'Trying a pen. . . . A little foot.'
By five o'clock he grew weaker and threw all the blame on himself. It seemed to him now that if Olga Dmitrievna had married some one else who might have had a good influence over her -- who knows? -- she might after all have become a good, straightforward woman. He was a poor psychologist, and knew nothing of the female heart; besides, he was churlish, uninteresting. . . .
'I haven't long to live now,' he thought. 'I am a dead man, and ought not to stand in the way of the living. It would be strange and stupid to insist upon one's rights now. I'll have it out with her; let her go to the man she loves. . . . I'll give her a divorce. I'll take the blame on myself.'
Olga Dmitrievna came in at last, and she walked into the study and sank into a chair just as she was in her white cloak, hat, and overboots.
'The nasty, fat boy,' she said with a sob, breathing hard. 'It's really dishonest; it's disgusting.' She stamped. 'I can't put up with it; I can't, I can't!'
'What's the matter?' asked Nikolay Yevgrafitch, going up to her.
'That student, Azarbekov, was seeing me home, and he lost my bag, and there was fifteen roubles in it. I borrowed it from mamma.'
She was crying in a most genuine way, like a little girl, and not only her handkerchief, but even her gloves, were wet with tears.
'It can't be helped!' said the doctor. 'If he's lost it, he's lost it, and it's no good worrying over it. Calm yourself; I want to talk to you.'
'I am not a millionaire to lose money like that. He says he'll pay it back, but I don't believe him; he's poor . . .'
Her husband begged her to calm herself and to listen to him, but she kept on talking of the student and of the fifteen roubles she had lost.
'Ach! I'll give you twenty-five roubles to-morrow if you'll only hold your tongue!' he said irritably.
'I must take off my things!' she said, crying. 'I can't talk seriously in my fur coat! How strange you are!'
He helped her off with her coat and overboots, detecting as he did so the smell of the white wine she liked to drink with oysters (in spite of her etherealness she ate and drank a great deal). She went into her room and came back soon after, having changed her things and powdered her face, though her eyes still showed traces of tears. She sat down, retreating into her light, lacy dressing-gown, and in the mass of billowy pink her husband could see nothing but her hair, which she had let down, and her little foot wearing a slipper.
'What do you want to talk about?' she asked, swinging herself in a rocking-chair.
'I happened to see this;' and he handed her the telegram.
She read it and shrugged her shoulders.
'Well?' she said, rocking herself faster. 'That's the usual New Year's greeting and nothing else. There are no secrets in it.'
'You are reckoning on my not knowing English. No, I don't know it; but I have a dictionary. That telegram is from Riss; he drinks to the health of his beloved and sends you a thousand kisses. But let us leave that,' the doctor went on hurriedly. 'I don't in the least want to reproach you or make a scene. We've had scenes and reproaches enough; it's time to make an end of them. . . . This is what I want to say to you: you are free, and can live as you like.'
There was a silence. She began crying quietly.
'I set you free from the necessity of lying and keeping up pretences,' Nikolay Yevgrafitch continued. 'If you love that young man, love him; if you want to go abroad to him, go. You are young, healthy, and I am a wreck, and haven't long to live. In short . . . you understand me.'
He was agitated and could not go on. Olga Dmitrievna, crying and speaking in a voice of self-pity, acknowledged that she loved Riss, and used to drive out of town with him and see him in his rooms, and now she really did long to go abroad.
'You see, I hide nothing from you,' she added, with a sigh. 'My whole soul lies open before you. And I beg you again, be generous, get me a passport.'
'I repeat, you are free.'
She moved to another seat nearer him to look at the expression of his face. She did not believe him and wanted now to understand his secret meaning. She never did believe any one, and however generous were their intentions, she always suspected some petty or ignoble motive or selfish object in them. And when she looked searchingly into his face, it seemed to him that there was a gleam of green light in her eyes as in a cat's.
'When shall I get the passport?' she asked softly.
He suddenly had an impulse to say 'Never'; but he restrained himself and said:
'When you like.'
'I shall only go for a month.'
'You'll go to Riss for good. I'll get you a divorce, take the blame on myself, and Riss can marry you.'
'But I don't want a divorce!' Olga Dmitrievna retorted quickly, with an astonished face. 'I am not asking you for a divorce! Get me a passport, that's all.'
'But why don't you want the divorce?' asked the doctor, beginning to feel irritated. 'You are a strange woman. How strange you are! If you are fond of him in earnest and he loves you too, in your position you can do nothing better than get married. Can you really hesitate between marriage and adultery?'
'I understand you,' she said, walking away from him, and a spiteful, vindictive expression came into her face. 'I understand you perfectly. You are sick of me, and you simply want to get rid of me, to force this divorce on me. Thank you very much; I am not such a fool as you think. I won't accept the divorce and I won't leave you -- I won't,
