A month passes. Viéra Pavlovna after dinner ensconces herself comfortably on her wide, little, soft divantchik in her room and her husband's; that is, in her husband's library. He sat down on her little sofa, and she threw her arms around his neck; she bent her head to his bosom, but she is lost in thought; he kisses her, but her melancholy does not pass away, and her eyes are almost ready to shed tears.
"Viérotchka, my dear, what makes you so pensive?"
Viéra Pavlovna weeps, but she says nothing. "No,"—she wipes away her tears.—"No, don't caress me, dear! That's enough; thank thee." And she looks so affectionately and frankly at him. "Thank thee, thou art so kind to me!"
"Kind, Viérotchka? What is it? what do you mean?"
"Yes, kind, my dear; thou art kind."
Two days pass. Viéra Pavlovna again ensconces herself comfortably after dinner; no, she is not comfortable, but she is lying and thinking; and she is lying in her own room, on her own bed. Her husband is sitting near her with his arm around her; and he also is lost in thought.
"No, it is not this; it is not my fault," thinks Lopukhóf.
"How kind he is; how ungrateful I am!" thinks Viéra Pavlovna. And that is what they think.
She says, "My dear, go to your room and work, or else take a rest," and she tries to say, and succeeds in saying, these words in a natural and not melancholy tone.
"Why do you drive me away, Viérotchka? It is pleasant for me here," and he tries to say these words, and he succeeds in saying these words, in a natural and jocular tone.
"No, go away, my dear; you have done enough for me. Go, and get rested."
He kisses her, and she forgets her thoughts, and again it is sweet and easy for her to breathe.
"Thank you, dear," she says.
And Kirsánof is perfectly happy. The struggle has been pretty hard this time, but how much inward satisfaction it afforded him! and this satisfaction will never pass away, though the struggle will soon be over; but it will warm his heart for a long day, till the end of his life. He is honorable. Yes, he has harmonized them; yes, in reality, he has brought them into harmony. Kirsánof is lying on his sofa;
