Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (86 page)

I
watched
him,
and
as
I
watched
the
light
I
had
already
noticed
in the
room
increased
a
little,
as
though
it
came
closer.
Its
origin
I
had not
guessed,
though
I
certainly
had
not
fancied
it,
and
it
was,
I
knew, external
to
himself.
Both
bed
and
occupant
became
a
shade
clearer. I
stared
with
intense
and
feverish
attention.
I
could
have
sworn
there was
a
change,
the
flutter
of
a
change.
That
was
the
word—it
fluttered, then
was
gone.
But
it
returned,
this
faint,
fluttering
difference.
I noticed
it
a
second
time.
It
was
lost
again.
Something
touched
the face,
there
was
a
change
upon
the
features.
It
vanished.
With
it
came over
me
a
rushing
instinct
that
I
must
be
quick,
I
must
act
instantly, or
the
opportunity
would
be
lost
for
ever.
This
certainty
swept
me
like an
icy
wind,
and
the
ghostly
dread
I
could
not
lay
moved
down
the air.
What
Vronski
feared
might
happen
was
on
the
way,
closer,
nearer, even
imminent.
I
must
plunge
in
as
best
I
could,
and
I
made
the effort,
as
the
hundred
questions
flew
past
me
in
their
glittering
series. I
picked
one
out,
then
another,
and
another,
but
could
not
speak them,
could
not
utter
even
a
sound,
for
all
were
useless,
meaningless, and
the
awful
flutter,
meanwhile,
had
re-appeared,
this
time
lingering. Thought
froze
in
me.
I
closed
my
eyes
a
second.
It
was
his
quiet laughter
that
made
me
open
them
again
the
next
moment.
The
light had
come
closer
than
before,
and
the
ghastly
signature
upon
his
face, I
saw,
had
deepened.
I
actually
saw
it
spring
back,
this
fluttering
alteration,
to
settle
like
a
great
bright
insect
on
the
face.
He
was
speaking, but
the
bell-like
note
had
left
the
voice,
and
then
the
lips
stopped moving,
the
eyes
lost
their
terrible
radiance,
the
whole
skin
paled,
the arms
supporting
the
body
sagged.

"Christ!"
I
heard
my
voice
with
a
stifled
shriek,
his
curious
light laughter
still
audible
across
it.
It
was
that
same
happy,
careless laughter,
no
pain,
not
even
anxiety,
possible
with
such
a
sound,
a laughter
of
relief
rather.
And
the
voice
came
with
it
as
a
bell
ringing across
great
distances:
"Ah,
that
above
all
else,
the
way
of
light," reached
my
ears
faintly,
brokenly,
a
profound
wavering
sigh
accompanying
it.
"I
will
tell
you,
tell
all
I
can—show
you
the
escaping

way—the
why
----
"
the
syllables
dying
into
incoherence
then,
so

that
I
bent
over
to
catch
the
scarcely
audible
whisper
that
almost
stopped
my
heart.
Though
confused,
words
running
into
each
other,
their
meaning
penetrated:
"a
moment—a
moment
only—I
must
first
pay
back
the
stolen
years—now
and
here.
After
that
I
will
tell
----
"