the orloffs had been married three years. they had had a child, which died at the age of a year and a half. neither of them grieved over it much, for they consoled themselves with the thought that they would soon get another one. the cellar in which they lived was a great long, dusty room with a cobwebby ceiling. close against the door stood, with its front towards the window, a huge russian oven; between it and the wall a narrow passage led into a square room which obtained its light from two of the windows that looked on to the courtyard. through these windows the light fell in two dim streaks into the cellar, which was damp, clammy, and death-like in its stillness.... life flowed by somewhere, far, far away out there and above; here, in this hole only vague, dull sounds found an entrance, and blending with the dust of th? court, pressed in on the senses of the orloffs in formless and colourless waves. opposite the stove stood, behind a brown curtain with a pattern of roses, a great wooden double bedstead; over against the bed, and near the other wall stood a table, at which the orloffs drank their tea and ate their dinner, and between the bed and the opposite wall, in a sort of frame formed by two rays of light, the couple sat and worked.
blackbeetles wandered about, nibbling the paste with which old newspapers had been stuck against the walls. flies hovered over everything, buzzing in a melancholy drone; and the pictures, which were decorated with the spots they left, looked against the dirty green background of the walls like dark blotches.
the day's work of the orloffs left nothing to wish for in the way of monotony. matrona got up at six o'clock, washed herself, and prepared the samovar; this utensil had more than once in the heat of strife, received some hard hits, and was in consequence covered with patches of solder. while the water was heating in the samovar, she had already swept out the room and prepared breakfast then she awoke her husband. by the time he was up and washed, the samovar was boiling and hissing on the table. then they drank their tea and ate their white bread, of which they consumed a whole pound. grigori was a skilled worker, and never therefore without work. whilst they were drinking their tea he apportioned out the day's labour; he did the finer parts which required a master hand, whilst his wife's share lay in twisting the waxed threads, and in finishing off pieces of work which did not require so much skill. they also spoke during breakfast of what they should have for their dinner. in the winter, when the stomach required more, this was a fairly interesting subject, but in the summer when the stove, for motives of economy, was only lit on high days and holidays, and not always then, they lived mostly on cold meats, on kwass, varied with salt-fish and onions; sometimes they boiled, on some neighbour's fire in the courtyard, a piece of meat. as soon as their breakfast was finished they sat down to work, grigori astride on a log of wood covered with bits of leather, matrona on a low stool beside him. at first they would work in silence, for what had they to talk about? they might sometimes exchange a few words about their work, and then silence would once more reign for half-an-hour or more. the blows of the hammer fell with a dull sound, the thread squeaked as it was drawn through the tight-stretched leather. grigori yawned now and then, and after each yawn would close his mouth with a loud noise. matrona sighed and was silent.
often orloff would begin a song; he possessed a powerful metallic voice, and did not sing badly. the words of the song poured forth rapidly and plaintively in a ringing recitative from grischka's whole chest, or they flowed evenly in loud, strong wailings, whose melancholy sounds found their way out of the cellar windows into the courtyard. matrona in a weak soft alto would sing second to her husband. both faces at such times would wear a thoughtful, sad expression, and grischka's dark eyes would grow moist his wife, absorbed in the world of sound, would sit in a half-conscious state, swaying from side to side; sometimes she would appear completely lost in the music, suddenly pausing on a note, and then slowly falling once more into the words of the song her husband was singing. neither of them felt at such times the presence of the other; they were each pouring forth what seemed to be the whole emptiness and dreariness of their joyless lives, and through the words of the song they were seeking for an outlet for their own half-conscious feelings and thoughts. at times grischka would improvise—
"ah! to think of my life, my cursed life! and the ache in my soul, that cursed ache! ah! this bitter ache! ah! this ache and sorrow....!"
but matrona did not love these improvisings, and she generally asked him—
"why do you howl then like a dog, when death is about?"
he immediately answered her angrily—
"thick-headed creature! what do you understand about things—an old scarecrow like you?"
"oh, howl and howl away, and then bark if you like!"
"hold your tongue! am i an apprentice, that you want to begin to teach me now, eh?... just mind your own business!"
matrona saw that his eyes flashed angrily, and that the veins of his neck were swelling. she was silent for some time, refusing to answer the questions of her husband, whose anger had disappeared as quickly as it had arisen. she turned away her face so as not to meet his eyes, which were full of love and of self-reproach for the cruel words he had just spoken. she heeded not his signals of reconciliation, and though awaiting impatiently his smile, trembled with fear lest he should once more lose his temper over this game which she was playing out with him. but it was pleasant to her to sit opposite to him in this defiant mood, and to watch how he longed to make peace with her; it seemed like living, it awoke feeling and gave an object to her thoughts.
they were both young and healthy, they both loved each other and were proud of each other. grischka was such a handsome, hearty, strong fellow, and matrona was a plump little woman with a clear, fair complexion, and warm sympathy in her grey eyes; "a fine little woman" as all the neighbours used to call her. they loved each other, but their life was so monotonous and tedious, so entirely bereft of all deep interests and outside influences, which might have given them the possibility of diverting occasionally their thoughts from each other, of getting change, which is the natural desire of every human heart, of, in a word—living. it is in fact a psychological fact that man and wife, though they may have attained a high degree of culture, without such an inner life, such an interest, must inevitably grow tired of, and burdensome to each other. if the orloffs had had an object in life, if it had only been in the empty toil of hoarding halfpence in order to collect capital—life would certainly have appeared easier to them. but as it was, they were deprived even of this interest, which might have proved a bond between them. as each had the other always before his eyes, they had grown to know each other's every movement, every gesture. one day followed the other, and brought nothing into their lives either of change or of excitement sometimes on holidays they went to see friends, whose lives were as poor and as empty as their own; occasionally friends came to see them, drank, sang and beat each other. and then would follow an endless succession of monotonous grey days, just like the links of an invisible chain, which made dreary the lives of these people with work, ennui, and groundless irritation against each other.
"a regular devil of a life!" grischka used to say. "just as if it were bewitched. whatever was life given to us for? work and weariness; weariness and work...." and after he had been silent for some time he continued with a blank look on his face, and with downcast eyes—"well, it was god's decree that my mother should bear me ... so it's no use complaining about that! then i learnt my trade.... why was that?... are there not enough cobblers in the world without me?... so then i became a cobbler.... and what next?... what good fortune is there for me in that?... i sit here in a hole and stitch boots.... and by and by i shall die. there is what they call cholera in the town.... perhaps it will find us out.;. then they will merely say—'there was once a certain grigori orloff, who made boots, and who died of cholera.' ... what sense is there in that? why is it necessary that i should live, make boots and die? eh?..."
matrona was silent? she was always upset when her husband spoke in that tone; often she begged him not to talk like that, for it was like speaking against god, who knew best how men's lives should be arranged. sometimes, when not too depressed, she would interject a remark full of common-sense—"you shouldn't drink vodka, then you would live more happily, and not frighten yourself with such thoughts. others live and don't complain; they save money, open a shop, and in time become their own masters."
"stop talking nonsense, you stupid woman!" grischka would exclaim angrily. "just consider a moment how can i possibly live without drink, when that is my only pleasure? you talk about others ... how many do you know pray, who have been fortunate enough to make themselves independent? was i not before my marriage quite a different sort of fellow? i will just tell you the truth; it is you who give me so much trouble, and who embitter my life ... you ugly frog!..."
matrona felt herself wronged when she heard these words. he was certainly right in saying that he was jollier and more amiable when he was drunk. the "others" however of whom she spoke, were a product of her imagination. and that before his marriage he was more cheerful, more entertaining, more good-natured—that also was true.... now however he had really grown like a wild beast.... "am i indeed then such a burden to him?" thought matrona to herself. her heart ached at this painful thought—she felt pity for him and for herself. she went up to him looked smilingly into his eyes, and pressed her head tenderly against his breast.
"just look at that now! she finds time for wheedling me, the little cow!..." grumbled grischka, pretending to push her away from him. but she knew very well that he would not do so, and pressed closer against him.
then his eyes would suddenly brighten; he would throw his work on one side, take her on his knee, and kiss her long and passionately; at the same time sighing deeply and low, as if he feared that some one might hear him, whilst he whispered in her ear—
"ah, motrja! here we are living like cat and dog together ... we tear each other like wild beasts; why is that so?... it seems to be my fate.... every man it seems is born under a certain star, and that star is his fate."
but this explanation was but poor comfort, and whilst he clasped his wife closer to him, he fell into a dull state of despondency. for a long time they sat thus in the dim twilight, surrounded by the oppressive atmosphere of their cellar. matrona only sighed and was silent sometimes however at these happy moments, the memory of her undeserved sufferings and blows came across her and she would begin to cry and sob softly. her gentle reproaches moved him, and his caresses became more and more warm. she however would go on complaining, and make statements which finally exhausted his patience.
"shut up with your whining!" he cried harshly; "i suffer, very likely, a thousand times more than you do, when i beat you.... now be quiet, will you? if one gives in the least bit to a woman, she will take advantage of you at once. leave off reproaching me! what is a man to do whose life is a burden to him?"
another time, perhaps, his heart would melt under the torrent of her tears, and pitiful complaints. then he would say humbly and thoughtfully—
"what on earth am i to do, with the unfortunate disposition that i possess? i have hurt you often, that is certain.... i know very well that you are the only one in the world who cares for me, though i often seem to forget it but it's like this, motrja; sometimes it seems as if i could no longer bear the sight of you ... as if i had had enough of you for ever. and then, such a rage comes into my soul, as if i could tear you and myself to pieces; and the more you are in the right, the stronger the desire grows in me to beat you."
she did not quite understand what he meant to express; but the contrite, loving tone in which he spoke, touched her deeply.
"god grant that we may both improve; that we may grow used to each other," she said. "perhaps it would be better if we had a child ... then we should have something to care for, and to interest us," she continued with a sigh.
"well then, bring one into the world!"
"how can i bear a child, when you knock me about so?... always striking me on the body and on the loins.... if only you would give up kicking me so constantly!..."
"how can one arrange the exact place where one kicks a person?"
grischka tried to excuse himself in a grumbling voice. "at any rate i am not a brute! i don't do it for my pleasure, but only when that ache comes over me ... and i can't help myself then...."
"how is it that that aching feeling comes over you?" asked matrona gloomily.
"you see, that's my fate, motrja," grischka philosophized. "my fate and my disposition. am i worse than others?... worse, for instance, than lewtschenko, the 'little russian'? certainly he takes life more easily than i do, and does not know what this ache is. he is alone in the world, and has no wife, no relations.... but without you i should certainly die.... yes, that 'little russian' is happy enough; he smokes his pipe, and laughs, is lively and contented, the devil he is!... but i can't live like that.... i certainly was born with unrest in my soul, and have got that sort of disposition. lewtschenko's nature is just like a straight stick; mine is like a spring; the least pressure on it makes it start vibrating.... for instance, i go along the street, and see beautiful things on every hand—and nothing of it all belongs to me. that makes me feel injured. the 'little russian,' he does not need any of those things. but it makes me furious to think how that moustached fellow is so entirely without needs, whilst i ... ah! i don't even know what i want.... i should like to have everything, yes, everything! but i sit here in this hole and work from morning till night, and it all leads to nothing. we sit here together, you and i, you my wife ... and what is the good of it all? what is there in you to give me pleasure? you are a woman, like all the rest of women. you can offer me nothing new; i know you through and through. i even know how you will sneeze to-morrow. i know it so well, because i have heard you sneeze a thousand times in the same way before.... what interest can i find in such a life? that's what is wanting to me—interest in life. yes ... and that's why i go to the vodka-shop, because it's more cheerful there...."
"then why on earth did you marry?" asked matrona.
"why?" grischka asked mockingly. "the devil only knows why! i have often said i ought not to have done so. i ought instead to have joined the ranks of the tramps, where i should have suffered hunger, but i should have been free! go where you will.... the whole world lies open before you!"
"go then!... set me free!" cried matrona, with difficulty suppressing a sob.
"where would you go then?" asked grischka with angry interest.
"that's my business!"
"where?" he shouted at her, a wild hatred flashing from his eyes.
"don't shout so; i'm not afraid of you!"
"have you already taken up with some one else?... out with it!"
"just let me go!"
"where shall i let you go?" grischka continued to shout.
he tore the handkerchief from her head, and in his fury caught her by the hair. his blows awoke her whole spirit of opposition, and all that was worst in her; and the feeling of this anger gave her real pleasure, thrilled every fibre of her soul. instead of quenching his jealousy with a few conciliatory words, she fed it all the more, whilst she smiled in his face with a peculiarly meaning smile. his rage grew more and more furious, and he beat her unmercifully.
but in the night, when she, with her bruised and ill-used body, lay groaning by his side, he would watch her from the corner of his eye, and sigh heavily. his conscience troubled him, and he felt a painful feeling of shame, as he realized that there was not the smallest foundation for his jealousy, and that he had once more unjustly beaten his wife.
"now then, stop sobbing!" he said in a remorseful tone. "is it my fault if i have that sort of character?... and it's a great deal your fault.... instead of speaking to me quietly, you try and aggravate me. what is it makes you behave like that?"
she did not answer, though she was quite conscious why she acted thus. she knew that she was looking forward to the pitying and passionate caresses with which he would seal her forgiveness. for the sake of these caresses she was prepared to allow herself to be beaten every day till the blood flowed, and she shed precious tears in the sole expectation of this joy of reconciliation.
"how do you feel now?... come now, be quiet, motrja! come, my treasure, forgive me?... do forgive me now!"
he stroked her hair, kissed her tenderly, whilst he ground his teeth with the bitterness which was eating into his soul.
the window of their room stood open, but the sky was hidden by the thick wall of the neighbouring houses, and in the cellar it was, as usual, dark, damp, and sticky.
"ah! this life; it's a veritable prison!" whispered grischka, unable to put into words all the pain that was oppressing his soul, "this hole that we live in is the cause of it all, motrja! whatever do we stay here for?... it's just as if we were buried alive!"
"well, let's go into other lodgings," remarked motrja through her tears, taking his words literally.
"it's not that, dear.... i did not mean that exactly.... for even if we were to live in a garret we should still be living in a hole, and all would remain exactly the same i it's not only the lodgings ... our whole life is like a hole...."
matrona began to think over his words, and finally remarked, "god grant that we may improve ... that we may get used to each other."
"yes, that things may improve ... you have often said that already. it doesn't look much like it, motrja.... the scandals we create become more and more frequent."
motrja could not deny this. the intervals between her beatings grew ever shorter and shorter, and grischka would frequently begin the trouble quite early on saturday morning. he would commence by saying—
"this evening, as soon as i have finished work, i am off to the vodka-shop across the way, and i mean to have such a bout!"
motrja blinked her eyes, and was silent "have you nothing to say about it? well, well! it's better to be silent.... it's better for you!" he added threateningly. as the evening hour approached, he grew more and more excited. he would speak to her over and over again of his intention to get drunk. he knew only too well how painful it was to her to hear such words, and he noticed how she went about in obstinate silence, with a cold glance in her grey eyes, attending to her duties in the cellar; and this made him feel all the more furious.
in the evening senka tschischik, the herald of misfortune to the inhabitants of the court, was able to report another battle having been fought at the orloffs'.
when grischka had beaten his wife black and blue, he disappeared sometimes for the whole night, not even coming back to the house for sunday. finally he would return, dirty, and with bloodshot eyes, to his home. matrona would receive him in silence, wearing a severe expression, but full of secret pity. she knew that under these circumstances he would like nothing better than a drop of spirits, and already had a bottle of vodka prepared for him.
"come, pour me out a glass!" he cried in a hoarse voice, and after swallowing two, he would sit down to work.
the whole of that day he would be troubled with pricks of conscience, which often became so severe and painful that he could not bear himself. he would throw down his work, and uttering wild words of self-reproach would pace up and down the room, or would throw himself on the bed. motrja would give him time to get over this attack of remorse, and then they would make it up again.
at first these reconciliations were full of much that was tender and sweet, but after a time this delight disappeared entirely, and they simply made it up, because it was impossible to remain a whole week—that is to say, till the following saturday—without speaking to each other.
"are you going to destroy yourself, then, altogether with that vodka?" sighed motrja.
"it's possible," replied grischka, spitting on one side, with the look of a man to whom it was quite immaterial whether he destroyed himself or not "and you will end by running away from me?..." he continued generally, exaggerating the picture of the future, and looking searchingly into her eyes.
for some time past she had cast down her eyes whenever he had spoken in this way; though at first she had never done so. grischka, when he noticed this, frowned threateningly, and ground his teeth ominously. as a matter of fact matrona was just now doing her very best to win back his heart she visited the fortune-teller's and wise women, and brought back with her all sorts of charms and spells in order to gain this object when none of these had any effect she paid for a mass in honour of the martyr st boniface, the patron saint against drunkenness; during the whole mass she knelt in a dark corner of the church crying bitterly, whilst her trembling lips moved in wordless prayer.
but ever more and more often her soul became possessed with a cold feeling of hatred against grischka, which awoke within her dark thoughts. she felt ever less and less pity towards this man, who three years ago, with his joyful laugh and his loving words, had given to her whole life such full delight and pleasure.... thus lived, from one day's end to another, these two children of men, who at heart were neither of them evilly disposed; whilst they waited with fatalistic simplicity for something to happen, which would break into and dispel their present meaningless, and terrible life.
