"Well, I'm going there to-night, because I admire the sister, and
you must come, too. You are killing yourself by sticking to the work
in the way you do. Come along! Where's the harm? Lucia will never
know. I won't split. God's in heaven and the Czar's a long way off!
So you may as well come and knock about a little. This monotonous
life will put an end to you!"
I was silent.
"Lucia won't know," he repeated.
"There's no question of Lucia's knowing anything," I said.
"Then why do you work as you do, and always refuse to come to a
supper, or a dance, or anything? You can't be really a quiet fellow
or you wouldn't write things the English won't have. You say it's
not a question of Lucia--then what the dickens is it that makes you
live the life you do?"
I did not answer him. I leant in silence against the mantelpiece,
staring absently at the portrait of Faina, and Howard got tired of
waiting for my answer. He went to dress, and I sat down at the
writing-table, absently sketching women's heads on my blotting
paper. Should I go with him or not? I felt tired of writing, tired
of work. Wine, laughter, sound, smiles, other voices?--Then four
points rose before me, very distinct and clear, like sharp mountain
peaks from a valley of mist.
FIRST. Supposing--if such a thing were possible--supposing on coming
out of this house I came face to face with Lucia, should I be
entirely pleased.
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