sing-gown
trimmed with fur, and hastily did up her hair after a fashion. She
was conscious of an inexpressible tenderness in her heart, and was
trembling with joy and with fear that he might go away. She wanted
nothing but to look at him.

Volodya came dressed correctly for calling, in a swallow-tail coat
and white tie. When Sofya Lvovna came in he kissed her hand and
expressed his genuine regret that she was ill. Then when they had
sat down, he admired her dressing-gown.

"I was upset by seeing Olga yesterday," she said. "At first I felt
it dreadful, but now I envy her. She is like a rock that cannot be
shattered; there is no moving her. But was there no other solution
for her, Volodya? Is burying oneself alive the only solution of the
problem of life? Why, it's death, not life!"

At the thought of Olga, Volodya's face softened.

"Here, you are a clever man, Volodya," said Sofya Lvovna. "Show me
how to do what Olga has done. Of course, I am not a believer and
should not go into a nunnery, but one can do something equivalent.
Life isn't easy for me," she added after a brief pause. "Tell me
what to do. . . . Tell me something I can believe in. Tell me
something, if it's only one word."

"One word? By all means: tararaboomdeeay."

"Volodya, why do you despise me?" she asked hotly. "You talk to me
in a special, fatuous way, if you'll excuse me, not as one talks
to one's friends and women one respects. You are so good at your
work, you are fond of science; why do you never talk of it to me?
Why is it? Am I not good enough?"

Volodya frowned with annoyance and said:

"Why do you want science all of a sudden? Don't you perhaps want
constitutional government? Or sturgeon and horse-radish?"

"Very well, I am a worthless, trivial, silly woman with no convictions.
I have a mass, a mass of defects. I am neurotic, corrupt, and I
ought to be despised for it. But you, Volodya, are ten years older
than I am, and my husband is thirty years older. I've grown up
before your eyes, and if you would, you could have made anything
you liked of me--an angel. But you"--her voice quivered--
"treat me horribly. Yagitch has married me in his old age, and
you . . ."

"Come, come," said Volodya, sitting nearer her and kissing both her
hands. "Let the Schopenhauers philosophise and prove whatever they
like, while we'll kiss these little hands."

"You despise me, and if only you knew how miserable it makes me,"
she said uncertainly, kn