“Right.”

We paid for what we had and went out of the tavern.

“I like going on like this,” said Sobol, getting into the sledge.  “Eccellenza, oblige me with a match.  I’ve forgotten mine in the tavern.”

A quarter of an hour later his horses fell behind, and the sound of his bells was lost in the roar of the snow-storm.  Reaching home, I walked about my rooms, trying to think things over and to define my position clearly to myself; I had not one word, one phrase, ready for my wife.  My brain was not working.

But without thinking of anything, I went downstairs to my wife.  She was in her room, in the same pink dressing-gown, and standing in the same attitude as though screening her papers from me.  On her face was an expression of perplexity and irony, and it was evident that having heard of my arrival, she had prepared herself not to cry, not to entreat me, not to defend herself, as she had done the day before, but to laugh at me, to answer me contemptuously, and to act with decision.  Her face was saying:  “If that’s how it is, good-bye.”

“Natalie, I’ve not gone away,” I said, “but it’s not deception.  I have gone out of my mind; I’ve grown old, I’m ill, I’ve become a different man—­think as you like....  I’ve shaken off my old self with horror, with horror; I despise him and am ashamed of him, and the new man who has been in me since yesterday will not let me go away.  Do not drive me away, Natalie!”

She looked intently into my face and believed me, and there was a gleam of uneasiness in her eyes.  Enchanted by her presence, warmed by the warmth of her room, I muttered as in delirium, holding out my hands to her: 

“I tell you, I have no one near to me but you.  I have never for one minute ceased to miss you, and only obstinate vanity prevented me from owning it.  The past, when we lived as husband and wife, cannot be brought back, and there’s no need; but make me your servant, take all my property, and give it away to any one you like.  I am at peace, Natalie, I am content....  I am at peace.”

My wife, looking intently and with curiosity into my face, suddenly uttered a faint cry, burst into tears, and ran into the next room.  I went upstairs to my own storey.

An hour later I was sitting at my table, writing my “History of Railways,” and the starving peasants did not now hinder me from doing so.  Now I feel no uneasiness.  Neither the scenes of disorder which I saw when I went the round of the huts at Pestrovo with my wife and Sobol the other day, nor malignant rumours, nor the mistakes of the people around me, nor old age close upon me—­nothing disturbs me.  Just as the flying bullets do not hinder soldiers from talking of their own affairs, eating and cleaning their boots, so the starving peasants do not hinder me from sleeping quietly and looking after my personal affairs.  In my house and far around it there is in full swing the work which Dr. Sobol calls “an orgy of philanthropy.”  My wife often comes up to me and looks about my rooms uneasily, as though looking for what more she can give to the starving peasants “to justify her existence,” and I see that, thanks to her, there will soon be nothing of our property left and we shall be poor; but that does not trouble me, and I smile at her gaily.  What will happen in the future I don’t know.