will be true to you. . . .' I accepted that condition with rapture.
At the time I understood what that meant, but I swear to God I don't
understand it now. 'I don't love you, but I will be true to you.'
What does that mean? It's a fog, a darkness. I love her now as
intensely as I did the day we were married, while she, I believe,
is as indifferent as ever, and I believe she is glad when I go away
from home. I don't know for certain whether she cares for me or not
--I don't know, I don't know; but, as you see, we live under the
same roof, call each other 'thou,' sleep together, have children,
our property is in common. . . . What does it mean, what does it
mean? What is the object of it? And do you understand it at all,
my dear fellow? It's cruel torture! Because I don't understand our
relations, I hate, sometimes her, sometimes myself, sometimes both
at once. Everything is in a tangle in my brain; I torment myself
and grow stupid. And as though to spite me, she grows more beautiful
every day, she is getting more wonderful. . . I fancy her hair is
marvellous, and her smile is like no other woman's. I love her, and
I know that my love is hopeless. Hopeless love for a woman by whom
one has two children! Is that intelligible? And isn't it terrible?
Isn't it more terrible than ghosts?"

He was in the mood to have talked on a good deal longer, but luckily
we heard the coachman's voice. Our horses had arrived. We got into
the carriage, and Forty Martyrs, taking off his cap, helped us both
into the carriage with an expression that suggested that he had
long been waiting for an opportunity to come in contact with our
precious persons.

"Dmitri Petrovitch, let me come to you," he said, blinking furiously
and tilting his head on one side. "Show divine mercy! I am dying