Part 15

She sat down at the window, resting her head on her hand, and looked out upon the street, where the tiresome, hateful day was dying away in a gray twilight. She remembered her youth, when life had seemed so big, with immeasurable horizons enveloped in an alluring, dove-colored mist, so interesting in its endless variations, so enigmatic and incomprehensible; when it seemed that the most important and wished-for thing was still before her, when her maiden heart stood still with fear and curiosity before the unknown future, when her heart was filled with a vague alarm in the expectation of a great happiness, perhaps the happiness of a triumphant love. And here it is--real life. The horizon ends with the grocery store across the street and is enveloped in the poesy of the cook-book. All of them live from day to day, are bored, gossip, speak of their dwellings, servants, occupations, play cards, bear children, and complain--the husbands about their wives and the wives about their husbands. And there is no triumphant love anywhere--but only triumphant triviality, rascality, and ennui. All that was interesting in life was already a thing of the past, it had all happened long before; then she had been supremely happy, and that happiness--which is given to one only once in life--passed away imperceptibly, and would nevermore return.

It grew darker; on the streets appeared timidly blinking yellow lights. The bells rang for vespers, and this ringing of the church-bells awakened in her soul something vague and alarming: a sad longing for something which had gone forever; or was it that it reproached the soul soiled by life? “Evening bells, evening bells!” Xenia whispered with a deep sigh.

Suddenly in the dim drawing-room appeared a whitish figure: it was Iván Mikhailovich, who came out of his study without a vest. He stretched, yawned, let out an “O-go-go-go!” and remarked: “I dined well and enjoyed a splendid snooze. What are you dreaming about?”

“Oh, just so, I was thinking what a tiresome affair it is to live in this world!”

“How is that! After you have given birth to three children you all at once begin to find life tiresome?”

“Oh, how commonplace and trivial this is!”

“Well, you are again in the dumps!” Iván Mikhailovich spoke angrily and turned away. Xenia Pavlovna broke into a laugh, then this laugh became intermixed with crying, and ended in hysterics.

“W-ell! The devil is loose!” muttered Iván Mikhailovich, and rang for the maid, whom he ordered to fetch some water. “Cold, from the faucet.”

His mother-in-law, rushing into the room, cried: “What is the matter? What have you done to her?” The whites of her eyes glittered in the dark, and her whole demeanor expressed a thirst for revenge and complete redress. “What have you done to her?”

“I have done absolutely nothing to her! And I do not know, absolutely do not know, why she started all this comedy! She is simply an unbalanced woman, your daughter is, absolutely unbalanced!”

“You have offended her?”

“Neither by word nor intention! I came into the drawing-room and found her moaning at the window; all at once, without provocation, she began to laugh, then to cry,” said Iván Mikhailovich, shrugging his shoulders and gesticulating, and Maria Petrovna, whom Iván Mikhailovich, in moments of exasperation, sometimes called “the old witch,” did not believe him, and insistently demanded an explanation: “Don’t you tell me that. Where did you get it that she is unbalanced? We never had any one of an unbalanced mind in our family--every one was healthy and sane. What have you been doing to her?”

“All right, then! All right, if they were all sane and normal! I am glad to hear it!” said Iván Mikhailovich angrily, and speedily left the house. He went to the club, where he played cards, playing high from pure spite, and losing also from pure spitefulness. In the mean time Maria Petrovna walked around with a pained expression on her face, not being able to understand what had passed between the two. Several times she approached Xenia Pavlovna, and began:

“Why is all this quarreling going on in the house lately? What is the reason for it? Have you found out anything wrong about him, or what?”

“I have found out nothing!”

“Has he offended you in any way?”

“No, no, what makes you think so?”

“You do wrong to hide it from me. It will leak out somehow, do not fear. I shall find out everything, my lady!” Then she suddenly changed her tone and approached the matter from a different side:

“He is jealous. You should not provoke him.”

“Oh, please don’t! He is simply stupid, that is all!” Xenia Pavlovna interrupted her, laughing through her tears, and Maria Petrovna grew angry.

“If a wife speaks like that about her husband, no good will ever come of it!” And she began to defend her son-in-law with all her might, and in the end it appeared, according to her own words, that a better man than Iván Mikhailovich could not be found the world over. “Just look at others, little mother! Take, for instance, the husband of Kapitolina Ivanovna! And it is nothing to her, my lady. She does not complain--she suffers in silence, and would not even think of dubbing her husband ‘stupid’--as you are doing. Of course, what we have we are careless of--and once we lose it--we cry!”

Nevertheless she could get no explanation of what had occurred, and could only take refuge in guesswork and supposition.

She did not go to sleep till the return of her son-in-law, and, sitting in the drawing-room on the sofa, she continually pondered over what now most interested her, letting escape from time to time an “M’m.”

And Iván Mikhailovich, after he had supped and taken an extra glass or two, came home and announced himself by a ring so angry and imperious that it sounded noisily through the quiet rooms, and frightened Maria Petrovna. “He must be drunk,” she thought, and, opening the door, she did not even sigh as usual, but spoke lovingly. “There is some supper left for you in the dining-room.”

Iván Mikhailovich did not reply. He passed through the rooms with protesting step, banged the doors, coughed loudly, and, in general, gave one to understand that he was his own master. And to still more emphasize his independence, he did not go to sleep in the superb double bed with its silver ornaments, but lay down on the sofa in his study under the reindeer antlers and the rifle from which he had never fired a shot.

“Here, take at least a pillow!” came Maria Petrovna’s meek voice from the other side of the door, and the white corner of a pillow was thrust through the slightly open door of the study. Her son-in-law did not reply. “It is uncomfortable to lie that way, your neck will pain you.”

“Don’t you trouble yourself about my neck!” came from the cabinet.

But Maria Petrovna threw the pillow on an easy chair, and the door closed. Iván Mikhailovich was a man who prided himself on the strength of his character, and, therefore, he did not take the pillow, but supported his head with his fist and puffed while he thought of the oppressive disagreeableness of married life.

The dog Norma evidently took the part of the husband, and whenever the couple quarreled and occupied different sleeping rooms, the dog would not stay with the woman.

Opening the door of the study with her paw, she approached the sofa, placed her black muzzle on Iván Mikhailovich’s breast, and gazed at him with eyes that wished to say: “What hags they are, all of them! They even do not know how to appreciate a man like you!” Iván Mikhailovich felt a silent gratitude toward Norma, and patted her with his hand, pulling lovingly at her long ears. But the door of the study again opened slightly, and from the other side came the whisper of Maria Petrovna: “Norma! Norma!” But Norma did not go. Iván Mikhailovich held her by the collar and patted her with redoubled energy. “She will let in fleas,” again came the low voice. “Norma! Norma!”

Iván Mikhailovich sprang from the sofa, closing the door tightly, and the melodious sound of the lock-spring ended the diplomatic overtures of his mother-in-law.

“Sleeps with the dog. A fine thing this!” spoke the grumbling voice behind the door, and all became quiet.

These were scenes with dramatic elements and effects in them. But there were other scenes of the ordinary sort, so to speak, without the dramatic effects, scenes which were repeated regularly in the same form and in the very same expressions.

These scenes always took place on the twentieth of the month, when Iván Mikhailovich received his salary, and the large number of small creditors had to be paid. Somehow there was never sufficient money to settle all the bills, and each time Iván Mikhailovich thought that the money ought to be enough to cover all expenses, and railed at the womenfolk who dreamed so much about the emancipation of women, while they did not even know how to regulate their own household. “Emancipation,” he grumbled, taking the money from his pocket-book and throwing it on the table.

“But what has emancipation to do with this matter?”

“They go and teach you the devil-knows-what--all kinds of geography, algebra, trigonometry, but you do not know how to make both ends meet--emancipation!”

“And you should go a little less to the club, Iván Mikhailovich; then probably the income would cover the expenditures!” replied Maria Petrovna, bitingly.

“And where, pray, can I get it for you? I am not coining money. I suppose you know I am not a counterfeiter?”

And all three started to upbraid and reproach each other, and for a moment they became submerged in such trivialities and unpleasantness that they were afterward thoroughly ashamed of themselves. After every twentieth of the month there remained in the soul of Xenia Pavlovna a kind of soot, and this greasy soot dimmed her eyes, made her apathetic and slow, and it seemed as if she had all at once become old, ill-looking, and disheartened. This young and very charming woman looked at such times like a beautiful bouquet of flowers that had withered and been thrown out of the window. So they lived day after day, months and years, and when an acquaintance asked, “How are you getting along?” they invariably replied: “Very well, thank you!”

It sometimes became necessary to refresh themselves after this kind of life--to depart, at least for a day, from the beaten track--and so Iván Mikhailovich went on a short spree two or three times a year. “One must overhaul himself thoroughly from time to time; it is not only useful, but also necessary,” he usually said on the next day after such an exploit.

The only thing that ever brightened Xenia Pavlovna’s life a little was going to the theatre. This happened so seldom, however, that she looked upon such rarely occurring occasions in the light of important events. Iván Mikhailovich did not like to go to the theatre, and when Xenia Pavlovna said, “We ought to go to the theatre and refresh ourselves a little,” Iván Mikhailovich was sure to remember how, ten years before, when they visited St. Petersburg on their honeymoon, they had been to the opera and the drama, and would reply: “After seeing Figner and Mme. Savina, it is not worth while, my dear, to go to see such small fry, and it only spoils an impression for us!”

But whenever “Faust” was presented on the stage of the local theatre, no pleadings were necessary: Iván Mikhailovich never failed to take seats in the third row of the orchestra for himself and Xenia Pavlovna.

“To-day we go to see ‘Faust,’” he said in an angry tone on returning from the bank, carelessly throwing two colored tickets upon the table.

“‘Faust’?” joyfully exclaimed Xenia Pavlovna, and her face became radiant with joy.

Gay and exalted with the pleasure that awaited her, Xenia Pavlovna usually began to get ready very early. And while she was dressing and combing her hair, Iván Mikhailovich stood close by to see that it was all done properly, because when he appeared with his wife in society he liked everything to be “just so,” and was pleased to have every one think, as they saw her pass on his arm, “A charming woman that! Really charming!” Therefore he was a very stern critic, and while she dressed he continually vexed her by his remarks: “Your coiffure is too small! You have the face of a Marguerite, and you dress your hair to make you look like a Jewess!”

“It is not true!”

“A curious thing, really: women understand less than any one else what is becoming to them, and they care less than all to win the admiration of their husbands!”

Xenia Pavlovna also wished to look well, but she did not trust overmuch to the good taste of Iván Mikhailovich, and at the same time she distrusted herself, too, and the upshot of it all was that they invariably quarreled, and left the house sulking and displeased with each other. Deeply aggravated and disheartened, they went to the theatre without any pleasurable anticipation, as if some one were driving them thither. First they walked arm in arm, feeling angry with each other, and longing to pull their arms away and walk apart; then Iván Mikhailovich called a cabman in an angry voice that seemed to hate all the cabbies in the world. Having helped his wife into the sleigh, he sat down by her side and placed his arm around her waist. The whole way they never exchanged a word, but Iván Mikhailovich gave vent to his irritation in a shower of abuse directed at the poor cabby: “Careful there! Don’t you see the hollows, you stupid!”--“To the right, you dolt!”

The orchestra played the overture from “Faust.” Iván Mikhailovich and his wife walked arm in arm through the long, carpeted aisle between two long rows of orchestra chairs toward their seats. Iván Mikhailovich felt as if all eyes were directed toward him, and he tried to walk with greater dignity, with his head proudly thrown back and his rounded paunch thrown forward. Xenia Pavlovna walked with downcast eyes and a face which looked rigidly cold and offended, as if she had been sentenced to die and were walking toward the gallows. The electric lights went out; the curtain rose upon a sea looking very much like a sky and a sky very much like a sea, with some sort of fantastic ruins and tropical vegetation. The traditional Faust, in his brown dressing-gown, nightcap, and long, gray beard, sang in his metallic tenor voice, smoothing his beard with his hand:

“Accursed be human science, human prayer, human faith!”

At first Xenia Pavlovna was not much affected by either the music or the singing. She looked more than she listened. When the red Mephistopheles appeared and sang that everything was well with him, and that he had plenty of money, Xenia Pavlovna remembered that it would soon be the twentieth and that they owed the butcher for two months. “Emancipation!” she seemed to hear Iván Mikhailovich exclaiming, and when she stopped thinking of the butcher and emancipation, Faust had already thrown off his dressing-gown and beard, and had changed from a decrepit old man into a handsome, strong youth, and this unexpectedness called forth the first smile upon her lips.

“To me returned lovely youth!” victoriously sang Faust, approaching the footlights and raising his hand, and Xenia Pavlovna began to think how old she was and how old Iván Mikhailovich was; that their youth had already passed, and would nevermore return. Xenia Pavlovna sighed and stealthily glanced at Iván Mikhailovich’s face. He sat deep in his chair, with head bent to one side and his hands locked over his paunch, and in his well-groomed face, with its waxed and twisted mustaches, there was so much of that self-sufficiency and well-bred sleekness of the native that Xenia Pavlovna hurriedly turned away.

During the first entr’acte they went into the lobby of the theatre, she leaning on his arm, and he feeling uneasy the whole time at the thought that his wife’s hair was badly dressed and that her face was not alight with the joy and rapture of the other women, who, with their sparkling eyes and rustling skirts, laughed and talked incessantly in their ringing, happy voices.

After walking a little up and down the spacious lobby, engrossed in their own thoughts, the pair returned to their seats. Under the cascades of light falling from the electric lustre, the orchestra dazzled the eyes with the beautiful dresses of the ladies, and buzzed like a beehive from the multitude of noises, motions, and rustling, but this talk, glitter, and dazzle seemed to Xenia Pavlovna distant and strange, and the walls of people, the boxes resembling rich bouquets of flowers, awakened in her a feeling of loneliness and remoteness. She sat with her hands lying listlessly on her lap and with downcast eyes; she did not wish to be disturbed in her present brooding mood, and feared that some acquaintance might approach them and ask how they were, or that Iván Mikhailovich might suddenly begin to compare the singers with those they had once heard.

When the lights went out and the curtain rose again, she felt a great relief, and it suddenly seemed to her that she was once more in her maiden bower and had locked the door on the outside world. Gazing at the scene before her, she was gradually carried away into the realm of sound and melody, and wholly surrendered herself to the vague, disturbing emotions that had arisen in her soul under the influence of music and song. The rancor and vexation she had felt toward her husband gradually subsided, and the memory of the harsh wrangles, petty disputes, all the tiresome prosiness of her daily life, vanished, and an exquisite calm and tranquillity took possession of her soul, brightening and clearing up everything within her. In the third act the soul of Xenia Pavlovna flew away from her native town, and she forgot herself and everybody else, and wholly surrendered herself to the power of music and song, to the moonlit night, the silvery shimmer of the stars, and the contemplation of a happy love, which waxed stronger and stronger, seemingly measureless and all-powerful, but at the same time full of a sadness and pensiveness as quiet and gentle as this moonlit night itself, and as this exquisite young girl before her, with her thick, long braid of golden hair, who, with the sincerity and straightforwardness of a child, was kneeling before her handsome, youthful lover, pleading with him for mercy. Here she stands flooded by the radiant moonlight, trembling with fear and happiness, her head resting on the shoulder of the handsome youth. Here she sings at the wide-open window, telling the stars, the quiet night, and the slumbering old garden, that seems to have been enchanted by dreams of love, of her happiness; and her song, pure and sacred like a prayer, soars upward to the starry, blue heavens.

How very dear and near this is to people who have lived through the fantom of happiness. She, Xenia Pavlovna, had once been just such a sweet girl, with a thick, golden braid hanging down her back; she had been just as happy and carefree, and sang just as sweetly to the stars and the silent garden flooded with the mysterious, sad moonlight, and she also, just as this maiden, had trembled with fear and pleaded with the man she loved for mercy.

“Ha! ha! ha! ha!” rolled the thundering laugh of Mephistopheles--such pitiless, powerful, and provoking laughter--and the chord, which echoed in Xenia Pavlovna’s heart with inexpressible tenderness and sadness, broke and grew silent, leaving room only for this laughter, oppressive and revolting in its triumphant triviality and truth. And reality suddenly broke into the realm of dreams and fancies. Xenia Pavlovna lowered her eyes, compressed her lips, and a smile passed over her face, the strange smile of a person who has been caught unawares.

“He laughs first rate!” remarked Iván Mikhailovich in an earnest voice, slightly moving in his chair.

Xenia Pavlovna looked at her husband and sighed sorrowfully. She had already resigned herself to Iván Mikhailovich, to his pompous solemnity, and his hands crossed over his paunch. Those hands no longer awakened her ire. Once this very same man who now sat by her side was _her_ Faust, and with him was closely bound up her love-drama. Even if it had been a mirage, a mistake, it was the mistake of her whole life, a mistake which would never be repeated--like youth itself.

The curtain came down. The noise of applause, resembling a rainstorm, and the wild roar of the over-enthusiastic gallery filled the theatre from top to bottom. The curtain rose once more on the sea and the ruins, and Faust, Marguerite, and Mephistopheles appeared holding each other’s hands, bowing and smiling to the public, and Xenia Pavlovna felt as if she had been suddenly awakened from a sleep full of tender, delicious dreams, vague and enchanting, but already forgotten, and she felt vexed because she was awakened, and was now possessed by a tormenting longing to recall and bring back the frightened-off dreams.

She did not want to look at Marguerite, who had suddenly turned into an actress, thirsting for hand-clapping and making eyes at that huge monster--the public; at Mephistopheles, who stood with his right hand pressed to his breast as a token of gratitude and sincere pleasure, nor at Faust, who suddenly looked very much like a hair-dresser, and who was sending in all directions sweetish, airy kisses.

“Come, Vania!”

Iván Mikhailovich rose and offered her his arm, and they once more repaired to the lobby. Here he treated her to tea and fruits. “It is splendid for allaying thirst!” he said, handing her an orange. And from this moment all animosity was forgotten, and peace reigned once more between them.

“Not sour, I hope?”

“No, it is very good.”

Xenia Pavlovna ate her orange, and gazed at the men who passed them. “They are all different here from what they are at home,” she thought; “they are all rude, all go to their clubs, and my Vania is in reality much better than many of these men.”

“How did you like Marguerite, Vania?”

“Pretty well--though, after Alma Fostrem, she is, of course--”

“Have you heard Alma in that rôle?”

“Well, I like that, really! Did we not hear her together at St. Petersburg! Have you forgotten already?”

“Ach, that was so long ago.”

“Though this opera is immortal by itself, I have seen it over a hundred times, and will be glad to see it as many times more. Here one sees life as in a mirror--Yes--Do you remember--in the garden?” he concluded in a low voice, leaning toward his wife.

Xenia Pavlovna’s face was covered with a slight blush, and her eyes had a thoughtful, far-away look in them, which gradually grew sad and dreamy.

“All this was, but it has passed as if in a dream,” her lips whispered, and her head swayed on her beautiful bare neck.

Here some acquaintances passed and, pressing their hands warmly, inquired:

“How are you?”

“Very well, thank you. And you?”

“Pretty well, as usual. But you, Xenia Pavlovna, still continue to grow more beautiful!”

Xenia Pavlovna blushed, and a hardly perceptible shade of pleasure flitted over her face, and made it sweet and strong and proud.

“What are you saying!” she replied, slightly screwing up her eyes and coquettishly fanning herself. “On the contrary, I think I am growing worse looking with each passing day!”

Then all the men began to protest in chorus, and the women silently fixed their coiffures with their fingers, while Iván Mikhailovich looked at his wife and thought that she was really a very lovely woman, probably one of the loveliest in the whole theatre, and he also began to feel very pleased, and twirling his mustaches, he spoke proudly:

“You ought to see her portrait when she was my fiancée! It hangs over my desk. She had a braid twice as thick as this Marguerite’s--”