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.”