my not being the sort of a man I ought to be.

My wife got up with an effort and came up to me.

"Pavel Andreitch," she said, smiling mournfully, "forgive me, I don't
believe you: you are not going away, but I will ask you one more favour.
Call this"--she pointed to her papers--"self-deception, feminine logic,
a mistake, as you like; but do not hinder me. It's all that is left me
in life." She turned away and paused. "Before this I had nothing. I have
wasted my youth in fighting with you. Now I have caught at this and am
living; I am happy.... It seems to me that I have found in this a means
of justifying my existence."

"Natalie, you are a good woman, a woman of ideas," I said, looking at my
wife enthusiastically, "and everything you say and do is intelligent and
fine."

I walked about the room to conceal my emotion.

"Natalie," I went on a minute later, "before I go away, I beg of you as
a special favour, help me to do something for the starving peasants!"

"What can I do?" said my wife, shrugging her shoulders. "Here's the
subscription list."

She rummaged among the papers and found the subscription list.

"Subscribe some money," she said, and from her tone I could see that she
did not attach great importance to her subscription list; "that is the
only way in which you can take part in the work."