IV

The party broke up after supper about a quarter past twelve. Seeing

her visitors off, Olga Mihalovna stood at the door and said:

"You really ought to take a shawl! It's turning a little chilly.

Please God, you don't catch cold!"

"Don't trouble, Olga Mihalovna," the ladies answered as they got

into the carriage. "Well, good-bye. Mind now, we are expecting you;

don't play us false!"

"Wo-o-o!" the coachman checked the horses.

"Ready, Denis! Good-bye, Olga Mihalovna!"

"Kiss the children for me!"

The carriage started and immediately disappeared into the darkness.

In the red circle of light cast by the lamp in the road, a fresh

pair or trio of impatient horses, and the silhouette of a coachman

with his hands held out stiffly before him, would come into view.

Again there began kisses, reproaches, and entreaties to come again

or to take a shawl. Pyotr Dmitritch kept running out and helping

the ladies into their carriages.

"You go now by Efremovshtchina," he directed the coachman; "it's

nearer through Mankino, but the road is worse that way. You might

have an upset. . . . Good-bye, my charmer. _Mille_ compliments to

your artist!"

"Good-bye, Olga Mihalovna, darling! Go indoors, or you will catch

cold! It's damp!"

"Wo-o-o! you rascal!"

"What horses have you got here?" Pyotr Dmitritch asked.

"They were bought from Haidorov, in Lent," answered the coachman.

"Capital horses. . . ."

And Pyotr Dmitritch patted the trace horse on the haunch.

"Well, you can start! God give you good luck!"

The last visitor was gone at last; the red circle on the road

quivered, moved aside, contracted and went out, as Vassily carried

away the lamp from the entrance. On previous occasions when they

had seen off their visitors, Pyotr Dmitritch and Olga Mihalovna had

begun dancing about the drawing-room, facing each other, clapping

their hands and singing: "They've gone! They've gone!" But now Olga

Mihalovna was not equal to that. She went to her bedroom, undressed,

and got into bed.

She fancied she would fall asleep at once and sleep soundly. Her

legs and her shoulders ached painfully, her head was heavy from the

strain of talking, and she was conscious, as before, of discomfort

all over her body. Covering her head over, she lay still for three

or four minutes, then peeped out from under the bed-clothes at the

lamp before the ikon, listened to the silence, and smiled.

"It's nice, it's nice," she whispered, curling up her legs, which

felt as if they had grown longer from so much walking. "Sleep, sleep

. . . ."

Her legs would not get into a comfortable position; she felt uneasy

all over, and she turned on the other side. A big fly blew buzzing

about the bedroom and thumped against the ceiling. She could hear,

too, Grigory and Vassily stepping cautiously about the drawing-room,

putting the chairs back in their places; it seemed to Olga Mihalovna

that she could not go to sleep, nor be comfortable till those sounds

were hushed. And again she turned over on the other side impatiently.

She heard her husband's voice in the drawing-room. Some one must

be staying the night, as Pyotr Dmitritch was addressing some one

and speaking loudly:

"I don't say that Count Alexey Petrovitch is an impostor. But he

can't help seeming to be one, because all of you gentlemen attempt

to see in him something different from what he really is. His

craziness is looked upon as originality, his familiar manners as

good-nature, and his complete absence of opinions as Conservatism.

Even granted that he is a Conservative of the stamp of '84, what

after all is Conservatism?"

Pyotr Dmitritch, angry with Count Alexey Petrovitch, his visitors,

and himself, was relieving his heart. He abused both the Count and

his visitors, and in his vexation with himself was ready to speak

out and to hold forth upon anything. After seeing his guest to his

room, he walked up and down the drawing-room, walked through the

dining-room, down the corridor, then into his study, then again

went into the drawing-room, and came into the bedroom. Olga Mihalovna

was lying on her back, with the bed-clothes only to her waist (by

now she felt hot), and with an angry face, watched the fly that was

thumping against the ceiling.

"Is some one staying the night?" she asked.

"Yegorov."

Pyotr Dmitritch undressed and got into his bed.

Without speaking, he lighted a cigarette, and he, too, fell to

watching the fly. There was an uneasy and forbidding look in his

eyes. Olga Mihalovna looked at his handsome profile for five minutes

in silence. It seemed to her for some reason that if her husband

were suddenly to turn facing her, and to say, "Olga, I am unhappy,"

she would cry or laugh, and she would be at ease. She fancied that

her legs were aching and her body was uncomfortable all over because

of the strain on her feelings.

"Pyotr, what are you thinking of?" she said.

"Oh, nothing . . ." her husband answered.

"You have taken to having secrets from me of late: that's not right."

"Why is it not right?" answered Pyotr Dmitritch drily and not at

once. "We all have our personal life, every one of us, and we are

bound to have our secrets."

"Personal life, our secrets . . . that's all words! Understand you

are wounding me!" said Olga Mihalovna, sitting up in bed. "If you

have a load on your heart, why do you hide it from me? And why do

you find it more suitable to open your heart to women who are nothing

to you, instead of to your wife? I overheard your outpourings to

Lubotchka by the bee-house to-day."

"Well, I congratulate you. I am glad you did overhear it."

This meant "Leave me alone and let me think." Olga Mihalovna was

indignant. Vexation, hatred, and wrath, which had been accumulating

within her during the whole day, suddenly boiled over; she wanted

at once to speak out, to hurt her husband without putting it off

till to-morrow, to wound him, to punish him. . . . Making an effort

to control herself and not to scream, she said:

"Let me tell you, then, that it's all loathsome, loathsome, loathsome!

I've been hating you all day; you see what you've done."

Pyotr Dmitritch, too, got up and sat on the bed.

"It's loathsome, loathsome, loathsome," Olga Mihalovna went on,

beginning to tremble all over. "There's no need to congratulate me;

you had better congratulate yourself! It's a shame, a disgrace. You

have wrapped yourself in lies till you are ashamed to be alone in

the room with your wife! You are a deceitful man! I see through you

and understand every step you take!"

"Olya, I wish you would please warn me when you are out of humour.

Then I will sleep in the study."

Saying this, Pyotr Dmitritch picked up his pillow and walked out

of the bedroom. Olga Mihalovna had not foreseen this. For some

minutes she remained silent with her mouth open, trembling all over

and looking at the door by which her husband had gone out, and

trying to understand what it meant. Was this one of the devices to

which deceitful people have recourse when they are in the wrong,

or was it a deliberate insult aimed at her pride? How was she to

take it? Olga Mihalovna remembered her cousin, a lively young

officer, who often used to tell her, laughing, that when "his spouse

nagged at him" at night, he usually picked up his pillow and went

whistling to spend the night in his study, leaving his wife in a

foolish and ridiculous position. This officer was married to a rich,

capricious, and foolish woman whom he did not respect but simply

put up with.

Olga Mihalovna jumped out of bed. To her mind there was only one

thing left for her to do now; to dress with all possible haste and

to leave the house forever. The house was her own, but so much the

worse for Pyotr Dmitritch. Without pausing to consider whether this

was necessary or not, she went quickly to the study to inform her

husband of her intention ("Feminine logic!" flashed through her

mind), and to say something wounding and sarcastic at parting. . . .

Pyotr Dmitritch was lying on the sofa and pretending to read a

newspaper. There was a candle burning on a chair near him. His face

could not be seen behind the newspaper.

"Be so kind as to tell me what this means? I am asking you."

"Be so kind . . ." Pyotr Dmitritch mimicked her, not showing his

face. "It's sickening, Olga! Upon my honour, I am exhausted and not

up to it. . . . Let us do our quarrelling to-morrow."

"No, I understand you perfectly!" Olga Mihalovna went on. "You hate

me! Yes, yes! You hate me because I am richer than you! You will

never forgive me for that, and will always be lying to me!" ("Feminine

logic!" flashed through her mind again.) "You are laughing at me

now. . . . I am convinced, in fact, that you only married me in

order to have property qualifications and those wretched horses. . . .

Oh, I am miserable!"

Pyotr Dmitritch dropped the newspaper and got up. The unexpected

insult overwhelmed him. With a childishly helpless smile he looked

desperately at his wife, and holding out his hands to her as though

to ward off blows, he said imploringly:

"Olya!"

And expecting her to say something else awful, he leaned back in

his chair, and his huge figure seemed as helplessly childish as his

smile.

"Olya, how could you say it?" he whispered.

Olga Mihalovna came to herself. She was suddenly aware of her

passionate love for this man, remembered that he was her husband,

Pyotr Dmitritch, without whom she could not live for a day, and who

loved her passionately, too. She burst into loud sobs that sounded

strange and unlike her, and ran back to her bedroom.

She fell on the bed, and short hysterical sobs, choking her and

making her arms and legs twitch, filled the bedroom. Remembering

there was a visitor sleeping three or four rooms away, she buried

her head under the pillow to stifle her sobs, but the pillow rolled

on to the floor, and she almost fell on the floor herself when she

stooped to pick it up. She pulled the quilt up to her face, but her

hands would not obey her, but tore convulsively at everything she

clutched.

She thought that everything was lost, that the falsehood she had

told to wound her husband had shattered her life into fragments.

Her husband would not forgive her. The insult she had hurled at him

was not one that could be effaced by any caresses, by any vows. . . .

How could she convince her husband that she did not believe

what she had said?

"It's all over, it's all over!" she cried, not noticing that the

pillow had slipped on to the floor again. "For God's sake, for God's

sake!"

Probably roused by her cries, the guest and the servants were now

awake; next day all the neighbourhood would know that she had been

in hysterics and would blame Pyotr Dmitritch. She made an effort

to restrain herself, but her sobs grew louder and louder every

minute.

"For God's sake," she cried in a voice not like her own, and not

knowing why she cried it. "For God's sake!"

She felt as though the bed were heaving under her and her feet were

entangled in the bed-clothes. Pyotr Dmitritch, in his dressing-gown,

with a candle in his hand, came into the bedroom.

"Olya, hush!" he said.

She raised herself, and kneeling up in bed, screwing up her eyes

at the light, articulated through her sobs:

"Understand . . . understand! . . . ."

She wanted to tell him that she was tired to death by the party,

by his falsity, by her own falsity, that it had all worked together,

but she could only articulate:

"Understand . . . understand!"

"Come, drink!" he said, handing her some water.

She took the glass obediently and began drinking, but the water

splashed over and was spilt on her arms, her throat and knees.

"I must look horribly unseemly," she thought.

Pyotr Dmitritch put her back in bed without a word, and covered her

with the quilt, then he took the candle and went out.

"For God's sake!" Olga Mihalovna cried again. "Pyotr, understand,

understand!"

Suddenly something gripped her in the lower part of her body and

back with such violence that her wailing was cut short, and she bit

the pillow from the pain. But the pain let her go again at once,

and she began sobbing again.

The maid came in, and arranging the quilt over her, asked in alarm:

"Mistress, darling, what is the matter?"

"Go out of the room," said Pyotr Dmitritch sternly, going up to the

bed.

"Understand . . . understand! . . ." Olga Mihalovna began.

"Olya, I entreat you, calm yourself," he said. "I did not mean to

hurt you. I would not have gone out of the room if I had known it

would have hurt you so much; I simply felt depressed. I tell you,

on my honour . . ."

"Understand! . . . You were lying, I was lying. . . ."

"I understand. . . . Come, come, that's enough! I understand," said

Pyotr Dmitritch tenderly, sitting down on her bed. "You said that

in anger; I quite understand. I swear to God I love you beyond

anything on earth, and when I married you I never once thought of

your being rich. I loved you immensely, and that's all . . . I

assure you. I have never been in want of money or felt the value

of it, and so I cannot feel the difference between your fortune and

mine. It always seemed to me we were equally well off. And that I

have been deceitful in little things, that . . . of course, is true.

My life has hitherto been arranged in such a frivolous way that it

has somehow been impossible to get on without paltry lying. It

weighs on me, too, now. . . . Let us leave off talking about it,

for goodness' sake!"

Olga Mihalovna again felt in acute pain, and clutched her husband

by the sleeve.

"I am in pain, in pain, in pain . . ." she said rapidly. "Oh, what

pain!"

"Damnation take those visitors!" muttered Pyotr Dmitritch, getting

up. "You ought not to have gone to the island to-day!" he cried.

"What an idiot I was not to prevent you! Oh, my God!"

He scratched his head in vexation, and, with a wave of his hand,

walked out of the room.

Then he came into the room several times, sat down on the bed beside

her, and talked a great deal, sometimes tenderly, sometimes angrily,

but she hardly heard him. Her sobs were continually interrupted by

fearful attacks of pain, and each time the pain was more acute and

prolonged. At first she held her breath and bit the pillow during

the pain, but then she began screaming on an unseemly piercing note.

Once seeing her husband near her, she remembered that she had

insulted him, and without pausing to think whether it were really

Pyotr Dmitritch or whether she were in delirium, clutched his hand

in both hers and began kissing it.

"You were lying, I was lying . . ." she began justifying herself.

"Understand, understand. . . . They have exhausted me, driven me

out of all patience."

"Olya, we are not alone," said Pyotr Dmitritch.

Olga Mihalovna raised her head and saw Varvara, who was kneeling

by the chest of drawers and pulling out the bottom drawer. The top

drawers were already open. Then Varvara got up, red from the strained

position, and with a cold, solemn face began trying to unlock a

box.

"Marya, I can't unlock it!" she said in a whisper. "You unlock it,

won't you?"

Marya, the maid, was digging a candle end out of the candlestick

with a pair of scissors, so as to put in a new candle; she went up

to Varvara and helped her to unlock the box.

"There should be nothing locked . . ." whispered Varvara. "Unlock

this basket, too, my good girl. Master," she said, "you should send

to Father Mihail to unlock the holy gates! You must!"

"Do what you like," said Pyotr Dmitritch, breathing hard, "only,

for God's sake, make haste and fetch the doctor or the midwife! Has

Vassily gone? Send some one else. Send your husband!"

"It's the birth," Olga Mihalovna thought. "Varvara," she moaned,

"but he won't be born alive!"

"It's all right, it's all right, mistress," whispered Varvara.

"Please God, he will be alive! he will be alive!"

When Olga Mihalovna came to herself again after a pain she was no

longer sobbing nor tossing from side to side, but moaning. She could

not refrain from moaning even in the intervals between the pains.

The candles were still burning, but the morning light was coming

through the blinds. It was probably about five o'clock in the

morning. At the round table there was sitting some unknown woman

with a very discreet air, wearing a white apron. From her whole

appearance it was evident she had been sitting there a long time.

Olga Mihalovna guessed that she was the midwife.

"Will it soon be over?" she asked, and in her voice she heard a

peculiar and unfamiliar note which had never been there before. "I

must be dying in childbirth," she thought.

Pyotr Dmitritch came cautiously into the bedroom, dressed for the

day, and stood at the window with his back to his wife. He lifted

the blind and looked out of window.

"What rain!" he said.

"What time is it?" asked Olga Mihalovna, in order to hear the

unfamiliar note in her voice again.

"A quarter to six," answered the midwife.

"And what if I really am dying?" thought Olga Mihalovna, looking

at her husband's head and the window-panes on which the rain was

beating. "How will he live without me? With whom will he have tea

and dinner, talk in the evenings, sleep?"

And he seemed to her like a forlorn child; she felt sorry for him

and wanted to say something nice, caressing and consolatory. She

remembered how in the spring he had meant to buy himself some

harriers, and she, thinking it a cruel and dangerous sport, had

prevented him from doing it.

"Pyotr, buy yourself harriers," she moaned.

He dropped the blind and went up to the bed, and would have said

something; but at that moment the pain came back, and Olga Mihalovna

uttered an unseemly, piercing scream.

The pain and the constant screaming and moaning stupefied her. She

heard, saw, and sometimes spoke, but hardly understood anything,

and was only conscious that she was in pain or was just going to

be in pain. It seemed to her that the nameday party had been long,

long ago--not yesterday, but a year ago perhaps; and that her new

life of agony had lasted longer than her childhood, her school-days,

her time at the University, and her marriage, and would go on for

a long, long time, endlessly. She saw them bring tea to the midwife,

and summon her at midday to lunch and afterwards to dinner; she saw

Pyotr Dmitritch grow used to coming in, standing for long intervals

by the window, and going out again; saw strange men, the maid,

Varvara, come in as though they were at home. . . . Varvara said

nothing but, "He will, he will," and was angry when any one closed

the drawers and the chest. Olga Mihalovna saw the light change in

the room and in the windows: at one time it was twilight, then thick

like fog, then bright daylight as it had been at dinner-time the

day before, then again twilight . . . and each of these changes

lasted as long as her childhood, her school-days, her life at the

University. . . .

In the evening two doctors--one bony, bald, with a big red beard;

the other with a swarthy Jewish face and cheap spectacles--performed

some sort of operation on Olga Mihalovna. To these unknown men

touching her body she felt utterly indifferent. By now she had no

feeling of shame, no will, and any one might do what he would with

her. If any one had rushed at her with a knife, or had insulted

Pyotr Dmitritch, or had robbed her of her right to the little

creature, she would not have said a word.

They gave her chloroform during the operation. When she came to

again, the pain was still there and insufferable. It was night. And

Olga Mihalovna remembered that there had been just such a night

with the stillness, the lamp, with the midwife sitting motionless

by the bed, with the drawers of the chest pulled out, with Pyotr

Dmitritch standing by the window, but some time very, very long

ago. . . .

V

"I am not dead . . ." thought Olga Mihalovna when she began to

understand her surroundings again, and when the pain was over.

A bright summer day looked in at the widely open windows; in the

garden below the windows, the sparrows and the magpies never ceased

chattering for one instant.

The drawers were shut now, her husband's bed had been made. There

was no sign of the midwife or of the maid, or of Varvara in the

room, only Pyotr Dmitritch was standing, as before, motionless by

the window looking into the garden. There was no sound of a child's

crying, no one was congratulating her or rejoicing, it was evident

that the little creature had not been born alive.

"Pyotr!"

Olga Mihalovna called to her husband.

Pyotr Dmitritch looked round. It seemed as though a long time must

have passed since the last guest had departed and Olga Mihalovna

had insulted her husband, for Pyotr Dmitritch was perceptibly thinner

and hollow-eyed.

"What is it?" he asked, coming up to the bed.

He looked away, moved his lips and smiled with childlike helplessness.

"Is it all over?" asked Olga Mihalovna.

Pyotr Dmitritch tried to make some answer, but his lips quivered

and his mouth worked like a toothless old man's, like Uncle Nikolay

Nikolaitch's.

"Olya," he said, wringing his hands; big tears suddenly dropping

from his eyes. "Olya, I don't care about your property qualification,

nor the Circuit Courts . . ." (he gave a sob) "nor particular views,

nor those visitors, nor your fortune. . . . I don't care about

anything! Why didn't we take care of our child? Oh, it's no good

talking!"

With a despairing gesture he went out of the bedroom.

But nothing mattered to Olga Mihalovna now, there was a mistiness

in her brain from the chloroform, an emptiness in her soul. . . .

The dull indifference to life which had overcome her when the two

doctors were performing the operation still had possession of her.