“Tell me the future, old man,” she said. “Tell me my fate before your intellect has wholly immersed itself in wine. Here is my hand for you to look at. It is not for nothing that you are known as a mystic. Have you not studied books, and do you not know the black art in its entirety? Look at my hand, then, old man, and tell me what evils are threatening my life. Yet do not lie; tell me only what you know. Shall I ever be happy? Will you ever pardon me, or do you propose always to strew my path with misfortune? Shall I ever find a place of refuge, or shall I, like a bird of passage, have to spend lonely days among the righteous, seeking always a place where I may lay my head? Who loves me? Who hates me? Who would injure me? Will my heart, now so young and ardent, always be forced to pine in solitude? Will it fall to me to spend my youth alone, and to go to the grave before my time? On the other hand, will my heart ever find a mate with whom it may beat in joyous unison until a new sorrow arrives? Under what blue skies, by what seas or forests, dwells now my true lover? Will he love me well, or will he soon tire of me? Will he always abide by his troth? . . . Tell me also, old man, how long you and I will abide together—here, in this murky den, among your black books? Will the time ever come for me to render you a last salute, to wish you health and rest, and to bid you a final adieu? Will the time ever come for me to thank you for your bread and salt, for your meat and drink, and for all the pleasant stories which you have so often related to me? . . . Give me your best attention, and tell me the whole truth. Do not lie to me, old man, but show me all your skill.”

Her animation had kept increasing until, at this point, her voice broke. Though her eyes were blazing, her upper lip was trembling; and though in her words there was biting mockery, in her accents there was also the note of tears. She leaned across the table, and looked the old man full in the face, while her heart beat loudly.

Ordynov uttered a painful cry, and tried to rise—only to find himself once more nailed to his seat by a swift, sidelong glance from the old man. In that glance—a glance which made Ordynov tremble, and cooled the utmost bitterness of his rage—were mingled irony, contempt, disquietude, and a sort of malicious curiosity.

When Katerina ceased to speak the old man smiled a dreamy, resigned smile. During her speech he had never once taken his eyes off her; but, now that his heart had received its death-blow, now that the fatal words had been spoken, he delivered his answer.