you for the honour. I respect you, but . . ." she got up and continued
standing, "but, forgive me, I cannot be your wife. Let us talk
seriously. Dmitri Ionitch, you know I love art beyond everything
in life. I adore music; I love it frantically; I have dedicated my
whole life to it. I want to be an artist; I want fame, success,
freedom, and you want me to go on living in this town, to go on
living this empty, useless life, which has become insufferable to
me. To become a wife--oh, no, forgive me! One must strive towards
a lofty, glorious goal, and married life would put me in bondage
for ever. Dmitri Ionitch" (she faintly smiled as she pronounced his
name; she thought of "Alexey Feofilaktitch")--"Dmitri Ionitch,
you are a good, clever, honourable man; you are better than any
one. . . ." Tears came into her eyes. "I feel for you with my whole
heart, but . . . but you will understand. . . ."

And she turned away and went out of the drawing-room to prevent
herself from crying.

Startsev's heart left off throbbing uneasily. Going out of the club
into the street, he first of all tore off the stiff tie and drew a
deep breath. He was a little ashamed and his vanity was wounded--
he had not expected a refusal--and could not believe that all his
dreams, his hopes and yearnings, had led him up to such a stupid
end, just as in some little play at an amateur performance, and he
was sorry for his feeling, for that love of his, so sorry that he
felt as though he could have burst into sobs or have violently
belaboured Panteleimon's broad back with his umbrella.

For three days he could not get on with anything, he could not eat
nor sleep; but when the news reached him that Ekaterina Ivanovna