The Complete Works of Count Tolstoy/Volume 18/The Kreutzer Sonata/Chapter 28
XXVIII.
"A strange thing happened! When I left my room and walked through the familiar rooms, I again was stirred by the hope that nothing had happened, but the smell of the physician's nasty things, of the iodoform and carbolic acid, startled me. Yes, it has happened. Walking along the corridor, past the children's room, I saw Líza. She looked at me with frightened eyes. I thought that all five of the children were there, looking at me. I went up to the door, and the chambermaid opened it for me from within and went out. The first thing that my eyes fell upon was her light gray dress upon the chair, all black with gore. On our double bed—on my bed (it was easier to get at it)—she lay with uplifted knees. She lay in a very inclined position, on pillows, with her bodice unbuttoned. There was something placed over the wound. The room was filled with the heavy odour of iodoform. Nothing impressed me so much as her swollen face, with part of the nose and the lower part of the eyes blue and discoloured. This was the result of the blow with my elbow, when she tried to keep me back. There was no beauty whatever, and I saw only something abominable in her. I stopped at the threshold. 'Go up, go up to her,' her sister said to me. 'No doubt she wants to confess,' I thought, trying to be magnanimous. I walked over to her. She with difficulty raised her eyes, one of which was badly bruised, and she muttered with difficulty and hesitatingly:
"'You have accomplished it, you have killed me—' and in her face, through the physical suffering and the nearness of death, there was expressed the old, familiar, cold, animal hatred. 'The children—however—I will not give—to you— She' (her sister) 'will take them—'
"But that which to me was the most important thing, her guilt, she did not consider worth while mentioning, so it seemed.
"'Yes, enjoy your deed,' she said, looking at the door, and she began to sob. At the door stood her sister with the children. 'Yes, this is what you have done.'
"I looked at the children, at her bruised, discoloured face, and for the first time I forgot myself, my rights, my pride,—for the first time I saw the human being in her. And so insignificant seemed everything to me which had offended me, all my jealousy, and so significant what I had done, that I wanted to fall with my face to her hand and say, 'Forgive me!' but I did not dare to.
"She was silent and covered her eyes, evidently not having the strength to speak any more. Then her maimed face quivered and became wrinkled. She feebly pushed me away.
"'Why has all this been, why?'
"'Forgive me!' I said.
"'Forgive you? It is all nonsense! If only I could live!' she cried, and, raising herself a little, her feverishly shining eyes were directed toward me. Yes, you have got what you wanted!—I hate you!— Oh, oh!' she called out, evidently already in delirium, as though frightened at something.
"'Shoot! I am not afraid!— Kill everybody!— He got away!— Away!—'
"Her delirium lasted the rest of the time. She did not recognize anybody. She died that very day, at noon. Before that time, at eight o'clock, I was taken to the police station, and then to prison. While staying there eleven months and waiting for the trial, I thought about myself and my past, and I understood it. I began to understand it on the third day. On the third day they took me back there—"
He wanted to say something, but stopped, being unable to keep back his sobs. Having collected himself, he continued:
"I began to understand only when she was in her grave—"
He sobbed, but immediately continued in a hurry:
"Only when I saw her dead face I understood all I had done. I understood that it was I who had killed her; that through me she, who had been alive, moving, warm, had become immovable, waxlike, cold; and that this could never, nowhere, in no way, be mended. He who has not passed through it cannot comprehend it. Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!" he cried several times and grew silent.
We sat for a long time in silence. He sobbed and trembled, sitting silently in front of me. His face grew thin and drawn and his mouth was stretched out to its full width.
"Yes," he suddenly exclaimed, "if I had known then what I know now, things would have been different. I would not have married her for anything— I would not have married at all."
Again we sat for a long time in silence.
"Well, forgive me—" He turned away from me, lay down on the bench, and covered himself with his plaid. At the station where I had to get off,—it was eight o'clock in the morning, I went up to him, to bid him good-bye. I did not know whether he was asleep or only pretended to be, but he did not stir. I touched him with my hand. He uncovered himself, and it was evident that he was not sleeping.
"Good-bye," I said, offering him my hand. He gave me his and barely smiled such a pitiable smile that I felt like weeping.
"Yes, forgive me," he repeated the word with which he had concluded his story.