The Kreutzer Sonata and Other Stories
to commit some violent act to show the force of my fury. I felt a
terrible desire to beat her, to kill her, but I realized that that
could not be, and I restrained myself. I drew back from her, rushed to
the table, grasped the paper-weight, and threw it on the floor by her
side. I took care to aim a little to one side, and, before she
disappeared (I did it so that she could see it), I grasped a
candlestick, which I also hurled, and then took down the barometer,
continuing to shout:
“‘Go away! I do not answer for myself!’
“She disappeared, and I immediately ceased my demonstrations. An hour
later the old servant came to me and said that my wife was in a fit of
hysterics. I went to see her. She sobbed and laughed, incapable of
expressing anything, her whole body in a tremble. She was not shamming,
she was really sick. We sent for the doctor, and all night long I cared
for her. Toward daylight she grew calmer, and we became reconciled
under the influence of that feeling which we called ‘love.’ The next
morning, when, after the reconciliation, I confessed to her that I was
jealous of Troukhatchevsky, she was not at all embarrassed, and began
to laugh in the most natural way, so strange did the possibility of
being led astray by such a man appear to her.
“‘With such a man can an honest woman entertain any feeling beyond the
pleasure of enjoying music with him? But if you like, I am ready to
never see him again, even on Sunday, although everybody has been
invited. Write him that I am indisposed, and that will end the matter.
Only one thing annoys me,—that any one could have thought him
dangerous. I am too proud not to detest such thoughts.’
“And she did not lie. She believed what she said. She hoped by her
words to provoke in herself a contempt for him, and thereby to defend
herself. But she did not succeed. Everything was directed against her,
especially that abominable music. So ended the quarrel, and on Sunday
our guests came, and Troukhatchevsky and my wife again played
together.”
CHAPTER XXIII.
“I think that it is superfluous to say that I was very vain. If one has
no vanity in this life of ours, there is no sufficient reason for
living. So for that Sunday I had busied myself in tastefully arranging
things for the dinner and the musical _soirée_. I had purchased myself
numerous things for the dinner, and had chosen the guests. Toward six
o’clock they arrived, and after them Troukhatchevsky, in his
dress-coat, with diamond shirt-studs, in bad taste. He bore himself
with ease. To all questions he responded promptly, with a smile of
contentment and understanding, and that peculiar expression which was
intended to mean: ‘All that you may do and say will be exactly what I
expected.’ Everything about him that was not correct I now noticed with
especial pleasure, for it all tended to tranquillize me, and prove to
me that to my wife he stood in such a degree of inferiority that, as
she had told me, she could not stoop to his level. Less because of my
wife’s assurances than because of the atrocious sufferings which I felt
in jealousy, I no longer allowed myself to be jealous.
“In spite of that, I was not at ease with the musician or with her
during dinner-time and the time that elapsed before the beginning of
the music. Involuntarily I followed each of their gestures and looks.
The dinner, like all dinners, was tiresome and conventional. Not long
afterward the music began. He went to get his violin; my wife advanced
to the piano, and rummaged among the scores. Oh, how well I remember
all the details of that evening! I remember how he brought the violin,
how he opened the box, took off the serge embroidered by a lady’s hand,
and began to tune the instrument. I can still see my wife sit down,
with a false air of indifference, under which it was plain that she hid
a great timidity, a timidity that was especially due to her comparative
lack of musical knowledge. She sat down with that false air in front of
the piano, and then began the usual preliminaries,—the _pizzicati_ of
the violin and the arrangement of the scores. I remember then how they
looked at each other, and cast a glance at their auditors who were
taking their seats. They said a few words to each other, and the music
began. They played Beethoven’s ‘Kreutzer Sonata.’ Do you know the first
_presto?_ Do you know it? Ah!” . . .
Posdnicheff heaved a sigh, and was silent for a long time.
“A terrible thing is that sonata, especially the _presto!_ And a
terrible thing is music in general. What is it? Why does it do what it
does? They say that music stirs the soul. Stupidity! A lie! It acts, it
acts frightfully (I speak for myself), but not in an ennobling way. It
acts neither in an ennobling nor a debasing way, but in an irritating
way. How shall I say it? Music makes me forget my real situation. It
transports me into a state which is not my own. Under the influence of
music I really seem to feel what I do not feel, to understand what I do
not understand, to have powers which I cannot have. Music seems to me
to act like yawning or laughter; I have no desire to sleep, but I yawn
when I see others yawn; with no reason to laugh, I laugh when I hear
others laugh. And music transports me immediately into the condition of
soul in which he who wrote the music found himself at that time. I
become confounded with his soul, and with him I pass from one condition
to another. But why that? I know nothing about it? But he who wrote
Beethoven’s ‘Kreutzer Sonata’ knew well why he found himself in a
certain condition. That condition led him to certain actions, and for
that reason to him had a meaning, but to me none, none whatever. And
that is why music provokes an excitement which it does not bring to a
conclusion. For instance, a military march is played; the soldier
passes to the sound of this march, and the music is finished. A dance
is played; I have finished dancing, and the music is finished. A mass
is sung; I receive the sacrament, and again the music is finished. But
any other music provokes an excitement, and this excitement is not
accompanied by the thing that needs properly to be done, and that is
why music is so dangerous, and sometimes acts so frightfully.
“In China music is under the control of the State, and that is the way
it ought to be. Is it admissible that the first comer should hypnotize
one or more persons, and then do with them as he likes? And especially
that the hypnotizer should be the first immoral individual who happens
to come along? It is a frightful power in the hands of any one, no
matter whom. For instance, should they be allowed to play this
‘Kreutzer Sonata,’ the first _presto_,—and there are many like it,—in
parlors, among ladies wearing low necked dresses, or in concerts, then
finish the piece, receive the applause, and then begin another piece?
These things should be played under certain circumstances, only in
cases where it is necessary to incite certain actions corresponding to
the music. But to incite an energy of feeling which corresponds to
neither the time nor the place, and is expended in nothing, cannot fail
to act dangerously. On me in particular this piece acted in a frightful
manner. One would have said that new sentiments, new virtualities, of
which I was formerly ignorant, had developed in me. ‘Ah, yes, that’s
it! Not at all as I lived and thought before! This is the right way to
live!’
“Thus I spoke to my soul as I listened to that music. What was this new
thing that I thus learned? That I did not realize, but the
consciousness of this indefinite state filled me with joy. In that
state there was no room for jealousy. The same faces, and among them
_he_ and my wife, I saw in a different light. This music transported me
into an unknown world, where there was no room for jealousy. Jealousy
and the feelings that provoke it seemed to me trivialities, nor worth
thinking of.
“After the _presto_ followed the _andante_, not very new, with
commonplace variations, and the feeble _finale_. Then they played more,
at the request of the guests,—first an elegy by Ernst, and then various
other pieces. They were all very well, but did not produce upon me a
tenth part of the impression that the opening piece did. I felt light
and gay throughout the evening. As for my wife, never had I seen her as
she was that night. Those brilliant eyes, that severity and majestic
expression while she was playing, and then that utter languor, that
weak, pitiable, and happy smile after she had finished,—I saw them all
and attached no importance to them, believing that she felt as I did,
that to her, as to me, new sentiments had been revealed, as through a
fog. During almost the whole evening I was not jealous.
“Two days later I was to start for the assembly of the Zemstvo, and for
that reason, on taking leave of me and carrying all his scores with
him, Troukhatchevsky asked me when I should return. I inferred from
that that he believed it impossible to come to my house during my
absence, and that was agreeable to me. Now I was not to return before
his departure from the city. So we bade each other a definite farewell.
For the first time I shook his hand with pleasure, and thanked him for
the satisfaction that he had given me. He likewise took leave of my
wife, and their parting seemed to me very natural and proper. All went
marvellously. My wife and I retired, well satisfied with the evening.
We talked of our impressions in a general way, and we were nearer
together and more friendly than we had been for a long time.”
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?’