"No, my dear, I won't take it …", I say. "Thank you."
She turns her back to me and lowers her head. Probably the tone of my refusal would not allow any further talk of money.
"Go home to sleep," I say. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"It means, you don't consider me your friend?" she asks sadly.
"I don't say that. But your money is no good to me."
"Forgive me," she says lowering her voice by a full octave. "I understand you. To be obliged to a person like me … a retired actress … But good-bye."
And she walks away so quickly that I have no time even to say "Good-bye."
VI
I am in Kharkov.
Since it would be useless to fight against my present mood, and I have no power to do it, I made up my mind that the last days of my life shall be irreproachable, on the formal side. If I am not right with my family, which I certainly admit, I will try at least to do as it wishes. Besides I am lately become so indifferent that it's positively all the same to me whether I go to Kharkov, or Paris, or Berditshev.
