บทที่ บทที่ 21 · Chapter XXI

. Chapter XXI

“When we moved to Moscow, this gentleman—his name was

Troukhatchevsky—came to my house. It was in the morning. I received

him. In former times we had been very familiar. He tried, by various

advances, to re-establish the familiarity, but I was determined to keep

him at a distance, and soon he gave it up. He displeased me extremely.

At the first glance I saw that he was a filthy _débauché_. I was

jealous of him, even before he had seen my wife. But, strange thing!

some occult fatal power kept me from repulsing him and sending him

away, and, on the contrary, induced me to suffer this approach. What

could have been simpler than to talk with him a few minutes, and then

dismiss him coldly without introducing him to my wife? But no, as if on

purpose, I turned the conversation upon his skill as a violinist, and

he answered that, contrary to what I had heard, he now played the

violin more than formerly. He remembered that I used to play. I

answered that I had abandoned music, but that my wife played very well.

“Singular thing! Why, in the important events of our life, in those in

which a man’s fate is decided,—as mine was decided in that moment,—why

in these events is there neither a past nor a future? My relations with

Troukhatchevsky the first day, at the first hour, were such as they

might still have been after all that has happened. I was conscious that

some frightful misfortune must result from the presence of this man,

and, in spite of that, I could not help being amiable to him. I

introduced him to my wife. She was pleased with him. In the beginning,

I suppose, because of the pleasure of the violin playing, which she

adored. She had even hired for that purpose a violinist from the

theatre. But when she cast a glance at me, she understood my feelings,

and concealed her impression. Then began the mutual trickery and

deceit. I smiled agreeably, pretending that all this pleased me

extremely. He, looking at my wife, as all _débauchés_ look at beautiful

women, with an air of being interested solely in the subject of

conversation,—that is, in that which did not interest him at all.

“She tried to seem indifferent. But my expression, my jealous or false

smile, which she knew so well, and the voluptuous glances of the

musician, evidently excited her. I saw that, after the first interview,

her eyes were already glittering, glittering strangely, and that,

thanks to my jealousy, between him and her had been immediately

established that sort of electric current which is provoked by an

identity of expression in the smile and in the eyes.

“We talked, at the first interview, of music, of Paris, and of all

sorts of trivialities. He rose to go. Pressing his hat against his

swaying hip, he stood erect, looking now at her and now at me, as if

waiting to see what she would do. I remember that minute, precisely

because it was in my power not to invite him. I need not have invited

him, and then nothing would have happened. But I cast a glance first at

him, then at her. ‘Don’t flatter yourself that I can be jealous of

you,’ I thought, addressing myself to her mentally, and I invited the

other to bring his violin that very evening, and to play with my wife.

She raised her eyes toward me with astonishment, and her face turned

purple, as if she were seized with a sudden fear. She began to excuse

herself, saying that she did not play well enough. This refusal only

excited me the more. I remember the strange feeling with which I looked

at his neck, his white neck, in contrast with his black hair, separated

by a parting, when, with his skipping gait, like that of a bird, he

left my house. I could not help confessing to myself that this man’s

presence caused me suffering. ‘It is in my power,’ thought I, ‘to so

arrange things that I shall never see him again. But can it be that I,

_I_, fear him? No, I do not fear him. It would be too humiliating!’

“And there in the hall, knowing that my wife heard me, I insisted that

he should come that very evening with his violin. He promised me, and

went away. In the evening he arrived with his violin, and they played

together. But for a long time things did not go well; we had not the

necessary music, and that which we had my wife could not play at sight.

I amused myself with their difficulties. I aided them, I made

proposals, and they finally executed a few pieces,—songs without words,

and a little sonata by Mozart. He played in a marvellous manner. He had

what is called the energetic and tender tone. As for difficulties,

there were none for him. Scarcely had he begun to play, when his face

changed. He became serious, and much more sympathetic. He was, it is

needless to say, much stronger than my wife. He helped her, he advised

her simply and naturally, and at the same time played his game with

courtesy. My wife seemed interested only in the music. She was very

simple and agreeable. Throughout the evening I feigned, not only for

the others, but for myself, an interest solely in the music. Really, I

was continually tortured by jealousy. From the first minute that the

musician’s eyes met those of my wife, I saw that he did not regard her

as a disagreeable woman, with whom on occasion it would be unpleasant

to enter into intimate relations.

“If I had been pure, I should not have dreamed of what he might think

of her. But I looked at women, and that is why I understood him and was

in torture. I was in torture, especially because I was sure that toward

me she had no other feeling than of perpetual irritation, sometimes

interrupted by the customary sensuality, and that this man,—thanks to

his external elegance and his novelty, and, above all, thanks to his

unquestionably remarkable talent, thanks to the attraction exercised

under the influence of music, thanks to the impression that music

produces upon nervous natures,—this man would not only please, but

would inevitably, and without difficulty, subjugate and conquer her,

and do with her as he liked.

“I could not help seeing this. I could not help suffering, or keep from

being jealous. And I was jealous, and I suffered, and in spite of that,

and perhaps even because of that, an unknown force, in spite of my

will, impelled me to be not only polite, but more than polite, amiable.

I cannot say whether I did it for my wife, or to show him that I did

not fear _him_, or to deceive myself; but from my first relations with

him I could not be at my ease. I was obliged, that I might not give way

to a desire to kill him immediately, to ‘caress’ him. I filled his

glass at the table, I grew enthusiastic over his playing, I talked to

him with an extremely amiable smile, and I invited him to dinner the

following Sunday, and to play again. I told him that I would invite

some of my acquaintances, lovers of his art, to hear him.

“Two or three days later I was entering my house, in conversation with

a friend, when in the hall I suddenly felt something as heavy as a

stone weighing on my heart, and I could not account for it. And it was

this, it was this: in passing through the hall, I had noticed something

which reminded me of _him_. Not until I reached my study did I realize

what it was, and I returned to the hall to verify my conjecture. Yes, I

was not mistaken. It was his overcoat (everything that belonged to him,

I, without realizing it, had observed with extraordinary attention). I

questioned the servant. That was it. He had come. “I passed near the

parlor, through my children’s study-room. Lise, my daughter, was

sitting before a book, and the old nurse, with my youngest child, was

beside the table, turning the cover of something or other. In the

parlor I heard a slow _arpeggio_, and his voice, deadened, and a denial

from her. She said: ‘No, no! There is something else!’ And it seemed to

me that some one was purposely deadening the words by the aid of the

piano.

“My God! How my heart leaped! What were my imaginations! When I

remember the beast that lived in me at that moment, I am seized with

fright. My heart was first compressed, then stopped, and then began to

beat like a hammer. The principal feeling, as in every bad feeling, was

pity for myself. ‘Before the children, before the old nurse,’ thought

I, ‘she dishonors me. I will go away. I can endure it no longer. God

knows what I should do if. . . . But I must go in.’

“The old nurse raised her eyes to mine, as if she understood, and

advised me to keep a sharp watch. ‘I must go in,’ I said to myself,

and, without knowing what I did, I opened the door. He was sitting at

the piano and making _arpeggios_ with his long, white, curved fingers.

She was standing in the angle of the grand piano, before the open

score. She saw or heard me first, and raised her eyes to mine. Was she

stunned, was she pretending not to be frightened, or was she really not

frightened at all? In any case, she did not tremble, she did not stir.

She blushed, but only a little later.

“‘How glad I am that you have come! We have not decided what we will

play Sunday,’ said she, in a tone that she would not have had if she

had been alone with me.

“This tone, and the way in which she said ‘we’ in speaking of herself

and of him, revolted me. I saluted him silently. He shook hands with me

directly, with a smile that seemed to me full of mockery. He explained

to me that he had brought some scores, in order to prepare for the

Sunday concert, and that they were not in accord as to the piece to

choose,—whether difficult, classic things, notably a sonata by

Beethoven, or lighter pieces.

“And as he spoke, he looked at me. It was all so natural, so simple,

that there was absolutely nothing to be said against it. And at the

same time I saw, I was sure, that it was false, that they were in a

conspiracy to deceive me.

“One of the most torturing situations for the jealous (and in our

social life everybody is jealous) are those social conditions which

allow a very great and dangerous intimacy between a man and a woman

under certain pretexts. One must make himself the laughing stock of

everybody, if he desires to prevent associations in the ball-room, the

intimacy of doctors with their patients, the familiarity of art

occupations, and especially of music. In order that people may occupy

themselves together with the noblest art, music, a certain intimacy is

necessary, in which there is nothing blameworthy. Only a jealous fool

of a husband can have anything to say against it. A husband should not

have such thoughts, and especially should not thrust his nose into

these affairs, or prevent them. And yet, everybody knows that precisely

in these occupations, especially in music, many adulteries originate in

our society.

“I had evidently embarrassed them, because for some time I was unable

to say anything. I was like a bottle suddenly turned upside down, from

which the water does not run because it is too full. I wanted to insult

the man, and to drive him away, but I could do nothing of the kind. On

the contrary, I felt that I was disturbing them, and that it was my

fault. I made a presence of approving everything, this time also,

thanks to that strange feeling that forced me to treat him the more

amiably in proportion as his presence was more painful to me. I said

that I trusted to his taste, and I advised my wife to do the same. He

remained just as long as it was necessary in order to efface the

unpleasant impression of my abrupt entrance with a frightened face. He

went away with an air of satisfaction at the conclusions arrived at. As

for me, I was perfectly sure that, in comparison with that which

preoccupied them, the question of music was indifferent to them. I

accompanied him with especial courtesy to the hall (how can one help

accompanying a man who has come to disturb your tranquillity and ruin

the happiness of the entire family?), and I shook his white, soft hand

with fervent amiability.”