Fanny. But that was my happiness, and now I am amply repaid for it, to see Olga placed upon an independent footing, with a great future before her as a painter.
Lizzie. That kind of happiness did not appeal very much to me. I wanted, for you, a different kind of happiness,—the happiness of being a wife, of being a mother, of loving and being loved.
Fanny [in a reverie]. I had already weaned my thoughts away from love and family life as the only happiness.
Lizzie. You poor soul!
Fanny. When my mother died, my road was clearly mapped out for me: to be to my sister, who is eight years younger than I, both a father and a mother. That purpose was great and holy to me. I never thought of anything else. Only in the early twenties, between twenty-two and twenty-five, a longing for something else came to me. Not that my sister became a burden to me, God forbid, but I wanted something more, a full life, happiness and—love. At that time I used to cry very much, and wet my pillow with my tears, and I was very unhappy. And I was easily angered then, too, so you see I was far from an angel.
Lizzie [draws Fanny nearer, and kisses her]. You darling, you!
Fanny. But later the longing left me, as if it had been charmed away. Olga grew older, and her talents began to ripen. Then I forgot myself altogether, and she became again my sole concern.
Lizzie. And is that all?
Fanny. What else can there be? Of course, when my sister went to Petrograd she was no longer under my immediate care and I was left all alone. The old longing re-awoke in my bosom but I told myself that one of my years had no right to expect happiness and love? So I determined to tear out, to uproot from my heart every longing. I tried to convince myself that my goal in life had already been attained—that I had placed a helpless child securely upon her feet—
Lizzie. But you loved Berman all the time, didn't you?