Page:The Career of a Nihilist.djvu/19

. . . whom she met last autumn at . . . husband proved to be a man without principles or honour, who . . . and worse, . . . broken hearted. . . . I should never have thought she . . . Father is much depressed, and . . . grey hairs. Our only hope is that the all-healing balsam of time, the comforter of the afflicted. . . .’”

The pathetic passage was interrupted by a merry laugh from Helen,—or Lena, as her friend called her.

“It's easy to see,” she said, “that it was written by a poet.”

In no way shocked by this misplaced hilarity, Andrey went on at greater speed, muttering between his teeth the remainder of the letter.

“Yes, you were right. It was not worth reading,” he said at last, showing but little sign however of his disappointment under the trying circumstances.

Presently he looked round as if searching for something.

“Here it is,” he said, taking a small black phial from the mantelpiece, where it stood by a tin spirit-lamp over which he prepared his tea for breakfast.

Lena handed to him the glass brush, whilst Andrey carefully smoothed out the letter. Then dipping the brush into the bottle he passed it several times over the page before him.

The black lines, written with common ink, rapidly disappeared, as if melting in the corrosive liquid. For an instant the paper remained a blank. Then suddenly it was all movement and life. From its inmost depths, as if thrust up from below, came forth, hurrying and crowding one upon another, words, letters, phrases—here, there, everywhere! It was a disorderly rout, as of soldiers at the call of the alarm-bugle rushing from their tents to fall into the ranks.

Then the letters stood still; the movement ceased. In some remote corner a belated word or letter still struggled to break the thin shroud under which it lay buried, slipping unobserved into its place by the side of its nimbler companions; but in the upper part of the page all was over. In place of the former mock letters, serried lines of close straight handwriting stood ready to unfold the message they had faithfully carried to the pair who now leaned over the table with flushed faces and glistening eager eyes.

“I'll read it to you!” exclaimed Lena. And before Andrey could say a word, or otherwise protect his property, the impatient girl snatched up the letter and began:—