University of Virginia Library

21.
CHAPTER XXI.

"WHEN we moved to Moscow, this gentle-
man—his name was Troukhatchevsky—came to
my house. It was in the morning. I received
him. In former times we had been very famil-

iar. He tried, by various advances, to re-estab-
lish 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 ap-
proach. 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 conversa-
tion 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 re-
membered 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 mo-
ment,—why in these events is there neither a
past nor a future? My relations with Trouk-
hatchevsky 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 fright-
ful 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 begin-
ning, I suppose, because of the pleasure of the
violin playing, which she adored. She had even
hired for that purpose a violinist from the thea-
tre. But when she cast a glance at me, she
understood my feelings, and concealed her im-
pression. 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 sub-
ject of conversation,—that is, in that which did
not interest him at all.

"She tried to seem indifferent. But my ex-
pression, 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 glitter-
ing, glittering strangely, and that, thanks to my
jealousy, between him and her had been immedi-

ately 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 hap-
pened. 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 as-
tonishment, 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 pro-
posals, and they finally executed a few pieces,—
songs without words, and a little sonata by Mo-
zart. 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 ad-
vised 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, espe-
cially because I was sure that toward me she
had no other feeling than of perpetual irritation,
sometimes interrupted by the customary sen-
suality, and that this man,—thanks to his ex-
ternal elegance and his novelty, and, above all,
thanks to his unquestionably remarkable talent,
thanks to the attraction exercised under the in-
fluence 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 un-
known 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 imme-
diately, 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 Sun-
day, 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 ac-
count for it. And it was this, it was this: in

passing through the hall, I had noticed some-
thing 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 at-
tention). 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 com-
pressed, 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 en-
dure 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
arpeg-
gios
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 fright-
ened, 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 diffi-
cult, classic things, notably a sonata by Beetho-
ven, 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 con-
spiracy to deceive me.

"One of the most torturing situations for the
jealous (and in our social life everybody is jeal-
ous) 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 every-
body, if he desires to prevent associations in the
ball-room, the intimacy of doctors with their pa-
tients, 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 oc-
cupations, 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 disturb-
ing 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 im-
pression of my abrupt entrance with a fright-
ened face. He went away with an air of satis-
faction 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.