"Where?" he shouted at her, a wild hatred flashing from his eyes.
"Don't shout so; I'm not afraid of you!"
"Have you already taken up with some one else?... Out with it!"
"Just let me go!"
"Where shall I let you go?" Grischka continued to shout.
He tore the handkerchief from her head, and in his fury caught her by the hair. His blows awoke her whole spirit of opposition, and all that was worst in her; and the feeling of this anger gave her real pleasure, thrilled every fibre of her soul. Instead of quenching his jealousy with a few conciliatory words, she fed it all the more, whilst she smiled in his face with a peculiarly meaning smile. His rage grew more and more furious, and he beat her unmercifully.
But in the night, when she, with her bruised and ill-used body, lay groaning by his side, he would watch her from the corner of his eye, and sigh heavily. His conscience troubled him, and he felt a painful feeling of shame, as he realized that there was not the smallest foundation for his jealousy, and that he had once more unjustly beaten his wife.
"Now then, stop sobbing!" he said in a remorseful tone. "Is it my fault if I have that sort of character?... And it's a great deal your fault.... Instead of speaking to me quietly, you try and aggravate me. What is it makes you behave like that?"
She did not answer, though she was quite conscious why she acted thus. She knew that she was looking forward to the pitying and passionate caresses with which he would seal her forgiveness. For the sake of these caresses she was prepared to allow herself to be beaten every day till the blood flowed, and she shed precious tears in the sole expectation of this joy of reconciliation.
"How do you feel now?... Come now, be quiet, Motrja! Come, my treasure, forgive me?... do forgive me now!"