"You're really not a man, but a mush, God forgive me! A man ought
to be able to be carried away by his feelings, he ought to be able
to be mad, to make mistakes, to suffer! A woman will forgive you
audacity and insolence, but she will never forgive your reasonableness!"

She was angry in earnest, and went on:

"To succeed, a man must be resolute and bold. Lubkov is not so
handsome as you are, but he is more interesting. He will always
succeed with women because he's not like you; he's a man. . . ."

And there was actually a note of exasperation in her voice.

One day at supper she began saying, not addressing me, that if she
were a man she would not stagnate in the country, but would travel,
would spend the winter somewhere aboard--in Italy, for instance.
Oh, Italy! At this point my father unconsciously poured oil on the
flames; he began telling us at length about Italy, how splendid it
was there, the exquisite scenery, the museums. Ariadne suddenly
conceived a burning desire to go to Italy. She positively brought
her fist down on the table and her eyes flashed as she said: "I
must go!"

After that came conversations every day about Italy: how splendid
it would be in Italy--ah, Italy!--oh, Italy! And when Ariadne
looked at me over her shoulder, from her cold and obstinate expression
I saw that in her dreams she had already conquered Italy with all
its salons, celebrated foreigners and tourists, and there was no
holding her back now. I advised her to wait a little, to put off