So positive in its assurance was her tone that after a moment’s hesitation he replied that her conjecture was correct.
“Why do you do that?”
“In order to pass the time. You are not here with me, Olga, and life is wearisome and unbearable without you.”
Her gaze became so stern that he broke off abruptly.
“Listen, Ilya,” she said very gravely. “Do you remember saying in the park that at length your life had been fired to flame, and that you believed me to be the aim, the ideal, of your life?”
“How should I not remember it, seeing that it has revolutionized my whole existence? Cannot you see how happy I am?”
“No, I do not see it,” she replied coldly. “Not only have you deceived me, but also you are letting yourself relapse into your former ways.”
“Deceived you? I swear to God that, were that so, I would leap into the pit of Hell!”
“Yes—if the pit of Hell were just beneath your feet; but, were you to put off doing so, even for a day or two, you would straightway change your mind, and become nervous about the deed—more especially should Zakhar and the rest begin gossiping on the subject! That is not love.”
“Ah, you have no idea how these cares and distractions have injured my health!” he exclaimed. “Ever since I have known you, nothing but anxiety has been my lot. Yet deprivation of you would cause me to die or to go out of my mind. Only through you can I breathe or feel or see. Is it, then, wonderful that, when you are not with me, I fall ill? Without you everything is wearisome and distasteful. I feel like a machine, I walk and act without knowing ever what I am doing. Yes, I am like a machine whereof only you are the fuel, the motive power....”