"It is a horrible history and I hate it," Tamara said. "Such ways I do not understand. For me love means something tender and true which could never want to injure the thing it loved."
"Lately I have wondered what love could mean for me. Tell me what you think, Madame," he said.
She resolved not to allow any emotion to master her, though she was conscious of a sudden beating of her heart.
"You would torture sometimes, and then you would caress."
He moved from his position and walked across the room, while he talked as though the words burst from him.
"Yes, I should demand unquestioning surrender, and if it were refused me, then I might be cruel. And if my love were cold or capricious, _then_ I would leave her. But if she loved me truly--my God, it would be bliss."
"Think how it would hurt her when you did those foolish things though," Tamara said.
"No one does foolish things when he is happy, Madame. All such outbursts are the froth of a soul in its seething. But if one were satisfied--" he paused, and then he went on again. "Oh! If you knew!--In the desert in Egypt I used to think I had found rest, sometimes. I am sated with this life here. A quoi bon, Madame!--the same thing year after year!--and then since I have known you. I have wondered if perhaps you in your country could teach me peace."
"So many of you are so déséquilibrés," Tamara said. "You seem to be so polished and sensible and even great, and then in a moment you are off at a tangent, displaying that want of discipline that we at home would not permit in a child."
"It seems that you love, and must have, or you hate and must kill. There are storms and passions, and the gaiety of children and their irresponsibility, and all on the top is good manners and smiles, but underneath--I have a feeling I know not what volcano may burst."
"Tonight I feel one could flame with me." He came up close now and looked into her eyes, as if he were going to say something, and then he restrained himself.
Tamara did not move, she looked at him gravely.
"You all seem as if you had no aim," she said. "You are not interested in the politics of your country. You don't seem to do anything but kill time--Why?"
"Our country!" he said, and he flung himself into a seat near. "It would be difficult to make you understand about that. In the old days of the serfs, it was all very well. One could be a good landlord and father to them all, but now----" Then he got up restlessly and paced the room. "Now there are so many questions. If one would think it would drive one mad, but I am a soldier, Madame, so I do not permit myself to speculate at all."