Ilyin jabbed his stick angrily into the sand.  Madame Lubyantsev listened to him and liked his conversation, though a great deal of it she did not understand.  What gratified her most was that she, an ordinary woman, was talked to by a talented man on “intellectual” subjects; it afforded her great pleasure, too, to watch the working of his mobile, young face, which was still pale and angry.  She failed to understand a great deal that he said, but what was clear to her in his words was the attractive boldness with which the modern man without hesitation or doubt decides great questions and draws conclusive deductions.

She suddenly realized that she was admiring him, and was alarmed.

“Forgive me, but I don’t understand,” she said hurriedly.  “What makes you talk of insincerity?  I repeat my request again:  be my good, true friend; let me alone!  I beg you most earnestly!”

“Very good; I’ll try again,” sighed Ilyin.  “Glad to do my best. . . .  Only I doubt whether anything will come of my efforts.  Either I shall put a bullet through my brains or take to drink in an idiotic way.  I shall come to a bad end!  There’s a limit to everything—­ to struggles with Nature, too.  Tell me, how can one struggle against madness?  If you drink wine, how are you to struggle against intoxication?  What am I to do if your image has grown into my soul, and day and night stands persistently before my eyes, like that pine there at this moment?  Come, tell me, what hard and difficult thing can I do to get free from this abominable, miserable condition, in which all my thoughts, desires, and dreams are no longer my own, but belong to some demon who has taken possession of me?  I love you, love you so much that I am completely thrown out of gear; I’ve given up my work and all who are dear to me; I’ve forgotten my God!  I’ve never been in love like this in my life.”

Sofya Petrovna, who had not expected such a turn to their conversation, drew away from Ilyin and looked into his face in dismay.  Tears came into his eyes, his lips were quivering, and there was an imploring, hungry expression in his face.

“I love you!” he muttered, bringing his eyes near her big, frightened eyes.  “You are so beautiful!  I am in agony now, but I swear I would sit here all my life, suffering and looking in your eyes.  But . . . be silent, I implore you!”

Sofya Petrovna, feeling utterly disconcerted, tried to think as quickly as possible of something to say to stop him.  “I’ll go away,” she decided, but before she had time to make a movement to get up, Ilyin was on his knees before her. . . .  He was clasping her knees, gazing into her face and speaking passionately, hotly, eloquently.  In her terror and confusion she did not hear his words; for some reason now, at this dangerous moment, while her knees were being agreeably squeezed and felt as though they were in a warm bath, she was trying, with a sort of angry spite, to interpret her own sensations.  She was angry that instead of brimming over with protesting virtue, she was entirely overwhelmed with weakness, apathy, and emptiness, like a drunken man utterly reckless; only at the bottom of her soul a remote bit of herself was malignantly taunting her:  “Why don’t you go?  Is this as it should be?  Yes?”