“The fin de siecle woman—­I mean when she is young, and of course wealthy—­must be independent, clever, elegant, intellectual, bold, and a little depraved.  Depraved within limits, a little; for excess, you know, is wearisome.  You ought not to vegetate, my dear; you ought not to live like every one else, but to get the full savour of life, and a slight flavour of depravity is the sauce of life.  Revel among flowers of intoxicating fragrance, breathe the perfume of musk, eat hashish, and best of all, love, love, love . . . .  To begin with, in your place I would set up seven lovers—­one for each day of the week; and one I would call Monday, one Tuesday, the third Wednesday, and so on, so that each might know his day.”

This conversation troubled Anna Akimovna; she ate nothing and only drank a glass of wine.

“Let me speak at last,” she said.  “For myself personally, I can’t conceive of love without family life.  I am lonely, lonely as the moon in the sky, and a waning moon, too; and whatever you may say, I am convinced, I feel that this waning can only be restored by love in its ordinary sense.  It seems to me that such love would define my duties, my work, make clear my conception of life.  I want from love peace of soul, tranquillity; I want the very opposite of musk, and spiritualism, and fin de siecle . . . in short”—­she grew embarrassed—­“a husband and children.”

“You want to be married?  Well, you can do that, too,” Lysevitch assented.  “You ought to have all experiences:  marriage, and jealousy, and the sweetness of the first infidelity, and even children. . . .  But make haste and live—­make haste, my dear:  time is passing; it won’t wait.”

“Yes, I’ll go and get married!” she said, looking angrily at his well-fed, satisfied face.  “I will marry in the simplest, most ordinary way and be radiant with happiness.  And, would you believe it, I will marry some plain working man, some mechanic or draughtsman.”

“There is no harm in that, either.  The Duchess Josiana loved Gwinplin, and that was permissible for her because she was a grand duchess.  Everything is permissible for you, too, because you are an exceptional woman:  if, my dear, you want to love a negro or an Arab, don’t scruple; send for a negro.  Don’t deny yourself anything.  You ought to be as bold as your desires; don’t fall short of them.”

“Can it be so hard to understand me?” Anna Akimovna asked with amazement, and her eyes were bright with tears.  “Understand, I have an immense business on my hands—­two thousand workmen, for whom I must answer before God.  The men who work for me grow blind and deaf.  I am afraid to go on like this; I am afraid!  I am wretched, and you have the cruelty to talk to me of negroes and . . . and you smile!” Anna Akimovna brought her fist down on the table.  “To go on living the life I am living now, or to marry some one as idle and incompetent as myself, would be a crime.  I can’t go on living like this,” she said hotly, “I cannot!”