beating her hand on the table, as though marking time, 'what ought I to do here? And not only here at Nice, but in general?'
I did not speak, but looked out of window to the sea. My heart was beating terribly.
'Vladimir Ivanitch,' she said softly and breathlessly; it was hard for her to speak—'Vladimir Ivanitch, if you do not believe in the cause yourself, if you no longer think of going back to it, why ... why did you drag me out of Petersburg? Why did you make me promises, why did you rouse mad hopes? Your convictions have changed; you have become a different man, and nobody blames you for it—our convictions are not always in our power. But ... but, Vladimir Ivanitch, for God's sake, why are you not sincere?' she went on softly, coming up to me. 'All these months when I have been dreaming aloud, raving, going into raptures over my plans, remodelling my life on a new pattern, why didn't you tell me the truth? Why were you silent or encouraged me by your stories, and behaved as though you were in complete sympathy with me? Why was it? Why was it necessary?'
'It's difficult to acknowledge one's bankruptcy,' I said, turning round, but not looking at her. 'Yes, I have no faith; I am worn out. I have lost heart.... It is difficult to be truthful—very difficult, and I held my tongue. God forbid that any one should have to go through what I have been through.'
I felt that I was on the point of tears, and ceased speaking.
'Vladimir Ivanitch,' she said, and took me by both hands, 'you have been through so much and seen so much of life, you know more than I do; think seriously, and tell me, what am I to do? Teach me! If you haven't the strength to go forward yourself and take others with you, at least show me where to go. After all, I am a living, feeling, thinking being. To sink into a false position ... to play an absurd part ... is painful to me. I don't reproach you, I don't blame you; I only ask you.'
Tea was brought in.
'Well?' said Zinaida Fyodorovna, giving me a glass. 'What do you say to me?'
'There is more light in the world than you see through your window,' I answered. 'And there are other people besides me, Zinaida Fyodorovna.'
'Then tell me who they are,' she said eagerly. 'That's all I ask of you.'
'And I want to say, too,' I went on, 'one can serve an idea in more than one calling. If one has made a mistake and lost faith in one, one may find another. The world of ideas is large and cannot be exhausted.'
'The world of ideas!' she said, and she looked into my face sarcastically. 'Then we had better leave off talking. What's the use?...'
She flushed.
'The world of ideas!' she repeated. She threw her dinner-napkin aside, and an expression of indignation and contempt came into her face. 'All your fine ideas, I see, lead up to one inevitable, essential step: I ought to become your mistress. That's what's wanted. To be taken up with ideas without being the mistress of an honourable, progressive man, is as good as not understanding the ideas. One has to begin with that ... that is, with being your mistress, and the rest will come of itself.'
'You are irritated, Zinaida Fyodorovna,' I said.
'No, I am sincere!' she cried, breathing hard. 'I am sincere!'
'You are sincere, perhaps, but you are in error, and it hurts me to hear you.'
'I am in error?' she laughed. 'Any one else might say that, but not you, my dear sir! I may seem to you indelicate, cruel, but I don't care: you love me? You love me, don't you?'
I shrugged my shoulders.
'Yes, shrug your shoulders!' she went on sarcastically. 'When you were ill I heard you in your delirium, and ever since these adoring eyes, these sighs, and edifying conversations about friendship, about spiritual kinship.... But the point is, why haven't you been sincere? Why have you concealed what is and talked about what isn't? Had you said from the beginning what ideas exactly led you to drag me from Petersburg, I should have known. I should have poisoned myself then as I meant to, and there would have been none of this tedious farce.... But what's the use of talking!'
With a wave of the hand she sat down.
'You speak to me as though you suspected me of dishonourable intentions,' I said, offended.
'Oh, very well. What's the use of talking! I don't suspect you of intentions, but of having no intentions. If you had any, I should have known them by now. You had nothing but ideas and love. For the present—ideas and love, and in prospect—me as your mistress. That's in the order of things both in life and in novels.... Here you abused him,' she said, and she slapped the table with her hand, 'but one can't help agreeing with him. He has good reasons for despising these ideas.'
'He does not despise ideas; he is afraid of them,' I cried. 'He is a coward and a liar.'
'Oh, very well. He is a coward and a liar, and deceived me. And you? Excuse my frankness; what are you? He deceived me and left me to take my chance in Petersburg, and you have deceived me and abandoned me here. But he did not mix up ideas with his deceit, and you ...'
'For goodness' sake, why are you saying this?' I cried in horror, wringing my hands and going up to her quickly. 'No, Zinaida Fyodorovna, this is cynicism. You must not be so despairing; listen to me,' I went on, catching at a thought which flashed dimly upon me, and which seemed to me might still save us both. 'Listen. I have passed through so many experiences in my time that my head goes round at the thought of them, and I have realised with my mind, with my racked soul, that man finds his true destiny in nothing if not in self-sacrificing love for his neighbour. It is towards that we must strive, and that is our destination! That is my faith!'
I wanted to go on to speak of mercy, of forgiveness, but there was an insincere note in my voice, and I was embarrassed.
'I want to live!' I said genuinely. 'To live, to live! I want peace, tranquillity; I want warmth—this sea here—to have you near. Oh, how I wish I could rouse in you the same thirst for life! You spoke just now of love, but it would be enough for me to have you near, to hear your voice, to watch the look in your face ...!'
She flushed crimson, and to hinder my speaking, said quickly:
'You love life, and I hate it. So our ways lie apart.'
She poured herself out some tea, but did not touch it, went into the bedroom, and lay down.
'I imagine it is better to cut short this conversation,' she said to me from within. 'Everything is over for me, and I want nothing.... What more is there to say?'
'No, it's not all over!'
'Oh, very well!... I know! I am sick of it.... That's enough.'
I got up, took a turn from one end of the room to the other, and went out into the corridor. When late at night I went to her door and listened, I distinctly heard her crying.
Next morning the waiter, handing me my clothes, informed me, with a smile, that the lady in number thirteen was confined. I dressed somehow, and almost fainting with terror ran to Zinaida Fyodorovna. In her room I found a doctor, a midwife, and an elderly Russian lady from Harkov, called Darya Milhailovna. There was a smell of ether. I had scarcely crossed the threshold when from the room where she was lying I heard a low, plaintive moan, and, as though it had been wafted me by the wind from Russia, I thought of Orlov, his irony, Polya, the Neva, the drifting snow, then the cab without an apron, the prediction I had read in the cold morning sky, and the despairing cry 'Nina! Nina!'
'Go in to her,' said the lady.
I went in to see Zinaida Fyodorovna, feeling as though I were the father of the child. She was lying with her eyes closed, looking thin and pale, wearing a white cap edged with lace. I remember there were two expressions on her face: one—cold, indifferent, apathetic; the other—a look of childish helplessness given her by the white cap. She did not hear me come in, or heard, perhaps, but did not pay attention. I stood, looked at her, and waited.
But her face was contorted with pain; she opened her eyes and gazed at the ceiling, as though wondering what was happening to her.... There was a look of loathing on her face.
'It's horrible ...' she whispered.
'Zinaida Fyodorovna.' I spoke her name softly. She looked at me indifferently, listlessly, and closed her eyes. I stood there a little while, then went away.
At night, Darya Mihailovna informed me that the child, a girl, was born, but that the mother was in a dangerous condition. Then I heard noise and bustle in the passage. Darya Mihailovna came to me again and with a face of despair, wringing her hands, said:
'Oh, this is awful! The doctor suspects that she has taken poison! Oh, how badly Russians do behave
