"I have no need for it. I have been ready long ago. I am already in love for all my life."She cast a glance at him, and started to play again, looking at the strings and saying pensively:
"Spring. How good it is that you are but beginning to live. The heart is full of power, and there is nothing dark in it.""Sophya Pavlovna!" exclaimed Foma, softly.She interrupted him with a caressing gesture.
"Wait, dearest! Today I can tell you something good. Do you know, a person who has lived long has such moments that when he looks into his heart he unexpectedly finds there something long forgotten. For years it lay somewhere in the depth of his heart, but lost none of the fragrance of youth, and when memory touches it, then spring comes over that person, breathing upon him the vivifying freshness of the morning of his life. This is good, though it is very sad."The strings trembled and wept under the touch of her fingers, and it seemed to Foma that their sounds and the soft voice of the woman were touching his heart gently and caressingly. But, still firm in his decision, he listened to her words and, not knowing their meaning, thought:
"You may speak! And I won't believe anything you may say."This thought irritated him. And he felt sorry that he could not listen to her words as attentively and trustfully as before.
"Are you thinking of how it is necessary to live?" asked the woman.
"Sometimes I think of it, and then I forget again. I have no time for it!" said Foma and smiled. "And then, what is there to think of? It is ******. You see how others live. Well, consequently, you must imitate them.""Ah, don't do this! Spare yourself. You are so good! There is something peculiar in you; what--I do not know. But it can be felt.
And it seems to me, it will be very hard for you to get along in life. I am sure, you will not go along the usual way of the people of your circle. No! You cannot be pleased with a life which is wholly devoted to gain, to hunts after the rouble, to this business of yours. Oh, no! I know, you will have a desire for something else, will you not?"She spoke quickly, with a look of alarm in her eyes. Looking at her, Foma thought:
"What is she driving at?"
And he answered her slowly:
"Perhaps I will have a desire for something else. Perhaps I have it already."Drawing up closer to him, she looked into his face and spoke convincingly:
"Listen! Do not live like all other people! Arrange your life somehow differently. You are strong, young. You are good!""And if I am good then there must be good for me!" exclaimed Foma, feeling that he was seized with agitation, and that his heart was beginning to beat with anxiety.
"Ah, but that is not the case! Here on earth it is worse for the good people than for the bad ones!" said Medinskaya, sadly.
And again the trembling notes of music began to dance at the touch of her fingers. Foma felt that if he did not start to say at once what was necessary, he would tell her nothing later.
"God bless me!" he said to himself, and in a lowered voice, strengthening his heart, began:
"Sophya Pavlovna! Enough! I have something to say. I have come to tell you: 'Enough!' We must deal fairly, openly. At first you have attracted me to yourself, and now you are fencing away from me. Icannot understand what you say. My mind is dull, but I can feel that you wish to hide yourself. I can see it--do you understand now what brought me here?"His eyes began to flash and with each word his voice became warmer and louder. She moved her body forward and said with alarm:
"Oh, cease."
"No, I won't, I will speak!"
"I know what you want to say."
"You don't know it all!" said Foma, threateningly, rising to his feet. "But I know everything about you--everything.""Yes? Then the better it is for me," said Medinskaya, calmly.
She also arose from the couch, as though about to go away somewhere, but after a few seconds she again seated herself on the couch. Her face was serious, her lips were tightly compressed, but her eyes were lowered, and Foma could not see their expression. He thought that when he told her, "I know everything about you!" she would be frightened, she would feel ashamed and confused, would ask his forgiveness for having made sport of him. Then he would embrace her and forgive her. But that was not the case; it was he who was confused by her calmness. He looked at her, searching for words to resume his speech, but found them not.
"It is better," she repeated firmly and drily. "So you have learned everything, have you? And, of course, you've censured me, as Ideserve. I understand. I am guilty before you. But no, I cannot justify myself."She became silent and suddenly, lifting her hands with a nervous gesture, clasped her head, and began to adjust her hair.
Foma heaved a deep sigh. Her words had killed in him a certain hope--a hope, whose presence in his heart he only felt now that it was dead. And shaking his head, he said, with bitter reproach:
"There was a time when I looked at you and thought, 'How beautiful she is, how good, the dove!' And now you say yourself, 'I am guilty.' Ah!"The voice of the youth broke down. And the woman began to laugh softly.
"How fine and how ridiculous you are, and what a pity that you cannot understand all this!"The youth looked at her, feeling himself disarmed by her caressing words and melancholy smile. That cold, harsh something, which he had in his heart against her, was now melting before the warm light of her eyes. The woman now seemed to him small, defenseless, like a child. She was saying something in a gentle voice as though imploring, and forever smiling, but he paid no attention to her words.
"I've come to you," said he, interrupting her words, "without pity.
