conversation

will be.
"We ought to talk seriously, Nicolai Stiepanovich," she begins. "I mean
about Liza. Why won't you attend?"
"Attend to what?"
"You pretend you don't notice anything. It's not right: It's not right to be
unconcerned. Gnekker has intentions about Liza. What do you say to that?"
"I can't say he's a bad man, because I don't know him; but I've told you a
thousand times already that I don't like him."
"But that's impossible ... impossible...." She rises and walks about in
agitation.
"It's impossible to have such an attitude to a serious matter," she says.
"When our daughter's happiness is concerned, we must put everything
personal aside. I know you don't like him.... Very well.... But if we refuse him
now and upset everything, how can you guarantee that Liza won't have a
grievance against us for the rest of her life? Heaven knows there aren't many
young men nowadays. It's quite likely there won't be another chance. He loves
Liza very much and she likes him, evidently. Of course he hasn't a settled
position. But what is there to do? Please God, he'll get a position in time. He
comes of a good family, and he's rich."
"How did you find that out?"
"He said so himself. His father has a big house in Kharkov and an estate
outside. You must certainly go to Kharkov."
"Why?"
"You'll find out there. You have acquaintances among the professors there.
I'd go myself. But I'm a woman. I can't."
"I will not go to Kharkov," I say morosely.
My wife gets frightened; a tormented expression comes over her face.
"For God's sake, Nicolai Stiepanich," she implores, sobbing, "For God's
sake help me with this burden! It hurts me."
It is painful to look at her.
"Very well, Varya," I say kindly, "If you like—very well I'll go to Kharkov,
and do everything you want."
She puts her handkerchief to her eyes and goes to cry in her room. I am left
alone.
A little later they bring in the lamp. The familiar shadows that have
wearied me for years fall from the chairs and the lamp-shade on to the walls
and the floor. When I look at them it seems that it's night already, and the
cursed insomnia has begun. I lie down on the bed; then I get up and walk
about the room then lie down again. My nervous excitement generally reaches
its highest after dinner, before the evening. For no reason I begin to cry and
hide my head in the pillow. All the while I am afraid somebody may come in;
I am afraid I shall die suddenly; I am ashamed of my tears; altogether,
something intolerable is happening in my soul. I feel I cannot look at the lamp
or the books or the shadows on the floor, or listen to the voices in the drawing-
room any more. Some invisible, mysterious force pushes me rudely out of my
house. I jump up, dress hurriedly, and go cautiously out into the street so that
the household shall not notice me. Where shall I go?
The answer to this question has long been there in my brain: "To Katy."

III

As usual she is lying on the Turkish divan or the couch and reading
something. Seeing me she lifts her head languidly, sits down, and gives me her
hand.
"You are always lying down like that," I say after a reposeful silence. "It's
unhealthy. You'd far better be doing something."
"Ah?"
"You'd far better be doing something, I say."
"What?... A woman can be either a simple worker or an actress."
"Well, then—if you can't become a worker, be an actress."
She is silent.
"You had better marry," I say, half-joking.
"There's no one to marry: and no use if I did."
"You can't go on living like this."
"Without a husband? As if that mattered. There are as many men as you
like, if you only had the will."
"This isn't right, Katy."
"What isn't right?"
"What you said just now."