Chapter Chapter 24 · Chapter XXIV

. Chapter XXIV

“Two days later I started for the assembly, having bid farewell to my

wife in an excellent and tranquil state of mind. In the district there

was always much to be done. It was a world and a life apart. During two

days I spent ten hours at the sessions. The evening of the second day,

on returning to my district lodgings, I found a letter from my wife,

telling me of the children, of their uncle, of the servants, and, among

other things, as if it were perfectly natural, that Troukhatchevsky had

been at the house, and had brought her the promised scores. He had also

proposed that they play again, but she had refused.

“For my part, I did not remember at all that he had promised any score.

It had seemed to me on Sunday evening that he took a definite leave,

and for this reason the news gave me a disagreeable surprise. I read

the letter again. There was something tender and timid about it. It

produced an extremely painful impression upon me. My heart swelled, and

the mad beast of jealousy began to roar in his lair, and seemed to want

to leap upon his prey. But I was afraid of this beast, and I imposed

silence upon it.

“What an abominable sentiment is jealousy! ‘What could be more natural

than what she has written?’ said I to myself. I went to bed, thinking

myself tranquil again. I thought of the business that remained to be

done, and I went to sleep without thinking of her.

“During these assemblies of the Zemstvo I always slept badly in my

strange quarters. That night I went to sleep directly, but, as

sometimes happens, a sort of sudden shock awoke me. I thought

immediately of her, of my physical love for her, of Troukhatchevsky,

and that between them everything had happened. And a feeling of rage

compressed my heart, and I tried to quiet myself.

“‘How stupid!’ said I to myself; ‘there is no reason, none at all. And

why humiliate ourselves, herself and myself, and especially myself, by

supposing such horrors? This mercenary violinist, known as a bad

man,—shall I think of him in connection with a respectable woman, the

mother of a family, _my_ wife? How silly!’ But on the other hand, I

said to myself: ‘Why should it not happen?’

“Why? Was it not the same simple and intelligible feeling in the name

of which I married, in the name of which I was living with her, the

only thing I wanted of her, and that which, consequently, others

desired, this musician among the rest? He was not married, was in good

health (I remember how his teeth ground the gristle of the cutlets, and

how eagerly he emptied the glass of wine with his red lips), was

careful of his person, well fed, and not only without principles, but

evidently with the principle that one should take advantage of the

pleasure that offers itself. There was a bond between them, music,—the

most refined form of sensual voluptuousness. What was there to restrain

them? Nothing. Everything, on the contrary, attracted them. And she,

she had been and had remained a mystery. I did not know her. I knew her

only as an animal, and an animal nothing can or should restrain. And

now I remember their faces on Sunday evening, when, after the ‘Kreutzer

Sonata,’ they played a passionate piece, written I know not by whom,

but a piece passionate to the point of obscenity.

“‘How could I have gone away?’ said I to myself, as I recalled their

faces. ‘Was it not clear that between them everything was done that

evening? Was it not clear that between them not only there were no more

obstacles, but that both—especially she—felt a certain shame after what

had happened at the piano? How weakly, pitiably, happily she smiled, as

she wiped the perspiration from her reddened face! They already avoided

each other’s eyes, and only at the supper, when she poured some water

for him, did they look at each other and smile imperceptibly.’

“Now I remember with fright that look and that scarcely perceptible

smile. ‘Yes, everything has happened,’ a voice said to me, and directly

another said the opposite. ‘Are you mad? It is impossible!’ said the

second voice.

“It was too painful to me to remain thus stretched in the darkness. I

struck a match, and the little yellow-papered room frightened me. I

lighted a cigarette, and, as always happens, when one turns in a circle

of inextricable contradiction, I began to smoke. I smoked cigarette

after cigarette to dull my senses, that I might not see my

contradictions. All night I did not sleep, and at five o’clock, when it

was not yet light, I decided that I could stand this strain no longer,

and that I would leave directly. There was a train at eight o’clock. I

awakened the keeper who was acting as my servant, and sent him to look

for horses. To the assembly of Zemstvo I sent a message that I was

called back to Moscow by pressing business, and that I begged them to

substitute for me a member of the Committee. At eight o’clock I got

into a _tarantass_ and started off.”