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Updated: June 22, 2025
It's hard to forecast the future. For a while Elena did not take her eyes off Bersenyev. 'You have greatly interested me by what you have told me, she said. 'What is he like, this friend of yours; what did you call him, Insarov? 'What shall I say? To my mind, he's good-looking. But you will see him for yourself. 'How so? 'I will bring him here to see you.
Insarov did not sleep all night, and in the morning he felt very ill; he set to work, however, putting his papers into order and writing letters, but his head was heavy and confused. At dinner time he began to be in a fever; he could eat nothing. The fever grew rapidly worse towards evening; he had aching pains in all his limbs, and a terrible headache.
'No no I won't have it Insarov muttered indistinctly, and sighed painfully. Elena went up to the screen, her handkerchief pressed between her teeth, and bent a long, long look on the sick man. Silent tears rolled down her cheeks. 'Elena Nikolaevna, Bersenyev said to her, 'he might come to himself and recognise you; there's no knowing if that wouldn't do harm.
'But, she reflected, 'he spoke very little to-day, and I am myself to blame for it; I did not question him, we must have patience till next time... and his eyes are expressive, honest eyes. She felt that she had no disposition to humble herself before him, but rather to hold out her hand to him in friendly equality, and she was puzzled; this was not how she had fancied men, like Insarov, 'heroes. This last word reminded her of Shubin, and she grew hot and angry, as she lay in her bed.
Elena felt herself deeply happy; in the perfect blue of her heavens there was only one dark cloud and it was in the far distance; Insarov was much better that day. They glided as far as the acute angle of the Rialto and turned back. Elena was afraid of the chill of the churches for Insarov; but she remembered the academy delle Belle Arti, and told the gondolier to go towards it.
How do you feel? 'Are you alone? asked the sick man. 'Yes. 'And she? 'Whom do you mean? Bersenyev asked almost in dismay. Insarov was silent. 'Mignonette, he murmured, and his eyes closed again. For eight whole days Insarov lay between life and death. The doctor was incessantly visiting him, interested as a young man in a difficult case.
Dull solemnity and aggressiveness, obstinacy, clumsiness and narrowness were simply printed on the visage of the 'sire of the woolly flock, and yet the likeness to Insarov was so striking that Bersenyev could not help laughing. 'Eh? is it amusing? said Shubin. 'Do you recognise the hero? Do you advise me to send it too to the exhibition?
Elena did not even thank Bersenyev; there are services for which thanks are cruel and shameful. Only once at her fourth interview with him Insarov had passed a very bad night, the doctor had hinted at a consultation only then she reminded him of his promise. 'Very well, then let us go, he said to her. She got up and was going to get ready.
It was long since she had slept or wept. Bersenyev's words turned out only partly true; the danger was over, but Insarov gained strength slowly, and the doctor talked of a complete undermining of the whole system.
She begged her daughter to come to Moscow if only for a month, complained of her loneliness, and of Nikolai Artemyevitch, sent greetings to Insarov, inquired after his health, and begged him to spare his wife. Renditch was a Dalmatian, a sailor, with whom Insarov had become acquainted during his wanderings in his own country, and whom he had sought out in Venice.
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