want to take up philanthropy. I can't allow people at midnight in my house to be shouting hurrah at successfully exploiting an hysterical woman like you!'
My wife, pale and wringing her hands, took a rapid stride across the room, uttering a prolonged moan as though she had toothache. With a wave of my hand, I went into the drawing-room. I was choking with rage, and at the same time I was trembling with terror that I might not restrain myself, and that I might say or do something which I might regret all my life. And I clenched my hands tight, hoping to hold myself in.
After drinking some water and recovering my calm a little, I went back to my wife. She was standing in the same attitude as before, as though barring my approach to the table with the papers. Tears were slowly trickling down her pale, cold face. I paused then and said to her bitterly but without anger:
'How you misunderstand me! How unjust you are to me! I swear upon my honour I came to you with the best of motives, with nothing but the desire to do good!'
'Pavel Andreitch!' she said, clasping her hands on her bosom, and her face took on the agonized, imploring expression with which frightened, weeping children beg not to be punished, 'I know perfectly well that you will refuse me, but still I beg you. Force yourself to do one kind action in your life. I entreat you, go away from here! That's the only thing you can do for the starving peasants. Go away, and I will forgive you everything, everything!'
'There is no need for you to insult me, Natalie,' I sighed, feeling a sudden rush of humility. 'I had already made up my mind to go away, but I won't go until I have done something for the peasants. It's my duty!'
'Ach!' she said softly with an impatient frown. 'You can make an excellent bridge or railway, but you can do nothing for the starving peasants. Do understand!'
'Indeed? Yesterday you reproached me with indifference and with being devoid of the feeling of compassion. How well you know me!' I laughed. 'You believe in God -- well, God is my witness that I am worried day and night. . . .'
'I see that you are worried, but the famine and compassion have nothing to do with it. You are worried because the starving peasants can get on without you, and because the Zemstvo, and in fact every one who is helping them, does not need your guidance.'
I was silent, trying to suppress my irritation. Then I said:
'I came to speak to you on business. Sit down. Please sit down.'
She did not sit down.
'I beg you to sit down,' I repeated, and I motioned her to a chair.
She sat down. I sat down, too, thought a little, and said:
'I beg you to consider earnestly what I am saying. Listen. . . . Moved by love for your fellow-creatures, you have undertaken the organization of famine relief. I have nothing against that, of course; I am completely in sympathy with you, and am prepared to co-operate with you in every way, whatever our relations may be. But, with all my respect for your mind and your heart . . . and your heart,' I repeated, 'I cannot allow such a difficult, complex, and responsible matter as the organization of relief to be left in your hands entirely. You are a woman, you are inexperienced, you know nothing of life, you are too confiding and expansive. You have surrounded yourself with assistants whom you know nothing about. I am not exaggerating if I say that under these conditions your work will inevitably lead to two deplorable consequences. To begin with, our district will be left unrelieved; and, secondly, you will have to pay for your mistakes and those of your assistants, not only with your purse, but with your reputation. The money deficit and other losses I could, no doubt, make good, but who could restore you your good name? When through lack of proper supervision and oversight there is a rumour that you, and consequently I, have made two hundred thousand over the famine fund, will your assistants come to your aid?'
She said nothing.
'Not from vanity, as you say,' I went on, 'but simply that the starving peasants may not be left unrelieved and your reputation may not be injured, I feel it my moral duty to take part in your work.'
'Speak more briefly,' said my wife.
'You will be so kind,' I went on, 'as to show me what has been subscribed so far and what you have spent. Then inform me daily of every fresh subscription in money or kind, and of every fresh outlay. You will also give me, Natalie, the list of your helpers. Perhaps they are quite decent people; I don't doubt it; but, still, it is absolutely necessary to make inquiries.'
She was silent. I got up, and walked up and down the room.
'Let us set to work, then,' I said, and I sat down to her table.
'Are you in earnest?' she asked, looking at me in alarm and bewilderment.
'Natalie, do be reasonable!' I said appealingly, seeing from her face that she meant to protest. 'I beg you, trust my experience and my sense of honour.'
'I don't understand what you want.'
'Show me how much you have collected and how much you have spent.'
'I have no secrets. Any one may see. Look.'
On the table lay five or six school exercise books, several sheets of notepaper covered with writing, a map of the district, and a number of pieces of paper of different sizes. It was getting dusk. I lighted a candle.
'Excuse me, I don't see anything yet,' I said, turning over the leaves of the exercise books. 'Where is the account of the receipt of money subscriptions?'
'That can be seen from the subscription lists.'
'Yes, but you must have an account,' I said, smiling at her naivete. 'Where are the letters accompanying the subscriptions in money or in kind?
'Do so, do so . . .' she said.
