Posdnyschew had married as men do. He had studied at the university; he had also gone to work after that, and he had arrived. Then the consciousness of love awoke in him. They met.

She was young, beautiful, really very beautiful, not without dowry; she had duly attended boarding school, although she did not graduate. She had curly hair and dressed modishly. She was dainty, somewhat artless, good-natured, but, above all, nice.

"Well, what about it?" he thought: "I, too, am a human being, am I not? Outside of my chemistry there are still other joys in life: beauty, love. Why should I live only as an onlooker while others take everything they can? Also, the years are passing. I, too, have a right to live."

So he thought, and so he married. He saw the whole thing through, as is necessary; he went through the whole experience.

In earlier times, when you married only according to the will of your parents and didn't see the bride until the wedding and had had no experiences at all, everything was fine and honorable: the feather beds and the linen chest and the clothes and the wedding finery. But now, when in the souls of all who get married the physical is the most important part actually, when no one believes any more in the sacrament — and Posdnyschew is a scholar, consequently he also does not believe — all of this trousseaux, linen, dressing gowns, clothes, negligees, chocolate. etc., is distasteful at least.

Well, he went through the whole business, was married, and learned that there are some very nice experiences to be had outside of chemistry. He was pleased with it, very.

He went to work and worked, came home and in his home found grace, taste, beauty, and amusement, instead of dust and ennui. What better could one want? "Why," he thought, "didn't I think about this long ago?" And so he imagined that nothing else would ever come beside these pleasures.

But something new and unexpected came, in the first few weeks. Tears came, and discontent, and her desires for something which didn't agree with what he himself needed.

Something happened as always happens; what you yourself would have experienced if you had introduced a certain convenience into your home — a fireside chair in which to rest, and suddenly the chair kicks up its legs and makes demands. What demands? Why, to play a little, and to rest.

You may wonder how a chair could wish something for itself; after all, it is only — a chair. You turn the chair around, you try to sit down, and the chair does the same. So goes it among men.

Quarrels and wrangling began — and what wrangling! Such as always comes to pass among people who don't at all understand, and don't want to understand, that another's life can have its claims as well.

At first this wrangling seems surprising. How is it possible? Only six hours ago love was so strong, and suddenly nothing remains of it — the chair was so soft and comfortable, and suddenly its legs are sticking up. Love surely couldn't have been so strong when nothing remains of it now, not the slightest sign.

Be that as it may, there isn't any of it there, not even a trace. A totally strange and hateful person stands before you, and the wrangling begins. It is a secret which everyone conceals from all others, although everyone is aware of it. Quarrels and hate began just as among animals, and at that all the stronger as what was called love before was strong. Such a hate as leads frankly to the wish that she, and he himself as well, might die. And so it goes on until once again the illusion of passion overshadows everything.

In this case, also, things went on just so. But, beside all this, there came still another unexpected situation: after he had created a pleasure for himself, he failed to take into consideration that there are many other lovers of the same pleasure, including some very clever people who know not only that it is very pleasant to live with a woman, but also that it isn't necessary to have at the same time the inconveniences and disagreeablenesses which are part and parcel of married life. They know also that it is decidedly pleasanter and freer from worry to skim the cream from the milk that others have had the trouble of milking from the cows.

His wife was very beautiful: she had, you know, such a provoking and arresting beauty! Others also, the cleverer ones, had noticed that. Furthermore, one of these cleverer ones advanced to the attack.

Oh, yes, then began for Posdnyschew all those questions: How to obtain the freedom that both desire? Why should a mutual understanding be destroyed when, if a strange gentleman feels the necessity of taking your arm, for example, it remains just a meaningless little circumstance? Why make difficulties? He can take my arm and then go on his way. He would have three arms and I only one. And I would gladly give him my arm.

Thus began what you think should have been so easy to solve. The chief hindrance to this simple solution, however, lies in the fact that the whole problem will never be clearly stated. The devil only knows if my wife is going to be unfaithful to me, or has she been so this long time? Or has she so planned things that just today she will be unfaithful? Nobody knows, neither the husband, nor the wife, nor he who lies in wait for the other's wife.

This latter says to himself: "Well, perhaps the affair can be arranged today." He always calls it "the affair." The wife says to herself: "I am in love; the feeling is strange and nice." Whom she loves, however, she herself doesn't know. But the husband thinks: "No, it only seems so to me." A minute later he thinks: "How strange that I have never noticed that they have found each other!" And another minute later: "Still . . . perhaps not. I won't think about it." And he makes a resolution not to recall this nightmare any more.

A pleasant occupation, nightmares! He who hasn't experienced them doesn't know how hideous they are.

And so it began, and so it went on, and on, and on. Two years passed by. It turned out that the pleasure — remained a pleasure; much that was beautiful and comfortable along with it, but also much that was difficult. And how difficult!

You might say she was no educated woman! She did have just that sort of an education which permits a woman to say of herself: "I am an educated woman." If a woman speaks English, she calls all people who do not speak English uneducated; and if she — God forbid! — has read about natural history, then all those about her are uneducated: she has read about it.

He had an eye for her development, gave her books to read, himself read with her. She read those books and loved to discuss them in detail, especially if that cleverer person who lay in wait for her were present.

Everything went on as usual, and everything was a sham. He knew why he had married her. Her development wasn't necessary to him, it was only custom; only superficially was he concerned with her development. She, too, knew what she was and why he needed her, and wherein her strength lay; but she only gave herself the air of being interested in still other things.

Interests she did have, poor thing, but only her face, her body, and the clothing of her body and of her children. There was a child. Well, you know, having a child, also, is so beautiful: a little crib, a bathtub, children's little clothes — these were always of interest, wherewith she could be so beautifully coquettish in the nursery. You could never decide: does she bathe the child in order to have the child clean, or to show her white elbows? Does she caress the child because she loves it, or merely to lay her beautiful head on the little head of the child?

So it went on and on; and then it seemed as though something had happened. But it happened in such fashion that no one could know if it had happened or not. Actually it was no secret for the husband. Were it a secret, it would be much easier for him; but it was that same nightmare about which no one should think if he would not tear his heart out.

You ask what happened. It was in the country; I was living there too. In Posdnyschew's neighborhood lived an artist: such a youthful, decorative person; one of those who are clever, one of those also who have their pleasure without getting married! He was twenty-eight, a handsome fellow with white skin and smoldering blue eyes, red lips, and a shimmering, reddish mustache. What more do you need? He was always painting trees with little yellow leaves, had his hat and rug, and with his palette was forever changing his location. He had made the acquaintance of the Posdnyschew family and often visited them.

Then the spider web began to be woven around him on all sides and he ensnared himself more and more in it. The web was fine, it would be a shame to tear it, why indeed should one? One fine thread after the other, one thread after the other; hardly had he looked around before he was snared, body and soul.

She loved painting; already in boarding school she had shown great ability, but had had no guidance. After awhile she began to paint, more and more: how could she let such a good opportunity go by? He is famous, and so generous and ready to help, and, besides, he has such a pure soul! To all appearances there is no other interest between them than high art. Oh, how beautiful this spot of color is! Ah, how green this leaf is! But should the husband show only a trace of jealousy, or begin to bare his claws, at once she is all injured innocence and asserts that she never once thought about the other one! "You, yourself, are suggesting bad thoughts to me!" The man draws in his claws, but jealousy remains.

How wonderful the attitude of these two to each other seems — their similarity of tastes, their joy of living, their joking!

The husband's presence doesn't change the simplicity of the atmosphere. He even begins to change in this atmosphere, but in his soul is hell. He can't explain all that he thinks without betraying himself. To seek an explanation from her only means unleashing all the animal instincts. To leave the question unexplained is still worse.

He had perceived the chief fact, which in all such cases is the saddest, that what she was to him — an object of pleasure for a few minutes of life — she must be in still greater degree for all other men. And what he was to her, other men offered to be in hundredfold greater degree, because of their variety and greater attractiveness. Truth to tell, then, she must prefer those others.

He, the husband, recognized no inner restraints in himself or in her. Everything pointed to the fact that if she isn't actually stupid, she must take the step. To be sure, there are hindrances: gossip, bad reputation, unpleasantnesses; hence it was obvious that she must take it so that no one should learn of it. And if she should take it, or had already done so, he, the husband, would not find it out.

No, indeed, she had not taken it! Actually, however, she had now been having an affair with the artist the whole summer long. Were he but willing to analyze his impressions exactly, he must know, know for a certainty — not as you know that of which you have visible proofs, but because of your inner impulses: a certainty, but without proofs.

I know of a characteristic episode in the life of the Posdnyschew family at that time. In order to understand it, you must try to realize their feelings as well.

One day she was going from the country into the city. She needed to get something — you know, as ladies are always needing something — very urgently. But he, the artist, was to finish painting some wonderful sapling or other by the lake. She was going into the city. She was in a hurry. She was particularly beautiful on that day, said her husband.

But she mentioned twice during the conversation that it was going to be a nuisance for her to do some sort of an errand in the city for the artist; she gave him thereby to understand that the artist was remaining in the country.

Suddenly Posdnyschew understood that everything was over. She had been unfaithful to him. He went to see the artist, but was told by a neighbor that he had gone into the city the evening before. Now he remembered her frequent trips to the city, in bad weather, and without sufficient reasons. So it had happened! She had already done it — done it just as she must have done it and remain true to her ordinary instincts.

He couldn't stay at home and decided to go to the city — not just simply to go to the city, though: he took his revolver with him to shoot his wife, and him!

This dreadful decision came about quite naturally; but what happened was quite otherwise. He met her on the way. He espied her from quite a distance. She was coming back home, sprightly, gay, contented. In the first moment of meeting he saw in her face that beaming happiness which was always for him the surest Inner proof of her unfaithfulness. When she noticed him she smiled, and it seemed to him that she was laughing and smiling at him at the same time. But after that she became uneasy.

"What's the matter with you? Where are you going?"

He wanted to lie, but couldn't. He got into her carriage, and in so doing he crushed the pictures which she had brought from the city. She became annoyed. As though she had a right to be angry with him!

"What's the matter with you? Are you crazy?"

"I can't go along so any further."

They got out of the carriage and went home on foot.

"It's torturing me!"

"Oh, you're thinking about Leonid Nikolaewitsch? Forget it! You ought to be ashamed of yourself!"

Now the game began. A happy smile played about her lips, which she could not repress. She laughed at him. She would not deny it; she would not lower herself to make denials.

"How could anyone think such a thing? How could such nonsense torture anyone? Everything is all so fine, why wreck your life? If it tortures you so, I won't meet him any more. Although it is stupid and humiliating for me. As you will. You and your peace of mind are dearer to me than anything else."

And yet she was already unfaithful to him and intended to be so again. But he believed her, and she never seemed so beautiful to him. He never loved her so passionately. When taking his revolver in his hand, he had opened the way for the first time to animal instinct, but by so doing another animal instinct was intensified — the same, but with a different objective.

This episode was ended. She certainly didn't see the artist any more — he went traveling. The family life seemed to run smoother. Still, each was watching the other warily.

A year passed quietly. There was no jealousy, nor any grounds for it. There was only wrangling, and off and on he was in despair about it. He regretted that he had taken this torturing load upon his shoulders. There were attempts to be freed from it, and there was the consciousness that life was played out, that one must drag along with the burden to the end. Then would follow peace and reconciliation, but no inner ties. Each regarded the other as something that he needed, over which he had a right, but which had no rights of its own.

This year passed by them. Another child came. Habits took deeper root, the agreeable feelings of married life increased, but still the tortures increased also; seemingly, however, not in proportion.

Had you seen him at that time you would not have said that he was unhappy, he would not have been able to say that about himself. So it is with a man in whom a fatal disease is developing: he first learns the dreadfulness of his situation after the disease has already made its appearance.

About that which tortured him most he dared not speak, certainly not to that being who was nearest him, to his wife.

He told me later that his tortures were increased by his not knowing whether or no the last child was his or that artist's, he with the pale complexion who painted saplings on the edge of the lake. Sometime he was persuaded one way, sometimes the other. He suffered terribly.

Why did he suffer? For this reason: because his wife was for him a sweet and tasty morsel which he greatly desired, and the sweeter the morsel was, the clearer it was to him that, logically, other men also wanted to eat up this sweet morsel, or had eaten it up, or sooner or later would eat it up.

They went traveling abroad. Her mental development seemed to progress. Still, her feelings were just the same. She knew that she was a sweet morsel and that one must preserve, protect, and augment this sweetness. That is what she did. Had she a petty and reprehensible nature? No. She was a creature like all the rest — a nice little animal, generous, sly, beautiful, and clever.

So they continued to live as average married people. Then it so happened that they spent a summer upon the estate of his brother, in quite another countryside than that of earlier days.

He began to be interested in farming. At the height of summer he was very busy.

She had acquaintances among the neighbors, among them a woman physician. A good soul, she talked much about the freedom of women.

One day he came home to fetch the flower stalks he had forgotten, being busy in the garden, and saw his wife also coming toward home.

"Where have you been?"

"I've been out walking."

"Out walking?"

He saw her face beaming, such beaming as was caused only by love, by animal love. Later he was coming from his work and met the physician; he was talking with her, one thing led to another, and she told him that the artist had arrived the week before and was living at the priest's house.

Then his wife came in to dinner, trying to conceal her expression, but she couldn't. In so doing, she seemed beautiful as never before. "She belongs to me," he thought, "yet I am not the cause of this beaming expression; but he is, the other fellow." Still he said nothing, concealed everything like a tiger; took pains to be only the more simple and natural. So he let everything remain unexplained.

"Mine, and still not mine," he thought, and she seemed still sweeter; "not mine, and yet mine!" The more he loved her, the more he hated her, and the hate began to be stronger than the love. He loved her and lay in wait for her.

The artist didn't appear. How he tortured himself! He knew nothing, but he saw that she felt that this other one was here, near by; and she was meeting him! He dared not mention his name.

In this way a week went by. He said he was going into the city, and took his departure. En route, he sent the carriage back, and late in the evening himself came home, and saw when the artist, cautiously and looking all around, came up to the balcony door, hesitated a moment, and went quickly in.

"'No,' I thought, 'I — I — I am Posdnyschew! A garden knife isn't good enough!' I ran to my room; there I had a dagger. I hardly remember how I got into her room. Yes, mine, my wife, my wife!"

He jumped through the window. She was almost undressed; she lifted her bare arms and remained sitting on the bed. "No, what's mine I won't give away!"

"I ran to her, stabbed her with the dagger, and tore it upward. She fell, she clung to my arm, I pulled the dagger from her. The blood ran — it sickened me. 'Die, you snake!' I struck her with my fist in the face and went into the hall where the maid and the houseboy were.

"'Quick! Notify the police! I've killed my wife.'

"I sat down in my room and smoked a cigarette. The neighbor physician came in.

"'Go to her,' she said.

"'What for?'

"'Go to her.'

"'Will she die?'

"'Yes,' said the physician.

"A shudder convulsed me. All the better! I went to the door. She lay in bed; her bruised face was swollen, her cheeks and eyes blue. For God's sake, what have 1 done? I wanted to fall on my knees, I don't know why, and beg for something. She motioned to me.

"'Forgive me! Forgive me!' she said.

"I was silent.

"'I couldn't help it. I didn't know. I'm bad, but I'm not to blame; believe me, I'm not to blame! Forgive me! Will I really die? Can't anyone help me? I'll be so good, I'll make up . . . for everything . . .'

"Where did she get those words? No one could do anything more for her. She died.

"I was put on trial. I am Posdnyschew. That stupid court acquitted me. They didn't know that I first began to love her really upon her deathbed. No, she wasn't to blame.

"Had she lived, I would have loved not only her face and her body, but herself, and have forgiven her everything. And had I always loved her for herself and not only for her body, it wouldn't have been necessary to forgive her anything, probably."

THE END

Publication Date: December 13, 1930