hould never go unless I were in the mood.
And it is only in that way that we succeed in deceiving one another,
and fancying that we are in love and happy. But can I wish for
copper saucepans and untidy hair, or like to be seen myself when I
am unwashed or out of humour? Zinaida Fyodorovna in the simplicity
of her heart wants me to love what I have been shunning all my life.
She wants my flat to smell of cooking and washing up; she wants all
the fuss of moving into another flat, of driving about with her own
horses; she wants to count over my linen and to look after my health;
she wants to meddle in my personal life at every instant, and to
watch over every step; and at the same time she assures me genuinely
that my habits and my freedom will be untouched. She is persuaded
that, like a young couple, we shall very soon go for a honeymoon
--that is, she wants to be with me all the time in trains and
hotels, while I like to read on the journey and cannot endure talking
in trains."

"You should give her a talking to," said Pekarsky.

"What! Do you suppose she would understand me? Why, we think so
differently. In her opinion, to leave one's papa and mamma or one's
husband for the sake of the man one loves is the height of civic
virtue, while I look upon it as childish. To fall in love and run
away with a man to her means beginning a new life, while to my mind
it means nothing at all. Love and man constitute the chief interest
of her life, and possibly it is the philosophy of the unconscious
at work in her. Try and make her believe that love is only a simple
physical need, like the need of food or clothes; that it doesn't
mean the end of the world if wives and husbands are unsatisfactory;
that a man may be a profligate and a libertine, and yet a man of
honour and a genius; and that, on the other hand, one may abstain
from the pleasures of love and at the same time be a stupid, vicious
animal! The civilised man of to-day, even among the lower classes
--for instance, the French workman--spends ten _sous_ on dinner,
five _sous_ on his wine, and five or ten _sous_ on woman, and devotes
his brain and nerves entirely to his work. But Zinaida Fyodorovna
assigns to love not so many _sous_, but her whole soul. I might
give her a talking to, but she would raise a wail in answer, and
declare in all sincerity that I had ruined her, that she had nothing
left to live for."

"Don't say anything to her," said Pekarsky, "but simply take a