The Wife Page #13

"The Wife" is a poignant short story by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov that delves into the complexities of marriage and the nature of love. The narrative follows Masha, a woman who reflects on her relationship with her husband, Ivan, as tensions and emotional disconnect manifest in their lives. Chekhov masterfully captures the nuances of hope, despair, and the often-unspoken struggles within a partnership, inviting readers to ponder the true essence of companionship and the sacrifices made in its name. Through rich character development and subtle insights, "The Wife" explores themes of longing, identity, and the bittersweet nature of human connection.

								

Sobol, too, were crimson.

"To the health of your wife," said Sobol. "She likes me. Tell her her
doctor sends her his respects."

"She's fortunate, upon my word," sighed Ivan Ivanitch. "Though she takes
no trouble, does not fuss or worry herself, she has become the most
important person in the whole district. Almost the whole business is in
her hands, and they all gather round her, the doctor, the District
Captains, and the ladies. With people of the right sort that happens of
itself. Yes.... The apple-tree need take no thought for the apple to
grow on it; it will grow of itself."

"It's only people who don't care who take no thought," said I.

"Eh? Yes..." muttered Ivan Ivanitch, not catching what I said, "that's
true.... One must not worry oneself. Just so, just so.... Only do your
duty towards God and your neighbour, and then never mind what happens."

"Eccellenza," said Sobol solemnly, "just look at nature about us: if you
poke your nose or your ear out of your fur collar it will be frost-
bitten; stay in the fields for one hour, you'll be buried in the snow;
while the village is just the same as in the days of Rurik, the same
Petchenyegs and Polovtsi. It's nothing but being burnt down, starving,
and struggling against nature in every way. What was I saying? Yes! If
one thinks about it, you know, looks into it and analyses all this
hotchpotch, if you will allow me to call it so, it's not life but more
like a fire in a theatre! Any one who falls down or screams with terror,
or rushes about, is the worst enemy of good order; one must stand up and
look sharp, and not stir a hair! There's no time for whimpering and
busying oneself with trifles. When you have to deal with elemental
forces you must put out force against them, be firm and as unyielding as
a stone. Isn't that right, grandfather?" He turned to Ivan Ivanitch and
laughed. "I am no better than a woman myself; I am a limp rag, a flabby
creature, so I hate flabbiness. I can't endure petty feelings! One
mopes, another is frightened, a third will come straight in here and
say: 'Fie on you! Here you've guzzled a dozen courses and you talk about
the starving!' That's petty and stupid! A fourth will reproach you,
Eccellenza, for being rich. Excuse me, Eccellenza," he went on in a loud
voice, laying his hand on his heart, "but your having set our magistrate
the task of hunting day and night for your thieves--excuse me, that's
also petty on your part. I am a little drunk, so that's why I say this
now, but you know, it is petty!"

"Who's asking him to worry himself? I don't understand!" I said, getting
up.

I suddenly felt unbearably ashamed and mortified, and I walked round the
table.

"Who asks him to worry himself? I didn't ask him to.... Damn him!"

"They have arrested three men and let them go again. They turned out not
to be the right ones, and now they are looking for a fresh lot," said
Sobol, laughing. "It's too bad!"

"I did not ask him to worry himself," said I, almost crying with
excitement. "What's it all for? What's it all for? Well, supposing I was
wrong, supposing I have done wrong, why do they try to put me more in
the wrong?"

"Come, come, come, come!" said Sobol, trying to soothe me. "Come! I have
had a drop, that is why I said it. My tongue is my enemy. Come," he
sighed, "we have eaten and drunk wine, and now for a nap."

He got up from the table, kissed Ivan Ivanitch on the head, and
staggering from repletion, went out of the dining-room. Ivan Ivanitch
and I smoked in silence.

"I don't sleep after dinner, my dear," said Ivan Ivanitch, "but you have
a rest in the lounge-room."

I agreed. In the half-dark and warmly heated room they called the
lounge-room, there stood against the walls long, wide sofas, solid and
heavy, the work of Butyga the cabinet maker; on them lay high, soft,
white beds, probably made by the old woman in spectacles. On one of them
Sobol, without his coat and boots, already lay asleep with his face to
the back of the sofa; another bed was awaiting me. I took off my coat
and boots, and, overcome by fatigue, by the spirit of Butyga which
hovered over the quiet lounge-room, and by the light, caressing snore of
Sobol, I lay down submissively.

And at once I began dreaming of my wife, of her room, of the station-
master with his face full of hatred, the heaps of snow, a fire in the
theatre. I dreamed of the peasants who had stolen twenty sacks of rye
out of my barn.

"Anyway, it's a good thing the magistrate let them go," I said.

I woke up at the sound of my own voice, looked for a moment in
perplexity at Sobol's broad back, at the buckles of his waistcoat, at
his thick heels, then lay down again and fell asleep.

When I woke up the second time it was quite dark. Sobol was asleep.
There was peace in my heart, and I longed to make haste home. I dressed
and went out of the lounge-room. Ivan Ivanitch was sitting in a big arm-
chair in his study, absolutely motionless, staring at a fixed point, and
it was evident that he had been in the same state of petrifaction all
the while I had been asleep.

"Good!" I said, yawning. "I feel as though I had woken up after breaking
the fast at Easter. I shall often come and see you now. Tell me, did my
wife ever dine here?"

"So-ome-ti-mes... sometimes,"' muttered Ivan Ivanitch, making an effort
to stir. "She dined here last Saturday. Yes.... She likes me."

After a silence I said:

"Do you remember, Ivan Ivanitch, you told me I had a disagreeable
character and that it was difficult to get on with me? But what am I to
do to make my character different?"

"I don't know, my dear boy.... I'm a feeble old man, I can't advise
you.... Yes.... But I said that to you at the time because I am fond of
you and fond of your wife, and I was fond of your father.... Yes. I
shall soon die, and what need have I to conceal things from you or to
tell you lies? So I tell you: I am very fond of you, but I don't respect
you. No, I don't respect you."

He turned towards me and said in a breathless whisper:

"It's impossible to respect you, my dear fellow. You look like a real
man. You have the figure and deportment of the French President Carnot--I
saw a portrait of him the other day in an illustrated paper... yes....
You use lofty language, and you are clever, and you are high up in the
service beyond all reach, but haven't real soul, my dear boy... there's
no strength in it."

"A Scythian, in fact," I laughed. "But what about my wife? Tell me
something about my wife; you know her better."

I wanted to talk about my wife, but Sobol came in and prevented me.

"I've had a sleep and a wash," he said, looking at me naively. "I'll
have a cup of tea with some rum in it and go home."
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