The darling / Душечка. Сборник рассказов. Антон ЧеховЧитать онлайн книгу.
me, she sobbed and threw herself on my neck. She had not changed at all that winter, and was just as young and charming. We had supper together and afterwards drove about Rome until dawn, and all the time she kept telling me about her life. I asked where Lubkov was.
“Don’t remind me of that creature!” she cried. “He is loathsome and disgusting to me!”
“But I thought you loved him,” I said.
“Never,” she said. “At first he struck me as original and aroused my pity, that was all. He is insolent and takes a woman by storm. And that’s attractive. But we won’t talk about him. That is a melancholy page in my life. He has gone to Russia to get money. Serves him right! I told him not to dare to come back.”
She was living then not at an hotel, but in a private lodging of two rooms which she had decorated in her own taste, frigidly and luxuriously.
After Lubkov had gone away she had borrowed from her acquaintances about five thousand francs, and my arrival certainly was the one salvation for her.
I had reckoned on taking her back to the country, but I did not succeed in that. She was homesick for her native place, but her recollections of the poverty she had been through there, of privations, of the rusty roof on her brother’s house, roused a shudder of disgust, and when I suggested to her going home, she squeezed my hands convulsively and said:
“No, no, I shall die of boredom there!”
Then my love entered upon its final phase.
“Be the darling that you used to be; love me a little,” said Ariadne, bending over to me. “You’re sulky and prudent, you’re afraid to yield to impulse, and keep thinking of consequences, and that’s dull. Come, I beg you, I beseech you, be nice to me! … My pure one, my holy one, my dear one, I love you so!”
I became her lover. For a month anyway I was like a madman, conscious of nothing but rapture. To hold in one’s arms a young and lovely body, with bliss to feel her warmth every time one woke up from sleep, and to remember that she was there – she, my Ariadne! – oh, it was not easy to get used to that! But yet I did get used to it, and by degrees became capable of reflecting on my new position. First of all, I realised as before that Ariadne did not love me. But she wanted to be really in love, she was afraid of solitude, and above all I was healthy, young, vigorous; she was sensual, like all cold people, as a rule – and we both made a show of being united by a passionate, mutual love. Afterwards I realised something else, too.
We stayed in Rome, in Naples, in Florence; we went to Paris, but there we thought it cold and went back to Italy. We introduced ourselves everywhere as husband and wife, wealthy landowners. People readily made our acquaintance and Ariadne had great social success everywhere. As she took lessons in painting, she was called an artist, and you know, that quite suited her, though she had not the slightest trace of talent.
She would sleep every day till two or three o’clock; she had her coffee and lunch in bed. At dinner she would eat soup, lobster, fish, meat, asparagus, game, and after she had gone to bed I used to bring up something, for instance roast beef, and she would eat it with a melancholy, careworn expression, and if she woke at night she would eat apples and oranges.
The chief, so to say fundamental, characteristic of the woman was an amazing duplicity. She was continually deceitful every minute, apparently apart from any necessity, as it were by instinct, by an impulse such as makes a sparrow chirrup and a cockroach waggle its antennae. She was deceitful with me, with the footman, with the porter, with the tradesmen in the shops, with her acquaintances; not one conversation, not one meeting, took place without affectation and pretence. A man had only to come into our room – whoever it might be, a waiter or a baron – for her eyes, her expression, her voice to change, even the contour of her figure was transformed. At the very first glance at her then, you would have said there were no more wealthy and fashionable people in Italy than we are. She never met an artist or a musician without telling him all sorts of lies about his remarkable talent.
“You have such a talent!” she would say, in honeyed cadences, “I’m really afraid of you. I think you might see right through people.”
And all this simply in order to please, to be successful, to be fascinating! She woke up every morning with the one thought of “pleasing”! It was the aim and object of her life. If I had told her that in such a house, in such a street, there lived a man who was not attracted by her, it would have caused her real suffering. She wanted every day to enchant, to captivate, to drive men crazy. The fact that I was in her power and reduced to a complete nonentity before her charms gave her the same sort of satisfaction that visitors used to feel in tournaments. My subjection was not enough, and at nights, stretched out like a tigress, uncovered – she was always too hot – she would read the letters sent her by Lubkov; he besought her to return to Russia, vowing if she did not he would rob or murder some one to get the money to come to her. She hated him, but his passionate, slavish letters excited her. She had an extraordinary opinion of her own charms; she imagined that if somewhere, in some great assembly, men could have seen how beautifully she was made and the colour of her skin, she would have vanquished all Italy, the whole world. Her talk of her figure, of her skin, offended me, and observing this, she would, when she was angry, just to vex me, say all sorts of vulgar things, taunting me. One day when we were at the summer villa of a lady of our acquaintance and she lost her temper, she even went so far as to say: “If you don’t leave off boring me with your sermons, I’ll undress this minute and lie naked here on these flowers.”
Often looking at her asleep, or eating, or trying to assume a naїve expression, I wondered why that extraordinary beauty, grace, and intelligence had been given her by God. Could it simply be for lolling in bed, eating and lying, lying endlessly? And was she really intelligent? She was afraid of three candles in a row, of the number thirteen, was terrified of spells and bad dreams. She argued about free love and freedom in general like a bigoted old woman, declared that Boleslav Markevitch was a better writer than Turgenev19. But she was diabolically cunning and sharp, and knew how to seem a highly educated, advanced person in a company.
Even at a moment of good humour, she could always insult a servant or kill an insect without a pang; she liked bull-fights, liked to read about murders, and was angry when prisoners were acquitted.
For the life Ariadne and I were leading, we had to have a great deal of money. My poor father sent me his pension, all the little sums he received, borrowed for me wherever he could, and when one day he answered me: “Non habeo20,” I sent him a desperate telegram in which I besought him to mortgage the estate. A little later I begged him to get money somehow on a second mortgage. He did this too without a murmur and sent me every farthing. Ariadne despised the practical side of life; all this was no concern of hers, and when flinging away thousands of francs to satisfy her mad desires I groaned like an old tree, she would be singing “Addio bella Napoli” with a light heart.
Little by little I grew cold to her and began to be ashamed of our liaison21. I am not fond of pregnancy and confinements, but now I sometimes dreamed of a child who would have been at least a formal justification of our life. In order that I might not be completely disgusted with myself, I began reading and visiting museums and galleries, gave up drinking and took to eating very little. If one keeps oneself well in hand from morning till night, one’s heart seems lighter. I began to bore Ariadne too. The people with whom she won her triumphs were, by the way, all of the middling sort; as before, there were no ambassadors, there was no salon, the money did not run to it, and this mortified her and made her sob and she announced to me at last that perhaps she would not be against our returning to Russia.
And here we are on our way. For the last few months she has been zealously corresponding with her brother; she evidently has some secret projects, but what they are – God knows! I am sick of trying to fathom her underhand schemes! But we’re going not to the country, but to Yalta and afterwards to the Caucasus. She can only exist now at watering-places, and if you knew how I hate all these watering-places, how suffocated and ashamed I am in them. If I could be in the
Turgenev – (1818–1883), a famous Russian writer