"It was a long time before I could even make out the title. I read 'Iphigenia.' Then, seized by sudden terror, I flung the book far away from me into a corner, as if I had held a burning coal in my hand. Towards evening Martha's pains seemed to grow more intense. Several times she cried out loud and writhed as if in a cramp. "While I was busying myself about her, during an attack of this sort, the old woman suddenly stood at my side. And as I looked at her with her venomous glance, with her studied wringing of hands, and the hypocritical droop of her mouth, the thought suddenly came to me-- "'Here is one--who is waiting for Martha's death--who is wishing for it.' "My eyesight seemed dimmed by a red veil, I clenched my fists--I all but flung the accusation in her face. And as I stood in front of her, still quite petrified by the thought, she took hold of my arm, and tried, without much ado, to push me aside, so that she might plant herself at Martha's pillow. Perhaps she hoped to intimidate me by this unceremonious proceeding. "'Dear aunt.' said I, removing her hand from my arm, 'I have pointed out to you before already that this is my place, and that no one in the world shall dispute it with me. I urgently beg of you to restrict your visit to the other rooms.' "'Indeed? We will just wait and see, my little one,' she screeched, 'we will just ask the master of the house, who has more to say here, his good old mother, or you, vagabond Polish crew?' "And still screeching, she departed. "In a very fever of rage I paced the room. Even I should not have imagined that this sorrowing mother could so quickly and thoroughly change back again into a fury. It only remained for her to give expression to her innermost wishes. "'Oh, if it should be true.' I cried, and horror possessed me. 'To wish for Martha's death! Martha, do you hear, to wish for your death! Whom have you ever hurt? In whose way have you ever stood? Who lives in the world who has ever received aught but love and forgiveness from you? If it were true, if any human being should really be so depraved, and still wander upon earth with impunity--verily, it would make one despair of God and of everything good.' "Thus I spoke and could not heap enough shame and contumely upon the old woman's head. "And then it struck me that I had been talking myself into a most unworthy passion. "But I felt easier through it, I dared to breathe more freely, and when I saw poor, ill-treated 'Iphigenia' lying in the dust, I went and picked it up. "'What crime have I, after all, committed?' I said to myself, 'that I should need to hide away from my ideal? Have I done anything but bring comfort to one in despair? Has a single look, a single word been exchanged, which my sister might not have seen and heard? If it seethes and burns in my breast, what concern is that of any one, as long as I keep it carefully to myself?'