the wife and other stories-第22章

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　and　splendid。　My　head　and　my　hands　tremble　with　weakness；　my　neck；　as　Turgenev　says　of　one　of　his　heroines；　is　like　the　handle　of　a　double　bass；　my　chest　is　hollow；　my　shoulders　narrow；　when　I　talk　or　lecture；　my　mouth　turns　down　at　one　corner；　when　I　smile；　my　whole　face　is　covered　with　aged…looking；　deathly　wrinkles。　There　is　nothing　impressive　about　my　pitiful　figure；　only；　perhaps；　when　I　have　an　attack　of　tic　douloureux　my　face　wears　a　peculiar　expression；　the　sight　of　which　must　have　roused　in　every　one　the　grim　and　impressive　thought；　〃Evidently　that　man　will　soon　die。〃

I　still；　as　in　the　past；　lecture　fairly　well；　I　can　still；　as　in　the　past；　hold　the　attention　of　my　listeners　for　a　couple　of　hours。　My　fervour；　the　literary　skill　of　my　exposition；　and　my　humour；　almost　efface　the　defects　of　my　voice；　though　it　is　harsh；　dry；　and　monotonous　as　a　praying　beggar's。　I　write　poorly。　That　bit　of　my　brain　which　presides　over　the　faculty　of　authorship　refuses　to　　work。　My　memory　has　grown　weak；　there　is　a　lack　of　sequence　in　my　ideas；　and　when　I　put　them　on　paper　it　always　seems　to　me　that　I　have　lost　the　instinct　for　their　organic　connection；　my　construction　is　monotonous；　my　language　is　poor　and　timid。　Often　I　write　what　I　do　not　mean；　I　have　forgotten　the　beginning　when　I　am　writing　the　end。　Often　I　forget　ordinary　words；　and　I　always　have　to　waste　a　great　deal　of　energy　in　avoiding　superfluous　phrases　and　unnecessary　parentheses　in　my　letters；　both　unmistakable　proofs　of　a　decline　in　mental　activity。　And　it　is　noteworthy　that　the　simpler　the　letter　the　more　painful　the　effort　to　write　it。　At　a　scientific　article　I　feel　far　more　intelligent　and　at　ease　than　at　a　letter　of　congratulation　or　a　minute　of　proceedings。　Another　point：　I　find　it　easier　to　write　German　or　English　than　to　write　Russian。

As　regards　my　present　manner　of　life；　I　must　give　a　foremost　place　to　the　insomnia　from　which　I　have　suffered　of　late。　If　I　were　asked　what　constituted　the　chief　and　fundamental　feature　of　my　existence　now；　I　should　answer；　Insomnia。　As　in　the　past；　from　habit　I　undress　and　go　to　bed　exactly　at　midnight。　I　fall　asleep　quickly；　but　before　two　o'clock　I　wake　up　and　feel　as　though　I　had　not　slept　at　all。　Sometimes　I　get　out　of　bed　and　light　a　lamp。　For　an　hour　or　two　I　walk　up　and　down　the　room　looking　at　the　familiar　photographs　and　pictures。　When　I　am　weary　of　walking　about；　I　sit　down　to　my　table。　I　sit　motionless；　thinking　of　nothing；　conscious　of　no　inclination；　if　a　book　is　lying　before　me；　I　mechanically　move　it　closer　and　read　it　without　any　interest　　in　that　way　not　long　ago　I　mechanically　read　through　in　one　night　a　whole　novel；　with　the　strange　title　〃The　Song　the　Lark　was　Singing〃；　or　to　occupy　my　attention　I　force　myself　to　count　to　a　thousand；　or　I　imagine　the　face　of　one　of　my　colleagues　and　begin　trying　to　remember　in　what　year　and　under　what　circumstances　he　entered　the　service。　I　like　listening　to　sounds。　Two　rooms　away　from　me　my　daughter　Liza　says　something　rapidly　in　her　sleep；　or　my　wife　crosses　the　drawing…room　with　a　candle　and　invariably　drops　the　matchbox；　or　a　warped　cupboard　creaks；　or　the　burner　of　the　lamp　suddenly　begins　to　hum　　and　all　these　sounds；　for　some　reason；　excite　me。

To　lie　awake　at　night　means　to　be　at　every　moment　conscious　of　being　abnormal；　and　so　I　look　forward　with　impatience　to　the　morning　and　the　day　when　I　have　a　right　to　be　awake。　Many　wearisome　hours　pass　before　the　cock　crows　in　the　yard。　He　is　my　first　bringer　of　good　tidings。　As　soon　as　he　crows　I　know　that　within　an　hour　the　porter　will　wake　up　below；　and；　coughing　angrily；　will　go　upstairs　to　fetch　something。　And　then　a　pale　light　will　begin　gradually　glimmering　at　the　windows；　voices　will　sound　in　the　street。　。　。　。

The　day　begins　for　me　with　the　entrance　of　my　wife。　She　comes　in　to　me　in　her　petticoat；　before　she　has　done　her　hair；　but　after　she　has　washed；　smelling　of　flower…scented　eau…de…Cologne；　looking　as　though　she　had　come　in　by　chance。　Every　time　she　says　exactly　the　same　thing：　〃Excuse　me；　I　have　just　come　in　for　a　minute。　。　。　。　Have　you　had　a　bad　night　again？〃

Then　she　puts　out　the　lamp；　sits　down　near　the　table；　and　begins　talking。　I　am　no　prophet；　but　I　know　what　she　will　talk　about。　Every　morning　it　is　exactly　the　same　thing。　Usually；　after　anxious　inquiries　concerning　my　health；　she　suddenly　mentions　our　son　who　is　an　officer　serving　at　Warsaw。　After　the　twentieth　of　each　month　we　send　him　fifty　roubles；　and　that　serves　as　the　chief　topic　of　our　conversation。

〃Of　course　it　is　difficult　for　us；〃　my　wife　would　sigh；　〃but　until　he　is　completely　on　his　own　feet　it　is　our　duty　to　help　him。　The　boy　is　among　strangers；　his　pay　is　small。　。　。　。　However；　if　you　like；　next　month　we　won't　send　him　fifty；　but　forty。　What　do　you　think？〃

Daily　experience　might　have　taught　my　wife　that　constantly　talking　of　our　expenses　does　not　reduce　them；　but　my　wife　refuses　to　learn　by　experience；　and　regularly　every　morning　discusses　our　officer　son；　and　tells　me　that　bread；　thank　God；　is　cheaper；　while　sugar　is　a　halfpenny　dearer　　with　a　tone　and　an　air　as　though　she　were　communicating　interesting　news。

I　listen；　mechanically　assent；　and　probably　because　I　have　had　a　bad　night；　strange　and　inappropriate　thoughts　intrude　themselves　upon　me。　I　gaze　at　my　wife　and　wonder　like　a　child。　I　ask　myself　in　perplexity；　is　it　possible　that　this　old；　very　stout；　ungainly　woman；　with　her　dull　expression　of　petty　anxiety　and　alarm　about　daily　bread；　with　eyes　dimmed　by　continual　brooding　over　debts　and　money　difficulties；　who　can　talk　of　nothing　but　expenses　and　who　smiles　at　nothing　but　things　getting　cheaper　　is　it　possible　that　this　woman　is　no　other　than　the　slender　Varya　whom　I　fell　in　love　with　so　passionately　for　her　fine；　clear　intelligence；　for　her　pure　soul；　her　beauty；　and；　as　Othello　his　Desdemona；　for　her　〃sympathy〃　for　my　studies？　Could　that　woman　be　no　other　than　the　Varya　who　had　once　borne　me　a　son？

I　look　with　strained　attention　into　the　face　of　this　flabby；　spiritless；　clumsy　old　woman；　seeking　in　her　my　Varya；　but　of　her　past　self　nothing　is　left　but　her　anxiety　over　my　health　and　her　manner　of　calling　my　salary　〃our　salary；〃　and　my　cap　〃our　cap。〃　It　is　painful　for　me　to　look　at　her；　and；　to　give　her　what　little　comfort　I　can；　I　let　her　say　what　she　likes；　and　say　nothing　even　when　she　passes　unjust　criticisms　on　other　people　or　pitches　into　me　for　not　having　a　private　practice　or　not　publishing　text…books。

Our　conversation　always　ends　in　the　same　way。　My　wife　suddenly　remembers　with　dismay　that　I　have　not　had　my　tea。

〃What　am　I　thinking　about；　sitting　here？〃　she　says；　getting　up。　〃The　samovar　has　been　on　the　table　ever　so　long；　and　here　I　stay　gossiping。　My　goodness！　how　forgetful　I　am　growing！〃

She　goes　out　quickly；　and　stops　in　the　doorway　to　say：

〃We　owe　Yegor　five　months'　wages。　Did　you　know　it？　You　mustn't　let　the　servants'　wages　run　on；　how　many　times　I　have　said　it！　It's　much　easier　to　pay　ten　roubles　a　month　than　fifty　roubles　every　five　months！〃

As　she　goes　out；　she　stops　to　say：

〃The　person　I　am　sorriest　for　is　our　Liza。　The　girl　studies　at　the　Conservatoire；　always　mixes　with　people　of　good　position；　and　goodness　knows　how　she　is　dressed。　Her　fur　coat　is　in　such　a　state　she　is　ashamed　to　show　herself　in　the　street。　If　she　were　somebody　else's　daughter　it　wouldn't　matter；　but　of　course　every　one　knows　that　her　father　is　a　distinguished　professor；　a　privy　councillor。〃

And　having　reproached　me　with　my　rank　and　reputation；　she　goes　away　at　last。　That　is　how　my　day　begins。　It　does　not　improve　as　it　goes　on。

As　I　am　drinking　my　tea；　my　Liza　comes　in　wearing　her　fur　coat　and　her　cap；　with　her　music　in　her　hand；　already　quite　ready　to　go　to　the　Conservatoire。　She　is　two…and…twenty。　She　looks　younger；　is　pretty；　and　rather　like　my　wife　in　her　young　days。　She　kisses　me　tenderly　on　my　forehead　and　on　my　hand；　and　says：

〃Good…morning；　papa；　are　you　quite　well？〃

As　a　child　she　was　very　fond　of　ice…cream；　and　I　used　often　to　take　her　to　a　confectioner's。　Ice…cream　was　for　her　the　type　of　everything　delightful。　If　she　wanted　to　praise　me　she　would　say：　〃You　are　as　nice　as　cream；　papa。〃　We