The weeping ceased. I went up to my wife. She sat up on the couch, and, with her head propped in both hands, looked fixedly and dreamily at the fire.

“I am going away tomorrow morning,” I said.

She said nothing. I walked across the room, sighed, and said:

“Natalie, when you begged me to go away, you said: ‘I will forgive you everything, everything.’⁠ ⁠… So you think I have wronged you. I beg you calmly and in brief terms to formulate the wrong I’ve done you.”

“I am worn out. Afterwards, some time⁠ ⁠…” said my wife.

“How am I to blame?” I went on. “What have I done? Tell me: you are young and beautiful, you want to live, and I am nearly twice your age and hated by you, but is that my fault? I didn’t marry you by force. But if you want to live in freedom, go; I’ll give you your liberty. You can go and love whom you please.⁠ ⁠… I will give you a divorce.”

“That’s not what I want,” she said. “You know I used to love you and always thought of myself as older than you. That’s all nonsense.⁠ ⁠… You are not to blame for being older or for my being younger, or that I might be able to love someone else if I were free; but because you are a difficult person, an egoist, and hate everyone.”

“Perhaps so. I don’t know,” I said.

“Please go away. You want to go on at me till the morning, but I warn you I am quite worn out and cannot answer you. You promised me to go to town. I am very grateful; I ask nothing more.”