Money and other stories/The Shirts

e wanted to think about other infinitely more important matters, but, do what he would, the unpleasant thought kept running through his mind: his housekeeper was robbing him. She had been with him so many years, and he had got quite out of the habit of keeping track of his personal belongings. There stood his linen-cupboard: in the morning he would open it and take a clean shirt from the top of the pile. From time to time, at irregular intervals, Mrs. Johanka would come and display before him a torn shirt, declaring that they were all in the same plight, and that master must buy new ones. Very good, master would then go out and buy half a dozen shirts at the first shop he came to, not, however, without a vague idea that he had gone through the same performance not very long before. It was the same with collars and ties, clothes and boots, soap, and the thousand and one other things which a man needs, even when he is a widower. Everything has to be renewed from time to time, but on an old man things all get somehow ​old and shabby at once, or goodness knows what happens to them; he was continually buying new things, only to be faced, when he opened his wardrobe, with a jumble of worn and faded garments made he could not tell when. But after all there was no need to bother about these things. Mrs. Johanka saw to everything.

Now, for the first time after all these years, it was borne in on him that he was being systematically robbed. It happened like this: he had received that morning an invitation to go to a banquet given by some society or other. For years he had been nowhere at all; the narrow circle of his friends was so small that the unexpected invitation bewildered him altogether; he was delighted beyond measure, but rather scared. First of all, he began searching to see if he had any shirt splendid enough; he pulled them all out of the cupboard, but there was not one which was not frayed at the cuffs or round the collar. He called Johanka and asked her whether he had not some more presentable linen.

Mrs. Johanka gulped, was silent for a moment, and then declared sharply that master must certainly buy new ones; it was useless for her to go on mending the old ones, they were regular cobwebs. He had, however, a vague impression that he had bought some ​not long before, but not being sure he was silent and at once began to put on his coat to go and buy them. But now he was once started on tidying up, he pulled some old papers out of his pockets to see if he should keep them or throw them away. Among them was the last bill for shirts, paid on such and such a date. Seven weeks ago. Seven weeks ago, half a dozen new shirts. That was his whole discovery.

He did not go and buy any others, but wandered about the room meditating. He looked back upon years and years of solitude. Since his wife’s death Johanka had kept house for him, and never for a moment had he felt the least suspicion or distrust; but now an uneasy feeling came over him that he was being robbed all that time. He glanced about him; he could not say what was missing, but he suddenly perceived that the place was empty and desolate, and he tried to remember whether there used not to be more things about, a more intimate look, more of everything. . . . Full of dismay, he opened the chest in which lay memorials of his wife: dresses, linen. A few shabby articles were there, but all breath of the past was gone from them; heavens! the number of things which his wife had really left! What had become of them all?

He closed the chest and forced himself to ​think of other things; for instance, the banquet that evening. But those past years returned insistently. They seemed now more desolate, bitter and miserable than when he was living through them; they they appeared suddenly as if despoiled, and from them breathed an agony of desolation. Of course, at intervals he had been contented, lulled, as it were, to sleep; but now he was appalled to see the slumber of a lonely man whom strange hands robbed of even the pillow beneath his head; and he felt forlorn, suffering from a keen pain, greater than he had known since the day—the day when he returned from the funeral. He found himself grown old and weary, as one to whom life had been too cruel.

One thing, however, he could not make out: why should she steal my things? What would she do with them? Oh, I see, he remembered suddenly with a certain malicious satisfaction. That’s what it is! She has a nephew somewhere whom she loves with the foolish love of an infatuated aunt; have I not had to listen to innumerable babblings about that flower of men? Let me see, not long ago she actually showed me his photo: curly hair, snub nose, and a particularly impertinent moustache; though she, for her part, wiped away tears of pride and emotion. So that’s where all my things have strayed, he said to himself. He ​flew into a terrible rage at the thought; he ran to the kitchen and called out to Johanka something like, “You wretched old hag!” and then bolted away again, leaving her fearfully and tearfully rolling her old goggle sheep’s eyes.

He did not speak to her again for the rest of that day; she sighed as though she had been insulted, and clattered things about whenever they came handy, not realizing in the least what the cause of the trouble was. In the afternoon he embarked on a complete overhauling of his cupboards and drawers; it was terrible; he remembered first one thing and then another which he had at some time possessed; various family heirlooms, which now seemed to him particularly precious. And now there was nothing left, nothing—not one thing left of it all. It was just as though there had been a great fire. He could have broken down and wept with rage and loneliness.

He was sitting in the midst of open drawers, out of breath, covered with dust, and holding in his hand the one solitary relic which was left—his father’s purse, a bead bag with holes now at both ends. For how many years must she have been robbing him to have left nothing at all? He was almost beside himself with rage; if he had come across her at that moment he would have slapped her face. What shall I ​do with her? he said in emotion. Pack her off at once? Hand her over to the police? But who will cook for me to-morrow? I will go to a restaurant, he decided; but who will heat water and light the fire for me? With a supreme effort he drove these cares away. I will settle the matter to-morrow, he assured himself; something will turn up. The idea that I am dependent upon her! Nevertheless, the problem weighed on him more heavily than he would admit; only the consciousness of wrong suffered and the necessity of punishment kept up his courage.

When it grew dusk he pulled himself together so far as to go to the kitchen and say to Johanka carelessly, “You must go out somewhere or other,” and then he gave her some complicated and lengthy errands of a somewhat irrelevant nature, which he said must be done at once, and which he had devised with no small trouble. Mrs. Johanka said nothing, but set about the business with the pained air of a martyr.

At last the door slammed behind her and he was left alone. With beating heart he stole to the kitchen, and then hesitated with his hand on the latch; he was seized with panic as he felt that he would never bring himself to the point of opening her cupboard: it seemed to him the act of a thief. But when he was ​already thinking of giving it up the thing came of itself; he opened the door and went in.

The kitchen literally shone with cleanliness. There stood Johanka’s cupboard; but it was locked and no sign of a key. This discovery confirmed him in his purpose; he tried to force the cupboard with a kitchen knife, but he only hacked it about and did not succeed in opening it. He pulled out every drawer in search of a key, tried every key of his own; but at last, after half an hour of raging, he found that the cupboard was not locked at all, and could be opened with a button-hook.

Neatly arranged and ironed lay the linen on separate shelves. And just on the top were his six new shirts, still tied up with the blue ribbon from the shop. In a cardboard box was his wife’s brooch with the dark amethyst; his father’s mother-of-pearl cuff-links; his mother’s portrait on ivory—goodness, had she a use even for that? He pulled everything out of the cupboard: he found his socks and collars, a box of soap, tooth-brushes, an old silk waistcoat, pillow-cases, an old officer’s pistol, and a smoke-stained and quite useless amber mouthpiece. These were indeed portions of his wardrobe; the greater part had evidently been made over long ago to the curly-headed nephew. The heat of passion subsided, but there remained the reproachful distress. So ​this is how it is. . . . Johanka, Johanka, how have I deserved this from you? One by one he removed his things to his own room and spread them out on the table; they formed an imposing exhibition of every imaginable article. Those which were Johanka’s property he threw back into the cupboard in the kitchen; he even wanted to put them neatly in order, but after some attempts he retreated helplessly, leaving the cupboard gaping open as if after a robbery. And then he began to be afraid that Johanka would return, and that he would have to talk to her seriously. . . . The idea disgusted him so much that he began to dress hurriedly. To-morrow I will take her to task, he said to himself; to-day it will be enough for her to realize that I have found out. He picked up one of the new shirts, which was as stiff as paper, so that with all his efforts he could not manage to fasten his stiff collar. And Johanka might come back at any moment.

He dived quickly into his old shirt, regardless of the fact that it was torn, and no sooner was he dressed than he slunk out like a thief, and for an hour loitered about the streets in the rain until it was time to go to the banquet. At the gathering he felt lonely; he tried to fall into intimate talk with old acquaintances; but in some way, he did not know how, the ​years had come between him and other people; just imagine it, we can hardly understand each other. But he had no grudge against anyone; he stood apart and smiled, dazzled by the glare of lights and the noise and movement . . . until for some unknown reason he was seized with fresh alarm—just think what I must look like! There are threads hanging from my shirt, a stain on my dress coat, and as for my boots, bless me! He wished he could sink into the ground, and looked round for a hiding-place, but on every side there shone brilliant shirt-fronts—where could he slip away unnoticed? He was afraid to take a step towards the door lest every glance should suddenly be turned upon him. He perspired with embarrassment; he pretended to be standing motionless, but all the time he was shuffling with his feet so as to reach the door by inches, without being perceived. As ill-luck would have it an old acquaintance, a fellow-student of his at the High School, accosted him, which added to his embarrassment. He answered him confusedly, and very nearly offended him; he breathed a sigh of relief when he was once more alone, and measured his distance from the door. At length he escaped and fled home; it was not yet midnight.

On the way Johanka came into his mind ​again. His brain became active with rapid walking, and he planned in his mind what he should say to her. With unaccustomed ease, long, forceful, dignified phrases strung themselves together; a lengthy discourse of severe condemnation and ultimate mercy. Yes, mercy; because in the end he would forgive her. He would not turn her into the street. Johanka would weep and implore, then promise to mend her ways; he would listen in silence, unmoved, and at last would say to her solemnly: “Johanka, I will give you a chance to make amends for your ingratitude; be honest and loyal, I ask no more of you. I am an old man and do not wish to be cruel.”

He was so excited that before he realized it he found himself at home and had unlocked the door. A light was burning in Johanka’s room. He just peeped through the curtain into the kitchen; good gracious, what was that? Johanka, her face flushed and swollen with weeping, was rushing about the kitchen and throwing her things into a trunk. He was terribly alarmed. Why the trunk? He crept to his room on tiptoe, confused, oppressed, and quite bewildered. Was Johanka going away?

There in front of him on the table lay all the things she had stolen from him. He fingered them, but felt not the smallest pleasure ​at their recovery. I see, he said to himself, Johanka has discovered that I have found her guilty of thieving and expects to be sent off at once—that is why she is packing up. Very well, I will leave her with that idea—until to-morrow; that will be sufficient punishment for her; yes, I will talk to her in the morning. But perhaps perhaps, even now she will come and ask my pardon. She will burst into tears before me, fall on her knees, and that sort of thing. That will do, Johanka, I don’t want to be harsh; you can stay.

He sat down in his evening clothes to await developments. There was silence, unbroken silence in the house; he heard every step of Johanka’s in the kitchen, heard the angry slamming of a trunk lid, then again calm. What was that? He sprang up in alarm and listened: a prolonged, terrible howl, as of some creature not human; then it trailed off into a series of hysterical sobs; there followed the sound of knees sinking heavily to the floor, and subdued moaning. Johanka was weeping. He had certainly been prepared for something, but this was unexpected. With beating heart he stood and listened to what was going on in the kitchen. Nothing, only weeping. Presently Johanka will come to herself and ask for forgiveness.

He paced the room in order to recover his ​firmness, but still Johanka did not come. At intervals he stopped and listened; her wailing changed into a monotonous series of unabated howls. This dreadful despair was distressing to him. I will go to her, he resolved, and just say: “Now, let this be a lesson to you, Johanka, and stop crying. I will forget all about it, but be honest in future.”

Suddenly a violent rush, the door burst open, and there stood Johanka on the threshold, howling; it was dreadful to see her face so swollen with weeping.

“Johanka,” he gasped.

“Have—I—deserved this?” broke from Johanka. “Nice thanks this—as if I were a thief such a shame!”

“But, Johanka,” he cried alarmed, “but you have taken my things—all these, do you see? Did you take them or not?”

But Johanka did not hear. “What I have to put up with—such a shame—searching in my cupboard—as if—I was—some pilfering gipsy. To shame me so, me, indeed—you shouldn’t have done it, sir—no right to—insult me—never—not to my dying day—would I have expected the like. Am I a thief indeed? I—I a thief, indeed?” She shrieked in passionate distress. “Am I really a thief? I, indeed, considering my family! That—that I never did expect—never deserved such a thing!”

​“But, Johanka,” he said, somewhat damped, “just have some sense. How did these things get into your cupboard? Is this yours or mine? Say, my good woman, is this yours?”

“I don’t want to hear anything,” sobbed Johanka. “Good Lord, what a shame! Just as if—I was a gipsy—search my cupboard!—but this instant,” she cried, fearfully excited, ‘this instant I’ll be off. I shall not stop here‘ till the morning. No—no.”

“But look here,” he protested in alarm, “I don’t want to turn you out. You will stay on, Johanka. As for what has happened, well, heaven save us from anything worse. I have not yet said a word to you about it. So stop crying.”

Engage someone else,” said Johanka, choking with tears. “I shall not stay here even till to-morrow morning. As if one were—a dog—to put up with anything—I won’t,” she ejaculated desperately, “not if you paid me thousands. I would rather spend the night on the pavement.”

“But why, Johanka,” he argued helplessly. “Have I hurt your feelings, then? But still you cannot deny———”

“No, not hurt my feelings,” cried Johanka in a still more wounded tone. “It is not hurting my feelings—searching my cupboard—as if I were a thief. That is nothing at all—​that I have to put up with—no one ever did such a thing to me—such a shame. I am not—just a tramp,” she shrieked with a convulsive burst of tears and rushed out, slamming the door.

He was immensely perplexed. Instead of repentance, all this scene. What does it mean? She steals like a jackdaw, no doubt of that, and feels insulted because I know about it; not ashamed of being a thief, but terribly hurt in her sensitiveness when put down as one. Is the woman out of her mind?

But gradually he felt more and more sorry for her. You see, he said to himself, everyone has his weak spot, but you never offend him more than by remarking on it. Ah, what an unbounded moral sensitiveness man harbours even amid his faults! How painfully and tenderly susceptible even in his misdeeds! Just put your finger on his secret vice and you hear nothing but a cry of pain and indignation in reply. Do you not see that in judging the offender you are judging the offended?

From the kitchen came the sound of weeping stifled by a feather bed. He wanted to go in, but the door was locked; he stood there trying to reason with her, upbraided her, and then attempted to soothe her; but all the reply he met with was more violent and noisy sobbing. He went back to his room oppressed ​with helpless pity. There on the table lay the stolen articles: fine new shirts, a quantity of linen, mementos, and what not. He caressed them with his finger, but in the touch there was something sad and forlorn.