The Kreutzer Sonata and Other Stories
told you. The whole tragedy was due to the fact that this man came into
our house at a time when an immense abyss had already been dug between
us, that frightful tension of mutual hatred, in which the slightest
motive sufficed to precipitate the crisis. Our quarrels in the last
days were something terrible, and the more astonishing because they
were followed by a brutal passion extremely strained. If it had not
been he, some other would have come. If the pretext had not been
jealousy, I should have discovered another. I insist upon this
point,—that all husbands who live the married life that I lived must
either resort to outside debauchery, or separate from their wives, or
kill themselves, or kill their wives as I did. If there is any one in
my case to whom this does not happen, he is a very rare exception, for,
before ending as I ended, I was several times on the point of suicide,
and my wife made several attempts to poison herself.”
CHAPTER XX.
“In order that you may understand me, I must tell you how this
happened. We were living along, and all seemed well. Suddenly we began
to talk of the children’s education. I do not remember what words
either of us uttered, but a discussion began, reproaches, leaps from
one subject to another. ‘Yes, I know it. It has been so for a long
time.’ . . . ‘You said that.’ . . . ‘No, I did not say that.’ . . .
‘Then I lie?’ etc.
“And I felt that the frightful crisis was approaching when I should
desire to kill her or else myself. I knew that it was approaching; I
was afraid of it as of fire; I wanted to restrain myself. But rage took
possession of my whole being. My wife found herself in the same
condition, perhaps worse. She knew that she intentionally distorted
each of my words, and each of her words was saturated with venom. All
that was dear to me she disparaged and profaned. The farther the
quarrel went, the more furious it became. I cried, ‘Be silent,’ or
something like that.
“She bounded out of the room and ran toward the children. I tried to
hold her back to finish my insults. I grasped her by the arm, and hurt
her. She cried: ‘Children, your father is beating me.’ I cried: ‘Don’t
lie.’ She continued to utter falsehoods for the simple purpose of
irritating me further. ‘Ah, it is not the first time,’ or something of
that sort. The children rushed toward her and tried to quiet her. I
said: ‘Don’t sham.’ She said: ‘You look upon everything as a sham. You
would kill a person and say he was shamming. Now I understand you. That
is what you want to do.’ ‘Oh, if you were only dead!’ I cried.
“I remember how that terrible phrase frightened me. Never had I thought
that I could utter words so brutal, so frightful, and I was stupefied
at what had just escaped my lips. I fled into my private apartment. I
sat down and began to smoke. I heard her go into the hall and prepare
to go out. I asked her: ‘Where are you going? She did not answer.
‘Well, may the devil take you!’ said I to myself, going back into my
private room, where I lay down again and began smoking afresh.
Thousands of plans of vengeance, of ways of getting rid of her, and how
to arrange this, and act as if nothing had happened,—all this passed
through my head. I thought of these things, and I smoked, and smoked,
and smoked. I thought of running away, of making my escape, of going to
America. I went so far as to dream how beautiful it would be, after
getting rid of her, to love another woman, entirely different from her.
I should be rid of her if she should die or if I should get a divorce,
and I tried to think how that could be managed. I saw that I was
getting confused, but, in order not to see that I was not thinking
rightly, I kept on smoking.
“And the life of the house went on as usual. The children’s teacher
came and asked: ‘Where is Madame? When will she return?’
“The servants asked if they should serve the tea. I entered the
dining-room. The children, Lise, the eldest girl, looked at me with
fright, as if to question me, and she did not come. The whole evening
passed, and still she did not come. Two sentiments kept succeeding each
other in my soul,—hatred of her, since she tortured myself and the
children by her absence, but would finally return just the same, and
fear lest she might return and make some attempt upon herself. But
where should I look for her? At her sister’s? It seemed so stupid to go
to ask where one’s wife is. Moreover, may God forbid, I hoped, that she
should be at her sister’s! If she wishes to torment any one, let her
torment herself first. And suppose she were not at her sister’s.
“Suppose she were to do, or had already done, something.
“Eleven o’clock, midnight, one o’clock. . . . I did not sleep. I did
not go to my chamber. It is stupid to lie stretched out all alone, and
to wait. But in my study I did not rest. I tried to busy myself, to
write letters, to read. Impossible! I was alone, tortured, wicked, and
I listened. Toward daylight I went to sleep. I awoke. She had not
returned. Everything in the house went on as usual, and all looked at
me in astonishment, questioningly. The children’s eyes were full of
reproach for me.
“And always the same feeling of anxiety about her, and of hatred
because of this anxiety.
“Toward eleven o’clock in the morning came her sister, her
ambassadress. Then began the usual phrases: ‘She is in a terrible
state. What is the matter?’ ‘Why, nothing has happened.’ I spoke of her
asperity of character, and I added that I had done nothing, and that I
would not take the first step. If she wants a divorce, so much the
better! My sister-in-law would not listen to this idea, and went away
without having gained anything. I was obstinate, and I said boldly and
determinedly, in talking to her, that I would not take the first step.
Immediately she had gone I went into the other room, and saw the
children in a frightened and pitiful state, and there I found myself
already inclined to take this first step. But I was bound by my word.
Again I walked up and down, always smoking. At breakfast I drank brandy
and wine, and I reached the point which I unconsciously desired, the
point where I no longer saw the stupidity and baseness of my situation.
“Toward three o’clock she came. I thought that she was appeased, or
admitted her defeat. I began to tell her that I was provoked by her
reproaches. She answered me, with the same severe and terribly downcast
face, that she had not come for explanations, but to take the children,
that we could not live together. I answered that it was not my fault,
that she had put me beside myself. She looked at me with a severe and
solemn air, and said: ‘Say no more. You will repent it.’ I said that I
could not tolerate comedies. Then she cried out something that I did
not understand, and rushed toward her room. The key turned in the lock,
and she shut herself up. I pushed at the door. There was no response.
Furious, I went away.
“A half hour later Lise came running all in tears. ‘What! Has anything
happened? We cannot hear Mamma!’ We went toward my wife’s room. I
pushed the door with all my might. The bolt was scarcely drawn, and the
door opened. In a skirt, with high boots, my wife lay awkwardly on the
bed. On the table an empty opium phial. We restored her to life. Tears
and then reconciliation! Not reconciliation; internally each kept the
hatred for the other, but it was absolutely necessary for the moment to
end the scene in some way, and life began again as before. These
scenes, and even worse, came now once a week, now every month, now
every day. And invariably the same incidents. Once I was absolutely
resolved to fly, but through some inconceivable weakness I remained.
“Such were the circumstances in which we were living when the _man_
came. The man was bad, it is true. But what! No worse than we were.”
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!’