the wife and other stories-第24节

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s　not　a　dull　play；　the　stage　gives　me　the　same　feeling　of　conventionality　which　bored　me　so　much　forty　years　ago　when　I　was　regaled　with　the　classical　howling　and　beating　on　the　breast。　And　every　time　I　come　out　of　the　theatre　more　conservative　than　I　go　in。

The　sentimental　and　confiding　public　may　be　persuaded　that　the　stage；　even　in　its　present　form；　is　a　school；　but　any　one　who　is　familiar　with　a　school　in　its　true　sense　will　not　be　caught　with　that　bait。　I　cannot　say　what　will　happen　in　fifty　or　a　hundred　years；　but　in　its　actual　condition　the　theatre　can　serve　only　as　an　entertainment。　But　this　entertainment　is　too　costly　to　be　frequently　enjoyed。　It　robs　the　state　of　thousands　of　healthy　and　talented　young　men　and　women；　who；　if　they　had　not　devoted　themselves　to　the　theatre；　might　have　been　good　doctors；　farmers；　schoolmistresses；　officers；　it　robs　the　public　of　the　evening　hours　　the　best　time　for　intellectual　work　and　social　intercourse。　I　say　nothing　of　the　waste　of　money　and　the　moral　damage　to　the　spectator　when　he　sees　murder；　fornication；　or　false　witness　unsuitably　treated　on　the　stage。

Katya　was　of　an　entirely　different　opinion。　She　assured　me　that　the　theatre；　even　in　its　present　condition；　was　superior　to　the　lecture…hall；　to　books；　or　to　anything　in　the　world。　The　stage　was　a　power　that　united　in　itself　all　the　arts；　and　actors　were　missionaries。　No　art　nor　science　was　capable　of　producing　so　strong　and　so　certain　an　effect　on　the　soul　of　man　as　the　stage；　and　it　was　with　good　reason　that　an　actor　of　medium　quality　enjoys　greater　popularity　than　the　greatest　savant　or　artist。　And　no　sort　of　public　service　could　provide　such　enjoyment　and　gratification　as　the　theatre。

And　one　fine　day　Katya　joined　a　troupe　of　actors；　and　went　off；　I　believe　to　Ufa；　taking　away　with　her　a　good　supply　of　money；　a　store　of　rainbow　hopes；　and　the　most　aristocratic　views　of　her　work。

Her　first　letters　on　the　journey　were　marvellous。　I　read　them；　and　was　simply　amazed　that　those　small　sheets　of　paper　could　contain　so　much　youth；　purity　of　spirit；　holy　innocence；　and　at　the　same　time　subtle　and　apt　judgments　which　would　have　done　credit　to　a　fine　mas　culine　intellect。　It　was　more　like　a　rapturous　paean　of　praise　she　sent　me　than　a　mere　description　of　the　Volga；　the　country；　the　towns　she　visited；　her　companions；　her　failures　and　successes；　every　sentence　was　fragrant　with　that　confiding　trustfulness　I　was　accustomed　to　read　in　her　face　　and　at　the　same　time　there　were　a　great　many　grammatical　mistakes；　and　there　was　scarcely　any　punctuation　at　all。

Before　six　months　had　passed　I　received　a　highly　poetical　and　enthusiastic　letter　beginning　with　the　words；　〃I　have　come　to　love　。　。　。〃　This　letter　was　accompanied　by　a　photograph　representing　a　young　man　with　a　shaven　face；　a　wide…brimmed　hat；　and　a　plaid　flung　over　his　shoulder。　The　letters　that　followed　were　as　splendid　as　before；　but　now　commas　and　stops　made　their　appearance　in　them；　the　grammatical　mistakes　disappeared；　and　there　was　a　distinctly　masculine　flavour　about　them。　Katya　began　writing　to　me　how　splendid　it　would　be　to　build　a　great　theatre　somewhere　on　the　Volga；　on　a　cooperative　system；　and　to　attract　to　the　enterprise　the　rich　merchants　and　the　steamer　owners；　there　would　be　a　great　deal　of　money　in　it；　there　would　be　vast　audiences；　the　actors　would　play　on　co…operative　terms。　。　。　。　Possibly　all　this　was　really　excellent；　but　it　seemed　to　me　that　such　schemes　could　only　originate　from　a　man's　mind。

However　that　may　have　been；　for　a　year　and　a　half　everything　seemed　to　go　well：　Katya　was　in　love；　believed　in　her　work；　and　was　happy；　but　then　I　began　to　notice　in　her　letters　unmistakable　signs　of　falling　off。　It　began　with　Katya's　complaining　of　her　companions　　this　was　the　first　and　most　ominous　symptom；　if　a　young　scientific　or　literary　man　begins　his　career　with　bitter　complaints　of　scientific　and　literary　men；　it　is　a　sure　sign　that　he　is　worn　out　and　not　fit　for　his　work。　Katya　wrote　to　me　that　her　companions　did　not　attend　the　rehearsals　and　never　knew　their　parts；　that　one　could　see　in　every　one　of　them　an　utter　disrespect　for　the　public　in　the　production　of　absurd　plays；　and　in　their　behaviour　on　the　stage；　that　for　the　benefit　of　the　Actors'　Fund；　which　they　only　talked　about；　actresses　of　the　serious　drama　demeaned　themselves　by　singing　chansonettes；　while　tragic　actors　sang　comic　songs　making　fun　of　deceived　husbands　and　the　pregnant　condition　of　unfaithful　wives；　and　so　on。　In　fact；　it　was　amazing　that　all　this　had　not　yet　ruined　the　provincial　stage；　and　that　it　could　still　maintain　itself　on　such　a　rotten　and　unsubstantial　footing。

In　answer　I　wrote　Katya　a　long　and；　I　must　confess；　a　very　boring　letter。　Among　other　things；　I　wrote　to　her：

〃I　have　more　than　once　happened　to　converse　with　old　actors；　very　worthy　men；　who　showed　a　friendly　disposition　towards　me；　from　my　conversations　with　them　I　could　understand　that　their　work　was　controlled　not　so　much　by　their　own　intelligence　and　free　choice　as　by　fashion　and　the　mood　of　the　public。　The　best　of　them　had　had　to　play　in　their　day　in　tragedy；　in　operetta；　in　Parisian　farces；　and　in　extravaganzas；　and　they　always　seemed　equally　sure　that　they　were　on　the　right　path　and　that　they　were　of　use。　So；　as　you　see；　the　cause　of　the　evil　must　be　sought；　not　in　the　actors；　but；　more　deeply；　in　the　art　itself　and　in　the　attitude　of　the　whole　of　society　to　it。〃

This　letter　of　mine　only　irritated　Katya。　She　answered　me：

〃You　and　I　are　singing　parts　out　of　different　operas。　I　wrote　to　you；　not　of　the　worthy　men　who　showed　a　friendly　disposition　to　you；　but　of　a　band　of　knaves　who　have　nothing　worthy　about　them。　They　are　a　horde　of　savages　who　have　got　on　the　stage　simply　because　no　one　would　have　taken　them　elsewhere；　and　who　call　themselves　artists　simply　because　they　are　impudent。　There　are　numbers　of　dull…witted　creatures；　drunkards；　intriguing　schemers　and　slanderers；　but　there　is　not　one　person　of　talent　among　them。　I　cannot　tell　you　how　bitter　it　is　to　me　that　the　art　I　love　has　fallen　into　the　hands　of　people　I　detest；　how　bitter　it　is　that　the　best　men　look　on　at　evil　from　afar；　not　caring　to　come　closer；　and；　instead　of　intervening；　write　ponderous　commonplaces　and　utterly　useless　sermons。　。　。　。〃　And　so　on；　all　in　the　same　style。

A　little　time　passed；　and　I　got　this　letter：　〃I　have　been　brutally　deceived。　I　cannot　go　on　living。　Dispose　of　my　money　as　you　think　best。　I　loved　you　as　my　father　and　my　only　friend。　Good…bye。〃

It　turned　out　that　_he_；　too；　belonged　to　the　〃horde　of　savages。〃　Later　on；　from　certain　hints；　I　gathered　that　there　had　been　an　attempt　at　suicide。　I　believe　Katya　tried　to　poison　herself。　I　imagine　that　she　must　have　been　seriously　ill　afterwards；　as　the　next　letter　I　got　was　from　Yalta；　where　she　had　most　probably　been　sent　by　the　doctors。　Her　last　letter　contained　a　request　to　send　her　a　thousand　roubles　to　Yalta　as　quickly　as　possible；　and　ended　with　these　words：

〃Excuse　the　gloominess　of　this　letter；　yesterday　I　buried　my　child。〃　After　spending　about　a　year　in　the　Crimea；　she　returned　home。

She　had　been　about　four　years　on　her　travels；　and　during　those　four　years；　I　must　confess；　I　had　played　a　rather　strange　and　unenviable　part　in　regard　to　her。　When　in　earlier　days　she　had　told　me　she　was　going　on　the　stage；　and　then　wrote　to　me　of　her　love；　when　she　was　periodically　overcome　by　extravagance；　and　I　continually　had　to　send　her　first　one　and　then　two　thousand　roubles；　when　she　wrote　to　me　of　her　intention　of　suicide；　and　then　of　the　death　of　her　baby；　every　time　I　lost　my　head；　and　all　my　sympathy　for　her　sufferings　found　no　expression　except　that；　after　prolonged　reflection；　I　wrote　long；　boring　letters　which　I　might　just　as　well　not　have　written。　And　yet　I　took　a　father's　place　with　her　and　loved　her　like　a　daughter！

Now　Katya　is　living　less　than　half　a　mile　off。　She　has　taken　a　flat　of　five　rooms；　and　has　installed　herself　fairly　comfortably　and　in　the　taste　of　the　day。　If　any　one　were　to　undertake　to　describe　her　surroundings；　the　most　characteristic　note　in　the　picture　would　be　indolence。　For　the　indolent　body　there　are　soft　lounges；　soft　stools；　for　indolent　feet　soft　rugs；　for　indolent　eyes　faded；　dingy；　or　flat　colours；　for　the　indolent　soul　the　walls　are　hung　with　a　number　of　cheap　fans　and　trivial　pictures；　in　which　the　originality　of　the　execution　is　more　conspicuous　than　the　subject；　and　the　room　contains　a　multitude　of　little　tables　and　shelves　filled　with　utterly　useless　articles　of　no　value；　and　shapeless　rags　in　place　of　curtains。　。　。　。　All　this；　together　with　the　dread　of　bright　colours；　of　symmetry；　and　of　empty　space；　bears　witness　not　only　to　spiritual　indolence；　but　also　to　a　corruption　of　natural　taste。　For　days　together　Katya　lies　on　the　lounge　reading；　principally　novels　and　stories。　She　only　goes　out　of　the　house　once　a　day；　in　the　afternoon；　to　see　me。

I　go　on　working　while　Katya　sits　silent　not　far　from　me　on　the　sofa；　wrapping　herself　in　her　shawl；　as　though　she　were　cold。　Either　because　I　find　her　sympathetic　or　because　I　was　used　to　her　frequent　visits　when　she　was　a　little　girl；　her　presence　does　not　prevent　me　from　concent