IV

I saw them off next morning in the desolating atmosphere of the Nicholas Station on a cold November morning. They were wrapped in heavy furs. The men had turned up the collars of their shubas against the biting frost. There was snow on the platform. We walked up and down quickly in order to warm our feet. Nikolai Vasilievich presented a pitiable sight with his pince-nez all blinded with snow, his moustache frozen, and his nose, reddened by the cold, protruding from his turned-up collar.

“Nina,” he said.

“Yes?” She turned round.

“Don’t go.”

“I must.”

“You won’t come back. She will keep you.”

She shook her head.

“Don’t go, Nina.”

“Don’t go,” I said.

She stood thoughtful, in indecision.

“Don’t, Nina,” cut in Nikolai Vasilievich.

She did not answer.

“Nina,” he said again.

“No, she must,” intervened Fanny Ivanovna. “This is all nonsense! She will go and come back quickly. Won’t you, Nina?”

“Yes,” said Nina.

She turned to me and slipped her hand under my arm. “I won’t let you go,” she said petulantly. “You’ll have to come with me.”

“You know I can’t.”

“I won’t let you go.”

“Nina,” I said.

“Yes?”

“Come here.”

I took her aside.

“Nina, will you marry me?”

She looked flippant and humorous and yet there was just a trace of seriousness in her look.

“Yes.”

I felt relieved⁠—oddly as I might feel if I had just concluded a satisfactory business transaction.

The second whistle went, and with the other passengers they boarded the train, Nikolai Vasilievich came up to her to say goodbye and probably thought he might chance it once again.

“Don’t go, Nina. Nina!”

“I shall come back,” said Nina.

Then they all said goodbye to Vera, and no excess of emotion was displayed on either side.

“Goodbye!” was said again. Then the train moved, and they waved handkerchiefs.