White nights, and other stories
days even quarrels with one's husband end happily. Some women get up
quarrels with their husbands just because they love them. Indeed, I knew
a woman like that: she seemed to say that because she loved him, she
would torment him and make him feel it. You know that you may torment a
man on purpose through love. Women are particularly given to that,
thinking to themselves 'I will love him so, I will make so much of him
afterwards, that it's no sin to torment him a little now.' And all in
the house rejoice in the sight of you, and you are happy and gay and
peaceful and honourable.... Then there are some women who are jealous.
If he went off anywhere--I knew one such woman, she couldn't restrain
herself, but would jump up at night and run off on the sly to find out
where he was, whether he was with some other woman. That's a pity. And
the woman knows herself it's wrong, and her heart fails her and she
suffers, but she loves--it's all through love. And how sweet it is to
make it up after quarrels, to own herself in the wrong or to forgive
him! And they are both so happy all at once--as though they had met
anew, been married over again; as though their love had begun afresh.
And no one, no one should know what passes between husband and wife if
they love one another. And whatever quarrels there may be between them
they ought not to call in their own mother to judge between them and
tell tales of one another. They are their own judges. Love is a holy
mystery and ought to be hidden from all other eyes, whatever happens.
That makes it holier and better. They respect one another more, and much
is built on respect. And if once there has been love, if they have been
married for love, why should love pass away? Surely one can keep it! It
is rare that one cannot keep it. And if the husband is kind and
straightforward, why should not love last? The first phase of married
love will pass, it is true, but then there will come a love that is
better still. Then there will be the union of souls, they will have
everything in common, there will be no secrets between them. And once
they have children, the most difficult times will seem to them happy, so
long as there is love and courage. Even toil will be a joy, you may deny
yourself bread for your children and even that will be a joy. They will
love you for it afterwards; so you are laying by for your future. As the
children grow up you feel that you are an example, a support for them;
that even after you die your children will always keep your thoughts and
feelings, because they have received them from you, they will take on
your semblance and likeness. So you see this is a great duty. How can it
fail to draw the father and mother nearer? People say it's a trial to
have children. Who says that? It is heavenly happiness! Are you fond of
little children, Liza? I am awfully fond of them. You know--a little
rosy baby boy at your bosom, and what husband's heart is not touched,
seeing his wife nursing his child! A plump little rosy baby, sprawling
and snuggling, chubby little hands and feet, clean tiny little nails, so
tiny that it makes one laugh to look at them; eyes that look as if they
understand everything. And while it sucks it clutches at your bosom with
its little hand, plays. When its father comes up, the child tears itself
away from the bosom, flings itself back, looks at its father, laughs, as
though it were fearfully funny and falls to sucking again. Or it will
bite its mother's breast when its little teeth are coming, while it
looks sideways at her with its little eyes as though to say, 'Look, I am
biting!' Is not all that happiness when they are the three together,
husband, wife and child? One can forgive a great deal for the sake of
such moments. Yes, Liza, one must first learn to live oneself before one
blames others!"
"It's by pictures, pictures like that one must get at you," I thought to
myself, though I did speak with real feeling, and all at once I flushed
crimson. "What if she were suddenly to burst out laughing, what should I
do then?" That idea drove me to fury. Towards the end of my speech I
really was excited, and now my vanity was somehow wounded. The silence
continued. I almost nudged her.
"Why are you----" she began and stopped. But I understood: there was a
quiver of something different in her voice, not abrupt, harsh and
unyielding as before, but something soft and shamefaced, so shamefaced
that I suddenly felt ashamed and guilty.
"What?" I asked, with tender curiosity.
"Why, you...."
"What?"
"Why, you ... speak somehow like a book," she said, and again there was
a note of irony in her voice.
That remark sent a pang to my heart. It was not what I was expecting.
I did not understand that she was hiding her feelings under irony, that
this is usually the last refuge of modest and chaste-souled people when
the privacy of their soul is coarsely and intrusively invaded, and that
their pride makes them refuse to surrender till the last moment and
shrink from giving expression to their feelings before you. I ought to
have guessed the truth from the timidity with which she had repeatedly
approached her sarcasm, only bringing herself to utter it at last with
an effort. But I did not guess, and an evil feeling took possession of
me.
"Wait a bit!" I thought.
VII
"Oh, hush, Liza! How can you talk about being like a book, when it makes
even me, an outsider, feel sick? Though I don't look at it as an
outsider, for, indeed, it touches me to the heart.... Is it possible, is
it possible that you do not feel sick at being here yourself? Evidently
habit does wonders! God knows what habit can do with any one. Can you
seriously think that you will never grow old, that you will always be
good-looking, and that they will keep you here for ever and ever? I say
nothing of the loathsomeness of the life here.... Though let me tell you
this about it--about your present life, I mean; here though you are
young now, attractive, nice, with soul and feeling, yet you know as soon
as I came to myself just now I felt at once sick at being here with you!
One can only come here when one is drunk. But if you were anywhere else,
living as good people live, I should perhaps be more than attracted by
you, should fall in love with you, should be glad of a look from you,
let alone a word; I should hang about your door, should go down on my
knees to you, should look upon you as my betrothed and think it an
honour to be allowed to. I should not dare to have an impure thought
about you. But here, you see, I know that I have only to whistle and you
have to come with me whether you like it or not. I don't consult your
wishes, but you mine. The lowest labourer hires himself as a workman but
he doesn't make a slave of himself altogether; besides, he knows that he
will be free again presently. But when are you free? Only think what you
are giving up here? What is it you are making a slave of? It is your
soul, together with your body; you are selling your soul which you have
no right to dispose of! You give your love to be outraged by every
drunkard! Love! But that's everything, you know, it's a priceless
diamond, it's a maiden's treasure, love--why, a man would be ready to
give his soul, to face death to gain that love. But how much is your
love worth now? You are sold, all of you, body and soul, and there is no
need to strive for love when you can have everything without love. And
you know there is no greater insult to a girl than that, do you
understand? To be sure, I have heard that they comfort you, poor fools,
they let you have lovers of your own here. But you know that's simply a
farce, that's simply a sham, it's just laughing at you, and you are
taken in by it! Why, do you suppose he really loves you, that lover of
yours? I don't believe it. How can he love you when he knows you may be
called away from him any minute? He would be a low fellow if he did!
Will he have a grain of respect for you? What have you in common with
him? He laughs at you and robs you--that is all his love amounts to! You
are lucky if he does not beat you. Very likely he does beat you, too.
Ask him, if you have got one, whether he will marry you. He will laugh
in your face, if he doesn't spit in it or give you a blow--though maybe
he is not worth a bad halfpenny himself. And for what have you ruined
your life, if you come to think of it? For the coffee they give you to
drink and the plentiful meals? But with what object are they feeding you
up? An honest girl couldn't swallow the food, for she would know what
she was being fed for. You are in debt here, and, of course, you will
always be in debt, and you will go on in debt to the end, till the
visitors here begin to scorn you. And that will soon happen, don't rely
upon your youth--all that flies by express train here, you know. You
will be kicked out. And not simply kicked out; long before that she'll
begin nagging at you, scolding you, abusing you, as though you had not
sacrificed your health for her, had not thrown away your youth and your
soul for her benefit, but as though you had ruined her, beggared her,
robbed her. And don't expect any one to take your part: the others, your
companions, will attack you, too, to win her favour, for all are in
slavery here, and have lost all conscience and pity here long ago. They
have become utterly vile, and nothing on earth is viler, more loathsome,
and more insulting than their abuse. And you are laying down everything
here, unconditionally, youth and health and beauty and hope, and at
twenty-two you will look like a woman of five-and-thirty, and you will
be lucky if you are not diseased, pray to God for that! No doubt you are
thinking now that you have a gay time and no work to do! Yet there is no
work harder or more dreadful in the world or ever has been. One would
think that the heart alone would be worn out with tears. And you won't
dare to say a word, not half a word when they drive you away from here;
you will go away as though you were to blame. You will change to another
house, then to a third, then somewhere else, till you come down at last
to the Haymarket. There you will be beaten at every turn; that is good
manners there, the visitors don't know how to be friendly without
beating you. You don't believe that it is so hateful there? Go and look
for yourself some time, you can see with your own eyes. Once, one New
Year's Day, I saw a woman at a door. They had turned her out as a joke,
to give her a taste of the frost because she had been crying so much,
and they shut the door behind her. At nine o'clock in the morning she
was already quite drunk, dishevelled, half-naked, covered with bruises,
her face was powdered, but she had a black eye, blood was trickling from
her nose and her teeth; some cabman had just given her a drubbing. She
was sitting on the stone steps, a salt fish of some sort was in her
hand; she was crying, wailing something about her luck and beating with
the fish on the steps, and cabmen and drunken soldiers were crowding in
the doorway taunting her. You don't believe that you will ever be like
that? I should be sorry to believe it, too, but how do you know; maybe
ten years, eight years ago that very woman with the salt fish came here
fresh as a cherub, innocent, pure, knowing no evil, blushing at every
word. Perhaps she was like you, proud, ready to take offence, not like
the others; perhaps she looked like a queen, and knew what happiness was
in store for the man who should love her and whom she should love. Do
you see how it ended? And what if at that very minute when she was
beating on the filthy steps with that fish, drunken and
dishevelled--what if at that very minute she recalled the pure early
days in her father's house, when she used to go to school and the