I had been very unwell before we left St. Petersburg, and instead of
going home we moved into a villa at a short distance from the city,
where my husband left me while he went to see his mother. I was then
quite well enough to accompany him, but he urged me not to do so,
alleging as his reason my state of health. I quite understood that he
was not really afraid of my health, but he was possessed by the idea
that it would not be good for us to be in the country; I did not insist
very strenuously, and remained where I was. Without him I felt myself
truly in the midst of emptiness and isolation; but when he returned I
perceived that his presence no longer added to my life what it had been
wont to add. Those former relations, when any thought, any sensation,
not communicated to him, oppressed me like a crime; when all his
actions, all his words, appeared to me models of perfection; when, from
sheer joy, we would laugh at nothing, looking at each other; those
relations had so insensibly changed into something quite different, that
we ourselves hardly admitted the transformation. But the fact was that
each of us had now separate occupations and interests, which we no
longer sought to share. We had even ceased to be at all troubled at thus
living in entirely distinct worlds, and entirely as strangers to each
other. We had become habituated to this thought, and at the end of a
year there was no longer the mutual embarrassment when our eyes chanced
to meet. His boyishness, his outbursts of light-hearted gaiety when with
me, were gone; gone, too, was that indulgent indifference, against which
I had so often risen in rebellion; nor had the penetrating look
survived, which, in other days, had at once disturbed and delighted me;
there were no more of the prayers, no more of the hours of exaltation
which we had so loved to share, and indeed we saw each other only very
rarely; he was constantly out, and I no longer dreaded remaining alone,
no longer complained of it; I was perpetually engrossed, on my side,
with the obligations of society, and never felt any need of him
whatever.
Scenes and altercations between us were quite unheard-of. I endeavored
to satisfy him, he carried out all my wishes, any one would have said
that we still loved each other.
When we were alone together, which was of rare occurrence, I felt
neither joy, agitation, nor embarrassment, in his presence, any more
than if I had been alone. I knew well that here was no new-comer, no
stranger, but on the contrary, a very excellent man, in short my
husband, whom I knew just as well as I knew myself. I was persuaded that
I could tell beforehand all that he would do, all that he would think,
precisely what view he would take of any matter, and if he did or
thought otherwise I only considered that he made a mistake; I never
expected anything at all from him. In one word, it was my husband, that
was all. It seemed to me that things were so, and had to be so; that no
other relations between us could exist, or indeed ever had existed. When
he went away, especially at first, I still felt terribly lonely, and
while he was absent I felt the full value of his support; when he came
home, I would even throw myself in his arms with joy; but scarcely had
two hours elapsed ere I had forgotten this joy, and would find that I
had nothing to say to him. In these brief moments, when calm, temperate
tenderness seemed to revive between us, it seemed to me that there never
had been anything but this; that this alone was what had once so
powerfully stirred my heart, and I thought I read in his eyes the same
impression. I felt that to this tenderness there was a limit, which he
did not wish to pass, and neither did I. Sometimes this caused me a
little regret, but I had no time to think about it seriously, and I
tried to put it out of my mind, by giving myself up to a variety of
amusements of which I did not even render a clear account to myself, but
which perpetually offered themselves to me. The life in the world,
which, at first, had bewildered me with its splendor and the
gratification it afforded to my self-love, had soon established entire
dominion over my inclinations, and become at once a habit and a bondage,
occupying in my soul that place which I had fancied would be the home of
sentiment. Therefore I avoided being alone, dreading lest it might force
me to look into and realize my condition. My whole time, from the
earliest hour in the morning till the latest at night, was appropriated
to something; even if I did not go out, there was no time that I left
free. I found in this life neither pleasure, nor weariness, and it
seemed to me it had always been thus.
In this manner three years passed away, and our relations with each
other remained the same, benumbed, congealed, motionless, as if no
alteration could come to them, either for better or worse. During the
course of these three years there were two important events in the
family, but neither brought any change to my own life. These events were
the birth of my first child, and the death of Tatiana Semenovna. At
first the maternal sentiment took possession of me with such power, so
great and unexpected a rapture seized upon me, that I imagined a new
existence was beginning; but at the end of two months, when I commenced
to go into society once more, this sentiment, which had been gradually
subsiding, had become nothing more than the habitual and cold
performance of a duty. My husband, on the contrary, from the day of this
son's birth, had become his old self, gentle, calm, and home-loving,
recalling for his child, all his former tenderness and gaiety. Often
when I went in my ball-dress into the child's nursery, to give him the
evening benediction before starting and found my husband there, I would
catch a glance of reproach, or a severe and watchful look fixed upon me,
and I would all at once feel ashamed. I was myself terrified at my
indifference towards my own child, and I asked myself: "Can I be so much
worse than other women?--But what is to be done?" I questioned. "Of
course I love my son, but, for all that, I cannot sit down beside him
for whole days at a time, that would bore me to death; and as for making
a pretence, nothing in the world would induce me to do such a thing!"
The death of my husband's mother was a great grief to him; it was very
painful to him, he said, to live after her at Nikolski, but though I
also regretted her and really sympathized with his sorrow, it would have
been at that time more agreeable, more restful to me, to return and make
our residence there. We had passed the greater part of these three years
in the city; once only had I been at Nikolski, for a visit of two
months; and during the third year we had been abroad.
We passed this summer at the baths.
I was then twenty-one years of age. We were, I thought, prosperous; from
my home life I expected no more than it had already given me; all the
people whom I knew, it seemed to me, loved me; my health was excellent,
I knew that I was pretty, my _toilettes_ were the freshest at the baths,
the weather was superb, an indefinable atmosphere of beauty and elegance
surrounded me, and everything appeared to me in the highest degree
delightful and joyous. Yet I was not, as light-hearted as I had been in
the old days at Nikolski, when I had felt that my happiness was within
myself, when I was happy because I deserved to be so, when my happiness
was great but might be greater still. Now all was different;
nevertheless the summer was charming. I had nothing to desire, nothing
to hope, nothing to fear; my life, as it seemed to me, was at its full,
and my conscience, it also seemed to me, was entirely clear.
Among the men most conspicuous at the baths during this season, there
was not one whom, for any reason whatever, I preferred above the others,
not even old Prince K. our ambassador, who paid me distinguished
attention. One was too young, another was too old, this one was an
Englishman with light curly hair, that one, a bearded Frenchman; I was
perfectly indifferent to all, but, at the same time, all were
indispensable to me. Insignificant as they might be, they yet belonged
to, and formed a part of, this life of elegance surrounding me, this
atmosphere in which I breathed. However, there was one among them, an
Italian, Marquis D. who, by the bold fashion in which he showed the
admiration he felt for me, had attracted my attention more than the
others. He allowed no occasion to escape him of meeting me, dancing with
me, appearing on horseback beside me, accompanying me to the casino, and
he was constantly telling me how beautiful I was. From my window I
sometimes saw him wandering around our house, and more than once the
annoying persistence of the glances shot towards me from his flashing
eyes had made me blush and turn away.
He was young, handsome, elegant; and one remarkable thing about him was
his extraordinary resemblance to my husband, especially in his smile and
something about the upper part of the face, though he was the handsomer
man of the two. I was struck by the likeness, in spite of decided
differences in some particulars, in the mouth for instance, the look,
the longer shape of the chin; and instead of the charm given to my
husband's face by his expression of kindness and ideal calmness, there
was in the other something gross and almost bestial. After a while I
could not help seeing that he was passionately in love with me; I
sometimes found myself thinking of him with lofty pity. I undertook to
tranquillize him, and bring him down to terms of cordial confidence and
friendship, but he repelled these attempts with trenchant disdain, and,
to my great discomfiture, continued to show indications of a passion,
silent, indeed, as yet, but momentarily threatening to break forth.
Although I would not acknowledge it to myself, I was afraid of this man,
and seemed, against my own will, as it were, forced to think of him. My
husband had made his acquaintance, and was even more intimate with him
than with most of our circle, with whom he confined himself to being
simply the husband of his wife, and to whom his bearing was haughty and
cold.
Towards the end of the season I had a slight illness, which confined me
to the house for two weeks. The first time I went out, after my
recovery, was to listen to the music in the evening, and I was at once
told of the arrival of Lady C. a noted beauty, who had been expected
for some time. A circle of friends quickly gathered around me, eagerly
welcoming me once more among them, but a yet larger circle was forming
about the new belle, and everybody near me was telling me about her and
her beauty. She was pointed out to me; a beautiful and bewitching woman,
truly, but with an expression of confidence and self-sufficiency which
impressed me unpleasantly, and I said so. That evening, everything that
usually seemed so bright and delightful was tiresome to me. The
following day Lady C. organized an expedition to the castle, which I
declined. Hardly any one remained behind with me, and the aspect of
affairs was decidedly changed to my eyes. All, men and things, seemed
stupid and dull; I felt like crying, and resolved to complete my cure as
soon as possible and go home to Russia. At the bottom of my heart lurked
bad, malevolent feelings, but I would not confess it to myself. I said
that I was not well, making that a pretext for giving up society. I very
seldom went out, and then only in the morning, alone, to drink the
waters, or for a quiet walk or drive about the environs with L. M., one
of my Russian acquaintances. My husband was absent at this time, having
gone, some days before, to Heidelberg, to wait there until the end of my
prescribed stay should allow our return to Russia, and he came to see me
only now and then.
One day Lady C. had carried off most of the company on some party of
pleasure, and after dinner L. M. and I made a little excursion to the
castle by ourselves. While our carriage was slowly following the winding
road between the double rows of chestnuts, centuries old, between whose
gray trunks we saw in the distance the exquisite environs of Baden,
lying in the purple light of the setting sun, we unconsciously fell into
a serious strain of conversation, which had never before been the case
with us. L. M., whom I had known so long, now for the first time
appeared to me as a lovely intelligent woman, with whom one could
discuss any topic whatever, and whose society was full of charm and
interest. We talked about family duties and pleasures, children, the
vacuous life led in such places as we were now in, our desire to return
to Russia, to the country, and we both fell into a grave, gentle mood,
which was still upon us when we reached the castle. Within its broken
walls all was in deep shadow, cool and still, the summits of the towers
were yet in the sunlight, and the least sound of voice or footstep
re-echoed among the arches. Through the doorway we saw the beautiful
stretch of country surrounding Baden,--beautiful, yet to our Russian
eyes, cold and stern.
We sat down to rest, silently watching the sinking sun. Presently we
heard voices, they grew more distinct, and I thought I caught my own
name. I listened involuntarily, and heard a few words. I recognized the
voices; they were those of the Marquis D. and of a Frenchman, his
friend, whom I also knew. They were talking about me and Lady C. The
Frenchman was comparing one with the other, and analyzing our beauty. He
said nothing objectionable, yet I felt the blood rush to my heart as he
spoke. He entered into detail as to what he found attractive in both
Lady C. and myself. As for me, I was already a mother, while Lady C. was
but nineteen years of age; my hair was more beautiful, but Lady C.'s was
more gracefully arranged; Lady C. was more the high born dame "while
yours," he said, alluding to me, "is one of the little princesses so
often sent us by Russia." He concluded by saying that it was very
discreet in me not to attempt to contest the field with Lady C., for, if
I did, I most assuredly would find Baden my burial-place.
This cut me to the quick.
"Unless she chose to console herself with you!" added the Frenchman with
a gay, cruel laugh.
"If she goes, I shall follow," was the coarse reply of the voice with
the Italian accent.
"Happy mortal! he can still love!" commented the other, mockingly.
"Love!" the Italian was silent a moment, then went on. "I cannot help
loving! Without love there is no life. To make of one's life a
romance,--that is the only good. And my romances never break off in the
middle; this one, like the others, I will carry out to the end."
"Good luck, my friend!" said the Frenchman.
I heard no more for the speakers seemed to turn the angle of the wall,
and their steps receded on the other side. They descended the broken
stairs, and in a few moments emerged from a side-door near us, showing
much surprise at the sight of us. I felt my cheeks flame when Marquis D.
approached me, and was confused and frightened at his offering me his
arm upon our leaving the castle. I could not refuse it, and following L.
M. who led the way with his friend, we went down towards the carriage. I
was indignant at what the Frenchman had said of me, though I could not
help secretly admitting that he had done nothing but put into language
what I myself had already felt, but the words of the marquis had
confounded and revolted me by their grossness. I was tortured by the
thought of having heard them, and at the same time I had suddenly lost
all fear of him. I was disgusted at feeling him so near me; without
looking at him, without answering him, trying, though I still had his
arm, to keep so far from him that I could not hear his whispers, I
walked on quickly, close behind L. M. and the Frenchman. The marquis was
talking about the lovely view, the unexpected delight of meeting me, and
I know not what besides, but I did not listen to him. The whole time I
was thinking about my husband, my son, Russia; divided feelings of shame
and pity took hold of me, and I was possessed by a desire to hurry home,
to shut myself up in my solitary room in the _Hôtel de Bade_, where I
might be free to reflect upon all that seemed so suddenly to have risen
up within my soul. But L. M. was walking rather slowly, the carriage was
still some distance away, and it seemed to me that my escort was
obstinately slackening our pace, as if he meant to be left alone with
me. "That shall not be!" I said to myself, quickening my steps. But he
undisguisedly kept me back, holding my arm with a close pressure; at
this moment L. M. turned a corner of the road, and we were left alone.
I was seized with alarm.
"Excuse me," said I coldly, drawing my arm out of his, but the lace
caught on one of his buttons. He stooped towards me to disengage it, and
his ungloved fingers rested on my arm. A new sensation--not fright,
certainly not pleasure--sent a chill shiver through me. I looked up at
him, meaning my glance to express all the cold contempt I felt for him;
but instead of this, he seemed to read in it only agitation and alarm.
His ardent, humid eyes were fixed passionately upon me, his hands
grasped my wrists, his half-open lips were murmuring to me, telling me
that he loved me, that I was everything to him, his hold upon me growing
stronger and closer with every word. I felt fire in my veins, my vision
was obscured, I trembled from head to foot, and the words I tried to
utter died away in my throat. Suddenly I felt a kiss upon my cheek; I
shivered, and looked into his face again, powerless to speak or stir,
expecting and wishing I knew not what.
It was only an instant. But this instant was terrible! In it I saw him
as he was, I analyzed his face at a glance: low brow, straight correct
nose with swelling nostrils, fine beard and mustache waxed and pointed,
cheeks carefully shaven, brown neck. I hated him, I feared him, he was a
stranger to me; nevertheless, at this moment, how powerfully the emotion
and passion of this detestable man, this stranger, was re-echoing within
me!
"I love you!" was the murmur of the voice so like my husband's. My
husband and my child,--hurriedly my mind flashed to them, as beings
dearly loved, once existent, now gone, lost, done with. But suddenly
from around the turn of the road I heard L. M.'s voice calling me. I
recovered myself, snatched away my hands without looking at him, and
almost flew to rejoin her. Not until we were in the caléche did I glance
back at him. He took off his hat, and said something to me--I know not
what--smiling. He little knew what inexpressible torture he made me
endure at that moment.
Life appeared so miserable, the future so desperate, the past so
sombre! L. M. talked to me, but I did not understand one word she was
saying. It seemed as though she was only talking to me from compassion,
and to hide the contempt she felt. I thought I read this contempt, this
insulting compassion in every word, every glance. That kiss was burning
into my cheek with cutting shame, and to think of my husband and child
was insupportable to me. Once alone in my chamber, I hoped to be able to
meditate upon my situation, but I found it was frightful to remain
alone. I could not drink the tea that was brought me, and without
knowing why, hurriedly I decided to take the evening train for
Heidelberg, to rejoin my husband. When I was seated with my maid in the
empty compartment, when the train was at last in motion, and I breathed
the fresh air rushing in through the empty windows, I began to be myself
again, and to think with some degree of clearness over my past and my
future. All my married life, from the day of our departure for St.
Petersburg, lay before me in a new light, that of awakened and accusing
conscience.
For the first time, I vividly recalled the commencement of my life in
the country, my plans; for the first time, the thought came to my mind:
how happy he was then! And I suddenly felt guilty towards him. "But
then, why not check me, why dissimulate before me, why avoid all
explanation, why insult me?" I asked myself. "Why not use the power of
his love? But perhaps he no longer loved me?"--Yet, whether he was to
blame or not, here was this on my cheek, this kiss which I still felt.
The nearer I came to Heidelberg, and the more clearly my husband's image
presented itself, the more terrible became the imminent meeting with
him. "I will tell him all, all; my eyes will be blinded with tears of
repentance," thought I, "and he will forgive me." But I did not myself
know what was this "all" that I was going to tell him, nor was I
absolutely sure that he would forgive me. In fact, when I entered his
room and saw his face, so tranquil despite its surprise, I felt no
longer able to tell him anything, to confess anything, to entreat his
forgiveness for anything. An unspeakable sorrow and deep repentance were
weighing me down.
"What were you thinking of?" he said: "I intended joining you at Baden
to-morrow." But a second glance at me seemed to startle him. "Is
anything wrong? What is the matter with you?" he exclaimed.
"Nothing," I replied, keeping back my tears. "I have come away ... I am
not going back ... Let us go--to-morrow if we can--home to Russia!"
He was silent for some time, watching me narrowly.
"Come, tell me what has occurred," he said, at length.
I felt my face grow scarlet, and my eyes sank. His were glittering with
an indefinable foreboding, and hot anger. I dreaded the thoughts which
might be assailing him, and, with a power of dissimulation of which I
could not have believed myself capable, I made haste to answer:
"Nothing has occurred,--but I was overwhelmed by weariness and
dejection; I was alone, I began to think of you, and of our life. How
long I have been to blame towards you! After this, you may take me with
you wherever you wish! Yes, I have long been to blame," I repeated, and
my tears began to fall fast. "Let us go back to the country," I cried,
"and forever!"
"Ah! my love, spare me these sentimental scenes," said he, coldly; "for
you to go to the country will be all very well, just now, for we are
running a little short of money; but as for its being 'forever,' that is
but a notion: I know you could not stay there long! Come, drink a cup of
tea,--that is the best thing to do," he concluded, rising to call a
servant.
I could not help imagining what his thoughts of me doubtless were, and I
felt indignant at the frightful ideas which I attributed to him as I met
the look of shame and vigilant suspicion which he bent upon me. No, he
will not, and he cannot comprehend me!... I told him that I was going
to see the child, and left him. I longed to be alone, and free to weep,
weep, weep....