"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?"