The Wife Page #7

"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.

								

All this, though is banal to the point of vulgarity. Before me stood an
ordinary woman, perhaps neither beautiful nor elegant, but this was my
wife with whom I had once lived, and with whom I should have been living
to this day if it had not been for her unfortunate character; she was
the one human being on the terrestrial globe whom I loved. At this
moment, just before going away, when I knew that I should no longer see
her even through the window, she seemed to me fascinating even as she
was, cold and forbidding, answering me with a proud and contemptuous
mockery. I was proud of her, and confessed to myself that to go away
from her was terrible and impossible.

"Pavel Andreitch," she said after a brief silence, "for two years we
have not interfered with each other but have lived quietly. Why do you
suddenly feel it necessary to go back to the past? Yesterday you came to
insult and humiliate me," she went on, raising her voice, and her face
flushed and her eyes flamed with hatred; "but restrain yourself; do not
do it, Pavel Andreitch! Tomorrow I will send in a petition and they will
give me a passport, and I will go away; I will go! I will go! I'll go
into a convent, into a widows' home, into an almshouse...."

"Into a lunatic asylum!" I cried, not able to restrain myself.

"Well, even into a lunatic asylum! That would be better, that would be
better," she cried, with flashing eyes. "When I was in Pestrovo today I
envied the sick and starving peasant women because they are not living
with a man like you. They are free and honest, while, thanks to you, I
am a parasite, I am perishing in idleness, I eat your bread, I spend
your money, and I repay you with my liberty and a fidelity which is of
no use to any one. Because you won't give me a passport, I must respect
your good name, though it doesn't exist."

I had to keep silent. Clenching my teeth, I walked quickly into the
drawing-room, but turned back at once and said:

"I beg you earnestly that there should be no more assemblies, plots, and
meetings of conspirators in my house! I only admit to my house those
with whom I am acquainted, and let all your crew find another place to
do it if they want to take up philanthropy. I can't allow people at
midnight in my house to be shouting hurrah at successfully exploiting an
hysterical woman like you!"

My wife, pale and wringing her hands, took a rapid stride across the
room, uttering a prolonged moan as though she had toothache. With a wave
of my hand, I went into the drawing-room. I was choking with rage, and
at the same time I was trembling with terror that I might not restrain
myself, and that I might say or do something which I might regret all my
life. And I clenched my hands tight, hoping to hold myself in.

After drinking some water and recovering my calm a little, I went back
to my wife. She was standing in the same attitude as before, as though
barring my approach to the table with the papers. Tears were slowly
trickling down her pale, cold face. I paused then and said to her
bitterly but without anger:

"How you misunderstand me! How unjust you are to me! I swear upon my
honour I came to you with the best of motives, with nothing but the
desire to do good!"

"Pavel Andreitch!" she said, clasping her hands on her bosom, and her
face took on the agonized, imploring expression with which frightened,
weeping children beg not to be punished, "I know perfectly well that you
will refuse me, but still I beg you. Force yourself to do one kind
action in your life. I entreat you, go away from here! That's the only
thing you can do for the starving peasants. Go away, and I will forgive
you everything, everything!"

"There is no need for you to insult me, Natalie," I sighed, feeling a
sudden rush of humility. "I had already made up my mind to go away, but
I won't go until I have done something for the peasants. It's my duty!"

"Ach!" she said softly with an impatient frown. "You can make an
excellent bridge or railway, but you can do nothing for the starving
peasants. Do understand!"

"Indeed? Yesterday you reproached me with indifference and with being
devoid of the feeling of compassion. How well you know me!" I laughed.
"You believe in God--well, God is my witness that I am worried day and
night...."

"I see that you are worried, but the famine and compassion have nothing
to do with it. You are worried because the starving peasants can get on
without you, and because the Zemstvo, and in fact every one who is
helping them, does not need your guidance."

I was silent, trying to suppress my irritation. Then I said:

"I came to speak to you on business. Sit down. Please sit down."

She did not sit down.

"I beg you to sit down," I repeated, and I motioned her to a chair.

She sat down. I sat down, too, thought a little, and said:

"I beg you to consider earnestly what I am saying. Listen.... Moved by
love for your fellow-creatures, you have undertaken the organization of
famine relief. I have nothing against that, of course; I am completely
in sympathy with you, and am prepared to co-operate with you in every
way, whatever our relations may be. But, with all my respect for your
mind and your heart... and your heart," I repeated, "I cannot allow such
a difficult, complex, and responsible matter as the organization of
relief to be left in your hands entirely. You are a woman, you are
inexperienced, you know nothing of life, you are too confiding and
expansive. You have surrounded yourself with assistants whom you know
nothing about. I am not exaggerating if I say that under these
conditions your work will inevitably lead to two deplorable
consequences. To begin with, our district will be left unrelieved; and,
secondly, you will have to pay for your mistakes and those of your
assistants, not only with your purse, but with your reputation. The
money deficit and other losses I could, no doubt, make good, but who
could restore you your good name? When through lack of proper
supervision and oversight there is a rumour that you, and consequently
I, have made two hundred thousand over the famine fund, will your
assistants come to your aid?"

She said nothing.

"Not from vanity, as you say," I went on, "but simply that the starving
peasants may not be left unrelieved and your reputation may not be
injured, I feel it my moral duty to take part in your work."

"Speak more briefly," said my wife.

"You will be so kind," I went on, "as to show me what has been
subscribed so far and what you have spent. Then inform me daily of every
fresh subscription in money or kind, and of every fresh outlay. You will
also give me, Natalie, the list of your helpers. Perhaps they are quite
decent people; I don't doubt it; but, still, it is absolutely necessary
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