoughtful and more severe, and her eyes had a bolder look. Her whole