by Leo Tolstoy
So the winter slipped by, and we stayed on, in spite of our plans, over Easter in Petersburg. A week later we were preparing to start; our packing was all done; my husband, who had bought things – plants for the garden and presents for people at Nikólskoe, was in a specially cheerful and affectionate mood. Just then Princess D— came and begged us to stay till the Saturday, in order to be present at a reception to be given by Countess R—. The Countess was very anxious to secure me, because a foreign prince, who was visiting Petersburg and had seen me already at a ball, wished to make my acquaintance; indeed this was his motive for attending the reception, and he declared that I was the most beautiful woman in Russia. All the world was to be there; and, in a word, it would really be too bad, if I did not go too.
My husband was talking to someone at the other end of the drawing-room.
‘So you will go, won’t you, Mary?’ said the Princess.
‘We meant to start for the country the day after to-morrow,’ I answered undecidedly, glancing at my husband. Our eyes met, and he turned away at once.
‘I must persuade him to stay,’ she said, ‘and then we can go on Saturday and turn all heads. All right?’
‘It would upset our plans; and we have packed,’ I answered, beginning to give way.
‘She had better go this evening and make her curtsey to the Prince,’ my husband called out from the other end of the room; and he spoke in a tone of suppressed irritation which I had never heard from him before.
‘I declare he’s jealous, for the first time in his life,’ said the lady, laughing. ‘But it’s not for the sake of the Prince I urge it, Sergéy Mikháylych, but for all our sakes. The Countess was so anxious to have her.’
‘It rests with her entirely,’ my husband said coldly, and then left the room.
I saw that he was much disturbed, and this pained me. I gave no positive promise. As soon as our visitor left, I went to my husband. He was walking up and down his room, thinking, and neither saw nor heard me when I came in on tiptoe.
Looking at him I said to myself: ‘He is dreaming already of his dear Nikólskoe, our morning coffee in the bright drawing-room, the land and the labourers, our evenings in the music-room, and our secret midnight suppers.’ Then I decided in my own heart: ‘Not for all the balls and all the flattering princes in the world will I give up his glad confusion and tender cares.’ I was just about to say that I did not wish to go to the ball and would refuse, when he looked round, saw me, and frowned. His face, which had been gentle and thoughtful, changed at once to its old expression of sagacity, penetration, and patronizing composure. He would not show himself to me as a mere man, but had to be a demigod on a pedestal.
‘Well, my dear?’ he asked, turning towards me with an unconcerned air.
I said nothing. I was provoked, because he was hiding his real self from me, and would not continue to be the man I loved.
‘Do you want to go to this reception on Saturday?’ he asked.
‘I did, but you disapprove. Besides, our things are all packed,’ I said.
Never before had I heard such coldness in his tone to me, and never before seen such coldness in his eye.
‘I shall order the things to be unpacked,’ he said, ‘and I shall stay till Tuesday. So you can go to the party, if you like. I hope you will; but I shall not go.’
Without looking at me, he began to walk about the room jerkily, as his habit was when perturbed.
‘I simply can’t understand you,’ I said, following him with my eyes from where I stood. ‘You say that you never lose self-control’ (he had never really said so); ‘then why do you talk to me so strangely? I am ready on your account to sacrifice this pleasure, and then you, in a sarcastic tone which is new from you to me, insist that I should go.’
‘So you make a sacrifice!’ he threw special emphasis on the last word. ‘Well, so do I. What could be better? We compete in generosity – what an example of family happiness!’
Such harsh and contemptuous language I had never heard from his lips before. I was not abashed, but mortified by his contempt; and his harshness did not frighten me but made me harsh too. How could he speak thus, he who was always so frank and simple and dreaded insincerity in our speech to one another? And what had I done that he should speak so? I really intended to sacrifice for his sake a pleasure in which I could see no harm; and a moment ago I loved him and understood his feelings as well as ever. We had changed parts: now he avoided direct and plain words, and I desired them.
‘You are much changed,’ I said, with a sigh. ‘How am I guilty before you? It is not this party – you have something else, some old count against me. Why this insincerity? You used to be so afraid of it yourself. Tell me plainly what you complain of.’ ‘What will he say?’ thought I, and reflected with some complacency that I had done nothing all winter which he could find fault with.
I went into the middle of the room, so that he had to pass close to me, and looked at him. I thought, ‘He will come and clasp me in his arms, and there will be an end of it.’ I was even sorry that I should not have the chance of proving him wrong. But he stopped at the far end of the room and looked at me.
‘Do you not understand yet?’ he asked.
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Then I must explain. What I feel, and cannot help feeling, positively sickens me for the first time in my life.’ He stopped, evidently startled by the harsh sound of his own voice.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked, with tears of indignation in my eyes.
‘It sickens me that the Prince admired you, and you therefore run to meet him, forgetting your husband and yourself and womanly dignity; and you wilfully misunderstand what your want of self-respect makes your husband feel for you: you actually come to your husband and speak of the “sacrifice” you are making, by which you mean – “To show myself to His Highness is a great pleasure to me, but I ‘sacrifice’ it.” ’
The longer he spoke, the more he was excited by the sound of his own voice, which was hard and rough and cruel. I had never seen him, had never thought of seeing him, like that. The blood rushed to my heart and I was frightened; but I felt that I had nothing to be ashamed of, and the excitement of wounded vanity made me eager to punish him.
‘I have long been expecting this,’ I said. ‘Go on. Go on!’
‘What you expected, I don’t know,’ he went on; ‘but I might well expect the worst, when I saw you day after day sharing the dirtiness and idleness and luxury of this foolish society, and it has come at last. Never have I felt such shame and pain as now – pain for myself, when your friend thrusts her unclean fingers into my heart and speaks of my jealousy! – jealousy of a man whom neither you nor I know; and you refuse to understand me and offer to make a sacrifice for me – and what sacrifice? I am ashamed for you, for your degradation! … Sacrifice!’ he repeated again.
‘Ah, so this is a husband’s power,’ thought I: ‘to insult and humiliate a perfectly innocent woman. Such may be a husband’s rights, but I will not submit to them.’ I felt the blood leave my face and a strange distension of my nostrils, as I said, ‘No! I make no sacrifice on your account. I shall go to the party on Saturday without fail.’
‘And I hope you may enjoy it. But all is over between us two!’ he cried out in a fit of unrestrained fury. ‘But you shall not torture me any longer! I was a fool, when I …’, but his lips quivered, and he refrained with a visible effort from ending the sentence.
I feared and hated him at that moment. I wished to say a great deal to him and punish him for all his insults; but if I had opened my mouth, I should have lost my dignity by bursting into tears. I said nothing and left the room. But as soon as I ceased to hear his footsteps, I was horrified at what we had done. I feared that the tie which had made all my happiness might really be snapped for ever; and I thought of going back. But then I wondered: ‘Is he calm enough now to understand me, if I mutely stretch out my hand and look at him? Will he realize my generosity? What if he calls my g
rief a mere pretence? Or he may feel sure that he is right and accept my repentance and forgive me with unruffled pride. And why, oh why, did he whom I loved so well insult me so cruelly?’
I went not to him but to my own room, where I sat for a long time and cried. I recalled with horror each word of our conversation, and substituted different words, kind words, for those that we had spoken, and added others; and then again I remembered the reality with horror and a feeling of injury. In the evening I went down for tea and met my husband in the presence of a friend who was staying with us; and it seemed to me that a wide gulf had opened between us from that day. Our friend asked me when we were to start; and before I could speak, my husband answered:
‘On Tuesday,’ he said; ‘we have to stay for Countess R—’s reception.’ He turned to me: ‘I believe you intend to go?’ he asked.
His matter-of-fact tone frightened me, and I looked at him timidly. His eyes were directed straight at me with an unkind and scornful expression; his voice was cold and even.
‘Yes,’ I answered.
When we were alone that evening, he came up to me and held out his hand.
‘Please forget what I said to you to-day,’ he began.
As I took his hand, a smile quivered on my lips and the tears were ready to flow; but he took his hand away and sat down on an arm-chair at some distance, as if fearing a sentimental scene. ‘Is it possible that he still thinks himself in the right?’ I wondered; and, though I was quite ready to explain and to beg that we might not go to the party, the words died on my lips.
‘I must write to my mother that we have put off our departure,’ he said; ‘otherwise she will be uneasy.’
‘When do you think of going?’ I asked.
‘On Tuesday, after the reception,’ he replied.
‘I hope it is not on my account,’ I said, looking into his eyes; but those eyes merely looked – they said nothing, and a veil seemed to cover them from me. His face seemed to me to have grown suddenly old and disagreeable.
We went to the reception, and good friendly relations between us seemed to have been restored, but these relations were quite different from what they had been.
At the party I was sitting with other ladies when the Prince came up to me, so that I had to stand up in order to speak to him. As I rose, my eyes involuntarily sought my husband. He was looking at me from the other end of the room, and now turned away. I was seized by a sudden sense of shame and pain; in my confusion I blushed all over my face and neck under the Prince’s eye. But I was forced to stand and listen, while he spoke, eyeing me from his superior height. Our conversation was soon over: there was no room for him beside me, and he, no doubt, felt that I was uncomfortable with him. We talked of the last ball, of where I should spend the summer, and so on. As he left me, he expressed a wish to make the acquaintance of my husband, and I saw them meet and begin a conversation at the far end of the room. The Prince evidently said something about me; for he smiled in the middle of their talk and looked in my direction.
My husband suddenly flushed up. He made a low bow and turned away from the Prince without being dismissed. I blushed too: I was ashamed of the impression which I and, still more, my husband must have made on the Prince. Everyone, I thought, must have noticed my awkward shyness when I was presented, and my husband’s eccentric behaviour. ‘Heaven knows how they will interpret such conduct? Perhaps they know already about my scene with my husband!’
Princess D— drove me home, and on the way I spoke to her about my husband. My patience was at an end, and I told her the whole story of what had taken place between us owing to this unlucky party. To calm me, she said that such differences were very common and quite unimportant, and that our quarrel would leave no trace behind. She explained to me her view of my husband’s character – that he had become very stiff and unsociable. I agreed, and believed that I had learned to judge him myself more calmly and more truly.
But when I was alone with my husband later, the thought that I had sat in judgement upon him weighed like a crime upon my conscience; and I felt that the gulf which divided us had grown still greater.
Chapter III
FROM that day there was a complete change in our life and our relations to each other. We were no longer as happy when we were alone together as before. To certain subjects we gave a wide berth, and conversation flowed more easily in the presence of a third person. When the talk turned on life in the country, or on a ball, we were uneasy and shrank from looking at one another. Both of us knew where the gulf between us lay, and seemed afraid to approach it. I was convinced that he was proud and irascible, and that I must be careful not to touch him on his weak point. He was equally sure that I disliked the country and was dying for social distraction, and that he must put up with this unfortunate taste of mine. We both avoided frank conversation on these topics, and each misjudged the other. We had long ceased to think each other the most perfect people in the world; each now judged the other in secret, and measured the offender by the standard of other people. I fell ill before we left Petersburg, and we went from there to a house near town, from which my husband went on alone, to join his mother at Nikólskoe. By that time I was well enough to have gone with him, but he urged me to stay on the pretext of my health. I knew, however, that he was really afraid we should be uncomfortable together in the country; so I did not insist much, and he went off alone. I felt it dull and solitary in his absence; but when he came back, I saw that he did not add to my life what he had added formerly. In the old days every thought and experience weighed on me like a crime till I had imparted it to him; every action and word of his seemed to me a model of perfection; we often laughed for joy at the mere sight of each other. But these relations had changed, so imperceptibly that we had not even noticed their disappearance. Separate interests and cares, which we no longer tried to share, made their appearance, and even the fact of our estrangement ceased to trouble us. The idea became familiar, and, before a year had passed, each could look at the other without confusion. His fits of boyish merriment with me had quite vanished; his mood of calm indulgence to all that passed, which used to provoke me, had disappeared; there was an end of those penetrating looks which used to confuse and delight me, an end of the ecstasies and prayers which we once shared in common. We did not even meet often: he was continually absent, with no fears or regrets for leaving me alone; and I was constantly in society, where I did not need him.
There were no further scenes or quarrels between us. I tried to satisfy him, he carried out all my wishes, and we seemed to love each other.
When we were by ourselves, which we seldom were, I felt neither joy nor excitement nor embarrassment in his company: it seemed like being alone. I realized that he was my husband and no mere stranger, a good man, and as familiar to me as my own self. I was convinced that I knew just what he would say and do, and how he would look; and if anything he did surprised me, I concluded that he had made a mistake. I expected nothing from him. In a word, he was my husband – and that was all. It seemed to me that things must be so, as a matter of course, and that no other relations between us had ever existed. When he left home, especially at first, I was lonely and frightened and felt keenly my need of support; when he came back, I ran to his arms with joy, though two hours later my joy was quite forgotten, and I found nothing to say to him. Only at moments which sometimes occurred between us of quiet undemonstrative affection, I felt something wrong and some pain at my heart, and I seemed to read the same story in his eyes. I was conscious of a limit to tenderness, which he seemingly would not, and I could not, overstep. This saddened me sometimes; but I had no leisure to reflect on anything, and my regret for a change which I vaguely realized I tried to drown in the distractions which were always within my reach. Fashionable life, which had dazzled me at first by its glitter and flattery of my self-love, now took entire command of my nature, became a habit, laid its fetters upon me, and monopolized my capacity for feeling. I could not bear solitude, and was afra
id to reflect on my position. My whole day, from late in the morning till late at night, was taken up by the claims of society; even if I stayed at home, my time was not my own. This no longer seemed to me either gay or dull, but it seemed that so, and not otherwise, it always had to be.
So three years passed, during which our relations to one another remained unchanged and seemed to have taken a fixed shape which could not become either better or worse. Though two events of importance in our family life took place during that time, neither of them changed my own life. These were the birth of my first child and the death of Tatyána Semënovna. At first the feeling of motherhood did take hold of me with such power, and produce in me such a passion of unanticipated joy, that I believed this would prove the beginning of a new life for me. But, in the course of two months, when I began to go out again, my feeling grew weaker and weaker, till it passed into mere habit and the lifeless performance of a duty. My husband, on the contrary, from the birth of our first boy, became his old self again – gentle, composed, and home-loving, and transferred to the child his old tenderness and gaiety. Many a night when I went, dressed for a ball, to the nursery, to sign the child with the cross before he slept, I found my husband there and felt his eyes fixed on me with something of reproof in their serious gaze. Then I was ashamed and even shocked by my own callousness, and asked myself if I was worse than other women. ‘But it can’t be helped,’ I said to myself; ‘I love my child, but to sit beside him all day long would bore me; and nothing will make me pretend what I do not really feel.’
His mother’s death was a great sorrow to my husband; he said that he found it painful to go on living at Nikólskoe. For myself, although I mourned for her and sympathized with my husband’s sorrow, yet I found life in that house easier and pleasanter after her death. Most of those three years we spent in town: I went only once to Nikólskoe for two months; and the third year we went abroad and spent the summer at Baden.