The Complete Works of Count Tolstoy/Volume 18/The Kreutzer Sonata/Chapter 2
II.
No sooner had the old man left than there arose a conversation in which several persons took part.
"He is a papa of the old style," said the clerk. "What a savage conception about woman and about marriage!"
"A living Domostróy!"[1] said the lady.
"Yes, we are very far from the European conception of marriage," said the lawyer.
"The main thing is, these people do not understand," said the lady, "that marriage without love is not a marriage, that love alone sanctifies love, and that real marriage is only such as is sanctified by love."
The clerk listened attentively, trying to memorize as much as possible of the clever remarks, to use them on occasion.
In the middle of the lady's speech, there was heard behind me the sound of what might have been an interrupted laugh or sob; and, upon looking around, we saw my neighbour, the gray-haired lonely gentleman with the sparkling eyes, who, unnoticed by any one, had come up to us, evidently interested in the conversation. He was standing, with his hands on the back of the seat, and was apparently very much agitated: his face was red and the muscle of his cheek was jerking.
"What kind of a love is it that sanctifies marriage?" he asked, hesitatingly.
Seeing the agitated condition of the questioner, the lady tried to answer him as gently and clearly as possible.
"True love— If this love exists between a man and a woman, then marriage is possible," said the lady.
"Yes. But what do you mean by true love?" said the gentleman of the sparkling eyes, with an awkward smile, and with timidity.
"Everybody knows what love is," said the lady, evidently wishing to break off her conversation with him.
"But I do not," said the gentleman. "You must define what you understand—"
"What? It is very simple," said the lady, but she stopped to think. "Love—love is the exclusive preference of one person to all others," she said.
"Preference for how long? For a month, or two, or for half an hour?" muttered the gray-haired gentleman, laughing.
"Excuse me, but you are evidently not speaking of the same thing."
"Yes, I am."
"The lady says," interposed the lawyer, pointing to the lady, "that marriage must, in the first place, spring from attachment,—love, if you please,—and only if such is on hand does marriage represent something sacred, so to speak then, that no marriage, without natural attachments—love, if you wish—at its base, carries any moral obligations with it. Do I understand you right?" he turned to the lady.
The lady with a nod of her head expressed her approval of the exposition of her idea.
"Besides—" the lawyer continued his speech, but the nervous gentleman, with eyes now aflame, not being able to repress himself any longer, did not allow the lawyer to finish it, and himself said:
"No, I have in mind that which you said about the preference of one to all the rest; but I ask: a preference for how long?"
"For how much time? For a long time, sometimes for a whole life," said the lady, shrugging her shoulders.
"But that happens only in novels, and never in real life. In real life this preference of one to others may last a few years, which it rarely does; more frequently for months, or weeks, days, and even hours," he said, being apparently conscious of puzzling all with this opinion of his, and satisfied with it.
"Oh, how can you say that? But no. No, excuse me," all three of us spoke at the same time. Even the clerk uttered a certain sound of disapproval.
"Yes, I know," the gray-haired gentleman tried to rise above our voices, "you are speaking of that which you assume as existing, whereas I speak of that which really is. Every man experiences that which you call love in the presence of any beautiful woman."
"Ah, what you say is terrible! But there certainly is among people that feeling which is called love, and which lasts for months and years, and even for a lifetime?"
"No, there is not! Even if we should grant that a man might prefer a certain woman for all his life, the woman, in all probability, would prefer another, and thus it has always been, and always will be," he said, and, drawing out his cigarette-holder, he lighted a cigarette.
"But there might be a mutual feeling," said the lawyer.
"No, that cannot be," he retorted, "just as it is impossible that any two marked peas out of a bag of peas should happen to lie together. Besides, it is not only a question of probability, but of certain satiety. To love one and the same person all your life amounts to saying that one candle will burn a lifetime," he said, taking a long puff at his cigarette.
"You are all speaking of carnal love. Do you not admit love based on oneness of ideals, on spiritual affinity?" said the lady.
"Spiritual affinity! Oneness of ideals!" he repeated, emitting his peculiar sound. "In that case there is no reason for sleeping together (pardon my coarseness). As it is, people sleep together on account of oneness of ideals," he said, bursting into a nervous laugh.
"But pardon me," said the lawyer, "facts contradict your statement. We do see that marital relations exist, that all humankind, or the majority of it, live a conjugal life, and many persevere honestly in a protracted conjugal life."
The gray-haired gentleman laughed out once more.
"At first you say that marriage is based on love, and when I express a doubt in the existence of a love other than the sensual, you prove to me the existence of love in the fact that marriages exist. Yes, but marriages are mere deception in our days!"
"You will pardon me," said the lawyer, "all I said was that marriages have always existed."
"They have. But what makes them exist? They have existed with those people who in marriage see something mysterious,—a mystery which puts them under obligations in the sight of God,—there they have existed. With us, people marry, seeing in marriage nothing but cohabitation, and from this results either deception or violence. If it is a deception, it is easily borne. Husband and wife deceive others by making them believe that they are monogamous, whereas they are polygamous and polyandrous. This is bad, but it will pass; but when, as so very frequently happens, husband and wife have assumed the external obligation to live together all their lives, and they begin to hate each other from the second month on, and wish to separate, and still continue to live together, then there results that terrible hell which leads people to take to drink, to shoot, kill, and poison themselves and each other." He spoke ever more rapidly, without giving anybody a chance to interpose a word, and getting more and more excited. It was an awkward situation.
"Yes, no doubt there are critical episodes in marital life," said the lawyer, wishing to put an end to the indecently heated conversation.
"I see you have found out who I am," the gray-haired gentleman said, softly, and almost quietly.
"No, I have not the pleasure."
"It is not a great pleasure. I am Pózdnyshev, the man to whom that critical episode has happened, at which you have hinted, that episode which has led to his killing his wife," he said, casting a rapid glance upon us.
Nobody knew what to say, and all kept silent.
"Well, it makes no difference," he said, emitting his strange sound. "However, excuse me! I will not trouble you."
"Why, no, not at all," said the lawyer, himself not knowing what it was that was "not at all."
But Pózdnyshev paid no attention to him, rapidly turned around, and went back to his seat. The lawyer and the lady whispered together. I sat by Pózdnyshev's side and was silent, not being able to find anything to talk about. It was too dark to read, and so I closed my eyes and pretended that I wished to fall asleep. Thus we rode in silence to the next station.
At this station the lawyer and the lady went to another car, having first spoken about it to the conductor. The clerk settled himself on the bench and fell asleep. Pózdnyshev continued smoking all the time and drank the tea which he had prepared for himself at the previous station.
When I opened my eyes and looked at him, he suddenly turned to me with determination and irritation:
"Maybe it is not agreeable to you to be sitting with me, knowing who I am? In that case, I will go out."
"Oh, not at all!"
"Well, then won't you have a glass? It is rather strong."
He poured out a glass of tea for me.
"They are talking and lying—" he said.
"What are you referring to?" I asked.
"To the same thing: to that love of theirs, and to what they mean by it. Don't you want to sleep?"
"Not at all."
"Then, if you wish, I will tell you how this same love had led me to do what I did."
"If it will not be painful to you."
"No, it is painful for me to keep quiet. Drink the tea—or is it too strong?" The tea was really like beer, but I swallowed a glass. Just then the conductor entered. He silently followed him with angry eyes, and began to speak only after he had left.
- ↑ A sixteenth century work in which rules of conduct are laid down.