I often ask myself, Paul, if we are not too civilised, we of
our time. We think too much of human suffering, and so we cultivate the
nerves to suffer more, instead of hardening them. Picture to yourself, in
my grandfather's boyhood we had still the serfs! I am of his day, though
it is over--I have beaten Dmitry--"
Then she stopped speaking abruptly, as though aware she had localised her
nation too much. A strange imperious expression came into her eyes as they
met Paul's--almost of defiance.
Paul was moved. He began as if to speak, then he remembered his promise
never to question her, and remained silent.
"Yes, my Paul--you have promised, you know," she said. "I am for you, your
love--your love--but living or dead you must never seek to know more!"
"Ah!" he cried, "you torture me when you speak like that. 'Living or
dead.' My God! that means us both--we stand or fall together."
"Dear one"--her voice fell softly into a note of intense
earnestness--"while fate lets us be together--yes--living or dead--but
if we must part, then either would be the cause of the death of the other
by further seeking--never forget that, my beloved one. Listen"--her eyes
took a sudden fierceness--"once I read your English book, 'The Lady and
the Tiger.' You remember it, Paul? She must choose which she would give
her lover to--death and the tiger, or to another and more beautiful woman.
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