"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 here!"
And at twelve o'clock the next day Zinaida Fyodorovna died.