He flung himself on his knees before her.
'Tanya,' he cried, 'if only you knew how hard it is for me to see you in this position, how awful to me to think that it's I ... I! My heart is torn to pieces, I don't know myself, I have lost myself, and you, and everything.... Everything is shattered, Tanya, everything! Could I dream that I ... I should bring such a blow upon you, my best friend, my guardian angel?... Could I dream that we should meet like this, should spend such a day as yesterday!...'
Tatyana was trying to get up and go away. He held her back by the border of her dress.
'No, listen to me a minute longer. You see I am on my knees before you, but I have not come to beg your forgiveness; you cannot, you ought not to forgive me. I have come to tell you that your friend is ruined, that he is falling into the pit, and would not drag you down with him.... But save me ... no! even you cannot save me. I should push you away, I am ruined, Tanya, I am ruined past all help.'
'You are ruined?' she said, as though not fully understanding him. 'You are ruined?'
'Yes, Tanya, I am ruined. All the past, all that was precious, everything I have lived for up till now, is ruined for me; everything is wretched, everything is shattered, and I don't know what awaits me in the future. You said just now that I no longer loved you.... No, Tanya, I have not ceased to love you, but a different, terrible, irresistible passion has come upon me, has overborne me. I fought against it while I could....'
Tatyana got up, her brows twitched, her pale face darkened. Litvinov too rose to his feet.
'You love another woman,' she began, 'and I guess who she is.... We met her yesterday, didn't we?... Well, I see what is left for me to do now. Since you say yourself this passion is unalterable' ... (Tatyana paused an instant, possibly she had still hoped Litvinov would not let this last word pass unchallenged, but he said nothing), 'it only remains for me to give you back ... your word.'
Litvinov bent his head, as though submissively receiving a well-deserved blow.
'You have every right to be angry with me,' he said. 'You have every right to reproach me for feebleness ... for deceit.'
'I have not reproached you, Litvinov, I don't blame you. I agree with you: the bitterest truth is better than what went on yesterday. What sort of a life could ours have been now!'