his
question, I am not going to listen to stock phrases. I am asking
you," she went on, beating her hand on the table, as though marking
time, "what ought I to do here? And not only here at Nice, but in
general?"

I did not speak, but looked out of window to the sea. My heart was
beating terribly.

"Vladimir Ivanitch," she said softly and breathlessly; it was hard
for her to speak--"Vladimir Ivanitch, if you do not believe in
the cause yourself, if you no longer think of going back to it, why
. . . why did you drag me out of Petersburg? Why did you make me
promises, why did you rouse mad hopes? Your convictions have changed;
you have become a different man, and nobody blames you for it--
our convictions are not always in our power. But . . . but, Vladimir
Ivanitch, for God's sake, why are you not sincere?" she went on
softly, coming up to me. "All these months when I have been dreaming
aloud, raving, going into raptures over my plans, remodelling my
life on a new pattern, why didn't you tell me the truth? Why were
you silent or encouraged me by your stories, and behaved as though
you were in complete sympathy with me? Why was it? Why was it
necessary?"

"It's difficult to acknowledge one's bankruptcy," I said, turning
round, but not looking at her. "Yes, I have no faith; I am worn
out. I have lost heart. . . . It is difficult to be truthful--
very difficult, and I held my tongue. God forbid that any one should
have to go through what I have been through."

I felt that I was on the point of tears, and ceased speaking.

"Vladimir Ivanitch," she said, and took me by both hands, "you have
been through so much and seen so much of life, you know more than
I do; think seriously, and tell me, what am I to do? Teach me! If
you haven't the strength to go forward yourself and take others
with you, at least show me where to go. After all, I am a living,
feeling, thinking being. To sink into a false position . . . to
play an absurd part . . . is painful to me. I don't reproach you,
I don't blame you; I only ask you."

Tea was brought in.

"Well?" said Zinaida Fyodorovna, giving me a glass. "What do you
say to me?"

"There is more light in the world than you see through your window,"
I answered. "And there are other people besides me, Zinaida
Fyodorovna."

"Then tell me who they are," she said eagerly. "That's all I ask
of you."

"And I want to say, too," I went on, "one can serve an idea in more
than one calling. If