Chapter 13

"All of us, men and women, are brought up in these aberrations of
feeling that we call love. I from childhood had prepared myself for this
thing, and I loved, and I loved during all my youth, and I was joyous in
loving. It had been put into my head that it was the noblest and highest
occupation in the world. But when this expected feeling came at last,
and I, a man, abandoned myself to it, the lie was pierced through and
through. Theoretically a lofty love is conceivable; practically it is
an ignoble and degrading thing, which it is equally disgusting to
talk about and to remember. It is not in vain that nature has made
ceremonies, but people pretend that the ignoble and the shameful is
beautiful and lofty.

"I will tell you brutally and briefly what were the first signs of my
love. I abandoned myself to beastly excesses, not only not ashamed of
them, but proud of them, giving no thought to the intellectual life of
my wife. And not only did I not think of her intellectual life, I did
not even consider her physical life.

"I was astonished at the origin of our hostility, and yet how clear it
was! This hostility is nothing but a protest of human nature against the
beast that enslaves it. It could not be otherwise. This hatred was the
hatred of accomplices in a crime. Was it not a crime that, this poor
woman having become pregnant in the first month, our liaison should have
continued just the same?

"You imagine that I am wandering from my story. Not at all. I am always
giving you an account of the events that led to the murder of my wife.
The imbeciles! They think that I killed my wife on the 5th of October.
It was long before that that I immolated her, just as they all kill now.
Understand well that in our society there is an idea shared by all
that woman procures man pleasure (and vice versa, probably, but I know
nothing of that, I only know my own case). Wein, Weiber und Gesang. So
say the poets in their verses: Wine, women, and song!

"If it were only that! Take all the poetry, the painting, the sculpture,
beginning with Pouschkine's 'Little Feet,' with 'Venus and Phryne,' and
you will see that woman is only a means of enjoyment. That is what she
is at Trouba,* at Gratchevka, and in a court ball-room. And think of
this diabolical trick: if she were a thing without moral value, it might
be said that woman is a fine morsel; but, in the first place, these
knights assure us that they adore woman (they adore her and look upon
her, however, as a means of enjoyment), then all assure us that they
esteem woman. Some give up their seats to her, pick up her handkerchief;
others recognize in her a right to fill all offices, participate in
government, etc., but, in spite of all