|
|
|
A.P. Chekhov
- The Wife
I
II
III IV
V
VI
VII
V
My wife had already collected eight thousand;
with my five it would be thirteen thousand. For a start that was
very good. The business which had so worried and interested me
was at last in my hands; I was doing what the others would not
and could not do; I was doing my duty, organizing the relief
fund in a practical and businesslike way.
Everything seemed to be going in accordance with my desires and
intentions; but why did my feeling of uneasiness persist? I
spent four hours over my wife's papers, making out their meaning
and correcting her mistakes, but instead of feeling soothed, I
felt as though some one were standing behind me and rubbing my
back with a rough hand. What was it I wanted? The organization
of the relief fund had come into trustworthy hands, the hungry
would be fed -- what more was wanted?
The four hours of this light work for some reason exhausted me,
so that I could not sit bending over the table nor write. From
below I heard from time to time a smothered moan; it was my wife
sobbing. Alexey, invariably meek, sleepy, and sanctimonious,
kept coming up to the table to see to the candles, and looked at
me somewhat strangely.
"Yes, I must go away," I decided at last, feeling utterly
exhausted. "As far as possible from these agreeable impressions!
I will set off tomorrow."
I gathered together the papers and exercise books, and went down
to my wife. As, feeling quite worn out and shattered, I held the
papers and the exercise books to my breast with both hands, and
passing through my bedroom saw my trunks, the sound of weeping
reached me through the floor.
"Are you a kammer-junker?" a voice whispered in my ear. "That's
a very pleasant thing. But yet you are a reptile."
"It's all nonsense, nonsense, nonsense," I muttered as I went
downstairs. "Nonsense . . . and it's nonsense, too, that I am
actuated by vanity or a love of display. . . . What rubbish! Am
I going to get a decoration for working for the peasants or be
made the director of a department? Nonsense, nonsense! And who
is there to show off to here in the country?"
I was tired, frightfully tired, and something kept whispering in
my ear: "Very pleasant. But, still, you are a reptile." For some
reason I remembered a line out of an old poem I knew as a child:
"How pleasant it is to be good!"
My wife was lying on the couch in the same attitude, on her face
and with her hands clutching her head. She was crying. A maid
was standing beside her with a perplexed and frightened face. I
sent the maid away, laid the papers on the table, thought a
moment and said:
"Here are all your papers, Natalie. It's all in order, it's all
capital, and I am very much pleased. I am going away tomorrow."
She went on crying. I went into the drawing-room and sat there
in the dark. My wife's sobs, her sighs, accused me of something,
and to justify myself I remembered the whole of our quarrel,
starting from my unhappy idea of inviting my wife to our
consultation and ending with the exercise books and these tears.
It was an ordinary attack of our conjugal hatred, senseless and
unseemly, such as had been frequent during our married life, but
what had the starving peasants to do with it? How could it have
happened that they had become a bone of contention between us?
It was just as though pursuing one another we had accidentally
run up to the altar and had carried on a quarrel there.
"Natalie," I said softly from the drawing-room, "hush, hush!"
To cut short her weeping and make an end of this agonizing state
of affairs, I ought to have gone up to my wife and comforted
her, caressed her, or apologized; but how could I do it so that
she would believe me? How could I persuade the wild duck, living
in captivity and hating me, that it was dear to me, and that I
felt for its sufferings? I had never known my wife, so I had
never known how to talk to her or what to talk about. Her
appearance I knew very well and appreciated it as it deserved,
but her spiritual, moral world, her mind, her outlook on life,
her frequent changes of mood, her eyes full of hatred, her
disdain, the scope and variety of her reading which sometimes
struck me, or, for instance, the nun-like expression I had seen
on her face the day before -- all that was unknown and
incomprehensible to me. When in my collisions with her I tried
to define what sort of a person she was, my psychology went no
farther than deciding that she was giddy, impractical,
ill-tempered, guided by feminine logic; and it seemed to me that
that was quite sufficient. But now that she was crying I had a
passionate desire to know more.
The weeping ceased. I went up to my wife. She sat up on the
couch, and, with her head propped in both hands, looked fixedly
and dreamily at the fire.
"I am going away tomorrow morning," I said.
She said nothing. I walked across the room, sighed, and said:
"Natalie, when you begged me to go away, you said: 'I will
forgive you everything, everything' . . . . So you think I have
wronged you. I beg you calmly and in brief terms to formulate
the wrong I've done you."
"I am worn out. Afterwards, some time. . ." said my wife.
"How am I to blame?" I went on. "What have I done? Tell me: you
are young and beautiful, you want to live, and I am nearly twice
your age and hated by you, but is that my fault? I didn't marry
you by force. But if you want to live in freedom, go; I'll give
you your liberty. You can go and love whom you please. . . . I
will give you a divorce."
"That's not what I want," she said. "You know I used to love you
and always thought of myself as older than you. That's all
nonsense. . . . You are not to blame for being older or for my
being younger, or that I might be able to love some one else if
I were free; but because you are a difficult person, an egoist,
and hate every one."
"Perhaps so. I don't know," I said.
"Please go away. You want to go on at me till the morning, but I
warn you I am quite worn out and cannot answer you. You promised
me to go to town. I am very grateful; I ask nothing more."
My wife wanted me to go away, but it was not easy for me to do
that. I was dispirited and I dreaded the big, cheerless, chill
rooms that I was so weary of. Sometimes when I had an ache or a
pain as a child, I used to huddle up to my mother or my nurse,
and when I hid my face in the warm folds of their dress, it
seemed to me as though I were hiding from the pain. And in the
same way it seemed to me now that I could only hide from my
uneasiness in this little room beside my wife. I sat down and
screened away the light from my eyes with my hand. . . . There
was a stillness.
"How are you to blame?" my wife said after a long silence,
looking at me with red eyes that gleamed with tears. "You are
very well educated and very well bred, very honest, just, and
high-principled, but in you the effect of all that is that
wherever you go you bring suffocation, oppression, something
insulting and humiliating to the utmost degree. You have a
straightforward way of looking at things, and so you hate the
whole world. You hate those who have faith, because faith is an
expression of ignorance and lack of culture, and at the same
time you hate those who have no faith for having no faith and no
ideals; you hate old people for being conservative and behind
the times, and young people for free-thinking. The interests of
the peasantry and of Russia are dear to you, and so you hate the
peasants because you suspect every one of them of being a thief
and a robber. You hate every one. You are just, and always take
your stand on your legal rights, and so you are always at law
with the peasants and your neighbours. You have had twenty
bushels of rye stolen, and your love of order has made you
complain of the peasants to the Governor and all the local
authorities, and to send a complaint of the local authorities to
Petersburg. Legal justice!" said my wife, and she laughed. "On
the ground of your legal rights and in the interests of
morality, you refuse to give me a passport. Law and morality is
such that a self-respecting healthy young woman has to spend her
life in idleness, in depression, and in continual apprehension,
and to receive in return board and lodging from a man she does
not love. You have a thorough knowledge of the law, you are very
honest and just, you respect marriage and family life, and the
effect of all that is that all your life you have not done one
kind action, that every one hates you, that you are on bad terms
with every one, and the seven years that you have been married
you've only lived seven months with your wife. You've had no
wife and I've had no husband. To live with a man like you is
impossible; there is no way of doing it. In the early years I
was frightened with you, and now I am ashamed. . . . That's how
my best years have been wasted. When I fought with you I ruined
my temper, grew shrewish, coarse, timid, mistrustful. . . . Oh,
but what's the use of talking! As though you wanted to
understand! Go upstairs, and God be with you!"
My wife lay down on the couch and sank into thought.
"And how splendid, how enviable life might have been!" she said
softly, looking reflectively into the fire. "What a life it
might have been! There's no bringing it back now."
Any one who has lived in the country in winter and knows those
long dreary, still evenings when even the dogs are too bored to
bark and even the clocks seem weary of ticking, and any one who
on such evenings has been troubled by awakening conscience and
has moved restlessly about, trying now to smother his
conscience, now to interpret it, will understand the distraction
and the pleasure my wife's voice gave me as it sounded in the
snug little room, telling me I was a bad man. I did not
understand what was wanted of me by my conscience, and my wife,
translating it in her feminine way, made clear to me in the
meaning of my agitation. As often before in the moments of
intense uneasiness, I guessed that the whole secret lay, not in
the starving peasants, but in my not being the sort of a man I
ought to be.
My wife got up with an effort and came up to me.
"Pavel Andreitch," she said, smiling mournfully, "forgive me, I
don't believe you: you are not going away, but I will ask you
one more favour. Call this" -- she pointed to her papers --
"self-deception, feminine logic, a mistake, as you like; but do
not hinder me. It's all that is left me in life." She turned
away and paused. "Before this I had nothing. I have wasted my
youth in fighting with you. Now I have caught at this and am
living; I am happy. . . . It seems to me that I have found in
this a means of justifying my existence."
"Natalie, you are a good woman, a woman of ideas," I said,
looking at my wife enthusiastically, "and everything you say and
do is intelligent and fine."
I walked about the room to conceal my emotion.
"Natalie," I went on a minute later, "before I go away, I beg of
you as a special favour, help me to do something for the
starving peasants!"
"What can I do?" said my wife, shrugging her shoulders. "Here's
the subscription list."
She rummaged among the papers and found the subscription list.
"Subscribe some money," she said, and from her tone I could see
that she did not attach great importance to her subscription
list; "that is the only way in which you can take part in the
work."
I took the list and wrote: "Anonymous, 5,000."
In this "anonymous" there was something wrong, false, conceited,
but I only realized that when I noticed that my wife flushed
very red and hurriedly thrust the list into the heap of papers.
We both felt ashamed; I felt that I must at all costs efface
this clumsiness at once, or else I should feel ashamed
afterwards, in the train and at Petersburg. But how efface it?
What was I to say?
"I fully approve of what you are doing, Natalie," I said
genuinely, "and I wish you every success. But allow me at
parting to give you one piece of advice, Natalie; be on your
guard with Sobol, and with your assistants generally, and don't
trust them blindly. I don't say they are not honest, but they
are not gentlefolks; they are people with no ideas, no ideals,
no faith, with no aim in life, no definite principles, and the
whole object of their life is comprised in the rouble. Rouble,
rouble, rouble!" I sighed. "They are fond of getting money
easily, for nothing, and in that respect the better educated
they are the more they are to be dreaded."
My wife went to the couch and lay down.
"Ideas," she brought out, listlessly and reluctantly, "ideas,
ideals, objects of life, principles . . . .you always used to
use those words when you wanted to insult or humiliate some one,
or say something unpleasant. Yes, that's your way: if with your
views and such an attitude to people you are allowed to take
part in anything, you would destroy it from the first day. It's
time you understand that."
She sighed and paused.
"It's coarseness of character, Pavel Andreitch," she said. "You
are well-bred and educated, but what a . . . Scythian you are in
reality! That's because you lead a cramped life full of hatred,
see no one, and read nothing but your engineering books. And,
you know, there are good people, good books! Yes . . . but I am
exhausted and it wearies me to talk. I ought to be in bed."
"So I am going away, Natalie," I said.
"Yes . . . yes. . . . Merci. . . ."
I stood still for a little while, then went upstairs. An hour
later -- it was half-past one -- I went downstairs again with a
candle in my hand to speak to my wife. I didn't know what I was
going to say to her, but I felt that I must say something very
important and necessary. She was not in her study, the door
leading to her bedroom was closed.
"Natalie, are you asleep?" I asked softly.
There was no answer.
I stood near the door, sighed, and went into the drawing-room.
There I sat down on the sofa, put out the candle, and remained
sitting in the dark till the dawn.
|
|
|
