The Party and other stories

arter past twelve. Seeing her visitors off

! It’s turning a little chilly. P

d as they got into the carriage. “Well, good-bye. M

coachman check

! Good-bye, O

children

io of impatient horses, and the silhouette of a coachman with his hands held out stiffly before him, would come into view. Again there began ki

er through Mankino, but the road is worse that way. You might have an

darling! Go indoors, or you

! you r

you got here?” Pyo

m Haidorov, in Lent,”

horses

patted the trace h

start! God give

. On previous occasions when they had seen off their visitors, Pyotr Dmitritch and Olga Mihalovna had begun dancing about the drawing-room, facing each other, c

he strain of talking, and she was conscious, as before, of discomfort all over her body. Covering her head over, she lay still for

up her legs, which felt as if they had grown lo

umped against the ceiling. She could hear, too, Grigory and Vassily stepping cautiously about the drawing-room, putting the chairs back in their places; it see

Some one must be staying the night, as Pyotr Dmit

in him something different from what he really is. His craziness is looked upon as originality, his familiar manners as good-nature, and hi

o hold forth upon anything. After seeing his guest to his room, he walked up and down the drawing-room, walked through the dining-room, down the corridor, then into his study, then again went into the drawing-

taying the nig

gor

undressed and

ndsome profile for five minutes in silence. It seemed to her for some reason that if her husband were suddenly to turn facing her, and to say, “Olga, I am unhappy,”

re you thinkin

. . .” her hu

ng secrets from me of l

y and not at once. “We all have our personal life, e

d. “If you have a load on your heart, why do you hide it from me? And why do you find it more suitable to open your heart

te you. I am glad y

lating within her during the whole day, suddenly boiled over; she wanted at once to speak out, to hurt her husband without put

hsome, loathsome, loathsome! I’ve been hat

too, got up and

late me; you had better congratulate yourself! It’s a shame, a disgrace. You have wrapped yourself in lies till you are ash

rn me when you are out of humour.

meant. Was this one of the devices to which deceitful people have recourse when they are in the wrong, or was it a deliberate insult aimed at her pride? How was she to take it? Olga Mihalovna remembered her cousin, a lively young officer, who often used to tell her, laughing, that when “

ver. The house was her own, but so much the worse for Pyotr Dmitritch. Without pausing to consider whether this was necessary or not, she went quickly to t

read a newspaper. There was a candle burning on a chair

ll me what this mean

his face. “It’s sickening, Olga! Upon my honour, I am exhaust

rgive me for that, and will always be lying to me!” (“Feminine logic!” flashed through her mind again.) “You are laughing at me now. . . . I

lmed him. With a childishly helpless smile he looked desperately at his wife, a

ly

he leaned back in his chair, and his huge fig

ld you say it?

at he was her husband, Pyotr Dmitritch, without whom she could not live for a day, and who loved her pass

three or four rooms away, she buried her head under the pillow to stifle her sobs, but the pillow rolled on to the floor, and she almost fell on the floor h

nto fragments. Her husband would not forgive her. The insult she had hurled at him was not one that could be efface

noticing that the pillow had slipped on to th

neighbourhood would know that she had been in hysterics and would blame Pyotr Dmitritch.

ce not like her own, and not knowing

were entangled in the bed-clothes. Pyotr Dmitritch, in his dr

hush!”

in bed, screwing up her eyes at the

. . . unders

the party, by his falsity, by her own falsity, that it

d . . . un

he said, handin

inking, but the water splashed over and wa

rribly unseemly

out a word, and covered her with the qui

alovna cried again. “Pyotr

such violence that her wailing was cut short, and she bit the pillow from t

arranging the quilt ov

rling, what i

id Pyotr Dmitritch stern

nderstand! . . .” O

ou. I would not have gone out of the room if I had known it would have h

You were lying, I

eing rich. I loved you immensely, and that’s all . . . I assure you. I have never been in want of money or felt the value of it, and so I cannot feel the difference between your fortune and mine. It always seemed to me we were equally well off. And that I have been dec

in acute pain, and clutche

in pain . . .” she said

tting up. “You ought not to have gone to the island today!” h

tion, and, with a wave of his

attacks of pain, and each time the pain was more acute and prolonged. At first she held her breath and bit the pillow during the pain, but then she began screaming on an unseemly piercing note. Once seeing her h

ifying herself. “Understand, understand. . . . The

ot alone,” said

nd pulling out the bottom drawer. The top drawers were already open. Then Varvara got up,

” she said in a whisper. “

estick with a pair of scissors, so as to put in a new cand

ock this basket, too, my good girl. Master,” she said, “you sh

y, for God’s sake, make haste and fetch the doctor or the midw

a thought. “Varvara,” she moane

ress,” whispered Varvara. “Please God

the pains. The candles were still burning, but the morning light was coming through the blinds. It was probably about five o’clock in the morning. At the round table there was sitting some u

eard a peculiar and unfamiliar note which had never been

ed for the day, and stood at the window with his back t

ain!” h

halovna, in order to hear the un

six,” answer

’s head and the window-panes on which the rain was beating. “How will he live w

ice, caressing and consolatory. She remembered how in the spring he had meant to buy himself so

urself harrier

ve said something; but at that moment the pain came back,

time at the University, and her marriage, and would go on for a long, long time, endlessly. She saw them bring tea to the midwife, and summon her at midday to lunch and afterwards to dinner; she saw Pyotr Dmitritch grow used to coming in, standing for long intervals by the window, and going out again; saw strange men, the maid, Varvara, come in as though they were at home. . . . Varvara said nothing b

a Mihalovna. To these unknown men touching her body she felt utterly indifferent. By now she had no feeling of shame, no will, and any one might do what he would with

halovna remembered that there had been just such a night with the stillness, the lamp, with the midwife sitting motionless by the bed, with