At last I wrote to her that if she didn't call and see me at my flat, I
should blow my brains out. I didn't expect her to call, and I did expect
that I should blow my brains out. I was ready to do so. A year more or a
year less on this earth--what did it matter to me?
Some people may think--_you_ may think, Polycarp--that a man like me,
under sentence of death from a doctor, had no right to make love to a
woman. That may be so. But in love there isn't often any question of
right. Human instincts have no regard for human justice, and when the
instinct is strong enough, the sense of justice simply ceases to exist
for it. When you're in love--enough--you don't argue. You desire--that's
all.
To my amazement, she came to the flat. When she was announced, I could
scarcely tell the servant to show her in, and when she entered, I
couldn't speak at all for a moment. She was so--however, I won't
describe her. I couldn't, for one thing. No one could describe that
woman. She didn't make any fuss. She didn't cry out that she had ruined
her reputation or anything like that. She simply said that she had
received my letter, and that she had believed the sincerity of my
threat, while regretting it, and what did I wish to say to her--she
wouldn't be able to stay long.
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