ould
not have failed to see the truth; you knew it, but you did not
follow it; you were afraid of it, and to deceive your conscience
you began loudly assuring yourself that it was not you but woman
that was to blame, that she was as degraded as your attitude to
her. Your cold, scabrous anecdotes, your coarse laughter, all your
innumerable theories concerning the underlying reality of marriage
and the definite demands made upon it, concerning the ten _sous_
the French workman pays his woman; your everlasting attacks on
female logic, lying, weakness and so on--doesn't it all look like
a desire at all costs to force woman down into the mud that she may
be on the same level as your attitude to her? You are a weak,
unhappy, unpleasant person!"

Zinaida Fyodorovna began playing the piano in the drawing-room,
trying to recall the song of Saint Saens that Gruzin had played. I
went and lay on my bed, but remembering that it was time for me to
go, I got up with an effort and with a heavy, burning head went to
the table again.

"But this is the question," I went on. "Why are we worn out? Why
are we, at first so passionate so bold, so noble, and so full of
faith, complete bankrupts at thirty or thirty-five? Why does one
waste in consumption, another put a bullet through his brains, a
third seeks forgetfulness in vodka and cards, while the fourth tries
to stifle his fear and misery by cynically trampling underfoot the
pure image of his fair youth? Why is it that, having once fallen,
we do not try to rise up again, and, losing one thing, do not seek
something else? Why is it?

"The thief hanging on the Cross could bring back the joy of life
and the courage of confident hope, though perhaps he had not more
than an hour to live. You have long years before you, and I shall
probably not die so soon as one might suppose. What if by a miracle
the present turned out to be a dream, a horrible nightmare, and we
should wake up renewed, pure, strong, proud of our righteousness?
Sweet visions fire me, and I am almost breathless with emotion. I
have a terrible longing to live. I long for our life to be holy,
lofty, and majestic as the heavens above. Let us live! The sun
doesn't rise twice a day, and life is not given us again--clutch
at what is left of your life and save it. . . ."

I did not write another word. I had a multitude of thoughts in my
mind, but I could not connect them and get them on to paper. Without
finishing the letter, I