Read Online The Devil by Leo Tolstoy - Free Book Online Page A

it is necessary that there should be no Liza—that she should go away—that she should know, curse me, and go away. That she should know that I have exchanged her for a peasant woman, that I am a deceiver and a scoundrel!—No, that is too terrible! It is impossible. But it might happen,” he went on thinking—“it might happen that Liza might fall ill and die. Die, and then everything would be capital.
    “Capital! Oh, scoundrel! No, if someone must die it should be Stepanida. If she were to die, how good it would be.
    “Yes, that is how men come to poison or kill theirwives or lovers. Take a revolver and go and call her, and instead of embracing her, shoot her in the breast and have done with it.
    “Really she is—a devil. Simply a devil. She has possessed herself of me against my own will.
    “Kill? Yes. There are only two ways out: to kill my wife or her. For it is impossible to live like this.
    [At this place the alternative ending, printed at the end of the story, begins.]
    “It is impossible! I must consider the matter and look ahead. If things remain as they are what will happen? I shall again be saying to myself that I do not wish it and that I will throw her off, but it will be merely words; in the evening I shall be at her back yard, and she will know it and will come out. And if people know of it and tell my wife, or if I tell her myself—for I can’t lie —I shall not be able to live so. I cannot! People will know. They will all know—Parasha and the blacksmith. Well, is it possible to live so?
    “Impossible! There are only two ways out: to kill my wife, or to kill her. yes, or else … Ah, yes, there is a third way: to kill myself,” said he softly, and suddenly a shudder ran over his skin. “Yes, kill myself, then I shall not need to kill them.” He became frightened, for he felt that only that way was possible. He had a revolver. “Shall I really kill myself? It is something I never thought of—how strange it will be …”
    He returned to his study and at once opened thecupboard where the revolver lay, but before he had taken it out of its case his wife entered the room.

XXI
    He threw a newspaper over the revolver.
    “Again the same!” said she aghast when she had looked at him.
    “What is the same?”
    “The same terrible expression that you had before and would not explain to me. Zhenya, dear one, tell me about it. I see that you are suffering. Tell me and you will feel easier. Whatever it may be, it will be better than for you to suffer so. Don’t I know that it is nothing bad?”
    “You know? While …”
    “Tell me, tell me, tell me. I won’t let you go.”
    He smiled a piteous smile.
    “Shall I?—No, it is impossible. And there is nothing to tell.”
    Perhaps he might have told her, but at that moment the wet-nurse entered to ask if she should go for a walk. Liza went out to dress the baby.
    “Then you will tell me? I will be back directly.”
    “Yes, perhaps …”
    She never could forget the piteous smile with which he said this. She went out.
    Hurriedly, stealthily like a robber, he seized the revolver and took it out of its case. It was loaded, yes, but long ago, and one cartridge was missing.
    “Well, how will it be?” He put it to his temple and hesitated a little, but as soon as he remembered Stepanida—his decision not to see her, his struggle, temptation, fall,and renewed struggle—he shuddered with horror. “No, this is better,” and he pulled the trigger …
    When Liza ran into the room—she had only had time to step down from the balcony—he was lying face downwards on the floor: black, warm blood was gushing from the wound, and his corpse was twitching.
    There was an inquest. No one could understand or explain the suicide. It never even entered his uncle’s head that its cause could be anything in common with the confession Yevgeny had made to him two months previously.
    Varvara Alexeevna assured them that she had always foreseen it. It had been