Afterwards, we sat with Mme. Wildenhoff almost till dawn.
“What’s to be done? If he loves her no longer, he cannot be forced to stay with her,” said Mme. Lola to me, speaking of Owinski, of course. “Changes in feeling have nothing in common with ethics and the sense of duty.” ... And so on, and so on.
Gina approached us presently.
“To-morrow I shall be living by myself,” she told us. “I am now in such a state that I can’t bear any one, not even so amiable a person as Idalia. She will live in my studio, which she likes very much, and the room that she rented formerly will now be let. I should greatly like to find another tenant for her.”
Mme. Wildenhoff turned upon me directly with these unexpected words:
“Wouldn’t you like to lodge with Idalia? She plays so beautifully; and that family life must, I fancy, bore you by now.”
It then occurred to me that Mme. Wildenhoff’s intention was to get me away from Imszanski! Was I right? Possibly.
“I shall think it over,” I answered in a pleasant tone. “Though indeed I like just as much to hear Martha play.”
This staying up all night long nearly once every forty-eight hours or so fatigues me beyond measure. They—that is, all the others—have nothing to do; they rise at noon, and enjoy plenty of money and leisure; and their greatest enjoyment is talking interminably about the deepest problems of existence. But for me, what with having battle with sleep in the morning, to walk so very far to my office through mud and slush, and to sit motionless at my desk for so many hours, those nights charge me with a burden very hard to bear. I have, it is true, a frame of iron: but such a life would wear it out at length.
I am weary and miserable, and from time to time I feel almost distracted. My state is that of one who has an appointment, and waits, waits, waits, through the hours and through the years, although the time allotted to keep it has long since passed by. I experience the same fever of impatience, the same clutching at my heart, when in my delusion I think I can at last hear his footsteps; the same chill of terror, when for an instant I think he will never come.