The Complete Works of Count Tolstoy/Volume 18/The Kreutzer Sonata/Chapter 1
THE KREUTZER SONATA
"But I say unto you, That whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart" (Matt. v. 28).
"His disciples say unto him, If the case of the man be so with his wife, it is not good to marry. But he said unto them, All men cannot receive this saying, save they to whom it is given" (Matt. xx. 10-11).
I.
This was early in the spring. We had been travelling for two days. People who were going but a short distance kept coming in and going out of the car; but three persons travelled, like myself, from the starting-point of the train a plain-looking, no longer young lady, with a drawn face, dressed in a semi-masculine overcoat and cap, and smoking cigarettes; her acquaintance, a talkative man of about forty, in fashionable new clothes; and another, an undersized gentleman, with jerky motions, who kept to himself. The latter was not old, but his curly hair was apparently prematurely gray, and his uncommonly sparkling eyes rapidly flitted from one object to another. He wore an old, tailor-made overcoat, with a curly lamb-fur collar, and a tall lamb-fur cap. Under his overcoat, whenever he unbuttoned it, could be seen the national sleeveless coat and embroidered shirt. The peculiarity of this gentleman consisted further in his now and then emitting strange sounds which resembled a clearing of the throat or a jerky laugh.
This gentleman during the whole journey carefully avoided conversing and becoming acquainted with the passengers. To his neighbours' remarks he answered curtly, or he read, or smoked, looking out of the window, or, fetching some provisions out of his old bag, drank tea or ate a lunch.
I thought that his loneliness weighed upon him, and I tried several times to start a conversation with him, but every time when our eyes met, which was often, because we were sitting diagonally opposite each other, he turned away and picked up a book, or looked out of the window.
During a stop, in the evening of the second day, at a large station, this nervous gentleman got some hot water and brewed some tea for himself, while the gentleman in the fashionable new clothes,—a lawyer, as I learned later,—with his neighbour, the smoking lady in the semi-masculine overcoat, went to drink tea at the station.
During the absence of the gentleman and the lady, a few new persons entered our car; among them was a tall, cleanly shaven, wrinkled old man, apparently a merchant, in a fitchew-fur coat and a cloth cap with an immense visor. The merchant sat down opposite the lady's and the lawyer's places, and immediately entered into a conversation with a young man, evidently a merchant's clerk, who had also entered the car at this station.
I was sitting diagonally across from them, and, as the train was not moving, was able to catch bits of their conversation whenever there was no one passing between us. The merchant informed him at first that he was going to his estate, which was but one station away; then, as is always the case, they began to speak about prices and about trade, and about business in Moscow and at the Nízhni-Nóvgorod Fair. The clerk began to tell about the carousals of a certain rich merchant, whom they both knew, at the fair, but the old man interrupted him, and himself told of past carousals at Kunávin, in which he had taken part. He was apparently proud of the part taken by him in them, and was telling with obvious joy how once he and this acquaintance of his were drunk in Kunávin and did something of such a nature that it was necessary to tell it in a whisper, whereat the clerk roared so that he could be heard through the whole car, and the old man laughed, displaying his yellow teeth.
As I did not expect to hear anything interesting, I got up to walk up and down the platform until the departure of the train. I met the lawyer and the lady in the door, who were with animation talking about something, while making for the car.
"You will have no time," the affable lawyer said to me. "The second bell will ring in a minute."
And so it was. I had not reached the end of the train when the bell rang out. When I returned, the animated conversation between the lady and the lawyer was still in progress. The old merchant sat silently opposite them, sternly looking in front of him, and now and then disapprovingly gnashing his teeth.
"Then she frankly informed her husband," the lawyer was saying, with a smile, just as I passed by him, "that she could not and would not live with him because—"
He continued to tell her the rest, but I could not make out what he was saying. After me, other passengers passed in; then the conductor; then a porter ran in, and there was a din for quite awhile, so that their conversation could not be heard. When all had quieted down, and I again heard the lawyer's voice, the conversation had evidently passed from the particular case to generalizations.
The lawyer was saying that the question of divorce now occupied public opinion in Europe, and that such cases were becoming ever more frequent in our country. Upon noticing that he was the only person whose voice was heard, he interrupted his speech, and addressed himself to the old man. Such things did not happen in olden times, did they?" he said, with a pleasant smile.
The old man wanted to make a reply, but just then the train started, and the old man took off his cap and began to make the sign of the cross and to whisper a prayer. The lawyer turned his eyes away and waited respectfully. Having finished his prayer and the threefold sign of the cross, the old man pulled his cap down over his head, adjusted himself in his seat, and began to speak:
"It used to happen, sir, only not so often," he said. "It could not be different considering the times we are living in. People are too much educated nowadays."
The train moved faster and faster, rumbling over the rail ends, so that I could not hear them well. As I was interested in what they were saying, I seated myself nearer to them. My neighbour, the nervous gentleman with the sparkling eyes, was apparently interested himself: he listened attentively, without getting up.
"What makes education bad?" the lady said, with a scarcely perceptible smile. "Do you think it is better to marry as of old, when bridegroom and bride did not see each other?" she continued, replying, as is the habit with women, not to the words of her interlocutor, but to the words which she supposed he would utter.
"They did not know whether they loved each other or could love each other, and married by chance, and then suffered all their lives. In your opinion this is better?" she said, obviously directing her remarks to me and to the lawyer, and least of all to the old man, with whom she was speaking.
"People are too much educated," repeated the merchant, looking contemptuously at the lady and leaving her question unanswered.
"It would be desirable to know how you explain the connection between education and marital incompatibility," the lawyer said, with a slight smile.
The merchant wanted to say something, but the lady interrupted him:
"No, that time has passed," she said. But the lawyer stopped her:
"Permit the gentleman to express his idea!"
"Foolishness comes from education," the old man said, with determination.
"They join in marriage those who do not love each other, and then they wonder why it is they do not live in peace," the lady hastened to say, looking at the lawyer and at me, and even at the clerk, who had raised himself in his seat and, leaning on the hand-rest, was listening to the conversation. "Only animals may be paired according to their master's will, but people have their inclinations and attachments," said the lady, evidently wishing to sting the merchant.
"Madam, you say this in vain," said the old man. "An animal is a beast, but law is given to man."
"But how can you want one to live with a person, when there is no love between them?" the lady still hastened to express her sentiments, which, no doubt, seemed very novel to her.
"In former days this was not considered," the old man said, in an impressive voice. "This has only come in lately. Let the least thing happen, and the wife says: 'I will leave you!' Even peasants have taken to it. 'Here,' she says, 'are your shirt and trousers, but I will go with Vánka, because his hair is more curly than yours.' Go and talk with them! Woman must, above everything else, have fear."
The clerk glanced at the lawyer, and at the lady, and at me, apparently holding back a smile, and ready to approve or ridicule the merchant's speech, according to the way it was accepted.
"What fear?" asked the lady.
"Namely, let her fear her husband! That's the fear I mean!"
"But, my friend, that time has passed," the lady said, almost with annoyance.
"No, madam, that time never can pass. Just as Eve was created from the rib of a man, so she will always remain, to the end of the world," said the old man, shaking his head so sternly and victoriously that the clerk at once decided that victory was on the side of the merchant, and so laughed out loud.
"You men judge like this," said the lady, looking at us, and not giving in. "You have taken liberty for yourselves, and you want to keep woman in her chamber, but you take all kinds of liberties yourselves."
"Nobody gives them such a permission. However, there will be no increase in the house through a man, whereas a woman is a weak vessel," the merchant continued, in an impressive voice. The impressiveness of the merchant's intonations obviously vanquished his hearers, and even the lady felt herself crushed, but she would not submit.
"Yes. But I think you will agree with me that woman is a human being and has feelings like a man. What is she to do if she does not love her husband?"
"If she does not love?" the merchant repeated, austerely, moving his brows and lips. "Never mind, she will love him!" This unexpected argument gave special pleasure to the clerk, and he emitted a sound of approval.
"No, she will not," said the lady. "If there is no love, you can't force her to love."
"Well, and if the wife is false to her husband, what then?" said the lawyer.
"That is not supposed to happen," said the merchant, "and has to be watched."
"But if it does happen, then what? Such things do occur."
"Maybe these things happen elsewhere, only not with us," said the old man.
Everybody was silent. The clerk moved forward restlessly, and, apparently not wishing to be behind the others, smiled and said:
"Yes, there was once a scandal with a fellow of our set. It is pretty hard to make it out. His wife happened to be a loose woman, and off she went, gallivanting. He was a sober kind of a fellow, with great ability. At first it was with a clerk. Her husband tried to check her with kind treatment,—but she did not stop. She did all kinds of unseemly things, and began to steal his money. Then he beat her. Well? She got worse and worse. She began intrigues with an infidel Jew, excuse me for mentioning it. What could he do? He gave her up entirely. And so he lives single, and she walks the streets."
"Because he is a fool," said the old man. "If he had not given her the reins at first, but had checked her in, she would have been all right. You must not give them their liberty at first. Don't trust a horse in the field, nor a woman in the house!"
Just then the conductor came to ask for the tickets to the next station. The old man gave up his.
"Yes, you must check in the women at the start, or else all is lost."
"What about the jollification married men have at the Kunávin Fair, of which you were telling awhile ago?" I asked, having lost my patience.
"That is a different matter," said the merchant, and buried himself in silence.
When the whistle blew, the merchant got up, got his bag out from under the bench, wrapped himself in his coat, and, raising his cap, went out on the brake platform.