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A.P. Chekhov
- The Wife
I
II
III IV
V
VI
VII
IV
After lunch I rubbed my hands, and thought I
must go to my wife and tell her that I was going away. Why? Who
cared? Nobody cares, I answered, but why shouldn't I tell her,
especially as it would give her nothing but pleasure? Besides,
to go away after our yesterday's quarrel without saying a word
would not be quite tactful: she might think that I was
frightened of her, and perhaps the thought that she has driven
me out of my house may weigh upon her. It would be just as well,
too, to tell her that I subscribe five thousand, and to give her
some advice about the organization, and to warn her that her
inexperience in such a complicated and responsible matter might
lead to most lamentable results. In short, I wanted to see my
wife, and while I thought of various pretexts for going to her,
I had a firm conviction in my heart that I should do so.
It was still light when I went in to her, and the lamps had not
yet been lighted. She was sitting in her study, which led from
the drawing-room to her bedroom, and, bending low over the
table, was writing something quickly. Seeing me, she started,
got up from the table, and remained standing in an attitude such
as to screen her papers from me.
"I beg your pardon, I have only come for a minute," I said, and,
I don't know why, I was overcome with embarrassment. "I have
learnt by chance that you are organizing relief for the famine,
Natalie."
"Yes, I am. But that's my business," she answered.
"Yes, it is your business," I said softly. "I am glad of it, for
it just fits in with my intentions. I beg your permission to
take part in it."
"Forgive me, I cannot let you do it," she said in response, and
looked away.
"Why not, Natalie?" I said quietly. "Why not? I, too, am well
fed and I, too, want to help the hungry."
"I don't know what it has to do with you," she said with a
contemptuous smile, shrugging her shoulders. "Nobody asks you."
"Nobody asks you, either, and yet you have got up a regular
committee in my house," I said.
"I am asked, but you can have my word for it no one will ever
ask you. Go and help where you are not known."
"For God's sake, don't talk to me in that tone." I tried to be
mild, and besought myself most earnestly not to lose my temper.
For the first few minutes I felt glad to be with my wife. I felt
an atmosphere of youth, of home, of feminine softness, of the
most refined elegance -- exactly what was lacking on my floor
and in my life altogether. My wife was wearing a pink flannel
dressing-gown; it made her look much younger, and gave a
softness to her rapid and sometimes abrupt movements. Her
beautiful dark hair, the mere sight of which at one time stirred
me to passion, had from sitting so long with her head bent come
loose from the comb and was untidy, but, to my eyes, that only
made it look more rich and luxuriant. All this, though is banal
to the point of vulgarity. Before me stood an ordinary woman,
perhaps neither beautiful nor elegant, but this was my wife with
whom I had once lived, and with whom I should have been living
to this day if it had not been for her unfortunate character;
she was the one human being on the terrestrial globe whom I
loved. At this moment, just before going away, when I knew that
I should no longer see her even through the window, she seemed
to me fascinating even as she was, cold and forbidding,
answering me with a proud and contemptuous mockery. I was proud
of her, and confessed to myself that to go away from her was
terrible and impossible.
"Pavel Andreitch," she said after a brief silence, "for two
years we have not interfered with each other but have lived
quietly. Why do you suddenly feel it necessary to go back to the
past? Yesterday you came to insult and humiliate me," she went
on, raising her voice, and her face flushed and her eyes flamed
with hatred; "but restrain yourself; do not do it, Pavel
Andreitch! Tomorrow I will send in a petition and they will give
me a passport, and I will go away; I will go! I will go! I'll go
into a convent, into a widows' home, into an almshouse. . . ."
"Into a lunatic asylum!" I cried, not able to restrain myself.
"Well, even into a lunatic asylum! That would be better, that
would be better," she cried, with flashing eyes. "When I was in
Pestrovo today I envied the sick and starving peasant women
because they are not living with a man like you. They are free
and honest, while, thanks to you, I am a parasite, I am
perishing in idleness, I eat your bread, I spend your money, and
I repay you with my liberty and a fidelity which is of no use to
any one. Because you won't give me a passport, I must respect
your good name, though it doesn't exist."
I had to keep silent. Clenching my teeth, I walked quickly into
the drawing-room, but turned back at once and said:
"I beg you earnestly that there should be no more assemblies,
plots, and meetings of conspirators in my house! I only admit to
my house those with whom I am acquainted, and let all your crew
find another place to do it if they want to take up
philanthropy. I can't allow people at midnight in my house to be
shouting hurrah at successfully exploiting an hysterical woman
like you!"
My wife, pale and wringing her hands, took a rapid stride across
the room, uttering a prolonged moan as though she had toothache.
With a wave of my hand, I went into the drawing-room. I was
choking with rage, and at the same time I was trembling with
terror that I might not restrain myself, and that I might say or
do something which I might regret all my life. And I clenched my
hands tight, hoping to hold myself in.
After drinking some water and recovering my calm a little, I
went back to my wife. She was standing in the same attitude as
before, as though barring my approach to the table with the
papers. Tears were slowly trickling down her pale, cold face. I
paused then and said to her bitterly but without anger:
"How you misunderstand me! How unjust you are to me! I swear
upon my honour I came to you with the best of motives, with
nothing but the desire to do good!"
"Pavel Andreitch!" she said, clasping her hands on her bosom,
and her face took on the agonized, imploring expression with
which frightened, weeping children beg not to be punished, "I
know perfectly well that you will refuse me, but still I beg
you. Force yourself to do one kind action in your life. I
entreat you, go away from here! That's the only thing you can do
for the starving peasants. Go away, and I will forgive you
everything, everything!"
"There is no need for you to insult me, Natalie," I sighed,
feeling a sudden rush of humility. "I had already made up my
mind to go away, but I won't go until I have done something for
the peasants. It's my duty!"
"Ach!" she said softly with an impatient frown. "You can make an
excellent bridge or railway, but you can do nothing for the
starving peasants. Do understand!"
"Indeed? Yesterday you reproached me with indifference and with
being devoid of the feeling of compassion. How well you know
me!" I laughed. "You believe in God -- well, God is my witness
that I am worried day and night. . . ."
"I see that you are worried, but the famine and compassion have
nothing to do with it. You are worried because the starving
peasants can get on without you, and because the Zemstvo, and in
fact every one who is helping them, does not need your
guidance."
I was silent, trying to suppress my irritation. Then I said:
"I came to speak to you on business. Sit down. Please sit down."
She did not sit down.
"I beg you to sit down," I repeated, and I motioned her to a
chair.
She sat down. I sat down, too, thought a little, and said:
"I beg you to consider earnestly what I am saying. Listen. . . .
Moved by love for your fellow-creatures, you have undertaken the
organization of famine relief. I have nothing against that, of
course; I am completely in sympathy with you, and am prepared to
co-operate with you in every way, whatever our relations may be.
But, with all my respect for your mind and your heart . . . and
your heart," I repeated, "I cannot allow such a difficult,
complex, and responsible matter as the organization of relief to
be left in your hands entirely. You are a woman, you are
inexperienced, you know nothing of life, you are too confiding
and expansive. You have surrounded yourself with assistants whom
you know nothing about. I am not exaggerating if I say that
under these conditions your work will inevitably lead to two
deplorable consequences. To begin with, our district will be
left unrelieved; and, secondly, you will have to pay for your
mistakes and those of your assistants, not only with your purse,
but with your reputation. The money deficit and other losses I
could, no doubt, make good, but who could restore you your good
name? When through lack of proper supervision and oversight
there is a rumour that you, and consequently I, have made two
hundred thousand over the famine fund, will your assistants come
to your aid?"
She said nothing.
"Not from vanity, as you say," I went on, "but simply that the
starving peasants may not be left unrelieved and your reputation
may not be injured, I feel it my moral duty to take part in your
work."
"Speak more briefly," said my wife.
"You will be so kind," I went on, "as to show me what has been
subscribed so far and what you have spent. Then inform me daily
of every fresh subscription in money or kind, and of every fresh
outlay. You will also give me, Natalie, the list of your
helpers. Perhaps they are quite decent people; I don't doubt it;
but, still, it is absolutely necessary to make inquiries."
She was silent. I got up, and walked up and down the room.
"Let us set to work, then," I said, and I sat down to her table.
"Are you in earnest?" she asked, looking at me in alarm and
bewilderment.
"Natalie, do be reasonable!" I said appealingly, seeing from her
face that she meant to protest. "I beg you, trust my experience
and my sense of honour."
"I don't understand what you want."
"Show me how much you have collected and how much you have
spent."
"I have no secrets. Any one may see. Look."
On the table lay five or six school exercise books, several
sheets of notepaper covered with writing, a map of the district,
and a number of pieces of paper of different sizes. It was
getting dusk. I lighted a candle.
"Excuse me, I don't see anything yet," I said, turning over the
leaves of the exercise books. "Where is the account of the
receipt of money subscriptions?"
"That can be seen from the subscription lists."
"Yes, but you must have an account," I said, smiling at her
navet. "Where are the letters accompanying the subscriptions
in money or in kind? Pardon, a little practical advice, Natalie:
it's absolutely necessary to keep those letters. You ought to
number each letter and make a special note of it in a special
record. You ought to do the same with your own letters. But I
will do all that myself."
"Do so, do so . . ." she said.
I was very much pleased with myself. Attracted by this living
interesting work, by the little table, the nave exercise books
and the charm of doing this work in my wife's society, I was
afraid that my wife would suddenly hinder me and upset
everything by some sudden whim, and so I was in haste and made
an effort to attach no consequence to the fact that her lips
were quivering, and that she was looking about her with a
helpless and frightened air like a wild creature in a trap.
"I tell you what, Natalie," I said without looking at her; "let
me take all these papers and exercise books upstairs to my
study. There I will look through them and tell you what I think
about it tomorrow. Have you any more papers?" I asked, arranging
the exercise books and sheets of papers in piles.
"Take them, take them all!" said my wife, helping me to arrange
them, and big tears ran down her cheeks. "Take it all! That's
all that was left me in life. . . . Take the last."
"Ach! Natalie, Natalie!" I sighed reproachfully.
She opened the drawer in the table and began flinging the papers
out of it on the table at random, poking me in the chest with
her elbow and brushing my face with her hair; as she did so,
copper coins kept dropping upon my knees and on the floor.
"Take everything!" she said in a husky voice.
When she had thrown out the papers she walked away from me, and
putting both hands to her head, she flung herself on the couch.
I picked up the money, put it back in the drawer, and locked it
up that the servants might not be led into dishonesty; then I
gathered up all the papers and went off with them. As I passed
my wife I stopped and, looking at her back and shaking
shoulders, I said:
"What a baby you are, Natalie! Fie, fie! Listen, Natalie: when
you realize how serious and responsible a business it is you
will be the first to thank me. I assure you you will."
In my own room I set to work without haste. The exercise books
were not bound, the pages were not numbered. The entries were
put in all sorts of handwritings; evidently any one who liked
had a hand in managing the books. In the record of the
subscriptions in kind there was no note of their money value.
But, excuse me, I thought, the rye which is now worth one rouble
fifteen kopecks may be worth two roubles fifteen kopecks in two
months' time! Was that the way to do things? Then, "Given to A.
M. Sobol 32 roubles." When was it given? For what purpose was it
given? Where was the receipt? There was nothing to show, and no
making anything of it. In case of legal proceedings, these
papers would only obscure the case.
"How nave she is!" I thought with surprise. "What a child!"
I felt both vexed and amused.
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