In the evening she got ready to go to the town. Of late she had
taken to going often to the town and staying the night there. In
her absence I could not work, my hands felt weak and limp; our huge
courtyard seemed a dreary, repulsive, empty hole. The garden was
full of angry noises, and without her the house, the trees, the
horses were no longer "ours."
I did not go out of the house, but went on sitting at her table
beside her bookshelf with the books on land work, those old favourites
no longer wanted and looking at me now so shamefacedly. For whole
hours together, while it struck seven, eight, nine, while the autumn
night, black as soot, came on outside, I kept examining her old
glove, or the pen with which she always wrote, or her little scissors.
I did nothing, and realized clearly that all I had done before,
ploughing, mowing, chopping, had only been because she wished it.
And if she had sent me to clean a deep well, where I had to stand
up to my waist in deep water, I should have crawled into the well
without considering whether it was necessary or not. And now when
she was not near, Dubetchnya, with its ruins, its untidiness, its
banging shutters, with its thieves by day and by night, seemed to
me a chaos in which any work would be useless. Besides, what had I
to work for here, why anxiety and thought about the future, if I
felt that the earth was giving way under my feet, that I had played
my part in Dubetchnya, and that the fate of the books on farming
was awaiting me too? Oh, what misery it was at night, in hours of
solitude, when I was listening every minute in alarm, as though I
were expecting someone to shout that it was time for me to go away!
I did not grieve for Dubetchnya. I grieved for my love which, too,
was threatened with its autumn. What an immense happiness it is to
love and be loved, and how awful to feel that one is slipping down
from that high pinnacle!
Masha returned from the town towards the evening of the next day.
She was displeased with something, but she concealed it, and only
said, why was it all the window frames had been put in for the
winter it was enough to suffocate one. I took out two frames. We
were not hungry, but we sat down to supper.
"Go and wash your hands," said my wife; "you smell of putty."
She had brought some new illustrated papers from the town, and we
looked at them together after supper. There were supplements with
fashion plates and patterns. Masha looked through them casually,
and was putting them aside to examine them properly later on; but
one dress, with a flat skirt as full as a bell and large sleeves,
interested her, and she looked at it for a minute gravely and
attentively.
"That's not bad," she said.
"Yes, that dress would suit you beautifully," I said, "beautifully."
And looking with emotion at the dress, admiring that patch of grey
simply because she liked it, I went on tenderly:
"A charming, exquisite dress! Splendid, glorious, Masha! My precious
Masha!"
And tears dropped on the fashion plate.
"Splendid Masha . . ." I muttered; "sweet, precious Masha. . . ."
She went to bed, while I sat another hour looking at the illustrations.
"It's a pity you took out the window frames," she said from the
bedroom, "I am afraid it may be cold. Oh, dear, what a draught there
is!"
I read something out of the column of odds and ends, a receipt for
making cheap ink, and an account of the biggest diamond in the
world. I came again upon the fashion plate of the dress she liked,
and I imagined her at a ball, with a fan, bare shoulders, brilliant,
splendid, with a full understanding of painting, music, literature,
and how small and how brief my part seemed!
Our meeting, our marriage, had been only one of the episodes of
which there would be many more in the life of this vital, richly
gifted woman. All the best in the world, as I have said already,
was at her service, and she received it absolutely for nothing, and
even ideas and the intellectual movement in vogue served simply for
her recreation, giving variety to her life, and I was only the
sledge-driver who drove her from one entertainment to another. Now
she did not need me. She would take flight, and I should be alone.
And as though in response to my thought, there came a despairing
scream from the garden.
"He-e-elp!"
It was a shrill, womanish voice, and as though to mimic it the wind
whistled in the chimney on the same shrill note. Half a minute
passed, and again through the noise of the wind, but coming, it
seemed, from the other end of the yard:
"He-e-elp!"
"Misail, do you hear?" my wife asked me softly. "Do you hear?"
She came out from the bedroom in her nightgown, with her hair down,
and listened, looking at the dark window.
"Someone is being murdered," she said. "That is the last straw."
I took my gun and went out. It was very dark outside, the wind was
high, and it was difficult to stand. I went to the gate and listened,
the trees roared, the wind whistled and, probably at the feeble-minded
peasant's, a dog howled lazily. Outside the gates the darkness was
absolute, not a light on the railway-line. And near the lodge, which
a year before had been the office, suddenly sounded a smothered
scream:
"He-e-elp!"
"Who's there?" I called.
There were two people struggling. One was thrusting the other out,
while the other was resisting, and both were breathing heavily.
"Leave go," said one, and I recognized Ivan Tcheprakov; it was he
who was shrieking in a shrill, womanish voice: "Let go, you damned
brute, or I'll bite your hand off."
The other I recognized as Moisey. I separated them, and as I did
so I could not resist hitting Moisey two blows in the face. He fell
down, then got up again, and I hit him once more.
"He tried to kill me," he muttered. "He was trying to get at his
mamma's chest. . . . I want to lock him up in the lodge for security."
Tcheprakov was drunk and did not recognize me; he kept drawing deep
breaths, as though he were just going to shout "help" again.
I left them and went back to the house; my wife was lying on her
bed; she had dressed. I told her what had happened in the yard, and
did not conceal the fact that I had hit Moisey.
"It's terrible to live in the country," she said.
"And what a long night it is. Oh dear, if only it were over!"
"He-e-elp!" we heard again, a little later.
"I'll go and stop them," I said.
"No, let them bite each other's throats," she said with an expression
of disgust.
She was looking up at the ceiling, listening, while I sat beside
her, not daring to speak to her, feeling as though I were to blame
for their shouting "help" in the yard and for the night's seeming
so long.
We were silent, and I waited impatiently for a gleam of light at
the window, and Masha looked all the time as though she had awakened
from a trance and now was marvelling how she, so clever, and
well-educated, so elegant, had come into this pitiful, provincial,
empty hole among a crew of petty, insignificant people, and how she
could have so far forgotten herself as ever to be attracted by one
of these people, and for more than six months to have been his wife.
It seemed to me that at that moment it did not matter to her whether
it was I, or Moisey, or Tcheprakov; everything for her was merged
in that savage drunken "help"--I and our marriage, and our work
together, and the mud and slush of autumn, and when she sighed or
moved into a more comfortable position I read in her face: "Oh,
that morning would come quickly!"
In the morning she went away. I spent another three days at Dubetchnya
expecting her, then I packed all our things in one room, locked it,
and walked to the town. It was already evening when I rang at the
engineer's, and the street lamps were burning in Great Dvoryansky
Street. Pavel told me there was no one at home; Viktor Ivanitch had
gone to Petersburg, and Mariya Viktorovna was probably at the
rehearsal at the Azhogins'. I remember with what emotion I went on
to the Azhogins', how my heart throbbed and fluttered as I mounted
the stairs, and stood waiting a long while on the landing at the
top, not daring to enter that temple of the muses! In the big room
there were lighted candles everywhere, on a little table, on the
piano, and on the stage, everywhere in threes; and the first
performance was fixed for the thirteenth, and now the first rehearsal
was on a Monday, an unlucky day. All part of the war against
superstition! All the devotees of the scenic art were gathered
together; the eldest, the middle, and the youngest sisters were
walking about the stage, reading their parts in exercise books.
Apart from all the rest stood Radish, motionless, with the side of
his head pressed to the wall as he gazed with adoration at the
stage, waiting for the rehearsal to begin. Everything as it used
to be.
I was making my way to my hostess; I had to pay my respects to her,
but suddenly everyone said "Hush!" and waved me to step quietly.
There was a silence. The lid of the piano was raised; a lady sat
down at it screwing up her short-sighted eyes at the music, and my
Masha walked up to the piano, in a low-necked dress, looking
beautiful, but with a special, new sort of beauty not in the least
like the Masha who used to come and meet me in the spring at the
mill. She sang: "Why do I love the radiant night?"
It was the first time during our whole acquaintance that I had heard
her sing. She had a fine, mellow, powerful voice, and while she
sang I felt as though I were eating a ripe, sweet, fragrant melon.
She ended, the audience applauded, and she smiled, very much pleased,
making play with her eyes, turning over the music, smoothing her
skirts, like a bird that has at last broken out of its cage and
preens its wings in freedom. Her hair was arranged over her ears,
and she had an unpleasant, defiant expression in her face, as though
she wanted to throw down a challenge to us all, or to shout to us
as she did to her horses: "Hey, there, my beauties!"
And she must at that moment have been very much like her grandfather
the sledge-driver.
"You here too?" she said, giving me her hand. "Did you hear me sing?
Well, what did you think of it?" and without waiting for my answer
she went on: "It's a very good thing you are here. I am going
to-night to Petersburg for a short time. You'll let me go, won't
you?"
At midnight I went with her to the station. She embraced me
affectionately, probably feeling grateful to me for not asking
unnecessary questions, and she promised to write to me, and I held
her hands a long time, and kissed them, hardly able to restrain my
tears and not uttering a word.
And when she had gone I stood watching the retreating lights,
caressing her in imagination and softly murmuring:
"My darling Masha, glorious Masha. . . ."
I spent the night at Karpovna's, and next morning I was at work
with Radish, re-covering the furniture of a rich merchant who was
marrying his daughter to a doctor.