ads:
Ariadne
Anton Chekhov
ON the deck of a steamer sailing from Odessa to Sevastopol, a rather good-looking
gentleman, with a little round beard, came up to me to smoke, and said:
"Notice those Germans sitting near the shelter? Whenever Germans or Englishmen get
together, they talk about the crops, the price of wool, or their personal affairs. But for some
reason or other when we Russians get together we never discuss anything but women and
abstract subjects -- but especially women."
This gentleman's face was familiar to me already. We had returned from abroad the evening
before in the same train, and at Volotchisk when the luggage was being examined by the
Customs, I saw him standing with a lady, his travelling companion, before a perfect
mountain of trunks and baskets filled with ladies' clothes, and I noticed how embarrassed
and downcast he was when he had to pay duty on some piece of silk frippery, and his
companion protested and threatened to make a complaint. Afterwards, on the way to
Odessa, I saw him carrying little pies and oranges to the ladies' compartment.
It was rather damp; the vessel swayed a little, and the ladies had retired to their cabins.
The gentleman with the little round beard sat down beside me and continued:
"Yes, when Russians come together they discuss nothing but abstract subjects and women.
We are so intellectual, so solemn, that we utter nothing but truths and can discuss only
questions of a lofty order. The Russian actor does not know how to be funny; he acts with
profundity even in a farce. We're just the same: when we have got to talk of trifles we treat
them only from an exalted point of view. It comes from a lack of boldness, sincerity, and
simplicity. We talk so often about women, I fancy, because we are dissatisfied. We take too
ideal a view of women, and make demands out of all proportion with what reality can give
us; we get something utterly different from what we want, and the result is dissatisfaction,
shattered hopes, and inward suffering, and if any one is suffering, he's bound to talk of it. It
does not bore you to go on with this conversation?
"No, not in the least."
"In that case, allow me to introduce myself," said my companion, rising from his seat a
little:
"Ivan Ilyitch Shamohin, a Moscow landowner of a sort. . . . You I know very well."
He sat down and went on, looking at me with a genuine and friendly expression:
"A mediocre philosopher, like Max Nordau, would explain these incessant conversations
about women as a form of erotic madness, or would put it down to our having been slave-
owners and so on; I take quite a different view of it. I repeat, we are dissatisfied because we
are idealists. We want the creatures who bear us and our children to be superior to us and to
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everything in the world. When we are young we adore and poeticize those with whom we
are in love: love and happiness with us are synonyms. Among us in Russia marriage
without love is despised, sensuality is ridiculed and inspires repulsion, and the greatest
success is enjoyed by those tales and novels in which women are beautiful, poetical, and
exalted; and if the Russian has been for years in ecstasies over Raphael's Madonna, or is
eager for the emancipation of women, I assure you there is no affectation about it. But the
trouble is that when we have been married or been intimate with a woman for some two or
three years, we begin to feel deceived and disillusioned: we pair off with others, and again
-- disappointment, again -- repulsion, and in the long run we become convinced that women
are lying, trivial, fussy, unfair, undeveloped, cruel -- in fact, far from being superior, are
immeasurably inferior to us men. And in our dissatisfaction and disappointment there is
nothing left for us but to grumble and talk about what we've been so cruelly deceived in."
While Shamohin was talking I noticed that the Russian language and our Russian
surroundings gave him great pleasure. This was probably because he had been very
homesick abroad. Though he praised the Russians and ascribed to them a rare idealism, he
did not disparage foreigners, and that I put down to his credit. It could be seen, too, that
there was some uneasiness in his soul, that he wanted to talk more of himself than of
women, and that I was in for a long story in the nature of a confession. And when we had
asked for a bottle of wine and had each of us drunk a glass, this was how he did in fact
begin:
"I remember in a novel of Weltmann's some one says, 'So that's the story!' and some one
else answers, 'No, that's not the story -- that's only the introduction to the story.' In the same
way what I've said so far is only the introduction; what I really want to tell you is my own
love story. Excuse me, I must ask you again; it won't bore you to listen?"
I told him it would not, and he went on:
The scene of my story is laid in the Moscow province in one of its northern districts. The
scenery there, I must tell you, is exquisite. Our homestead is on the high bank of a rapid
stream, where the water chatters noisily day and night: imagine a big old garden, neat
flower-beds, beehives, a kitchen-garden, and below it a river with leafy willows, which,
when there is a heavy dew on them, have a lustreless look as though they had turned grey;
and on the other side a meadow, and beyond the meadow on the upland a terrible, dark pine
forest. In that forest delicious, reddish agarics grow in endless profusion, and elks still live
in its deepest recesses. When I am nailed up in my coffin I believe I shall still dream of
those early mornings, you know, when the sun hurts your eyes: or the wonderful spring
evenings when the nightingales and the landrails call in the garden and beyond the garden,
and sounds of the harmonica float across from the village, while they play the piano indoors
and the stream babbles . . . when there is such music, in fact, that one wants at the same
time to cry and to sing aloud.
We have not much arable land, but our pasture makes up for it, and with the forest yields
about two thousand roubles a year. I am the only son of my father; we are both modest
persons, and with my father's pension that sum was amply sufficient for us.
The first three years after finishing at the university I spent in the country, looking after the
estate and constantly expecting to be elected on some local assembly; but what was most
ads:
important, I was violently in love with an extraordinarily beautiful and fascinating girl. She
was the sister of our neighbour, Kotlovitch, a ruined landowner who had on his estate pine-
apples, marvellous peaches, lightning conductors, a fountain in the courtyard, and at the
same time not a farthing in his pocket. He did nothing and knew how to do nothing. He was
as flabby as though he had been made of boiled turnip; he used to doctor the peasants by
homeopathy and was interested in spiritualism. He was, however, a man of great delicacy
and mildness, and by no means a fool, but I have no fondness for these gentlemen who
converse with spirits and cure peasant women by magnetism. In the first place, the ideas of
people who are not intellectually free are always in a muddle, and it's extremely difficult to
talk to them; and, secondly, they usually love no one, and have nothing to do with women,
and their mysticism has an unpleasant effect on sensitive people. I did not care for his
appearance either. He was tall, stout, white-skinned, with a little head, little shining eyes,
and chubby white fingers. He did not shake hands, but kneaded one's hands in his. And he
was always apologising. If he asked for anything it was "Excuse me"; if he gave you
anything it was "Excuse me" too.
As for his sister, she was a character out of a different opera. I must explain that I had not
been acquainted with the Kotlovitches in my childhood and early youth, for my father had
been a professor at N., and we had for many years lived away. When I did make their
acquaintance the girl was twenty-two, had left school long before, and had spent two or
three years in Moscow with a wealthy aunt who brought her out into society. When I was
introduced and first had to talk to her, what struck me most of all was her rare and beautiful
name -- Ariadne. It suited her so wonderfully! She was a brunette, very thin, very slender,
supple, elegant, and extremely graceful, with refined and exceedingly noble features. Her
eyes were shining, too, but her brother's shone with a cold sweetness, mawkish as sugar-
candy, while hers had the glow of youth, proud and beautiful. She conquered me on the first
day of our acquaintance, and indeed it was inevitable. My first impression was so
overwhelming that to this day I cannot get rid of my illusions; I am still tempted to imagine
that nature had some grand, marvellous design when she created that girl.
Ariadne's voice, her walk, her hat, even her footprints on the sandy bank where she used to
angle for gudgeon, filled me with delight and a passionate hunger for life. I judged of her
spiritual being from her lovely face and lovely figure, and every word, every smile of
Ariadne's bewitched me, conquered me and forced me to believe in the loftiness of her soul.
She was friendly, ready to talk, gay and simple in her manners. She had a poetic belief in
God, made poetic reflections about death, and there was such a wealth of varying shades in
her spiritual organisation that even her faults seemed in her to carry with them peculiar,
charming qualities. Suppose she wanted a new horse and had no money -- what did that
matter? Something might be sold or pawned, or if the steward swore that nothing could
possibly be sold or pawned, the iron roofs might be torn off the lodges and taken to the
factory, or at the very busiest time the farm-horses might be driven to the market and sold
there for next to nothing. These unbridled desires reduced the whole household to despair at
times, but she expressed them with such refinement that everything was forgiven her; all
things were permitted her as to a goddess or to Cæsar's wife. My love was pathetic and was
soon noticed by every one -- my father, the neighbours, and the peasants -- and they all
sympathised with me. When I stood the workmen vodka, they would bow and say: "May
the Kotlovitch young lady be your bride, please God!"
And Ariadne herself knew that I loved her. She would often ride over on horseback or drive
in the char-à-banc to see us, and would spend whole days with me and my father. She made
great friends with the old man, and he even taught her to bicycle, which was his favourite
amusement.
I remember helping her to get on the bicycle one evening, and she looked so lovely that I
felt as though I were burning my hands when I touched her. I shuddered with rapture, and
when the two of them, my old father and she, both looking so handsome and elegant,
bicycled side by side along the main road, a black horse ridden by the steward dashed aside
on meeting them, and it seemed to me that it dashed aside because it too was overcome by
her beauty. My love, my worship, touched Ariadne and softened her; she had a passionate
longing to be captivated like me and to respond with the same love. It was so poetical!
But she was incapable of really loving as I did, for she was cold and already somewhat
corrupted. There was a demon in her, whispering to her day and night that she was
enchanting, adorable; and, having no definite idea for what object she was created, or for
what purpose life had been given her, she never pictured herself in the future except as very
wealthy and distinguished, she had visions of balls, races, liveries, of sumptuous drawing-
rooms, of a salon of her own, and of a perfect swarm of counts, princes, ambassadors,
celebrated painters and artists, all of them adoring her and in ecstasies over her beauty and
her dresses. . . .
This thirst for personal success, and this continual concentration of the mind in one
direction, makes people cold, and Ariadne was cold -- to me, to nature, and to music.
Meanwhile time was passing, and still there were no ambassadors on the scene. Ariadne
went on living with her brother, the spiritualist: things went from bad to worse, so that she
had nothing to buy hats and dresses with, and had to resort to all sorts of tricks and dodges
to conceal her poverty.
As luck would have it, a certain Prince Maktuev, a wealthy man but an utterly insignificant
person, had paid his addresses to her when she was living at her aunt's in Moscow. She had
refused him, point-blank. But now she was fretted by the worm of repentance that she had
refused him; just as a peasant pouts with repulsion at a mug of kvass with cockroaches in it
but yet drinks it, so she frowned disdainfully at the recollection of the prince, and yet she
would say to me: "Say what you like, there is something inexplicable, fascinating, in a
title. . . ."
She dreamed of a title, of a brilliant position, and at the same time she did not want to let
me go. However one may dream of ambassadors one's heart is not a stone, and one has
wistful feelings for one's youth. Ariadne tried to fall in love, made a show of being in love,
and even swore that she loved me. But I am a highly strung and sensitive man; when I am
loved I feel it even at a distance, without vows and assurances; at once I felt as it were a
coldness in the air, and when she talked to me of love, it seemed to me as though I were
listening to the singing of a metal nightingale. Ariadne was herself aware that she was
lacking in something. She was vexed and more than once I saw her cry. Another time -- can
you imagine it? -- all of a sudden she embraced me and kissed me. It happened in the
evening on the river-bank, and I saw by her eyes that she did not love me, but was
embracing me from curiosity, to test herself and to see what came of it. And I felt dreadful.
I took her hands and said to her in despair: "These caresses without love cause me
suffering!"
"What a queer fellow you are!" she said with annoyance, and walked away.
Another year or two might have passed, and in all probability I should have married her,
and so my story would have ended, but fate was pleased to arrange our romance differently.
It happened that a new personage appeared on our horizon. Ariadne's brother had a visit
from an old university friend called Mihail Ivanitch Lubkov, a charming man of whom
coachmen and footmen used to say: "An entertaining gentleman." He was a man of medium
height, lean and bald, with a face like a good-natured bourgeois, not interesting, but pale
and presentable, with a stiff, well-kept moustache, with a neck like gooseskin, and a big
Adam's apple. He used to wear pince-nez on a wide black ribbon, lisped, and could not
pronounce either r or l. He was always in good spirits, everything amused him.
He had made an exceedingly foolish marriage at twenty, and had acquired two houses in
Moscow as part of his wife's dowry. He began doing them up and building a bath-house,
and was completely ruined. Now his wife and four children lodged in Oriental Buildings in
great poverty, and he had to support them -- and this amused him. He was thirty-six and his
wife was by now forty-two, and that, too, amused him. His mother, a conceited, sulky
personage, with aristocratic pretensions, despised his wife and lived apart with a perfect
menagerie of cats and dogs, and he had to allow her seventy-five roubles a month also; he
was, too, a man of taste, liked lunching at the Slavyansky Bazaar and dining at the
Hermitage; he needed a great deal of money, but his uncle only allowed him two thousand
roubles a year, which was not enough, and for days together he would run about Moscow
with his tongue out, as the saying is, looking for some one to borrow from -- and this, too,
amused him. He had come to Kotlovitch to find in the lap of nature, as he said, a rest from
family life. At dinner, at supper, and on our walks, he talked about his wife, about his
mother, about his creditors, about the bailiffs, and laughed at them; he laughed at himself
and assured us that, thanks to his talent for borrowing, he had made a great number of
agreeable acquaintances. He laughed without ceasing and we laughed too. Moreover, in his
company we spent our time differently. I was more inclined to quiet, so to say idyllic
pleasures; I liked fishing, evening walks, gathering mushrooms; Lubkov preferred picnics,
fireworks, hunting. He used to get up picnics three times a week, and Ariadne, with an
earnest and inspired face, used to write a list of oysters, champagne, sweets, and used to
send me into Moscow to get them, without inquiring, of course, whether I had money. And
at the picnics there were toasts and laughter, and again mirthful descriptions of how old his
wife was, what fat lap-dogs his mother had, and what charming people his creditors were.
Lubkov was fond of nature, but he regarded it as something long familiar and at the same
time, in reality, infinitely beneath himself and created for his pleasure. He would sometimes
stand still before some magnificent landscape and say: "It would be nice to have tea here."
One day, seeing Ariadne walking in the distance with a parasol, he nodded towards her and
said:
"She's thin, and that's what I like; I don't like fat women."
This made me wince. I asked him not to speak like that about women before me. He looked
at me in surprise and said:
"What is there amiss in my liking thin women and not caring for fat ones?"
I made no answer. Afterwards, being in very good spirits and a trifle elevated, he said:
"I've noticed Ariadne Grigoryevna likes you. I can't understand why you don't go in and
win."
His words made me feel uncomfortable, and with some embarrassment I told him how I
looked at love and women.
"I don't know," he sighed; "to my thinking, a woman's a woman and a man's a man. Ariadne
Grigoryevna may be poetical and exalted, as you say, but it doesn't follow that she must be
superior to the laws of nature. You see for yourself that she has reached the age when she
must have a husband or a lover. I respect women as much as you do, but I don't think
certain relations exclude poetry. Poetry's one thing and love is another. It's just the same as
it is in farming. The beauty of nature is one thing and the income from your forests or fields
is quite another."
When Ariadne and I were fishing, Lubkov would lie on the sand close by and make fun of
me, or lecture me on the conduct of life.
"I wonder, my dear sir, how you can live without a love affair," he would say. "You are
young, handsome, interesting -- in fact, you're a man not to be sniffed at, yet you live like a
monk. Och! I can't stand these fellows who are old at twenty-eight! I'm nearly ten years
older than you are, and yet which of us is the younger? Ariadne Grigoryevna, which?"
"You, of course," Ariadne answered him.
And when he was bored with our silence and the attention with which we stared at our
floats he went home, and she said, looking at me angrily:
"You're really not a man, but a mush, God forgive me! A man ought to be able to be carried
away by his feelings, he ought to be able to be mad, to make mistakes, to suffer! A woman
will forgive you audacity and insolence, but she will never forgive your reasonableness!"
She was angry in earnest, and went on:
"To succeed, a man must be resolute and bold. Lubkov is not so handsome as you are, but
he is more interesting. He will always succeed with women because he's not like you; he's a
man. . . ."
And there was actually a note of exasperation in her voice.
One day at supper she began saying, not addressing me, that if she were a man she would
not stagnate in the country, but would travel, would spend the winter somewhere aboard --
in Italy, for instance. Oh, Italy! At this point my father unconsciously poured oil on the
flames; he began telling us at length about Italy, how splendid it was there, the exquisite
scenery, the museums. Ariadne suddenly conceived a burning desire to go to Italy. She
positively brought her fist down on the table and her eyes flashed as she said: "I must go!"
After that came conversations every day about Italy: how splendid it would be in Italy -- ah,
Italy! -- oh, Italy! And when Ariadne looked at me over her shoulder, from her cold and
obstinate expression I saw that in her dreams she had already conquered Italy with all its
salons, celebrated foreigners and tourists, and there was no holding her back now. I advised
her to wait a little, to put off her tour for a year or two, but she frowned disdainfully and
said:
"You're as prudent as an old woman!"
Lubkov was in favour of the tour. He said it could be done very cheaply, and he, too, would
go to Italy and have a rest there from family life.
I behaved, I confess, as naïvely as a schoolboy.
Not from jealousy, but from a foreboding of something terrible and extraordinary, I tried as
far as possible not to leave them alone together, and they made fun of me. For instance,
when I went in they would pretend they had just been kissing one another, and so on. But lo
and behold, one fine morning, her plump, white-skinned brother, the spiritualist, made his
appearance and expressed his desire to speak to me alone.
He was a man without will; in spite of his education and his delicacy he could never resist
reading another person's letter, if it lay before him on the table. And now he admitted that
he had by chance read a letter of Lubkov's to Ariadne.
"From that letter I learned that she is very shortly going abroad. My dear fellow, I am very
much upset! Explain it to me for goodness' sake. I can make nothing of it!"
As he said this he breathed hard, breathing straight in my face and smelling of boiled beef.
"Excuse me for revealing the secret of this letter to you, but you are Ariadne's friend, she
respects you. Perhaps you know something of it. She wants to go away, but with whom?
Mr. Lubkov is proposing to go with her. Excuse me, but this is very strange of Mr. Lubkov;
he is a married man, he has children, and yet he is making a declaration of love; he is
writing to Ariadne 'darling.' Excuse me, but it is so strange!"
I turned cold all over; my hands and feet went numb and I felt an ache in my chest, as if a
three-cornered stone had been driven into it. Kotlovitch sank helplessly into an easy-chair,
and his hands fell limply at his sides.
"What can I do?" I inquired.
"Persuade her. . . . Impress her mind. . . . Just consider, what is Lubkov to her? Is he a
match for her? Oh, good God! How awful it is, how awful it is!" he went on, clutching his
head. "She has had such splendid offers -- Prince Maktuev and . . . and others. The prince
adores her, and only last Wednesday week his late grandfather, Ilarion, declared positively
that Ariadne would be his wife -- positively! His grandfather Ilarion is dead, but he is a
wonderfully intelligent person; we call up his spirit every day."
After this conversation I lay awake all night and thought of shooting myself. In the morning
I wrote five letters and tore them all up. Then I sobbed in the barn. Then I took a sum of
money from my father and set off for the Caucasus without saying good-bye.
Of course, a woman's a woman and a man's a man, but can all that be as simple in our day
as it was before the Flood, and can it be that I, a cultivated man endowed with a complex
spiritual organisation, ought to explain the intense attraction I feel towards a woman simply
by the fact that her bodily formation is different from mine? Oh, how awful that would be! I
want to believe that in his struggle with nature the genius of man has struggled with
physical love too, as with an enemy, and that, if he has not conquered it, he has at least
succeeded in tangling it in a net-work of illusions of brotherhood and love; and for me, at
any rate, it is no longer a simple instinct of my animal nature as with a dog or a toad, but is
real love, and every embrace is spiritualised by a pure impulse of the heart and respect for
the woman. In reality, a disgust for the animal instinct has been trained for ages in hundreds
of generations; it is inherited by me in my blood and forms part of my nature, and if I
poetize love, is not that as natural and inevitable in our day as my ears' not being able to
move and my not being covered with fur? I fancy that's how the majority of civilised people
look at it, so that the absence of the moral, poetical element in love is treated in these days
as a phenomenon, as a sign of atavism; they say it is a symptom of degeneracy, of many
forms of insanity. It is true that, in poetizing love, we assume in those we love qualities that
are lacking in them, and that is a source of continual mistakes and continual miseries for us.
But to my thinking it is better, even so; that is, it is better to suffer than to find complacency
on the basis of woman being woman and man being man.
In Tiflis I received a letter from my father. He wrote that Ariadne Grigoryevna had on such
a day gone abroad, intending to spend the whole winter away. A month later I returned
home. It was by now autumn. Every week Ariadne sent my father extremely interesting
letters on scented paper, written in an excellent literary style. It is my opinion that every
woman can be a writer. Ariadne described in great detail how it had not been easy for her to
make it up with her aunt and induce the latter to give her a thousand roubles for the journey,
and what a long time she had spent in Moscow trying to find an old lady, a distant relation,
in order to persuade her to go with her. Such a profusion of detail suggested fiction, and I
realised, of course, that she had no chaperon with her.
Soon afterwards I, too, had a letter from her, also scented and literary. She wrote that she
had missed me, missed my beautiful, intelligent, loving eyes. She reproached me
affectionately for wasting my youth, for stagnating in the country when I might, like her, be
living in paradise under the palms, breathing the fragrance of the orange-trees. And she
signed herself "Your forsaken Ariadne." Two days later came another letter in the same
style, signed "Your forgotten Ariadne." My mind was confused. I loved her passionately, I
dreamed of her every night, and then this "your forsaken," "your forgotten" -- what did it
mean? What was it for? And then the dreariness of the country, the long evenings, the
disquieting thoughts of Lubkov. . . . The uncertainty tortured me, and poisoned my days and
nights; it became unendurable. I could not bear it and went abroad.
Ariadne summoned me to Abbazzia. I arrived there on a bright warm day after rain; the
rain-drops were still hanging on the trees and glistening on the huge, barrack-like
dépendance where Ariadne and Lubkov were living.
They were not at home. I went into the park; wandered about the avenues, then sat down.
An Austrian General, with his hands behind him, walked past me, with red stripes on his
trousers such as our generals wear. A baby was wheeled by in a perambulator and the
wheels squeaked on the damp sand. A decrepit old man with jaundice passed, then a crowd
of Englishwomen, a Catholic priest, then the Austrian General again. A military band, only
just arrived from Fiume, with glittering brass instruments, sauntered by to the bandstand --
they began playing.
Have you ever been at Abbazzia? It's a filthy little Slav town with only one street, which
stinks, and in which one can't walk after rain without goloshes. I had read so much and
always with such intense feeling about this earthly paradise that when afterwards, holding
up my trousers, I cautiously crossed the narrow street, and in my ennui bought some hard
pears from an old peasant woman who, recognising me as a Russian, said: "Tcheeteery" for
"tchetyry" (four) -- "davadtsat" for "dvadtsat" (twenty), and when I wondered in perplexity
where to go and what to do here, and when I inevitably met Russians as disappointed as I
was, I began to feel vexed and ashamed. There is a calm bay there full of steamers and
boats with coloured sails. From there I could see Fiume and the distant islands covered with
lilac mist, and it would have been picturesque if the view over the bay had not been
hemmed in by the hotels and their dépendances -- buildings in an absurd, trivial style of
architecture, with which the whole of that green shore has been covered by greedy money
grubbers, so that for the most part you see nothing in this little paradise but windows,
terraces, and little squares with tables and waiters black coats. There is a park such as you
find now in every watering-place abroad. And the dark, motionless, silent foliage of the
palms, and the bright yellow sand in the avenue, and the bright green seats, and the glitter of
the braying military horns -- all this sickened me in ten minutes! And yet one is obliged for
some reason to spend ten days, ten weeks, there!
Having been dragged reluctantly from one of these watering-places to another, I have been
more and more struck by the inconvenient and niggardly life led by the wealthy and well-
fed, the dulness and feebleness of their imagination, the lack of boldness in their tastes and
desires. And how much happier are those tourists, old and young, who, not having the
money to stay in hotels, live where they can, admire the view of the sea from the tops of the
mountains, lying on the green grass, walk instead of riding, see the forests and villages at
close quarters, observe the customs of the country, listen to its songs, fall in love with its
women. . . .
While I was sitting in the park, it began to get dark, and in the twilight my Ariadne
appeared, elegant and dressed like a princess; after her walked Lubkov, wearing a new
loose-fitting suit, bought probably in Vienna.
"Why are you cross with me?" he was saying. "What have I done to you?"
Seeing me, she uttered a cry of joy, and probably, if we had not been in the park, would
have thrown herself on my neck. She pressed my hands warmly and laughed; and I laughed
too and almost cried with emotion. Questions followed, of the village, of my father,
whether I had seen her brother, and so on. She insisted on my looking her straight in the
face, and asked if I remembered the gudgeon, our little quarrels, the picnics. . . .
"How nice it all was really!" she sighed. "But we're not having a slow time here either. We
have a great many acquaintances, my dear, my best of friends! To-morrow I will introduce
you to a Russian family here, but please buy yourself another hat." She scrutinised me and
frowned. "Abbazzia is not the country," she said; "here one must be comme il faut."
Then we went to the restaurant. Ariadne was laughing and mischievous all the time; she
kept calling me "dear," "good," "clever," and seemed as though she could not believe her
eyes that I was with her. We sat on till eleven o'clock, and parted very well satisfied both
with the supper and with each other.
Next day Ariadne presented me to the Russian family as: "The son of a distinguished
professor whose estate is next to ours."
She talked to this family about nothing but estates and crops, and kept appealing to me. She
wanted to appear to be a very wealthy landowner, and did, in fact, succeed in doing so. Her
manner was superb like that of a real aristocrat, which indeed she was by birth.
"But what a person my aunt is!" she said suddenly, looking at me with a smile. "We had a
slight tiff, and she has bolted off to Meran. What do you say to that?"
Afterwards when we were walking in the park I asked her:
"What aunt were you talking of just now? What aunt is that?"
"That was a saving lie," laughed Ariadne. "They must not know I'm without a chaperon."
After a moment's silence she came closer to me and said:
"My dear, my dear, do be friends with Lubkov. He is so unhappy! His wife and mother are
simply awful."
She used the formal mode of address in speaking to Lubkov, and when she was going up to
bed she said good-night to him exactly as she did to me, and their rooms were on different
floors. All this made me hope that it was all nonsense, and that there was no sort of love
affair between them, and I felt at ease when I met him. And when one day he asked me for
the loan of three hundred roubles, I gave it to him with the greatest pleasure.
Every day we spent in enjoying ourselves and in nothing but enjoying ourselves; we strolled
in the park, we ate, we drank. Every day there were conversations with the Russian family.
By degrees I got used to the fact that if I went into the park I should be sure to meet the old
man with jaundice, the Catholic priest, and the Austrian General, who always carried a pack
of little cards, and wherever it was possible sat down and played patience, nervously
twitching his shoulders. And the band played the same thing over and over again.
At home in the country I used to feel ashamed to meet the peasants when I was fishing or
on a picnic party on a working day; here too I was ashamed at the sight of the footmen, the
coachmen, and the workmen who met us. It always seemed to me they were looking at me
and thinking: "Why are you doing nothing?" And I was conscious of this feeling of shame
every day from morning to night. It was a strange, unpleasant, monotonous time; it was
only varied by Lubkov's borrowing from me now a hundred, now fifty guldens, and being
suddenly revived by the money as a morphia-maniac is by morphia, beginning to laugh
loudly at his wife, at himself, at his creditors.
At last it began to be rainy and cold. We went to Italy, and I telegraphed to my father
begging him for mercy's sake to send me eight hundred roubles to Rome. We stayed in
Venice, in Bologna, in Florence, and in every town invariably put up at an expensive hotel,
where we were charged separately for lights, and for service, and for heating, and for bread
at lunch, and for the right of having dinner by ourselves. We ate enormously. In the
morning they gave us café complet; at one o'clock lunch: meat, fish, some sort of omelette,
cheese, fruits, and wine. At six o'clock dinner of eight courses with long intervals, during
which we drank beer and wine. At nine o'clock tea. At midnight Ariadne would declare she
was hungry, and ask for ham and boiled eggs. We would eat to keep her company.
In the intervals between meals we used to rush about the museums and exhibitions in
continual anxiety for fear we should be late for dinner or lunch. I was bored at the sight of
the pictures; I longed to be at home to rest; I was exhausted, looked about for a chair and
hypocritically repeated after other people: "How exquisite, what atmosphere!" Like overfed
boa constrictors, we noticed only the most glaring objects. The shop windows hypnotised
us; we went into ecstasies over imitation brooches and bought a mass of useless trumpery.
The same thing happened in Rome, where it rained and there was a cold wind. After a
heavy lunch we went to look at St. Peter's, and thanks to our replete condition and perhaps
the bad weather, it made no sort of impression on us, and detecting in each other an
indifference to art, we almost quarrelled.
The money came from my father. I went to get it, I remember, in the morning. Lubkov went
with me.
"The present cannot be full and happy when one has a past," said he. "I have heavy burdens
left on me by the past. However, if only I get the money, it's no great matter, but if not, I'm
in a fix. Would you believe it, I have only eight francs left, yet I must send my wife a
hundred and my mother another. And we must live here too. Ariadne's like a child; she
won't enter into the position, and flings away money like a duchess. Why did she buy a
watch yesterday? And, tell me, what object is there in our going on playing at being good
children? Why, our hiding our relations from the servants and our friends costs us from ten
to fifteen francs a day, as I have to have a separate room. What's the object of it?"
I felt as though a sharp stone had been turned round in my chest. There was no uncertainty
now; it was all clear to me. I turned cold all over, and at once made a resolution to give up
seeing them, to run away from them, to go home at once. . . .
"To get on terms with a woman is easy enough," Lubkov went on. "You have only to
undress her; but afterwards what a bore it is, what a silly business!"
When I counted over the money I received he said:
"If you don't lend me a thousand francs, I am faced with complete ruin. Your money is the
only resource left to me."
I gave him the money, and he at once revived and began laughing about his uncle, a queer
fish, who could never keep his address secret from his wife. When I reached the hotel I
packed and paid my bill. I had still to say good-bye to Ariadne.
I knocked at the door.
"Entrez!"
In her room was the usual morning disorder: tea-things on the table, an unfinished roll, an
eggshell; a strong overpowering reek of scent. The bed had not been made, and it was
evident that two had slept in it.
Ariadne herself had only just got out of bed and was now with her hair down in a flannel
dressing-jacket.
I said good-morning to her, and then sat in silence for a minute while she tried to put her
hair tidy, and then I asked her, trembling all over:
"Why . . . why . . . did you send for me here?"
Evidently she guessed what I was thinking; she took me by the hand and said:
"I want you to be here, you are so pure."
I felt ashamed of my emotion, of my trembling. And I was afraid I might begin sobbing,
too! I went out without saying another word, and within an hour I was sitting in the train.
All the journey, for some reason, I imagined Ariadne with child, and she seemed disgusting
to me, and all the women I saw in the trains and at the stations looked to me, for some
reason, as if they too were with child, and they too seemed disgusting and pitiable. I was in
the position of a greedy, passionate miser who should suddenly discover that all his gold
coins were false. The pure, gracious images which my imagination, warmed by love, had
cherished for so long, my plans, my hopes, my memories, my ideas of love and of woman --
all now were jeering and putting out their tongues at me. "Ariadne," I kept asking with
horror, "that young, intellectual, extraordinarily beautiful girl, the daughter of a senator,
carrying on an intrigue with such an ordinary, uninteresting vulgarian? But why should she
not love Lubkov?" I answered myself. "In what is he inferior to me? Oh, let her love any
one she likes, but why lie to me? But why is she bound to be open with me?" And so I went
on over and over again till I was stupefied.
It was cold in the train; I was travelling first class, but even so there were three on a side,
there were no double windows, the outer door opened straight into the compartment, and I
felt as though I were in the stocks, cramped, abandoned, pitiful, and my legs were fearfully
numb, and at the same time I kept recalling how fascinating she had been that morning in
her dressing-jacket and with her hair down, and I was suddenly overcome by such acute
jealousy that I leapt up in anguish, so that my neighbours stared at me in wonder and
positive alarm.
At home I found deep snow and twenty degrees of frost. I'm fond of the winter; I'm fond of
it because at that time, even in the hardest frosts, it's particularly snug at home. It's pleasant
to put on one's fur jacket and felt overboots on a clear frosty day, to do something in the
garden or in the yard, or to read in a well warmed room, to sit in my father's study before
the open fire, to wash in my country bath-house. . . . Only if there is no mother in the house,
no sister and no children, it is somehow dreary on winter evenings, and they seem
extraordinarily long and quiet. And the warmer and snugger it is, the more acutely is this
lack felt. In the winter when I came back from abroad, the evenings were endlessly long, I
was intensely depressed, so depressed that I could not even read; in the daytime I was
coming and going, clearing away the snow in the garden or feeding the chickens and the
calves, but in the evening it was all up with me.
I had never cared for visitors before, but now I was glad of them, for I knew there was sure
to be talk of Ariadne. Kotlovitch, the spiritualist, used often to come to talk about his sister,
and sometimes he brought with him his friend Prince Maktuev, who was as much in love
with Ariadne as I was. To sit in Ariadne's room, to finger the keys of her piano, to look at
her music was a necessity for the prince -- he could not live without it; and the spirit of his
grandfather Ilarion was still predicting that sooner or later she would be his wife. The
prince usually stayed a long time with us, from lunch to midnight, saying nothing all the
time; in silence he would drink two or three bottles of beer, and from time to time, to show
that he too was taking part in the conversation, he would laugh an abrupt, melancholy,
foolish laugh. Before going home he would always take me aside and ask me in an
undertone: "When did you see Ariadne Grigoryevna last? Was she quite well? I suppose
she's not tired of being out there?"
Spring came on. There was the harrowing to do and then the sowing of spring corn and
clover. I was sad, but there was the feeling of spring. One longed to accept the inevitable.
Working in the fields and listening to the larks, I asked myself: "Couldn't I have done with
this question of personal happiness once and for all? Couldn't I lay aside my fancy and
marry a simple peasant girl?"
Suddenly when we were at our very busiest, I got a letter with the Italian stamp, and the
clover and the beehives and the calves and the peasant girl all floated away like smoke. This
time Ariadne wrote that she was profoundly, infinitely unhappy. She reproached me for not
holding out a helping hand to her, for looking down upon her from the heights of my virtue
and deserting her at the moment of danger. All this was written in a large, nervous
handwriting with blots and smudges, and it was evident that she wrote in haste and distress.
In conclusion she besought me to come and save her. Again my anchor was hauled up and I
was carried away. Ariadne was in Rome. I arrived late in the evening, and when she saw
me, she sobbed and threw herself on my neck. She had not changed at all that winter, and
was just as young and charming. We had supper together and afterwards drove about Rome
until dawn, and all the time she kept telling me about her doings. I asked where Lubkov
was.
"Don't remind me of that creature!" she cried. "He is loathsome and disgusting to me!"
"But I thought you loved him," I said.
"Never," she said. "At first he struck me as original and aroused my pity, that was all. He is
insolent and takes a woman by storm. And that's attractive. But we won't talk about him.
That is a melancholy page in my life. He has gone to Russia to get money. Serve him right!
I told him not to dare to come back."
She was living then, not at an hotel, but in a private lodging of two rooms which she had
decorated in her own taste, frigidly and luxuriously.
After Lubkov had gone away she had borrowed from her acquaintances about five thousand
francs, and my arrival certainly was the one salvation for her.
I had reckoned on taking her back to the country, but I did not succeed in that. She was
homesick for her native place, but her recollections of the poverty she had been through
there, of privations, of the rusty roof on her brother's house, roused a shudder of disgust,
and when I suggested going home to her, she squeezed my hands convulsively and said:
"No, no, I shall die of boredom there!"
Then my love entered upon its final phase.
"Be the darling that you used to be; love me a little," said Ariadne, bending over to me.
"You're sulky and prudent, you're afraid to yield to impulse, and keep thinking of
consequences, and that's dull. Come, I beg you, I beseech you, be nice to me! . . . My pure
one, my holy one, my dear one, I love you so!"
I became her lover. For a month anyway I was like a madman, conscious of nothing but
rapture. To hold in one's arms a young and lovely body, with bliss to feel her warmth every
time one waked up from sleep, and to remember that she was there -- she, my Ariadne! --
oh, it was not easy to get used to that! But yet I did get used to it, and by degrees became
capable of reflecting on my new position. First of all, I realised, as before, that Ariadne did
not love me. But she wanted to be really in love, she was afraid of solitude, and, above all, I
was healthy, young, vigorous; she was sensual, like all cold people, as a rule -- and we both
made a show of being united by a passionate, mutual love. Afterwards I realised something
else, too.
We stayed in Rome, in Naples, in Florence; we went to Paris, but there we thought it cold
and went back to Italy. We introduced ourselves everywhere as husband and wife, wealthy
landowners. People readily made our acquaintance and Ariadne had great social success
everywhere. As she took lessons in painting, she was called an artist, and only imagine, that
quite suited her, though she had not the slightest trace of talent.
She would sleep every day till two or three o'clock; she had her coffee and lunch in bed. At
dinner she would eat soup, lobster, fish, meat, asparagus, game, and after she had gone to
bed I used to bring up something, for instance roast beef, and she would eat it with a
melancholy, careworn expression, and if she waked in the night she would eat apples and
oranges.
The chief, so to say fundamental, characteristic of the woman was an amazing duplicity.
She was continually deceitful every minute, apparently apart from any necessity, as it were
by instinct, by an impulse such as makes the sparrow chirrup and the cockroach waggle its
antennæ. She was deceitful with me, with the footman, with the porter, with the tradesmen
in the shops, with her acquaintances; not one conversation, not one meeting, took place
without affectation and pretence. A man had only to come into our room -- whoever it
might be, a waiter, or a baron -- for her eyes, her expression, her voice to change, even the
contour of her figure was transformed. At the very first glance at her then, you would have
said there were no more wealthy and fashionable people in Italy than we. She never met an
artist or a musician without telling him all sorts of lies about his remarkable talent.
"You have such a talent!" she would say, in honeyed cadences, "I'm really afraid of you. I
think you must see right through people."
And all this simply in order to please, to be successful, to be fascinating! She waked up
every morning with the one thought of "pleasing"! It was the aim and object of her life. If I
had told her that in such a house, in such a street, there lived a man who was not attracted
by her, it would have caused her real suffering. She wanted every day to enchant, to
captivate, to drive men crazy. The fact that I was in her power and reduced to a complete
nonentity before her charms gave her the same sort of satisfaction that visitors used to feel
in tournaments. My subjection was not enough, and at nights, stretched out like a tigress,
uncovered -- she was always too hot -- she would read the letters sent her by Lubkov; he
besought her to return to Russia, vowing if she did not he would rob or murder some one to
get the money to come to her. She hated him, but his passionate, slavish letters excited her.
She had an extraordinary opinion of her own charms; she imagined that if somewhere, in
some great assembly, men could have seen how beautifully she was made and the colour of
her skin, she would have vanquished all Italy, the whole world. Her talk of her figure, of her
skin, offended me, and observing this, she would, when she was angry, to vex me, say all
sorts of vulgar things, taunting me. One day when we were at the summer villa of a lady of
our acquaintance, and she lost her temper, she even went so far as to say: "If you don't leave
off boring me with your sermons, I'll undress this minute and lie naked here on these
flowers."
Often looking at her asleep, or eating, or trying to assume a naïve expression, I wondered
why that extraordinary beauty, grace, and intelligence had been given her by God. Could it
simply be for lolling in bed, eating and lying, lying endlessly? And was she intelligent
really? She was afraid of three candles in a row, of the number thirteen, was terrified of
spells and bad dreams. She argued about free love and freedom in general like a bigoted old
woman, declared that Boleslav Markevitch was a better writer than Turgenev. But she was
diabolically cunning and sharp, and knew how to seem a highly educated, advanced person
in company.
Even at a good-humoured moment, she could always insult a servant or kill an insect
without a pang; she liked bull-fights, liked to read about murders, and was angry when
prisoners were acquitted.
For the life Ariadne and I were leading, we had to have a great deal of money. My poor
father sent me his pension, all the little sums he received, borrowed for me wherever he
could, and when one day he answered me: "Non habeo," I sent him a desperate telegram in
which I besought him to mortgage the estate. A little later I begged him to get money
somehow on a second mortgage. He did this too without a murmur and sent me every
farthing. Ariadne despised the practical side of life; all this was no concern of hers, and
when flinging away thousands of francs to satisfy her mad desires I groaned like an old tree,
she would be singing "Addio bella Napoli" with a light heart.
Little by little I grew cold to her and began to be ashamed of our tie. I am not fond of
pregnancy and confinements, but now I sometimes dreamed of a child who would have
been at least a formal justification of our life. That I might not be completely disgusted with
myself, I began reading and visiting museums and galleries, gave up drinking and took to
eating very little. If one keeps oneself well in hand from morning to night, one's heart seems
lighter. I began to bore Ariadne too. The people with whom she won her triumphs were, by
the way, all of the middling sort; as before, there were no ambassadors, there was no salon,
the money did not run to it, and this mortified her and made her sob, and she announced to
me at last that perhaps she would not be against our returning to Russia.
And here we are on our way. For the last few months she has been zealously corresponding
with her brother; she evidently has some secret projects, but what they are -- God knows! I
am sick of trying to fathom her underhand schemes! But we're going, not to the country, but
to Yalta and afterwards to the Caucasus. She can only exist now at watering-places, and if
you knew how I hate all these watering-places, how suffocated and ashamed I am in them.
If I could be in the country now! If I could only be working now, earning my bread by the
sweat of my brow, atoning for my follies. I am conscious of a superabundance of energy
and I believe that if I were to put that energy to work I could redeem my estate in five years.
But now, as you see, there is a complication. Here we're not abroad, but in mother Russia;
we shall have to think of lawful wedlock. Of course, all attraction is over; there is no trace
left of my old love, but, however that may be, I am bound in honour to marry her.
----
Shamohin, excited by his story, went below with me and we continued talking about
women. It was late. It appeared that he and I were in the same cabin.
"So far it is only in the village that woman has not fallen behind man," said Shamohin.
"There she thinks and feels just as man does, and struggles with nature in the name of
culture as zealously as he. In the towns the woman of the bourgeois or intellectual class has
long since fallen behind, and is returning to her primitive condition. She is half a human
beast already, and, thanks to her, a great deal of what had been won by human genius has
been lost again; the woman gradually disappears and in her place is the primitive female.
This dropping-back on the part of the educated woman is a real danger to culture; in her
retrogressive movement she tries to drag man after her and prevents him from moving
forward. That is incontestable."
I asked: "Why generalise? Why judge of all women from Ariadne alone? The very struggle
of women for education and sexual equality, which I look upon as a struggle for justice,
precludes any hypothesis of a retrograde movement."
But Shamohin scarcely listened to me and he smiled distrustfully. He was a passionate,
convinced misogynist, and it was impossible to alter his convictions.
"Oh, nonsense!" he interrupted. "When once a woman sees in me, not a man, not an equal,
but a male, and her one anxiety all her life is to attract me -- that is, to take possession of
me -- how can one talk of their rights? Oh, don't you believe them; they are very, very
cunning! We men make a great stir about their emancipation, but they don't care about their
emancipation at all, they only pretend to care about it; they are horribly cunning things,
horribly cunning!"
I began to feel sleepy and weary of discussion. I turned over with my face to the wall.
"Yes," I heard as I fell asleep -- "yes, and it's our education that's at fault, sir. In our towns,
the whole education and bringing up of women in its essence tends to develop her into the
human beast -- that is, to make her attractive to the male and able to vanquish him. Yes,
indeed" -- Shamohiri sighed -- "little girls ought to be taught and brought up with boys, so
that they might be always together. A woman ought to be trained so that she may be able,
like a man, to recognise when she's wrong, or she always thinks she's in the right. Instil into
a little girl from her cradle that a man is not first of all a cavalier or a possible lover, but her
neighbour, her equal in everything. Train her to think logically, to generalise, and do not
assure her that her brain weighs less than a man's and that therefore she can be indifferent to
the sciences, to the arts, to the tasks of culture in general. The apprentice to the shoemaker
or the house painter has a brain of smaller size than the grown-up man too, yet he works,
suffers, takes his part in the general struggle for existence. We must give up our attitude to
the physiological aspect, too -- to pregnancy and childbirth, seeing that in the first place
women don't have babies every month; secondly, not all women have babies; and, thirdly, a
normal countrywoman works in the fields up to the day of her confinement and it does her
no harm. Then there ought to be absolute equality in everyday life. If a man gives a lady his
chair or picks up the handkerchief she has dropped, let her repay him in the same way. I
have no objection if a girl of good family helps me to put on my coat or hands me a glass of
water --"
I heard no more, for I fell asleep.
Next morning when we were approaching Sevastopol, it was damp, unpleasant weather; the
ship rocked. Shamohin sat on deck with me, brooding and silent. When the bell rang for
tea, men with their coat-collars turned up and ladies with pale, sleepy faces began going
below; a young and very beautiful lady, the one who had been so angry with the Customs
officers at Volotchisk, stopped before Shamohin and said with the expression of a naughty,
fretful child:
"Jean, your birdie's been sea-sick."
Afterwards when I was at Yalta I saw the same beautiful lady dashing about on horseback
with a couple of officers hardly able to keep up with her. And one morning I saw her in an
overall and a Phrygian cap, sketching on the sea-front with a great crowd admiring her a
little way off. I too was introduced to her. She pressed my hand with great warmth, and
looking at me ecstatically, thanked me in honeyed cadences for the pleasure I had given her
by my writings.
"Don't you believe her," Shamohin whispered to me, "she has never read a word of them."
When I was walking on the sea-front in the early evening Shamohin met me with his arms
full of big parcels of fruits and dainties.
"Prince Maktuev is here!" he said joyfully. "He came yesterday with her brother, the
spiritualist! Now I understand what she was writing to him about! Oh, Lord!" he went on,
gazing up to heaven, and pressing his parcels to his bosom. "If she hits it off with the
prince, it means freedom, then I can go back to the country with my father!"
And he ran on.
"I begin to believe in spirits," he called to me, looking back. "The spirit of grandfather
Ilarion seems to have prophesied the truth! Oh, if only it is so!"
----
The day after this meeting I left Yalta and how Shamohin's story ended I don't know.
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