"Why so, Viérotchka? I am only speaking about pecuniary advantages; such people as you and I, who are not rich, must not neglect them. My work is hard, and a part of it is even detestable to me."
"You have no right to speak so to me." Viéra Pavlovna got up. "I shall not allow you to speak to me in dark words. Dare to speak freely what you mean!"
"I only want to tell you this, Viérotchka: that taking into consideration our advantage, it would be good for us."
"Again, silence! Who gave you the right to be master over me? I shall despise you!" She ran quickly to her own room and locked the door.
This was their first and their last quarrel.
Till late that night Viéra Pavlovna sat with her door locked; then she returned to her husband's room.
"My dear,[1] I spoke to you very severe words, but do not be angry at them. You see that I am doing my best; instead of helping me, you began to help along what I am struggling against, hoping,—yes, hoping—to win the victory."
"Forgive me, my love,[2] for beginning so roughly, but now we are reconciled, aren't we? Let us talk reasonably."
"Oh, yes, we are reconciled, my dear. Only don't act against me. It is hard enough, even as it is, to struggle against myself."
"And it is useless, Viérotchka; you have had plenty of time to examine your feeling: you have seen that it is more serious than you believed at first. Why torment yourself?"
"No, my dear,[1] I want to love you, and I do not want to wrong you."
"My dear,[1] you wish me to be happy. What! do you think that it is pleasant for me to see you keep tormenting yourself?"
"My dear,"[1] but you love me so!"
"Of course I do, very dearly: there is no need of saying that; but we both understand what love means: does it not consist in the fact that you are happy in the happiness, that you suffer with the suffering, of the one whom you love. When you torment yourself, you torment me."
"So it is, my dear;[1] but you will suffer if I yield to this feeling, which—akh! I cannot understand why it should have come to me; I curse it!"
