fears. And every one was surprised at my receiving you, excuse my saying so, as a respectable woman, and hinted to me … well, of course, slanders, suppositions.… At the bottom of my heart I blamed you, but you were unhappy, flighty, to be pitied, and my heart was wrung with pity for you.”

“But why, why?” asked Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, trembling all over. “What harm have I done any one?”

“You are a terrible sinner. You broke the vow you made your husband at the altar. You seduced a fine young man, who perhaps had he not met you might have taken a lawful partner for life from a good family in his own circle, and would have been like every one else now. You have ruined his youth. Don’t speak, don’t speak, my dear! I never believe that man is to blame for our sins. It is always the woman’s fault. Men are frivolous in domestic life; they are guided by their minds, and not by their hearts. There’s a great deal they don’t understand; woman understands it all. Everything depends on her. To her much is given and from her much will be required. Oh, my dear, if she had been more foolish or weaker than man on that side, God would not have entrusted her with the education of boys and girls. And then, my dear, you entered on the path of vice, forgetting all modesty; any other woman in your place would have hidden herself from people, would have sat shut up at home, and would only have been seen in the temple of God, pale, dressed all in black and weeping, and every one would have said in genuine compassion: ‘O Lord, this erring angel is coming back again to Thee.…’But you, my dear, have forgotten all discretion; have lived openly, extravagantly; have seemed to be proud of your sin; you have been gay and laughing, and I, looking at you, shuddered with horror, and have been afraid that thunder from Heaven would strike our house while you were sitting with us. My dear, don’t speak, don’t speak,” cried Marya Konstantinovna, observing that Nadyezhda Fyodorovna wanted to speak. “Trust me, I will not deceive you, I will not hide one truth from the eyes of your soul. Listen to me, my dear.… God marks great sinners, and you have been marked out: only think—your costumes have always been appalling.”

Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, who had always had the highest opinion of her costumes, left off crying and looked at her with surprise.

“Yes, appalling,” Marya Konstantinovna went on. “Any one could judge of your behaviour from the elaboration and gaudiness of your attire. People laughed and shrugged their shoulders as they looked at you, and I grieved, I grieved.… And forgive me, my dear; you are not nice in your person! When we met in the bathing- place, you made me tremble. Your outer clothing was decent enough, but your petticoat, your chemise.… My dear, I blushed! Poor Ivan Andreitch! No one ever ties his cravat properly, and from his linen and his boots, poor fellow! one can see he has no one at home to look after him. And he is always hungry, my darling, and of course, if there is no one at home to think of the samovar and the coffee, one is forced to spend half one’s salary at the pavilion. And it’s simply awful, awful in your home! No one else in the town has flies, but there’s no getting rid of them in your rooms: all the plates and dishes are black with them. If you look at the windows and the chairs, there’s nothing but dust, dead flies, and glasses.… What do you want glasses standing about for? And, my dear, the table’s not cleared till this time in the day. And one’s ashamed to go into your bedroom: underclothes flung about everywhere, indiarubber tubes hanging on the walls, pails and basins standing about.… My dear! A husband ought to know nothing, and his wife ought to be as neat as a little angel in his presence. I wake up every morning before it is light, and wash my face with cold water that my Nikodim Alexandritch may not see me looking drowsy.”

“That’s all nonsense,” Nadyezhda Fyodorovna sobbed. “If only I were happy, but I am so unhappy!”

“Yes, yes; you are very unhappy!” Marya Konstantinovna sighed, hardly able to restrain herself from weeping. “And there’s terrible grief in store for you in the future! A solitary old age, ill-health; and then you will have to answer at the dread judgment seat.… It’s awful, awful. Now fate itself holds out to you a helping hand, and you madly thrust it from you. Be married, make haste and be married!”

“Yes, we must, we must,” said Nadyezhda Fyodorovna; “but it’s impossible!”

“Why?”