And where are my dreams of the power of thought, the beauty
of life, of love and deeds for all humanity?" he would say, at
times even aloud, and pull his hair. And for that reason, instead
of attentively going into Liubka's complaints, he would lose his
temper, yell, stamp his feet, and the patient, meek Liubka would
grow quiet and retire into the kitchen, to have a good cry there.
Now more and more frequently, after family quarrels, in the
minutes of reconciliation he would say to Liubka:
"My dear Liuba, you and I do not suit each other, comprehend that.
Look: here are a hundred roubles for you, ride home. Your
relatives will receive you as their own. Live there a while, look
around you. I will come for you after half a year; you'll have
become rested, and, of course, all that's filthy, nasty, that has
been grafted upon you by the city, will go away, will die off. And
you'll begin a new life independently, without any assistance,
alone and proud!"
But then, can anything be done with a woman who has come to love
for the first, and, of course, as it seems to her, for the last
time? Can she be convinced of the necessity for parting? Does
logic exist for her?
Always reverent before the firmness of the words and decisions of
Simanovsky, Lichonin, however, surmised and by instinct understood
his real relation to Liubka; and in his desire to free himself, to
shake off a chance load beyond his strength, he would catch
himself in a nasty little thought: "She pleases Simanovsky; and as
for her, isn't it all the same if it's he or I or a third? Guess
I'll make a clean breast of it, explain things to him and yield
Liubka up to him like a comrade.
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