‘‘If you don’t gamble, what is there to do here?’’ she asked. ‘‘The worker’s labor, sweat and blood—set aside that eloquence for another time. But now, since you’ve started, allow me to continue; allow me to put the question point-blank: what am I to do here, and what will I do?’’
‘‘What to do?’’ I said, shrugging. ‘‘It’s impossible to answer that question all at once.’’
‘‘I ask you to answer me in all conscience, Vladimir Ivanych,’’ she said, and her face became angry. ‘‘If I’ve ventured to ask you this question, it is not in order to hear commonplaces. I’m asking you,’’ she went on, rapping the table with her palm as if beating time, ‘‘what should I do here? And not only here in Nice, but generally?’’
I said nothing and looked out the window at the sea. My heart began to pound terribly.
‘‘Vladimir Ivanych,’’ she said softly, gasping for breath; it was hard for her to speak. ‘‘Vladimir Ivanych, if you don’t believe in the cause yourself, if you don’t intend to return to it, then why...why did you drag me away from Petersburg? Why did you promise me, and why did you arouse mad hopes in me? Your convictions have changed, you’ve become a different person, and no one blames you for that—convictions aren’t always in our power, but...but Vladimir Ivanych, for God’s sake, why are you insincere?’’ she went on softly, coming up to me. ‘‘When I dreamed aloud all these months, raved, admired my plans, reconstructed my life in a new way, why, instead of telling me the truth, did you keep silent or encourage me with stories and behave as if you fully sympathized with me? Why? What did you need that for?’’
‘‘It’s difficult to confess your bankruptcy,’’ I said, turning around but not looking at her. ‘‘No, I don’t believe, I’m weary, disheartened . . . It’s hard to be sincere, terribly hard, and so I kept silent. God forbid that anyone should go through what I’ve gone through.’’
It seemed to me that I was about to burst into tears, and I fell silent.
‘‘Vladimir Ivanych,’’ she said and took me by both hands. ‘‘You’ve experienced and gone through a great deal, you know more than I do; think seriously and tell me: what am I to do? Teach me. If you’re no longer able to go yourself and lead others behind you, at least show me where to go. You must agree, I’m a living, feeling, and reasoning person. To get into a false position . . . to play some absurd role...is hard for me. I’m not reproaching, I’m not accusing you, I’m only asking.’’
Tea was served.
‘‘Well, so?’’ asked Zinaida Fyodorovna, handing me a glass. ‘‘What have you to tell me?’’
‘‘There’s more than one light in the window,’’ I replied. ‘‘There are other people besides me, Zinaida Fyodorovna.’’
‘‘Point them out for me, then,’’ she said briskly. ‘‘That’s the only thing I ask of you.’’
‘‘And I want to say more,’’ I went on. ‘‘You can serve the idea in more than just some one field. If you make a mistake and lose faith in one thing, you can find another. The world of ideas is wide and inexhaustible.’’
‘‘The world of ideas!’’ she said and looked me mockingly in the face. ‘‘Then we’d better stop . . . What’s the point . . .’’
She blushed.
‘‘The world of ideas!’’ she repeated and flung the napkin aside, and her face acquired an indignant, squeamish expression. ‘‘I see that all your beautiful ideas come down to one inevitable, indispensable step: I must become your mistress. That’s what’s needed. To fuss with ideas and not be the mistress of the most honest, most idea-conscious man— means not to understand ideas. One must begin with this...that is, with the mistress, and the rest will go by itself.’’
‘‘You’re irritated, Zinaida Fyodorovna,’’ I said.
‘‘No, I’m sincere!’’ she cried, breathing heavily. ‘‘I’m sincere.’’
‘‘Maybe you’re sincere, but you’re deluded, and it’s painful for me to listen to you.’’
‘‘I’m deluded!’’ she laughed. ‘‘Anyone can say that, but not you, my sir. Let me seem indelicate to you, cruel, but so it goes: you’re in love with me, aren’t you? Well, aren’t you?’’
I shrugged my shoulders.
‘‘Yes, shrug your shoulders!’’ she went on mockingly. ‘‘When you were ill, I heard you raving, then there were those constantly adoring eyes, the sighs, the well-intentioned conversations about closeness, spiritual affinity . . . But above all, why have you been insincere up to now? Why did you hide what was there, and talk about what wasn’t? You should have told me from the very beginning what, in fact, the ideas were that forced you to drag me away from Petersburg. Then I would have known. I would have poisoned myself, as I wanted to, and there would not have been this tedious comedy now... Eh, what’s there to talk about!’’ She waved her hand at me and sat down.
‘‘You speak in such a tone as if you suspect me of dishonorable intentions.’’ I was offended.
‘‘Well, all right now. What’s the point. It’s not that I suspect your intentions, but that you never had any intentions. If you’d had any, I’d know them. Besides ideas and love, you had nothing. Ideas and love now, and down the road—me as your mistress. Such is the order of things both in life and in novels . . . You denounced him,’’ she said and slapped the table with her palm, ‘‘but, willy-nilly, one must agree with him. It’s not for nothing he despises all these ideas.’’
‘‘He doesn’t despise ideas, he’s afraid of them,’’ I cried. ‘‘He’s a coward and a liar.’’
‘‘Well, all right now! He’s a coward, a liar, and he deceived me—and you? Forgive my frankness, but who are you? He deceived me and abandoned me to my fate in Petersburg, and you deceived me and abandoned me here. But he at least didn’t drag ideas into his deceit, while you . . .’’
‘‘For God’s sake, why do you say that?’’ I was horrified and, wringing my hands, quickly went over to her. ‘‘No, Zinaida Fyodorovna, no, that’s cynicism, you shouldn’t be in such despair, hear me out,’’ I went on, seizing upon a thought that had suddenly glimmered vaguely in my head and, it seemed, might still save us both. ‘‘Listen to me. I’ve experienced much in my time, so much that my head is spinning with memories now, and I have now firmly understood with my brain, with my pain-weary soul, that man’s purpose is either in nothing or in only one thing—the selfless love of one’s neighbor. That’s where we should go and what our purpose is! That is my faith!’’
I meant to speak further about mercy, about all-forgiveness, but my voice suddenly rang false, and I got embarrassed.
‘‘I want to live!’’ I said sincerely. ‘‘To live, to live! I want peace, quiet, I want warmth, this sea here, your closeness. Oh, how I’d like to inspire this passionate love of life in you as well! You were just talking about love, but for me your closeness alone, your voice, the expression of your face would be enough . . .’’
She blushed and said quickly, so as to keep me from talking:
‘‘You love life, but I hate it. Therefore our paths are different.’’
She poured herself tea but didn’t touch it, went to the bedroom, and lay down.
‘‘I suppose it will be better if we stop this conversation,’’ she said to me from there. ‘‘For me everything’s already over, and I don’t need anything . . . Why go on talking about it!’’
‘‘No, everything’s not over!’’
‘‘Well, all right! . . . I know! I’m sick of it . . . Enough.’’
I stood there for a while, paced from corner to corner, and went out to the corridor. Afterwards, late at night, when I came to her door and listened, I clearly heard weeping.
The next morning the servant, giving me my clothes, told me with a smile that the lady in number thirteen was giving birth. I dressed haphazardly and, sinking with terror, hurried to Zinaida Fyodorovna. In her room were a doctor, a midwife, and an elderly Russian lady from Kharkov by the name of Darya Mikhailovna. There was a smell of ether drops. I had barely stepped over the threshold when a soft, plaintive moan came from the room where she lay, and it was as if the wind had brought it to me from Russia, I remembered Orlov, his irony, Polya, the Neva, big snowflakes, then the cab with no flap, the prophecy I had read in the cold morning sky, and the desperate cry: ‘‘Nina! Nina!’’