She wonders exceedingly what is passing in him. He looks as if what she said was nothing new to him. He seems to recognize everything she says. Could it be that his love for her was the same as that she felt for him? Was it connected with every noble feeling in him? Had it been the elevating power in his life? Had it given wings to his artistic powers? Had it taught him to love the poor and the oppressed? Is it once more taking possession of him, making him feel that he is an artist, an apostle, that nothing is too high for him?
But as he is still silent she thinks that perhaps he will not be tied to her. He loves her, but possibly he wishes to be a free man. Perhaps he thinks that she is not a suitable wife for a socialist.
Her blood begins to boil. She thinks that he perhaps believes that she is sitting there and begging for his love.
She has told him almost everything that has happened while he has been away. Now she suddenly breaks off in her story.
“I have loved you,” she says. “I shall always love you, and I think that I should like you to tell me once that you love me. It would make the parting easier to bear.”
“Would it?” he says.
“Can I be your wife?” she says, and her voice trembles with indignation. “I no longer fear your teachings as I did; I am not afraid of your poor; I wish to turn the world upside down, I, as well as you. But I am a believer. How can I live with you if you do not agree with me in that? Or perhaps you would win me to unbelief? Then the world would be dead for me. Everything would lose its meaning, its significance. I should be a miserable, destitute creature. We must part.”
“Really!” he turns towards her. His eyes begin to glow with impatience.
“You may go now,” she says quietly; “I have said to you everything I wished to say. I should have wished that you had something to say to me. But perhaps it is better as it is. We will not make it harder to part than it need be.”