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Insarov had long ago made his preparations, and was burning with anxiety to get out of Moscow as soon as possible. And the doctor was urging him on. 'You need a warm climate, he told him; 'you will not get well here. Elena, too, was fretting with impatience; she was worried by Insarov's pallor, and his emaciation. She often looked with involuntary terror at his changed face.
Two minutes later, Bersenyev even caught the sound of sobbing; he got up and opened the window; everything was still, only somewhere in the distance some one a passing peasant, probably was humming 'The Plain of Mozdok. During the first fortnight of Insarov's stay in the Kuntsovo neighbourhood, he did not visit the Stahovs more than four or five times; Bersenyev went to see them every day.
What is it? suddenly sounded the voice of Insarov. Elena started up, and Bersenyev felt rooted to the spot. After waiting a little, he went up to the bed. Insarov's head lay on the pillow helpless as before; his eyes were closed. 'Is he delirious? whispered Elena. 'It seems so, answered Bersenyev, 'but that's nothing; it's always so, especially if 'When was he taken ill? Elena broke in.
Zoya clutched at Insarov's arm, but he broke away from her, and stood directly facing the insolent giant. 'You will please to move off, he said in a voice not loud but sharp. The German gave a heavy laugh, 'Move off? Well, I like that. Can't I walk where I please? Move off? Why should I move off?
Towards morning Insarov revived for a few minutes, recognised Bersenyev, asked: 'Am I ill, then? looked about him with the vague, listless bewilderment of a man dangerously ill, and again relapsed into unconsciousness. Bersenyev went home, changed his clothes, and, taking a few books along with him, he returned to Insarov's lodgings. He made up his mind to stay there, at least for a time.
A brief interval passed and again the audience were in transports. The duet began, the best thing in the opera, in which the composer has succeeded in expressing all the pathos of the senseless waste of youth, the final struggle of despairing, helpless love. Elena felt cold all over. Softly her hand sought Insarov's, found it, and clasped it tightly.
'There were rumours that she had been outraged and murdered by a Turkish aga; her husband, Insarov's father, found out the truth, tried to avenge her, but only succeeded in wounding the aga with his poniard.... He was shot. 'Shot, and without a trial? 'Yes. Insarov was just eight years old at the time. He remained in the hands of neighbours.
In 1835, that is to say eighteen years ago, a terrible crime was committed; Insarov's mother suddenly disappeared without leaving a trace behind; a week later she was found murdered. Elena shuddered. Bersenyev stopped. 'Go on, go on, she said.
Bersenyev snatched up his cap, thrust a rouble into the tailor's hand, and at once set off with him post haste to Insarov's lodgings. He found him lying on the sofa, unconscious and not undressed. His face was terribly changed. Bersenyev at once ordered the people of the house to undress him and put him to bed, while he rushed off himself and returned with a doctor.
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