tailcoats . . . And when I’ve looked for a long time at the long striped carpet that stretches all down the corridor, it occurs to me that I’m playing a strange, probably false role in this woman’s life, and that I’m no longer able to change this role; I run to my room, fall on my bed, think and think, and can’t think anything up, and it’s only clear to me that I want to live, and that the more unattractive, dry, and tough her face becomes, the closer she is to me, and the more strongly and painfully I feel our affinity. Let me be ‘‘my sir,’’ let there be this light, disdainful tone, let there be anything, only don’t abandon me, my treasure. I’m afraid to be alone now.
Then I go out to the corridor again, listen with anxiety . . . I don’t have dinner, don’t notice how evening comes. Finally, past ten o’clock, I hear familiar footsteps, and Zinaida Fyodorovna appears at the turning by the stairs.
‘‘Taking a stroll?’’ she asks, passing by. ‘‘You’d do better to go out . . . Good night!’’
‘‘But won’t we see each other today?’’
‘‘It’s already late, it seems. However, as you wish.’’
‘‘Tell me, where have you been?’’ I ask, following her into her room.
‘‘Where? To Monte Carlo.’’ She takes some ten gold pieces from her pocket and says, ‘‘Here, my sir. I won. At roulette.’’
‘‘Well, you’re not going to start gambling.’’
‘‘Why not? And I’ll go again tomorrow.’’
I imagined her with an unpleasant, sickly face, pregnant, tightly laced, standing at the gaming table in a crowd of cocottes, of doddering old women who swarm around gold like flies around honey, remembered that she had left for Monte Carlo in secret from me for some reason...
‘‘I don’t believe you,’’ I said once. ‘‘You won’t go there.’’
‘‘Don’t worry. I can’t lose much.’’
‘‘It’s not a matter of losing,’’ I said with vexation. ‘‘Didn’t it occur to you, as you were gambling there, that the gleam of gold, all those women, old and young, the croupier, the whole setting, that it’s all a low, vile mockery of a worker’s labor, of his sweat and blood?’’
‘‘If you don’t gamble, what is there to do here?’’ she asked. ‘‘The worker’s labor, sweat and blood—set aside that eloquence for another time. But now, since you’ve started, allow me to continue; allow me to put the question point-blank: what am I to do here, and what will I do?’’
‘‘What to do?’’ I said, shrugging. ‘‘It’s impossible to answer that question all at once.’’
‘‘I ask you to answer me in all conscience, Vladimir Ivanych,’’ she said, and her face became angry. ‘‘If I’ve ventured to ask you this question, it is not in order to hear commonplaces. I’m asking you,’’ she went on, rapping the table with her palm as if beating time, ‘‘what should I do here? And not only here in Nice, but generally?’’
I said nothing and looked out the window at the sea. My heart began to pound terribly.
‘‘Vladimir Ivanych,’’ she said softly, gasping for breath; it was hard for her to speak. ‘‘Vladimir Ivanych, if you don’t believe in the cause yourself, if you don’t intend to return to it, then why...why did you drag me away from Petersburg? Why did you promise me, and why did you arouse mad hopes in me? Your convictions have changed, you’ve become a different person, and no one blames you for that—convictions aren’t always in our power, but...but Vladimir Ivanych, for God’s sake, why are you insincere?’’ she went on softly, coming up to me. ‘‘When I dreamed aloud all these months, raved, admired my plans, reconstructed my life in a new way, why, instead of telling me the truth, did you keep silent or encourage me with stories and behave as if you fully sympathized with me? Why? What did you need that for?’’
‘‘It’s difficult to confess your bankruptcy,’’ I said, turning around but not looking at her. ‘‘No, I don’t believe, I’m weary, disheartened . . . It’s hard to be sincere, terribly hard, and so I kept silent. God forbid that anyone should go through what I’ve gone through.’’
It seemed to me that I was about to burst into tears, and I fell silent.
‘‘Vladimir Ivanych,’’ she said and took me by both hands. ‘‘You’ve experienced and gone through a great deal, you know more than I do; think seriously and tell me: what am I to do? Teach me. If you’re no longer able to go yourself and lead others behind you, at least show me where to go. You must agree, I’m a living, feeling, and reasoning person. To get into a false position . . . to play some absurd role...is hard for me. I’m not reproaching, I’m not accusing you, I’m only asking.’’
Tea was served.
‘‘Well, so?’’ asked Zinaida Fyodorovna, handing me a glass. ‘‘What have you to tell me?’’
‘‘There’s more than one light in the window,’’ I replied. ‘‘There are other people besides me, Zinaida Fyodorovna.’’
‘‘Point them out for me, then,’’ she said briskly. ‘‘That’s the only thing I ask of you.’’
‘‘And I want to say more,’’ I went on. ‘‘You can serve the idea in more than just some one field. If you make a mistake and lose faith in one thing, you can find another. The world of ideas is wide and inexhaustible.’’
‘‘The world of ideas!’’ she said and looked me mockingly in the face. ‘‘Then we’d better stop . . . What’s the point . . .’’
She blushed.
‘‘The world of ideas!’’ she repeated and flung the napkin aside, and her face acquired an indignant, squeamish expression. ‘‘I see that all your beautiful ideas come down to one inevitable, indispensable step: I must become your mistress. That’s what’s needed. To fuss with ideas and not be the mistress of the most honest, most idea- conscious man— means not to understand ideas. One must begin with this...that is, with the mistress, and the rest will go by itself.’’
‘‘You’re irritated, Zinaida Fyodorovna,’’ I said.
‘‘No, I’m sincere!’’ she cried, breathing heavily. ‘‘I’m sincere.’’
‘‘Maybe you’re sincere, but you’re deluded, and it’s painful for me to listen to you.’’
