ll. Then there will be the union of
souls, they will have everything in common, there will be no secrets
between them. And once they have children, the most difficult times
will seem to them happy, so long as there is love and courage. Even
toil will be a joy, you may deny yourself bread for your children and
even that will be a joy, They will love you for it afterwards; so you
are laying by for your future. As the children grow up you feel that
you are an example, a support for them; that even after you die your
children will always keep your thoughts and feelings, because they have
received them from you, they will take on your semblance and likeness.
So you see this is a great duty. How can it fail to draw the father and
mother nearer? People say it's a trial to have children. Who says
that? It is heavenly happiness! Are you fond of little children,
Liza? I am awfully fond of them. You know--a little rosy baby boy at
your bosom, and what husband's heart is not touched, seeing his wife
nursing his child! A plump little rosy baby, sprawling and snuggling,
chubby little hands and feet, clean tiny little nails, so tiny that it
makes one laugh to look at them; eyes that look as if they understand
everything. And while it sucks it clutches at your bosom with its
little hand, plays. When its father comes up, the child tears itself
away from the bosom, flings itself back, looks at its father, laughs,
as though it were fearfully funny, and falls to sucking again. Or it
will bite its mother's breast when its little teeth are coming, while
it looks sideways at her with its little eyes as though to say, 'Look,
I am biting!' Is not all that happiness when they are the three
together, husband, wife and child? One can forgive a great deal for
the sake of such moments. Yes, Liza, one must first learn to live
oneself before one blames others!"

"It's by pictures, pictures like that one must get at you," I thought
to myself, though I did speak with real feeling, and all at once I
flushed crimson. "What if she were suddenly to burst out laughing,
what should I do then?" That idea drove me to fury. Towards the end of
my speech I really was excited, and now my vanity was somehow wounded.
The silence continued. I almost nudged her.

"Why are you--" she began and stopped. But I understood: there was a
quiver of something different in her voice, not abrupt, harsh and
unyielding as before, but something soft and shamefaced