which so often hinders people from living, but Vera’s ecstasies and suffering struck him as affected, not to be taken seriously, and at the same time rebellious feeling whispered to him that all he was hearing and seeing now, from the point of view of nature and personal happiness, was more important than any statistics and books and truths. . . .  And he raged and blamed himself, though he did not understand exactly where he was in fault.

To complete his embarrassment, he was absolutely at a loss what to say, and yet something he must say.  To say bluntly, “I don’t love you,” was beyond him, and he could not bring himself to say “Yes,” because however much he rummaged in his heart he could not find one spark of feeling in it. . . .

He was silent, and she meanwhile was saying that for her there was no greater happiness than to see him, to follow him wherever he liked this very moment, to be his wife and helper, and that if he went away from her she would die of misery.

“I cannot stay here!” she said, wringing her hands.  “I am sick of the house and this wood and the air.  I cannot bear the everlasting peace and aimless life, I can’t endure our colourless, pale people, who are all as like one another as two drops of water!  They are all good-natured and warm-hearted because they are all well-fed and know nothing of struggle or suffering, . . .  I want to be in those big damp houses where people suffer, embittered by work and need. . .”

And this, too, seemed to Ognev affected and not to be taken seriously.  When Vera had finished he still did not know what to say, but it was impossible to be silent, and he muttered: 

“Vera Gavrilovna, I am very grateful to you, though I feel I’ve done nothing to deserve such . . . feeling . . . on your part.  Besides, as an honest man I ought to tell you that . . . happiness depends on equality—­that is, when both parties are . . . equally in love. . . .”

But he was immediately ashamed of his mutterings and ceased.  He felt that his face at that moment looked stupid, guilty, blank, that it was strained and affected. . . .  Vera must have been able to read the truth on his countenance, for she suddenly became grave, turned pale, and bent her head.

“You must forgive me,” Ognev muttered, not able to endure the silence.  “I respect you so much that . . . it pains me. . . .”

Vera turned sharply and walked rapidly homewards.  Ognev followed her.

“No, don’t!” said Vera, with a wave of her hand.  “Don’t come; I can go alone.”

“Oh, yes . . .  I must see you home anyway.”

Whatever Ognev said, it all to the last word struck him as loathsome and flat.  The feeling of guilt grew greater at every step.  He raged inwardly, clenched his fists, and cursed his coldness and his stupidity with women.  Trying to stir his feelings, he looked at Verotchka’s beautiful figure, at her hair and the traces of her little feet on the dusty road; he remembered her words and her tears, but all that only touched his heart and did not quicken his pulse.