ILLINOIS UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS AT URBANA-CHAMPA1GN PRODUCTION NOTE University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign Library Brittle Books Project, 2014.COPYRIGHT NOTIFICATION In Copyright. Reproduced according to U.S. copyright law USC 17 section 107. Contact dcc@librarv.uiuc.edu for more information. This digital copy was made from the printed version held by the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. It was made in compliance with copyright law. Prepared for the Brittle Books Project, Preservation Department, Main Library, University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign by Northern Micrographics Brookhaven Bindery La Crosse, Wisconsin 2014L I gs R-A R.Y OF THE U N IVE.R.SITY OF ILLINOIS 891.73 C41 - 11929ANTON CHEKHOVThe Works °f v4nton Chekhov One Volume Edition MO. W. MT. #r». WALTER J. BLACK, INC. 171 Madison Avenue NEW YORK, N. Y.Copyright, 1929, By WALTER J. BLACK, Inc. PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICAContents VOLUME i TALES PAGE HE KISS........................................................1 THE CHORUS GIRL..............................12 LA CIGALE . ..............16 CHAPTER I. OLGA'S HUSBAND..........................................16 II. TWO CUT FINGERS . . TV................................17 III. NO, MY DARLING!..........................................20 IV. PASSIONATELY . . . .......................................22 V. RED WITH SHAME........................................23 VI. PAIN IN THE TEMPLES . . ...............................26 VII. SEND! . . . ...........................29 VIII. NEVER TO AWAKEN......................................31 VfEROTCHKA............................................34 THE MATCH . ........................42 CHAPTER I. COMMITTED................................................42 II. CONFESSION ................................................50 EXCELLENT PEOPLE............................................56CONTENTS VOLUME 11 TALES PAGE THE BLACK MONK .............................65 CHAPTER I. NERVES ..................................................65 II. A PALE FACE!.....................................69 III. SHE LOVES.........................71 IV. TEARS OF TANIA..........................................74 V. RED SPOTS.........................11 VI. THE BLACK GUEST........................................78 VII. DON'T BE AFRAID!........................................80 VIII. TORTURE........................ . 82 IX. BLOOD OF KOVRIN........................................84 A FAMILY COUNCIL . . . ......................................88 woe ............................93 WOMEN ........................................................96 A HUSK..........................................................105 VOLUME III TALES ANNA ROUND THE NECK................................1 CHAPTER I. THE YOUNG COUPLE........................................IV II. THE BALL..........................12 THE INCUBUS ..................................................124 MISS N. N.'S STORY..............................................134 THE YOUNG WIFE..............................................137CONTENTS VOLUME III—Continued page THE PEASANTS..................................................141 chapter I. BLOWS...............................141 II. MARYA......................................................144 III. SONGS ..................................................145 IV. DREAMS!...... .....................................147 V. FIRE!.............................................149 VI. THE HUT..................................................152 VII. WHO ELSE?................................................155 DIED..............................................157 IX. GIVE ALMS!..............................................160 VOLUME IV NOVEL THE SHOOTING PARTY..........................................163 PRESCRIPT......................................................163 r rlE NARRATIVE............................166 iapter I. CRIES! .....................................166 II. VODKA ................................................170 III. HER SINS..............................................177 IV. THE WOODS......................................181 V. TELEGRAM ............................................188 VI. NIGHTS MAD..........................................194 VII. THIEVES SWARMING..................................197CONTENTS chapter VOLUME IV—Continued page VIII. THE CHURCH.................... . 202 IX. WHY?..................................................206 X. THE DARK FIGURE....................................209 XI. MUCH LINEN..........................212 XII. MY GLANCE! . .......................................214 XIII. THE LITTLE DEVIL.......................218 XIV. A COLD KISS . . .......................................222 XV. HER QUESTION........................................229 XVI. A MISTAKE IN MARRYING . ........................./ XVII. ALL-POWERFUL.................... XVIII. WRATH!................................................2oo XIX. SOURCES ..............................................242 XX. THEY ARE VENAL!....................................246 XXI. THAT LOUD LAUGH....................................247 XXII. WHY DID I KILL IT?....................................2* *\ • XXIII. A LETTER............................25, XXIV. ACCURSED ............................................258 XXV. STARING WILDLY.........................260 XXVI. OLGA REFUSES........................................263 XXVII. WHO WAS THE MURDERER?............................266 XXVIII. WHY HANDS BLOOD-STAINED?..................271 XXIX. THE SCENE OF THE CRIME............................274 XXX. THEY LIE!...............................278 XXXI. SOLITARY CONFINEMENT...................280 XXXII. THE RAINBOW........................................284 POSTSCRIPT....................................................2PnCONTENTS VOLUME V TALES PAGE A TERRIBLE NIGHT..............................................295 IN EXILE . .....................................................299 THE PROPOSAL..................................................306 WHO TO BLAME?........................ 307 ROTHSCHILD'S FIDDLE..........................................309 SLEEPYHEAD.............................316 ^HE PRINCESS..................................................320 H................................................328 :ASS FOR tHE SINNER.....................332 THE LAMENT....................................................335 OYSTERS ............................339 VANKA . . . .....................................................342 'INOTCHKA ....................................................345 HE PRIVY COUNCILLOR........................................349 THE WAGER....................................................362 CHAPTER I. THE PLAN..................................................362 II. THE PAPER..................................................365 VOLUME VI TALES THE COSSACK..................................................369 AT THE MANOR..................................................372 AN EVENT...............................378 ART .......................................................382 THE BIRDS...............................................386CONTENTS VOLUME VI—Continued page WARD NO. 6.................;................389 chapter I. PATIENTS................................................389 II. NEVER IN LOVE........................................391 III. IVAN'S CAPTURE................... . 392 IV. THE FIFTH........................395 V. THE DOCTOR................................396 VI. FATE....................................................398 VII. THOUGHTS.......................................4'" VIII. THE ASSISTANT..................... IX. RELEASE ME!............................................4CV. X. CONVERSATION............................40 XI. ON THE BED................... . . . 41. XII. MYSTERY! ..............................................412 XIII. WHICH MAD?............................................414 XIV. HONOUR BEFORE EVERYTHING..........................415 XV. PENNILESS............................417 XVI. AN INTERESTING CASE..................................419 XVII. COLD SWEAT..............................422 XVIII. OPEN! I DEMAND IT!.............................423 XIX. A GREEN FILM..........................................425 VOLUME VII TALES AT HOME ......................................................427 AN ADVENTURE................................................433 A FATHER......................................................437CONTENTS VOLUME VII—Continued page TWO TRAGEDIES...................,..........443 THE ROOK . . . ...............................................452 ON THE WAY....................................................453 CHILDREN......................................................464 HEAD GARDENER'S TALE........................................468 THE RUNAWAY..................................................471 THE REED......................................................476 IN THE RAVINE............................................481 CHAPTER I. THE VILLAGE............................................481 II. THE DATE................................................484 III. STOP!......................................................486 IV. TREASURES................................................491 V. MY GOD!.......................................493 VI. TEARS......................................................498 VII. OVER NIKIFOR............................................501 VIII. CONVICT'S WIFE..........................................503 IX. NOTHING TO EAT........................................507 VOLUME Fill PLAYS THE CHERRY ORCHARD........................................511 TI^E THREE SISTERS............................................547 TIU5 SEA-GULL...................'............589 THE WEDDING..................................................624CONTENTS VOLUME IX PLAYS THE BEAR .....................................................633 THE HIGH-ROAD................................................643 THE ANNIVERSARY ............................................656 THE PROPOSAL ................................................665 THE FORCED TRAGEDIAN.......................675VOLUME IThe Kiss On the twentieth' of May, at eight ©'clock in the evening, six batteries of the N Artillery Brigade arrived at the village of Miestetchki to spend the night, before going to their camp. The confusion was at its height—some officers at the guns, others in the church square with the quartermaster—when a civilian upon a remarkable horse rode from the rear of the church. The small cob with well-shaped neck wobbled along all the time dancing on its legs as if some one were whipping them. Reach- ing the officers the rider doffed his cap with ceremony and said— "His Excellency, General von Rabbek, requests the honour of the officers' com- pany at tea in his house nearby. . . . The horse shook its head, danced, and wobbled backwards; its rider again took off his cap, and turning around disap- peared behind the church. "The devil!" the general exclaimed, the officers dispersing to their quarters. "We are almost asleep, yet along comes this von Rabbek with his tea! That tea! I remember it!" The officers of the six batteries had vivid recollections of a past invitation. During recent manoeuvres they had been asked, with their Cossack comrades, to tea at the house of a local country gentleman, a Count, retired from military service and this hearty, old Count over- whelmed them with attentions, fed them like gourmands, poured vodka into them and made them stay the night. All this, of course, was fine. The trouble was that the old soldier entertained his guests too well. He kept them up till daybreak while he poured forth tales of past ad- ventures and pointed out valuable paint- ings, engravings, arms, and letters from celebrated men. And the tired officers listened, by force until he ended, only to find out then the time for sleep had gone. Was von Rabbek another old Count? It might easily be. But there was no neglecting his invitation. The officers washed and dressed, and set out for von Rabbek's house. At the church square they learnt that they must descend the hill to the river, and follow the bank till they reached the general's gardens, where they would find a path direct to the house. Or, if they chose to go up hill, they would reach the general's barns half a verst from Miestetchki. It was this route they chose. "But who is this von Rabbek?" asked one. "The man who commanded the N Cavalry Division at Plevna?" "No, that was not von Rabbek, but simply Rabbe—without the von." "What glorious weather!" At the first barn they came to, two roads diverged; one ran straight forward and faded in the dusk; the other turning to the right led to the general's house. As the officers drew near they talked less loudly. To right and to left stretched rows of red-roofed brick barns, in as- pect heavy and morose as the barracks of provincial towns. In front gleamed the lighted windows of von Rabbek's house. "A good omen, gentlemen!" cried a young officer. Our setter runs in ad- vance. There is game ahead!" 12 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV On the face of Lieutenant Lobuitko, the tall stout officer referred to, there was not one trace of hair though he was twenty-five years old. He was famed among comrades for the instinct which told him of the presence of women in the neighborhood. On hearing his comrade's remark, he turned his head and said— "Yes. There are women there. My instinct tells me." A handsome, well-preserved mail of sixty, in mufti, came to the hall door to greet his guests. It was von Rabbek. As he pressed their hands, he explained that though he was delighted to see them, he must beg pardon for not asking them to spend the night; as guests he already had his two sisters, their children, his brother, and several neighbours—in fact, he had not one spare room. And though he shook their hands and apologised and smiled, it was plain that he was not half as glad to see them as was last year's Count, and that he had invited them merely because good manners demanded it. The officers climbing the soft-car- peted steps and listening to their host understood this perfectly well; and real- ised that they carried into the house an atmosphere of intrusion and alarm. Would any man—they asked them- selves—who had gathered his two sisters and their children, his brother and his neighbours, to celebrate, no doubt, some family festival, find pleasure in the inva- sion of nineteen officers whom he had never seen before? A tall elderly lady, with a good figure, and a long face with black eyebrows, who resembled closely the ex-Empress Eugenie, greeted them at the drawing- room door. Smiling courteously and with dignity, she affirmed that she was de- lighted to see the officers, and only re- gretted that she could not ask them to stay the night. But the courteous, dig- nified smile disappeared when she turned away, and it was quite plain that she had seen many officers in her day, that they caused not the slightest interest, and that she had invited them merely be- cause an invitation was dictated by good breeding and by her position in the world. In a big dining-room seated at a big table sat ten men and women, drinking tea. Behind them, veiled in cigar-smoke, stood several young men, among them one, red-whiskered and extremely thin, who spoke English loudly with a lisp. Through an open door the officers saw into a brightly lighted room with blue " wall-paper. "You are too many to introduce singly, gentlemen!" said the general loudly, with affected joviality. "Make one another's acquaintance, please— without formalities!" The visitors, some with serious, even severe faces, some smiling constrainedly, all with a feeling of awkwardness, bowed,, and took their seats at the table. Most awkward of all felt Staff-Captain Ria- bovitch, a short, round-shouldered, spec- tacled officer, whiskered like a lynx. While his brother officers looked serious or smiled constrainedly, his face, his lynx whiskers, and his spectacles seemed to explain: "I\am the most timid, modest, undistinguished officer in the whole brigade." Fbr some time after he took his seat at the table he could not fix his attention on any single thing. Faces, dresses, the cut-glass cognac bot- tles, the steaming tumblers, the moulded cornices—all merged in a single, over- whelming sentiment which caused him intense fright and made him wish to hide his head. Like an inexperiencedTHE KISS 3 lecturer he saw everything before him, but could distinguish nothing, and was in fact the victim of wnat men of science diagnose as "physipal blindness." But, slowly conquering his diffidence, Riabovitch began to distinguish and ob- serve. As became a man both timid and unsocial, he remarked first of all the amazing temerity of his new friends. Von Rabbek, his wife, two elderly ladies, a girl in lilac, and the red-whiskered youth who, it appeared, was a young von Rabbek, sat down among the officers as unconcernedly as if they had held re- hearsals, and at once plunged into va- rious heated arguments in which they soon involved their guests. That artil- lerists have a much better time than cavalrymen or infantrymen was proved conclusively by the lilac girl, while von Rabbek and the elderly ladies affirmed "the converse. The conversation became desultory. Riabovitch listened to the lilac girl fiercely debating themes she knew nothing about and took no interest in, and watched the insincere smiles which appeared on and disappeared from her face. While the von, Rabbek family with amazing strategy inveigled their guests into the dispute, they kept their eyes on every glass and mouth. Had every one tea, was it sweet enough, why didn't one eat biscuits, was another fond of cognac? And the longer Riabovitch lis- tened and looked, the more pleased he was with this disingenuous, disciplined family. After tea the guests repaired to the drawing-room. Instinct had not cheated Lobuitko. The room was packed with young women and girls, and ere a minute had passed the setter-lieutenant stood beside a very young, fair-haired girl in black, and, bending down as if resting on an invisible sword, shrugged his shoulders coquettishly. He was utter- ing, no doubt, most unentertaining non- sense, for the fair girl looked indul- gently at his sated face, and exclaimed indifferently, "Indeed!" And this indif- ferent "Indeed!" might have quickly convinced the setter that he was on a wrong scent. Music began. As the notes of a mournful valse throbbed out of the open window, through the heads of all flashed the feeling that outside that window it was spring-time, a night of May. The air was odorous of young poplar leaves, of roses and lilacs—and the valse and the spring were sincere. Riabovitch, with valse and cognac mingling tipsily in his head, gazed at the window with a smile; then began to follow the move- ments of the women; and it seemed that the smell of roses, poplars, and lilacs came not from the gardens outside, but from the women's faces and dresses. They began to dance. Young von Rabbek valsed twice round the room with a very thin girl; and Lobuitko, slipping on the parquetted floor, went up to the girl in lilac, and was granted a dance. But Riabovitch stood near the door with the wall-flowers, and looked silently on. Amazed at the daring of men who in sight of a crowd could take unknown women by the waist, he tried in vain to picture himself doing the same. A time had been when he envied his comrades their courage and dash, suffered from painful heart-searchings, and was hurt by the knowledge that he was timid, round-shouldered, and un- distinguished, that he had lynx whiskers, and that his waist was much too long. But with years he had grown reconciled4 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV \ \ to his own insignificancy, and now look- ing at the dancers and loud talkers, he felt no envy, but only mournful emo- tions. At the first quadrille von Rabbek junior approached and invited two non- dancing officers to a game of billiards. The three left the room; and Riabovitch, who stood idle, and felt impelled to join in the general movement, followed. They passed the dining-room, traversed a narrow glazed corridor, and a room where three sleepy footmen jumped from a sofa with a start; and after walking, it seemed, through a whole houseful" of rooms, entered a small billiard-room. Von Rabbek and the two officers began their game. Riabovitch, whose only game was cards, stood near the table and looked indifferently on, as the players, with unbuttoned coats, wielded their cues, moved about, joked, and shouted obscure technical terms. Riabo- vitch was ignored, save when one of,the players jostled him or caught his cue, and turning towards him said briefly, "Pardon!" so that before the game was over he was thoroughly bored, and, im- pressed^ by a sense of his superfluity, resolved to return to the drawing-room, and turned away. It was on the way back that his ad- venture took place. Before he had gone far he saw that he had missed his way. He remembered distinctly the room with the three sleepy footmen; and after passing through five or six rooms en- tirely vacant, he saw his mistake. Re- tracing his steps, he turned to the left, and found himself in an almost dark room which he had not seen before; and after hesitating a minute, he boldly opened the first door he saw, and found himself in complete darkness. Through a chink of the door in front peered a bright light; from afar throbbed the dullest music of a mournful mazurka. Here, as in the drawing-room, the win- dows were open wide, and the smell of poplars, lilacs, and roses flooded the air. Riabovitch paused in irresolution. For a moment all was still. Then came the sound of hasty footsteps; then, without any warning of what was to come, a dress rustled, a woman's breathless voice whispered "At last!" and two soft, scented, unmistakably womanly arms met round his neck, a warm cheek im- pinged on his, and he received a sound- ing kiss. But hardly had the kiss echoed through the silence when the unknown shrieked loudly, and fled away—as it seemed to Riabovitch—in disgust. Ria- bovitch himself nearly screamed, and rushed headlong towards the bright beam in the door-chink. As he entered the drawing-room his heart beat violently, and his hands trem- bled so perceptibly that he clasped them behind his back. His first emotion was shame, as if every one in the room already knew that he had just been em- braced and kissed. He retired into his shell, and looked fearfully around. But finding that hosts and guests were calmly dancing or talking, he regained courage, and surrendered himself to sensations experienced for the first time in life. The unexampled had happened. His neck, fresh from the embrace of two soft, scented arms, seemed anointed with oil; near his left moustache, where the kiss had fallen, trembled a slight, de- lightful chill, as from peppermint drops; and from head £o foot he was soaked in new and extraordinary sensations, which continued to grow and grow.THE He felt that he rr^ist dance, talk, run into the garden, laugh unrestrainedly. He forgot altogether that he was round- shouldered, undistinguished, lynx-whis- kered, that he had an "indefinite ex- terior"—a description from the lips of a woman he had happened to overhear. As Madame von Rabbek passed him he smiled so broadly and graciously that she came up and looked at him ques- tioningly. "What a charming house you have!" he said, straightening his spectacles. And Madame von Rabbek smiled back, said that the house still belonged to her father, and asked were his par- ents still alive, how long he had been in the Army, and why he was so thin. After hearing his answers she departed. But though the conversation was over, he continued to smile benevolently, and think what charming people were his new acquaintances. At supper Riabovitch ate and drank mechanically what was put before him, heard not a word of the conversation, and devoted all his powers to the un- ravelling of his mysterious, romantic adventure. What was the explanation? It was plain that one of the girls, he reasoned, had arranged a meeting in the dark room, and after waiting some time in vain had, in her nervous tension, mis- taken Riabovitch for her hero. The mis- take was likely enough, for on entering the dark room Riabovitch had stopped irresolutely as if he, too, were waiting for some one. So far the mystery was explained. "But which of them was it?" he asked, searching the women's faces. She cer- tainly was young, for old women do not indulge in such romances. Secondly, she was not a servant. That was proved KISS 5 unmistakably by the rustle of her dress, the scent, the voice. . . . When at first he looked at the girl in lilac she pleased him; she had pretty shoulders and arms, a clever face, a charming voice. Riabovitch piously prayed that it was she. But, smiling in- sincerely, she wrinkled her long nose, and that at once gave her an elderly air. So Riabovitch turned his eyes on the blonde in black. The blonde was younger, sim- pler, sincerer; she had charming kiss- curls, and drank from her tumbler with inexpressible grace. Riabovitch hoped it was she—but soon he noticed that her face was flat, and bent his eyes on her neighbour. "It is a hopeless puzzle," he reflected. "If you take the arms and shoulders of the lilac girl, add the blonde's curls, and the eyes of the girl on Lobuitko's left, then-" He composed a portrait of all these charms, and had a clear vision of the girl who had kissed him. But she was nowhere to be seen. Supper over, the visitors, sated and tipsy, bade their entertainers good-bye. Both host and hostess again apologised for not asking them to spend the night. "I am very glad, gentlemen!" said the general, and this time seemed to speak sincerely, no doubt because speeding the parting guest is a kindlier office than welcoming him unwelcomed. "I am very glad indeed! I hope you will visit me on your way back. Without ceremony, please! Which way will you go? Up the hill? No, go down the hill and through the garden. That way is shorter." The officers took his advice. After the noise and glaring illumination within doors, the garden seemed dark and still. Until they reached the wicket-gate all6 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV kept silence. Merry, half tipsy, and con- tent, as they were, the night's obscurity and stillness inspired pensive thought. Through their brains, as though Riabo- vitch's, sped probably the same ques- tion: "Will the time ever come when I, like von Rabbek, shall have a big house, a family, a garden, the chance of being gracious-—even insincerely—to others, of making them sated, tipsy, and content ?" But once the garden lay behind them, all spoke at once, and burst into cause- less laughter. The path they followed led straight to the river, and then ran beside it, winding around bushes, ravines, and over-hanging willow-trees. The track was barely visible; the other bank was lost entirely in gloom. Sometimes the black water imaged stars, and this was the only indication of the river's speed. From beyond it sighed a drowsy snipe, and beside them in a bush, heedless of the crowd, a nightingale chanted loudly. The officers gathered in a group, and swayed the bush, but the nightingale continued his song. "I like his cheek!" they echoed ad- miringly. "He doesn't care a kopeck! The old rogue!" Near their journey's end the path turned up the hill, and joined the road not far from the church enclosure; and there the officers, breathless from climb- ing, sat on the grass and smoked. Across the river gleamed a dull red light, and for want of a subject they argued the problem, whether it was a bonfire, a window-light, or something else. Riabo- vitch looked also at the light, and felt that it smiled and winked at him as if it knew about the kiss. On reaching home, he undressed with- out delay, and lay upon his bed. He shared the cabin with Lobuitko and a Lieutenant Merzliakoff, a staid, silent little man, by repute highly cultivated, who took with him everywhere The Mes- senger of Europe, and read it eternally. Lobuitko undressed, tramped impatiently from corner to corner, and sent his ser- vant for beer. Merzliakoff lay down, balanced the candle on his pillow, and hid his head behind The Messenger of Europe. ^ "Where is she now?" muttered Riabo- vitch, looking at the soot-blacked ceiling. His neck still seemed anointed with oil, near his mouth still trembled the speck of peppermint chill. Through his brain twinkled successively the shoulders and arms of the lilac girl, the kiss-curls and honest eyes of the girl in black, the waists, dresses, brooches. But though he tried his best to fix these vagrant images, they glimmered, winked, and dissolved; and as they faded finally into the vast black curtain which haiigs before the closed eyes of all men, he began to hear hurried footsteps, the rustle of petti- coats, the sound of a kiss. A strong, causeless joy possessed him. But as he surrendered himself to this joy, Lobuitko's servant returned with the news that no beer was obtainable. The lieutenant resumed his impatient march up and down the room. "The fellow's an idiot," he exclaimed, stopping first near Riabovitcb and then near Merzliakoff. "Only the worst numb- skull and blockhead can't get beer!" Canaille /" "Every one knows there's no beer here," said Merzliakoff, without lifting his eyes from The Messenger of Europe. "You believe that!" exclaimed Lo- buitko. "Lord in heaven, drop me on the moon, and in five minutes I'll findTHE KISS 7 both beer and women! I will find them myself! Call me a rascal if I don't!" He dressed slowly, silently lighted a cigarette, and went out. "Rabbek, Grabbek, Labbek," he mut- tered, stopping in the hall. "I won't go alone, devil take me! Riabovitch, come for a walk! What?" As he got no answer, he returned, un- dressed slowly, and lay down. Merzlia- koff sighed, dropped The Messenger of Europe, and put out the light. "Well?" muttered Lobuitko, puffing his cigarette in the dark. Riabovitch pulled the bed-clothes up to his chin, curled himself into a roll, and strained his imagination to join the twinkling images into one coherent whole. But the vision fled him. He soon fell asleep, and his last impression was that he had been caressed and gladdened, that into his life had crept something strange, and indeed ridiculous, but un- commonly good and radiant. And this thought did not forsake him even in his dreams. When he awokenthe feeling of anoint- ment and peppermint chill were gone. But joy, as on theYnight before, filled every vein. He looked entranced at the window-panes gilded by the rising sun, and listened to the noises outside. Some one spoke loudly under the very window. It was Lebedietsky, commander of his battery, who had just overtaken the brigade. He was talking to the sergeant- major, loudly, owing to lack of practice in soft speech. "And what next?" he roared. "During yesterday's shoeing, your honour, Golubtchik was pricked. The feldscher ordered clay and vinegar. And last night, your honour, mechanic Ar- temieff was drunk, and the lieutenant ordered him to be put on the limber of the reserve gun-carriage." The sergeant-major added that Karpoff had forgotten the tent-pegs and the new lanyards for the friction-tubes, and that •the officers had spent the evening at General von Rabbek's. But here at the window appeared Lebedietsky's red- bearded face. He blinked his short- sighted eyes at the drowsy men in bed, and greeted them. "Is everything all right?" "The saddle wheeler galled his withers with the new yoke," answered Lobuitko. The commander sighed, mused a mo- ment, and shouted— "I am thinking of calling on Alex- andra Yegorovna. I want to see her. Good-bye! I will catch you up before night." Fifteen minutes later the brigade re- sumed its march. As he passed von Rabbek's barns Riabovitch turned his head and looked at the house. The Venetian blinds were down; evidently all still slept. And anjong them slept she— she who had kissed him but a few hours before. He tried to visualise her asleep. He projected \ the bedroom window opened wide wich green branches peer- ing in, the freshness of the morning air, the smell of poplars, lilacs, and roses, the bed, a chair, the dress which rustled last night, a pair of tiny slippers, a tick- ing watch on the table—all these came to him clearly with every detail. But the features, the kind, sleepy smile—all, in short, that was essential and charac- teristic—fled his imagination as quick- silver flees the hand. When he had covered half a verst he again turned back. The yellow church, the house, gardens, and river were bathed in light. Imaging an azure sky, the green-banked8 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV \ river specked with silver sunshine flakes was inexpressibly fair; and, looking at Miestetchki for the last time, Riabovitch felt sad, as if parting forever with some- thing very near and dear. By the road before him stretched familiar, uninteresting scenes; to the right and left, fields of young rye and buckwheat with hopping rooks; in front, dust and the napes of human necks; behind, the same dust and faces. Ahead of the column marched four soldiers with swords—that was the advance guard. Next came the bandsmen. Advance guard and bandsmen, like mutes in a funeral procession, ignored the regula- tion intervals and marched too far ahead. Riabovitch, with the first gun of Battery No. 5, could see four batteries ahead. To a layman, the long, lumbering march of an artillery brigade is novel, interesting, inexplicable. It is hard to understand why a single gun needs so many men; why so many, such strangely harnessed horses are needed to drag it. But to Riabovitch, a master of all these things, it was profoundly dull. He had learned years ago why a solid sergeant- major rides beside the officer in front of each battery; why the sergeant-major is called the unosni, and why the drivers of leaders and wheelers ride behind him. Riabovitch knew why the near horses are called saddle-horses, and why the off horses are called led-horses—and all of this was uninteresting beyond words. On one of the wheelers rode a soldier still covered with yesterday's dust, and with a cumbersome, ridiculous guard on his right leg. But Riabovitch, knowing the use of this leg-guard, found it in no way ridiculous. The drivers, mechan- ically and with occasional cries, flour- ished their whips. The guns in them- selves were unimpressive. Tfie limbers were packed with tarpaulin-covered sacks of oats; and the guns themselves, hung round with tea-pots and satchels, looked like harmless animals, guarded for some obscure reason by men and horses. In the lee of the gun tramped six gunners, swinging their arms, and behind each gun came more unosniye, leaders, wheel- ers ; and yet more guns, each as ugly and uninspiring as the one in front. And as every one of the six batteries in the brigade had four guns, the procession stretched along the road at least half a verst. It ended with a waggon train, with which, its head bent in thought, walked the donkey Magar, brought from < Turkey by ai battery commander. Dead to nW surroundings, Riabovitch marched onward, looking at the napes ahead or at the faces behind. Had it not been for last night's event, he would have been half asleep. But now he was absorbed in novel, entrancing thoughts. When the brigade set out that morning he had tried to argue that the kiss had no significance save as a trivial though mysterious adventure; that it was with- out real import; and that to think of it seriously was to behave himself absurdly. But logic soon flew away and surren- dered him to his vivid imaginings. At times he saw himself in von Rabbek's dining-room, tete-a-tete with a com- posite being, formed of the girl in lilac and the blonde in black. At times he closed his eyes, and pictured himself with a different, this time quite an unknown, girl of cloudy feature;\e spoke to her, caressed her, bent over hV shoulder; he imagined war and parting , . . then re- union, the first supper together, chil- dren. ...THE KISS 9 "To the brakes!" rang the command as they topped the brow of each hill. Riabovitch also cried "To the brakes!" and each time dreaded that the cry would break the magic spell, and recall him to realities. They passed a big country house. Riabovitch looked across the fence into the garden, and saw a long path, straight as a ruler, carpeted with yellow sand, and shaded by young birches. In an ecstasy of enchantment, he pictured little feminine feet treading the yellow sand; and, in a flash, imagination re- stored the woman who had kissed him, the woman he had visualised after supper the night before. The image settled in his brain and never afterwards forsook him. The spell reigned until midday, when a loud command came from the rear of the column. "Attention! Eyes right! Officers!" In a caleche drawn by a pair of white horses appeared the general of brigade. He stopped at the second battery, and called out something which no one under- stood. Up galloped several officers, among them Riabovitch. "Well, how goes it?" The general blinked his red eyes, and continued, "Are there any sick?" Hearing the answer, the little skinny general mused a moment, turned to an officer, and said— "The driver of your third-gun wheeler has taken off his leg-guard and hung it on the limber. Canaille! Punish him!" Then raising his eyes to Riabovitch, he added— "And in your battery, I think, the harness is too loose." Having made several other equally tiresome remarks, he looked at Lobuitko, and laughed. "Why do you look so downcast, Lieu- tenant Lobuitko? You are sighing for Madame Lopukhoff, eh? Gentlemen, he is pining for Madame Lopukhoff!" Madame Lopukhoff was a tall, stout lady, long past forty. Being partial to big women, regardless of age, the general ascribed the same taste to his subordi- nates. The officers smiled respectfully; and the general, pleased that he had said something caustic and laughable, touched the coachman's back and saluted. The caleche whirled away. "All this, though it seems to me im- possible and unearthly, is in reality very commonplace," thought Riabovitch, watching the clouds of dust raised by the general's carriage. "It is an every- day event, and within every one's expe- rience. . . . This old general, for in- stance, must have loved in his day; he is married now, and has children. Cap- tain Wachter is also married, and his wife loves him, though he has an ugly red neck and no waist. . . . Salmanoff is coarse, and a typical Tartar, but he has had a romance ending in marriage. ... I, like the rest, must go through it all sooner or later." And the thought that he was an ordi- nary man, and that his life was ordinary, rejoiced and consoled him. He boldly visualized her and his happiness, and let his imagination run mad. Towards evening the brigade ended its march. While the other officers sprawled in their tents, Riabovitch, Merzliakoff, and Lobuitko sat round a packing-case and supped. Merzliakoff ate slowly, and, resting The Messenger of Europe on his knees, read on steadily. Lobuitko, chat- tering without cease, poured beer into10 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV his glass. But Riabovitch, whose head was dizzy from/ uninterrupted day- dreams, ate in /ilence. When he had drunk three glasses he felt tipsy and weak; and an overmastering impulse forced him to relate his adventure to his comrades. "A most extraordinary thing happened to me at von Rabbek's," he began, doing his best to speak in an indifferent, iron- ical tone. "I was on my way, you under- stand, from the billiard-room . . Arid he attempted to give a very de- tailed history of the kiss. But in a minute he had told the whole story. In that minute he had exhausted every de- tail; and it seemed to him terrible that the story required such a short time. It ought, he felt, to have lasted all the night. As he finished, Lobuitko, who as a liar himself believed in no one, laughed incredulously. Merzliakoff frowned, and, with his eyes still glued to The Messen- ger of Europe, said indifferently— "God knows who it was! She threw herself on your neck, you say, and didn't cry out! Some lunatic, I expect!" "It must have been a lunatic," agreed Riabovitch. "I, too, have had adventures of that kind," began Lobuitko, making a fright- ened face. "I was on my way to Kovno. I travelled second class. The carriage was packed, and I couldn't sleep. So I gave the guard a rouble, and he took my bag, and put me in a coupe. I lay down, and pulled my rug over me. It was pitch dark, you understand. Sud- denly I felt some one tapping my shoul- der and breathing in my face. I stretched out my hand, and felt an elbow. Then I opened my eyes. Imagine! A woman! Coal-black eyes, lips red as good coral, nostrils breathing passion, breasts— buffers!" "Draw it mild!" interrupted Merzlia- koff in his quiet voice. "I can believe about the breasts, but if it was pitch dark how could you see the lips?" By laughing at Merzliakoff's lack of understanding, Lobuitko tried to shuffle out of the dilemma. The story annoyed Riabovitch. He rose from the box, lay on his bed, and swore that he would never again take any one into his con- fidence. Life in camp passed without event. The days flew by, each like the one before. But on every one of these days RiaboVitch felt, thought, and acted as a manMn love. When at daybreak his servant brought him cold water, and poured it over his head, it flashed at once into his half-a wakened brain that some- thing good and warm and caressing had crept into his life. At night when his comrades talked of love and of women, he drew in his chair, and his face was the face of an old soldier who talks of battles in which he has taken part. And when the rowdy officers, led by setter Lobuitko, made Don Juanesque raids upon the neigh- bouring "suburb,"' Riabovitch, though he accompanied them, was morose and conscience-struck, and mentally asked her forgiveness. In free hours and sleep- less nights, when his brain was obsessed by memories of childhood, of his father, his mother, of everything akin and dear, he remembered always Miestetchki, the dancing horse, von Rabbek, von Rabbek's wife, so like the ex-Empress Eugenie, the dark room, the chink in the door. On the thirty-first of August he left camp, this time not with the whole brigade but with only two batteries. AsTHE KISS 11 an exile returning to his native land, he was agitated and enthraljed by day- dreams. He longed passjdnately for the queer-looking horse, the church, the in- sincere von Rabbeks, the dark room; and that internal voice which cheats so often the love-lorn whispered an assur- ance that he should see her again. But doubt tortured him. How should he meet her? What must he say? Would she have forgotten the kiss? If it came to the worst—he consoled himself—if he never saw her again, he might walk once more through the dark room, and remember. Towards evening the white barns and well-known church rose on the horizon. Riabovitch's heart beat wildly. He ig- nored the remark of an officer who rode by, he forgot the whole world, and he gazed greedily at the river glimmering afar, at the green roofs, at the dove-cote, over which fluttered birds, dyed golden by the setting sun. As he rode towards the church, and heard again the quartermaster's raucous voice, he expected every second a horse- man to appear from behind the fence and invite the officers to tea. ... But the quartermaster ended his harangue, the officers hastened to the village, and no horseman appeared. "When Rabbek hears from the peas- ants that we are back he will send for us," thought Riabovitch. And so assured was he of this, that when he entered the hut he failed to understand why his comrades had lighted a candle, and why the servants were preparing the samovar. A painful agitation oppressed him. He lay on his bed. A moment later he rose to look for the horseman. But no horse- man was in sight. Again he lay down; again he rose; and this time, impelled by restlessness, went into the street, and walked towards the church. The square was dark and deserted. On the hill stood three silent soldiers. When they saw Riabovitch they started and saluted, and he, returning their salute, began to de- scend the well-remembered path. Beyond the stream, in a sky stained with purple, the moon slowly rose. Two chattering peasant women walked in a kitchen garden and pulled cabbage leaves; behind them their log cabins stood out black against the sky. The river bank was as it had been in May; the bushes were the same; things dif- fered only in that thq nightingale no longer sang, that it smelt no longer of poplars and young grass. When he reached von Rabbek's garden Riabovitch peered through the wicket- gate. Silence and darkness reigned. Save only the white birch trunks and patches of pathway, the whole garden merged in a black, impenetrable shade. Riabovitch listened greedily, and gazed intent. For a quarter of an hour he loitered; then hearing no sound, and seeing no light, he walked wearily towards home. He went down to the river. In front rose the general's bathing-box; and white towels hung on the rail of the bridge. He climbed on to the bridge and stood still; then, for no reason whatever, touched a towel. It was clammy and cold. He looked down at the river which sped past swiftly, murmuring almost in- audibly against the bathing-box piles. Near the left bank glowed the moon's ruddy reflection, overrun by ripples which stretched it, tore it in two, and, it seemed, would sweep it away as twigs and shavings are swept. "How stupid! How stupid!" thought12 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV Riabovitch, watching the hurrying rip- ples. "How stupid everything is!" Now that hope was dead, the history of the kiss, his impatience, his ardour, his vague aspirations and disillusion ap- peared in a clear light. It no longer seemed strange that the general's horse- man had not come, and that he would never again see her who had kissed him by accident instead of another. On the contrary, he felt, it would be strange if he did ever see her again. . . . The water flew past him, whither and why no one knew. It had flown past in May; it had sped a stream into a great river; a river, into the sea; it had floated on high in mist and fallen again in rain; it might be, the water of May was again speeding past under Riabovitch's eyes. For what purpose? Why? And the whole world—life itself— seemed to Riabovitch an inscrutable, aimless mystification. . . . Raising his eyes from the strekm and gazing at the sky, he recalled how Fate in the shape of an unknown woman had once caressed him; he recalled his summer fantasies and images—and his whole life seemed to him unnaturally thin and colourless and wretched. . . . When he reached the cabin his com- rades had disappeared. His servant in- formed him that all had set out to visit "General Fonrabbkin," who had sent a horseman to bring them. . . . For a mo- ment Riabovitch's heart thrilled with joy. But that joy he extinguished. He cast himself upon his bed, and wroth with his evil fate, as if he wished to spite it, ignored the invitation. The Chorus Girl All this happened long ago. She was younger and nicer in those days. Nikolai Petrowitch Kolpakow, her admirer, was visiting her in her country home. It was unbearably hot and humid. Kolpakow had finished his noonday meal, and had drunk a whole bottle of bad port wine; he did not feel very well and was in bad mood. Both were bored, waiting for the cooler evening to take a walk. Suddenly the doorbell rang. Kolpakow was in his shirt sleeves. He jumped up from his seat and looked questioningly at Pasha. "Maybe it is the letter carrier, or perhaps a girl friend," said the actress. Kolpakow didn't mind in the least Pasha's girl friends nor the letter carrier. But to be sure he picked up his coat and went into the, next room while Pasha went out to open the door. To her great surprise it was not the letter carrier, nor one of her friends, but a young and beautiful lady, hand- somely dressed in a refined style; she looked like a "good" woman. The stranger was pale and breathing heavily as if she had ascended several flights of stairs. "What is it you wish?" asked Pasha. The lady did not answer immediately. She entered the room, glanced with cu- rious looks over the furniture. She ap- peared to be in pain. It was some time before she had composed herself and was able to speak. She took a seat. "Is my husband here?" she askedTHE CHORUS GIRL 13 finally, raising her eyes which were red from crying. "Whose husband?" asked Pasha, and she became suddenly so frightened that her hands and feet grew cold. "Whose husband?" she repeated, trembling with emotion. "My husband, Nikolai Petrowitch Kolpakow." "No, . . . madam ... I ... I never knew a husband." A few minutes of silence elapsed. The lady repeatedly wiped her eyes with a lace handkerchief. Pasha had not dared to sit down. She looked at her visitor, frightened and helpless. "You maintain then that he is not here?" asked the lady with a firm voice and a curious smile. "I... I do not know what you mean." "You vulgar low woman . . ." mur- mured the lady, looking with hatred and contempt at Pasha. "Yes, yes . . . you are a vulgar woman and I am happy, very happy that I have finally a chance to tell you so face to face!" Pasha felt that she must have im- pressed this lady in black very vulgarly and she began to be ashamed of her painted red cheeks, of the freckles that covered her nose and the bangs flowing gaily over her forehead. It seemed to her that if she had happened to be slen- der without paint and powder and bangs it would have been easier for her to con- ceal that she was a "bad" woman. She could have met her on equal terms, and she would even have dared to sit on the chair on the other side of the table. "Where is my husband?" asked the lady again. "But it does not matter whether he is here or not. I simply want to tell you that embezzlements have been discovered and that they are looking for Nikolai Petrowitch. They are going to arrest him. And that is your work!" The lady arose and paced the room in great excitement. Pasha looked at her in astonishment. She could not grasp what all this meant. "Today he will be found and arrested," said the lady, crying and sobbing. "I know who led him on to all this, you vulgar ugly woman! You low creature," her face expressed the contempt she felt for Pasha. It looked as if she would spit in her face the next moment. "I aipi powerless ... Do you hear me, yoi beastly woman? ... I am helpless, you are stronger than I am, but there is One who is going to take care of me and my children! God sees everything! He is just! He will repay you for all my tears, all my sleepless nights! The time will come when you will remember me!" Again there was a long silence. The lady walked up and down while Pasha stared at her! she could not understand and expected momently that something dreadful would happen. "I know nothing of all this, madam," she said, and commenced to cry heart- breakingly. "You lie!" cried the lady. "I know everything. I have known you for a long while. I know that there has not been a day during the last four months that he did not spend with you!" "Yes? And what of is? What is there wrong in that? A good many came to see me and to visit with me. I do not urge them to come. They come of their own free will." "I am telling you that they have dis- covered an embezzlement. He stole money from his office. For your sake . . . for the sake of such a woman as14 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV you are he committed a crime. Listen," resumed the lady very decisively stop- ping squarely in front of Pasha. "You cannot have principles, you who live only to wrong others. That is all that you desire. But I cannot believe that you are such a low woman that you have even lost your last spark of humanity. He has a wife, he has children ... If they sentence him and send him to Siberia, I and the children must starve . . . try to understand this! But still there remains one way to save us from misery and dishonor. If I can make good and deposit today nine hundred rubles, he will not be prosecuted. Nine hundred rubles only!" "Nine hundred rubles?" asked Pasha quietly. "I don't know anything about nine hundred rubles. I haven't received them." "I do not beg of you nine hundred rubles. You have no money and I do not need your money. I ask for some- thing entirely different. . . . Men are in the habit of giving girls like you jewelry. Return to me the things my husband gave you!" "He never gave ma jewelry, madam," cried Pasha, who had begun to under- stand. "Where is the money? He has squan- dered his own, mine and other people's money. . . . Listen, I beg of you! I have been overcome by all this and I called you a great many unpleasant things but I beg you to forgive me. You must hate me, I know it. And if you are capable of pity, try to put yourself into my own place. I implore you, give me back those things!" "Hm . . ." said Pasha, and shrugged her shoulders. "I would do so with pleasure but may God punish me if he ever gave me presents. Please do be- lieve me. But you are right," the actress corrected herself embarrassedly, "once he brought me these two things—I gladly give them back to you if you wish them. . . ." Pasha opened the drawer of her dresser and handed to her visitor a thin gold bracelet and a little ring with a red stone. The lady flushed and every muscle in her face seemed to vibrate. She was offended. "What are you giving me?" she said. "I do not ask for alms, but for that which is not yours, what you induced my husband, the poor unhappy creature, to give you, you who know how to take advantage of such situations. Thursday as I met you with my husband on the Avenue, you wore expensive brooches and rings. You don't need to play for my benefit the part of an innocent lamb. For the last time I ask of you, will you return those things to me or not?" "How comical you are ..." said Pasha, who felt quite offended. "I assure you that your Nikolai Petrowitch never gave me anything but this bracelet and this ring. He brought only cake-" "Cake . . laughed the lady in strangely shrill voice, "at home the chil- dren have nothing to bite and here you feast on cake. So you refuse to return to me those things?" She did not receive an answer. She seated herself in a comfortable rocking- chair and looked fixedly at one point evi- dently thinking rapidly. "What shall I do?" she said, "if I don't get this nine hundred rubles he is lost and I and the children with him. Shall I kill this monster, or shall I throw myself on my knees before her?"THE CHORUS GIRL 15 The lady pressed the handkerchief to her face and started to cry. "I beg of you/' she sobbed, "y°u have ruined my husband and wrecked his life, do save him. ... I know you do not feel pity for him, but the children, think of the children. . . . Why should those innocent children suffer so?" Pasha thought of those little children, standing on a street corner crying with hunger, and she herself started to cry. "What can I do, dear lady?" she asked with a gesture of helplessness. "You say that I am a beast, and that I wrecked Nikolai Petrowitch. But I swear to you before God that I never had any finan- cial advantages from him. In our chorus Motja is the only one who has a rich lover. We others are starving half the time. Nikolai Petrowitch is a fine and well dressed gentleman, and so I re- ceived him. We cannot be very fas- tidious in our choice. . . "I am asking you for those things! Give them to me. I am crying ... I am lowering myself. If you wish me to do so, I will throw myself at your feet. Please! . . . Please?" Pasha screamed in fright. She felt that this beautiful lady who was talking like the leading woman in the theater was ready to kneel before her in her pride, in her nobility, in order to humil- iate herself and to humiliate the actress. "Very well, then, I shall give you the things!" exclaimed Pasha huskily, dry- ing her tears. "Here, please. They are not from Nikolai Petrowitch. I received them from other gentlemen. But as you please. . . Pasha again opened the drawer of her dresser and handed to the lady a dia- mond brooch, several rings and several necklaces. "Take this, take these too, and take these, though from your husband I have never received anything. Here, take them all, and make yourself rich!" con- tinued Pasha, offended by the threatened prostration at her feet. "But if you are such a fine lady . . . his own wife, better try to keep him with you. I surely did not call him. He came himself." The lady looked through her tears over the jewelry spread on the table and said: "This is not all . . . these things are not even worth five hundred rubles." Pasha went again to the dresser and quickly threw a gold watch, a cigarette case and a pair of cuff buttons with the other things. She spoke now very reso- lutely: "I have no more . . . you can look for yourself!" The lady sighed, gathered the things with trembling hands in her handker- chief, and walked out. She did not say a word, she did not even nod her head. The door to the next room opened and in came Kolpakow. He was pale and he shook his head nervously as if he had taken a bitter drink. In his eyes glis- tened tears. "What are those things that you are supposed to have given me?" Pasha turned on him. "When, if I may ask, did you give me these things?" "Things. . . . Nonsense!" answered Kolpakow, shaking his head. "My God, she has cried before you; she has humil- iated herself. . . . "I ask you, what are these presents that you are supposed to have given me?" screamed Pasha. "My God, she, the pure, the noble,16 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV the proud woman. ... at the feet of this creature she would even have thrown herself! My doings have brought her to this! I have permitted it." He grasped his head with his hands and groaned: ''Never, never shall I forgive myself. Never. Begone, you beast," and he looked with contempt at Pasha, while his trembling hands thrust her far away from him. "She wanted to throw her- self upon her knees and . . . before whom? Before you! Oh, my God!" He dressed himself quickly. He care- fully avoided touching Pasha and left the house. Pasha threw herself in a chair and cried loudly. She was sorry that she had given away her jewelry. The whole scene was offensive. She recalled how a mer- chant had beaten her three years ago, for no reason, and she cried much louder. CHAPTER I olga's husband At Olga Ivanovna's wedding, all who knew her were present. "Look at him. He has something about him!" she said to her friends, pointing to her husband, seeming to wish to explain why she had married an ordi- nary man, who had nothing about him. Her husband, OsipStepanovichDymov, was a doctor and had the title of titular councillor. On the staffs of two hos- pitals: in one a supernumerary house- surgeon and in the other the dissector. From nine o'clock until midday he was daily occupied in his ward or in receiv- ing patients, and after he went by tram to the other hospital, where he dissected corpses. A small private practice pro- duced about five hundred roubles per year. That was all. What else can be said about him? While Olga Ivanovna and her good friends and acquaintances were remarkable in some manner, they all were considered celebrities, or if they were not so in fact, they all showed bril- liant potentialities. There was an actor from the dramatic theatre, a man of great, and long since recognized, talent, an elegant, clever and modest man, an excellent reader, who taught Olga Ivan- ovna elocution; a singer from the opera, a fat, good-natured man, who with a sigh told Olga Ivanovna that she was ruining herself: "If she were not so lazy, and only took herself properly in hand, she would become a remarkable singer"; then there were several painters, headed by. Ryabovsky, who painted genre, ani- mal and landscape pictures. He was a very good-looking, fair-haired young man of about twenty-five, who had had success at exhibitions and had sold his last picture for five hundred roubles. He corrected Olga Ivanovna's sketches and said perhaps something could be made of her; then there was also the violoncellist whose instrument wailed, and who asserted quite openly that of all the women of his acquaintance onlyLA GIGALE 17 Olga Ivanovna knew how to accompany him; then there was the literary man, who was already well known for the novels, tales and plays he had written. Who was there besides? Well, yes, there was also Vasily Vasilich, a gentleman- landowner, a dilettante illustrator and maker of vignettes, who felt acutely the ancient Russian style of the Byliny and Epics, and who produced really wonder- ful things on paper, china and smoked plates. For this group of artistic and free young people—all so spoiled by fate, but who still were delicate and modest, and who only remembered the existence of doctors at the time of ill- ness—the name of Dymov sounded as meaningless as Sidorov or Tarasov. In the midst of this society Dymov him- self felt strange, superfluous and small, though he was tall and broad-shouldered. It appeared to them as if he were in another man's dress-coat, and that he had the beard of an office clerk. How- ever, if he had been a writer or an artist, they would have said that with his beard he reminded them of Zola. The artist told Olga Ivanovna that with her flaxen hair and her bridal attire she was very like a graceful cherry tree, when in spring it is entirely covered with delicate white blossoms. "No, just listen!" Olga Ivanovna said, seizing his hand. "How do you think all this happened? Listen, listen! ... I must tell you, that my father worked together with Dymov in the same hos- pital. When my poor father fell ill, Dymov passed whole days and nights beside his bed. What self-sacrifice! Listen, Ryabovsky. . . . And you, au- thor, listen too, it is quite interesting. Come nearer. What self-sacrifice, what sincere interest! I also did not sleep at night, but sat near father's bed, and suddenly, lo and behold, the good young man was conquered! My Dymov fell over head and ears in love. Truly fate is very strange! Well, after my father's death he came to see me from time to time, we met in the street, and one fine evening suddenly—bang!—he proposed. ... It was quite unexpected. ... I cried all night and fell desperately in love. And as you see, I've become a wife. Isn't it true there's something strong, powerful, bearlike in him? Now his face is turned only three-quarters towards us, and it's badly lighted, but when he turns quite this way just notice his forehead. Ryabovsky, what do you think of that forehead? Dymov, we are talking about you!" she called to him. "Come here. Stretch out your honest hand to Ryabovsky. . . . So. Be friends. . . Dymov, smiling good-humouredly and naively, held out his hand to Ryabovsky and said: "Very pleased. A certain Ryabovsky finished his course of study with me. Was he a relation of yours?" CHAPTER II two cut fingers Olga Ivanovna was twenty-two years ^ of age, Dymov thirty-one. They began housekeeping splendidly. Olga Ivanovna covered all the walls of the drawing- room with her own and other people's sketches, in frames and without frames, near the piano and the furniture she made all sorts of cosy arrangements with Chinese umbrellas, easels, variegated col- oured rags, daggers, little busts, photo- graphs and so on. . . . She glued on the walls of the dining-room all sorts of18 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV popular coloured woodcuts, she hung up birch bark shoes and sickles, placed a scythe and a rake in one corner and obtained in that way a dining-room in the Russian style. In order to make the bedroom look like a cavern she draped the ceiling and the walls with dark- coloured cloth, she hung up a Venetian lantern over the bed, and placed a figure with a halberd at the door. Everybody found that the young couple had a very charming nook. Every day rising about eleven Olga Ivanovna would play on the piano, or if there was sun she would paint something in oils. Then at about twelve she would go to her dressmaker. As she and Dymov had but little money, only just enough, she and her dressmaker were obliged to have recourse to cunning, in order that she might often appear in new dresses and surprise people by her elegance. Very often out of old dyed dresses, out of bits of tulle that cost next to nothing or with the addition of !ace, plush or silk a wonderful garment was produced, something quite enchant- ing—not a dress, but a dream. From her dressmaker's Olga Ivanovna usually drove to visit some actress of her ac- quaintance; to hear the news of the theatre, and at the same time to solicit a ticket for the first performance of a new play, or for some benefit night. From the actress's it was necessary to go to the studio of some artist or to some picture show, then to one or other of the celebrities she knew to invite them to her house, to pay them a visit or simply to gossip. Everywhere she was greeted gaily and cordially, and she was assured that she was pretty, charming and quite uncommon. . . . The people she called celebrities and great received her as one of themselves, as their equal, / and everybody with one voice prophesied that with her talents, taste and clever- ness, if she did not fritter them away, great things might be expected. She sang, she played on the piano, she painted in oils, she modelled, she took part in amateur theatricals, and all this she did not in an ordinary way, but with talent; if she made little paper lanterns for illuminations, dressed herself out, or tied somebody's tie—she did it all in an uncommonly artistic manner, gracefully and charmingly. But in nothing were her talents more clearly evident than in her skill in rapidly making acquaintance and soon becoming intimate with famous people. It was only necessary for some- body to become a little famous, and cause himself to be talked about, for her to get acquainted with him, and the same day she would be on quite friendly terms and invite him to her house. To make. a new acquaintance was for her a real holiday. She idolized celebrated men, she I was proud of them, and dreamed of them ! every night. She thirsted for them and she was never able to quench her thirst. The old ones left and were forgotten, others came in their place, but she soon became accustomed to these, or became disenchanted with them, and then she began eagerly to seek out new men, new great men; she found them, and again searched for others. Why? At five she dined at home with her husband. His simplicity, his good sense and good-nature caused her emotion and delight. She would constantly jump up, embrace his head impetuously and cover it with kisses. "Dymov, you are a clever, a noble man," she would say; "but you have one very serious deficiency. You take notLA GIGALE 19 the slightest interest in art. You have no taste for music and painting." "I don't understand them," he said meekly. "All my life I've been occupied with natural science and with medicine, and I had no time to interest myself in art." "But, Dymov, that is terrible!" "Why? Your friends don't know any- thing about natural science or medicine, and you don't blame them for it. Every man has his own sphere. I don't under- stand landscapes and operas, but I think if certain clever people devote their whole lives to them and other clever people pay great sums of money for them, it means that they are necessary. I don't understand them, but not to understand does not mean to reject them." "Let me press your honest hand!" After dinner she went to her friends, then to the theatre or to a concert and only returned home after midnight. And so it was every day. On Wednesdays she gave small eve- ning parties. At these parties the mis- tress of the house and her guests did not play at cards nor did they dance, but they amused themselves in various ar- tistic ways. The actor from the dra- matic theatre recited, the singer sang, the artists drew in the albums, of which Olga Ivanovna had a great number, the violoncellist played and their hostess herself also drew, modelled, sang and accompanied. In the intervals between the recitations, music and singing, they talked and argued about literature, the theatre and painting. There were never any ladies, because Olga Ivanovna con- S sidered that all ladies, with the exception ; of actresses and her dressmaker, were j dull and commonplace. There was never a single party that passed without the mistress of the house having little thrills whenever the bell rang, nor without her saying with a triumphant expression of countenance, "There he is!" meaning by the word "he" some new celebrity she had invited to her house. Dymov never appeared in the drawing-room, and no- body remembered his existence. But exactly at half-past eleven the door that led into the dining-room opened and Dymov appeared in the doorway with his meek good-natured smile, and rubbing his hands he would say: "Gentlemen, come to supper, please." Everybody went into the dining-room and they saw on the table exactly the same things : a dish of oysters, a piece of ham or veal, sardines, cheese, caviar, pickled mushrooms, vodka and two de- canters of wine. "My dear maitre d'hotel!" Olga Ivan- ovna exclaimed, clasping her hands with delight. "You are positively enchanting! Gentlemen, look at his forehead! Dymov, turn so that we can see your profile. Gentlemen, just look: isn't it the face of a Bengal tiger, and the expression is kind and mild as a deer's. Oh, you darling!" The guests ate, and looking at Dymov they thought: "Indeed, he is a very good fellow!" but they soon forgot him and continued to talk about the theatre, music and painting. The young couple were happy, and their life flowed on smoothly, though the third week of their honeymoon was not quite a happy one—it might be called even sad. Dymov caught the erysipelas in the hospital. He was confined to his bed for six days, and was obliged to have his beautiful black locks shaved off. Olga Ivanovna sat by his bedside and cried20 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV bitterly, but when he was on the mend she tied a white handkerchief round his shaven head and began to paint him as a Bedouin. And they both were gay. Four days after he had recovered and had resumed his work in the hospital he again had another mishap. "I have no luck, mama!" he said to her one day at dinner. "To-day I had four dissections, and I cut two of my fingers. And it was only when I got home that I noticed it." Olga Ivanovna was alarmed. He smiled and said it was a trifle and that he often cut his hands slightly while making dis- sections. "I become absorbed in my work, mama, and get absent-minded." Olga Ivanovna waited with anxiety, fearing that he might get infected by the corpses, and she prayed to God at night, kbut all passed off well. And again their life flowed on peacefully and happily without sorrow or alarm. The present was beautiful, and to improve it spring was approaching, already smiling from afar and giving promise of a thousand joys. There would be no end to happi- ness! In April, May and June a coun- try house far away from town—walks, sketches, fishing, nightingales, and then from July to the late autumn an excur- sion of artists to the Volga, and in this excursion as an indispensable member of the society Olga Ivanovna would natu- rally take part. She had already had two linen costumes made for the journey, she had bought colours, paint-brushes, canvas and a new palette. Ryabovsky came almost every day to see what progress she had made in painting. When she showed him her painting he would thrust his hands deep into his pockets, press his lips firmly together, sniff and say: "So . . . this cloud jumps at you. It is not lighted up as it would be in the evening. The foreground is somewhat muddled, and there is something not quite right, you understand. . . . Your log hut has been squashed by something and squeaks piteously. . . .You ought to make this corner darker. But in gen- eral it's not so bad . . . quite praise- worthy." | And the more unintelligible he was the ^ better Olga Ivanovna was able to under- stand him. CHAPTER III NO, MY DARLING! Two days after Whit-Sunday, having had his dinner, Dymov bought various hors d'ceuvres and sweetmeats, and went to visit his wife in the country. He had not seen her for more than two weeks, and he was very dull without her. While sitting in the railway coach and after- wards when he was looking for his dacha in the large wood, he felt hungry and tired and thought how he would have supper quietly with his wife, and then tumble into bed. And he looked gaily at the parcel in which he had caviar, cheese and smoked salmon. When at last he found his house the sun was already setting. The old maid- servant said that her mistress was not at home, but that she would soon come in. The dacha, which was uninviting in appearance, with low ceilings and walls that had writing-paper glued on them and uneven floors full of chinks, consisted of only three rooms. In one room there was a bed, in another there were can- vases, paint-brushes, dirty paper andLA GIGALE 21 men's overcoats and hats lying about on the chairs and window-sills, and in the third room Dymov found three unknown men. Two of them were dark-haired and bearded, while the third was clean shaven and fat, evidently an actor. A samovar was boiling on the table. "What do you want?" the actor asked in a deep bass voice, looking round at Dymov unsociably. "Do you want to see Olga Ivanovna? Wait, she will be in soon." Dymov sat down and waited. One of the dark men, looking at him sleepily and lazily, poured out some tea and asked: "Perhaps you would like some tea too?" Dymov wanted both to eat and to drink, but in order not to spoil his appe- tite he refused the tea. Soon footsteps and a familiar laugh were heard; a door was slammed and Olga Ivanovna entered the room, in a broad-brimmed hat, carry- ing a box in her hand; she was followed by merry, rosy-cheeked Ryabovsky car- rying a large umbrella and a camp stool. "Dymov!" Olga Ivanovna cried, and she blushed with delight. "Dymov!" she repeated, laying her head and both her hands on his breast. "It's you! Why haven't you been for so long? Why? Why?" "When have I time, mama? I am always occupied, and when I was free it always happened that the trains did not suit." "How happy I am to see you! I dreamed about you the whole of the night. I was afraid you were ill. Oh, if you only knew how charming you are and now you have come exactly at the right moment! You will be my saviour! You alone can save me! To-morrow there is to be a most original wedding here," she continued, laughing and tying her husband's cravat. "A young teleg- raphist from the station is getting mar- ried, a certain Chikeldeev. A good-look- ing young fellow; besides he's not stupid, and, you know, he has something in his face strong and bearlike. . . . He'd make a good model for a young Viking. We, dachniki, all take a great interest in him, and we gave him our word of honour to come to his wedding. He's not a rich man, solitary and shy, and, of course, it would be a sin not to stand by him at such a moment. Just imagine, they'll be married after the liturgy, and from church we all go on foot to the bride's house . . . can you understand, through the wood, birds singing, sun spots on the grass, and all of us forming variously coloured patches on a bright green ground—most original, in the style of the French expressionists. But, Dymov, in what am I to go to the wedding?" Olga Ivanovna said, and she looked as if she was going to cry. "I have nothing with me here, literally nothing! No dress, no flowers, no gloves. . . . You must save me. As you have come it's quite clear fate destines you as my saviour. My dear, take these keys, go home and take out of my wardrobe my pink frock. You remember it; it hangs quite in front. . . . Then in the lumber room, to the right, you'll find on the floor two band-boxes. When you open the upper one you'll find tulle, tulle, tulle, and all sorts of scraps and below them flowers. Take all the flowers out very carefully; try, darling, not to crush them. I shall choose what I want afterwards . . . and buy me a pair of gloves. . .22 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV 'All right/' Dymov said, "I'll go back to-morrow and send them down." 'To-morrow, how is that possible ?" Olga Ivanovna exclaimed, and she looked at him with astonishment. "When will you have time to-morrow? The first train leaves here at nine o'clock and the wedding is at eleven. No, my darling, you must go to-day, positively to-day!* If you can't come back to-morrow, send the things by a messenger. Well, or else ... a passenger train is just due. Don't miss it, darling!" "All right." "Oh, how sorry I am to let you go!" Olga Ivanovna said, and tears rose to her eyes. "What a fool I was to promise the telegraphist I" Dymov hurriedly swallowed a glass of tea, took a couple of cracknels and, smiling, meekly went back to the sta- tion. And the caviar, the cheese and the smoked salmon were eaten by the two dark men and the fat actor. CHAPTER IV passionately On a calm moonlit July night Olga Ivanovna was standing on the deck of a Volga steamboat looking at the water or at the beautiful banks. Ryabovsky, who stood beside her, was telling her that the black shadows on the water were not shadows, but a dream, and when gazing at those bewitching waters, with their fantastic glitter, when looking at that fathomless sky and those gloomy pensive banks, which spoke to them of the troubles of life and of the existence of something higher, something eternal and glorious, it would be well to forget oneself—to die—to become a memory. The past was mean and uninteresting, •the future was insignificant, but this beautiful night, unique in a lifetime, would soon be over, it would be blended with eternity—why live at all? And Olga Ivanovna listened now to Ryabovsky's voice, now to the stillness of the night, and she thought that she too was immortal and would never die. The turquoise-coloured water, such as she had never seen before, the sky, the river's banks, the black shadows and the unaccountable delight that filled her soul, told her that she too would become a great artist, and that somewhere in the - distant future, beyond the moonlit night in boundless space, success, fame, the love of the people awaited her. When, without blinking, she looked long into the distance there appeared before her a crowd of people, lights, the solemn sounds of music, shouts of enthusiasm— she herself was in a white dress with flowers, flowers were shed on her from all sides. She also thought that a really great man, a genius, the chosen of God, was standing beside her, leaning over the bulwarks. ... All that he had cre- ated so far was excellent, novel, un- common, and what he would create in time, when with years his rare talents would increase in strength, and he would become astonishingly, immeas- urably great, this could be read in his face, by the way he expressed himself and by his regard for nature. He had quite a special way of talking about shadows, evening tones and brilliant moonlight, in a language quite his own, so that you involuntarily felt the witch- ery of his power over nature. He him- self was very handsome, original, and his life was independent, free, avoiding anything worldly, it was like the life of a bird.LA GIGALE 23 "It is getting chilly," Olga Ivanovna said, shivering. Ryabovsky wrapped her up in his cloak, and said sadly: "I feel I am in your power. I am a slave. Why are you so bewitching to- night?" The whole time he gazed at her with- out removing his eyes from her; his eyes were terrible, and she feared to look at him. "I am madly in love with you . . he whispered, breathing upon her cheek. "Say but one word and I will cease to live. I will give up art . . he murmured, greatly excited. "Love me, love . . "Don't say such things," Olga Ivan- ovna said, closing her eyes. "It is terri- ble. And Dymov?" "What of Dymov? Why Dymov? What have I to do with Dymov? There's the Volga, the moon, beauty, my love, my rapture, but there's no such thing as Dymov. ... Oh, I know nothing. . . . I don't want the past, give me but one moment . . . one instant!" Olga Ivanovna's heart went pit-a-pat. She wanted to think of her husband, but all her past with her wedding, with Dymov and her evening parties, seemed to her small, insignificant, dim, unneces- sary and far, far away. Really, what was Dymov? Why Dymov? What was Dymov to her? Does he really exist in nature, or is he merely a dream? "For him, a common and ordinary man, the happiness he had already had was sufficient," she thought as she cov- ered her face with her hands. "Let them judge me there, let them curse me, but I, to spite them all, will just go and perish ... go and perish. . . . One must try everything in life. Good Lord, how painful, but how nice!" . . . "Well, what? What?" the artist mur- mured, putting his arm rond her and greedily kissing the hands with which she was feebly trying to push him away. "You love me? Yes? Yes? Oh, what a night! What a glorious night!" "Yes, what a night!" she whispered, looking into his eyes that were glisten- ing with tears; then having rapidly looked round, she put her arms round him and kissed him passionately on the lips. "We're arriving at Kineshma," some- body said on the other side of the deck. Heavy footsteps could be heard. It was one of the waiters who was passing by. "Listen," Olga Ivanovna said to him, laughing and crying with happiness, "bring us some wine." The artist, pale with excitement, sat down on a bench and looked at Olga Ivanovna with adoring and grateful eyes, then he closed them and said with a languid smile: "I am tired!" And rested his head on the bulwarks. CHAPTER V red with shame The second of September was a calm and warm but dull day. Early in the morning a light fog had hovered about the Volga, and after nine o'clock it had begun to drizzle. There was no hope of the sky's clearing. At breakfast Ryabovsky had said to Olga Ivanovna that painting was the most ungrateful, the most tiresome art, that he was no artist, that only fools thought he had talent, and suddenly, without any cause,24 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV he seized a knife and scraped out his very best sketch. After breakfast he sat gloomily at the window looking out at the Volga. The Volga was already without brilliancy, dim, dull and cold in appearance. Everything foretold the approach of sad, gloomy autumn. It seemed as if the sumptuous green carpets that were spread on the banks, the reflections of diamond rays, the transparent blue dis- tance and the whole of the elegance of stately nature had been stripped off the Volga and packed away in a trunk till the next spring, and the ravens flew along the Volga mocking her: "Bare! bare!" Ryabovsky listened to their cawing and thought that he was done for, and had lost his talent, that everything in this world was conditional, relative and stupid, and that he ought never to have got entangled with this woman. . . . In a word, he was in a bad humour and in low spirits. Olga Ivanovna sat behind the parti- tion on her bed passing her beautiful flaxen hair between her fingers, and imagining herself in her own drawing- room, her bedroom or her husband's study; her imagination bore her to the theatre, to her dressmaker's and to her celebrated friends. What were they doing now? Did they remember her? The season had already begun and it was time to think about her little parties. And Dymov? Dear Dymov! How meekly and childishly—complainingly, he begged her in his letters to come home quickly! Every month he sent her seventy-five roubles, and when she wrote to him that she had run into debt to the artists to the amount of one hun- dred roubles he sent her that too. What a kind, generous man he was! The journey had tired Olga Ivanovna, she felt dull and she wanted to get away as soon as possible from these peasants, from the smell of the river's damp and to cast off from herself that feeling of physical impurity that she had been ex- periencing the whole time that she had been living in peasants' huts and wander- ing from village to village. If Ryabov- sky had not given his word of honour to the artists to remain with them until the twentieth of September, it would be quite possible to go away that very day. And how nice that would be! "Good God!" Ryabovsky sighed "When will the sun come out again?" I can't finish my sunlit landscape with- out the sun!" "But you have also a sketch with a cloudy sky," Olga Ivanovna said, com- ing from behind the partition. "You remember in the right foreground there is a wood and to the left a herd of cows and geese. You could finish it now." ' "Eh?" the artist said, frowning. "Finish! Do you really think I am so stupid, that I don't know what I am to do!" "How changed you are with me!" Olga Ivanovna sighed. "Well, so much the better!" Olga Ivanovna's lips trembled as she sat down near the stove and began to cry. "Yes, we only wanted tears. Stop crying! I have a thousand causes for' tears, but I don't cry." "A thousand causes!" Olga Ivanovna sighed. "The chief cause is you're tired of me. Yes!" she said and began to sob. "In truth you are ashamed of our love. You are always trying that the artists should not notice anything, though itLA GIGALE 25 is impossible to conceal it, and it has been known to them all long ago." "Olga, there's one thing I ask you," the artist said, in an imploring tone, and he pressed his hand to his heart, "only one thing: don't torment me! That is all I require of you!" "But swear that you still love me!" # "This is torment!" the artist hissed through his clenched teeth, jumping up from his seat. "It will end by my throw- ing myself into the Volga or going mad! Leave me in peace!" "Well then, kill me, kill me!" Olga Ivanovna cried. "Kill me!" She again began to sob and went be- hind the partition. The rain continued to spatter on the thatched roof of the log-hut. Ryabovsky, seizing his head in both hands, began to pace up and down, from corner to corner, then with a determined face, looking as if he wanted to prove something to somebody, he pressed his cap on his head and taking his gun over his shoulder he left the house. For long after he had gone Olga Ivanovna lay on the bed and cried. At first she thought it would be a good thing to take poison, that when he re- turned Ryabovsky might find her dead; then her thoughts carried her mentally into her own drawing-room, or into her husband's study, and she imagined her- self sitting motionless at Dymov's side and enjoying physical peace and cleanli- ness, or else in the evening sitting in the theatre listening to Masini. And the longing for civilization, for the noise of towns and of celebrated people op- pressed her heart. A peasant woman entered the hut and began leisurely to light the stove and prepare dinner. There was a smell of burning and the air became blue with smoke. The ar- tists came in dirty top-boots, and with faces wet with rain; they examined their sketches, and to console themselves said that even in bad weather the Volga had certain charms. The cheap clock on the wall went: "tick-tick-tick." . . . The flies feeling cold crowded together in the front corner near the icons and buzzed; and the movements of cock- roaches could be heard among the thick cardboards beneath the benches. . . . Ryabovsky only returned home when the sun came out again. He threw his cap on the table, and looking pale and worn out, he sank on to a bench in his dirty boots, and closed his eyes. "I am tired," and knitting his brows he made an effort to raise his eyelids. In order to prove that she was not angry, Olga Ivanovna came up to him and silently kissed him, and then cares- singly passed a comb through his light hair. She wanted to comb his hair. "What is it?" he asked, shuddering, as if something cold had touched him, and he opened his eyes. "What is it? Leave me in peace, I beg of you." He pushed her aside with his hand and went away from her, and it appeared to her that the expression on his face was one of aversion and vexation. At that moment the peasant woman brought him a plate of cabbage soup, carrying it in both hands, and Olga Ivanovna saw that both her thumbs were wetted by the soup, and the dirty peasant woman with her large stomach, the cabbage soup, which Ryabovsky began to eat quickly, the log-hut and the whole of this life, which she had liked so much at first, ^for its simplicity and artistic disorder, appeared horrible to her now.26 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV She suddenly felt herself insulted, and she said coldly : "We must separate for some time, or else from sheer dullness we may have a serious quarrel. All this is boring me. I'm going away to-day." "On what? Ride-a-cock-horse on a walking-stick?" "To-day is Thursday, and at half- past nine the steamboat will arrive here." "Eh? Yes, yes. . . . Well, what's to be done, go . . Ryabovsky said gently as he wiped his mouth with a towel in lieu of a napkin. "You are dull here, you have nothing to do, and I would be a great egoist to try to keep you here. Go, and after the twentieth we shall meet again." Olga Ivanovna packed up her things gaily, even her cheeks began to glow with pleasure. "Was it really possible," she asked herself, "that soon she would be able to write in a drawing-room, to sleep in a bedroom and to dine off a tablecloth?" Her heart was relieved and she was no longer angry with the artists. "The colours and the paint-brushes I leave you, Ryabovsky," she said. "If anything remains you will bring it. . . . Mind, don't be lazy without me, don't mope, but work. You're my own good boy!" At ten o'clock Ryabovsky kissed her, to take leave, so as not to kiss her on the boat, she thought, in the presence of the other artists, and then conducted her to the landing-place. The steamer soon arrived and bore her away. She reached her home on the third day. Without taking off her hat and waterproof and breathing heavily from excitement she passed through the draw- ing-room into the dining-room. Dymov, without a coat and with his waistcoat unbuttoned, was sitting at the table sharpening a knife against a fork; a partridge was on a dish before him. When Olga Ivanovna entered the flat she was quite certain that it was necessary to hide everything from him, and that she had sufficient skill and strength to do so; but now, when she saw his broad, good-natured, happy smile and his sparkling joyful eyes, she felt to hide anything from this man would be as mean and horrid, and also as impossible and beyond her strength as it would be to calumniate, to steal or to murder, and in a moment she de- cided to tell him all that had happened. Having allowed him to embrace and kiss her, she sank on her knees before him and covered her face with her hands. "What? What is it, mama?" he asked tenderly. "You've been dull?" She raised her face, red with shame, and looked up at him in a guilty and imploring manner, but fear and shame prevented her from telling him the truth. "It was nothing," she said. I only . . "Let's sit down," he said, lifting her up and seating her at the table. "There we are . .. Have some partridge? Poor little thing, you are hungry." She drew in her native air greedily, and ate the partridge, while he looked at her with affection and laughed joy- fully. CHAPTER VI pain in the temples Towards the middle of winter it was evident that Dymov began to suspect that he was being deceived. As if his own conscience were not clean, he was no longer able to look his wife straightLA GIGALE 27 in the eyes, nor did fee smile joyfully when they met and, in order to remain less alone with her, he often brought home to dinner his colleague, Dr. Korostelev, a little closely cropped man with a wrinkled face who, when he talked to Olga Ivanovna, was so con- fused that he either buttoned and un- buttoned his jacket the whole time, or twirled the left side of his moustache with his right hand. During dinner the two doctors would talk of the possibility of heart troubles being produced by the displacement of the diaphragm, or that of late large numbers of neurotic com- plaints had come under their observa- tion, or that on the previous day while making the dissection of a patient, who according to the diagnosis had died of "malignant anaemia," Dymov had dis- covered a cancer in the pancreas. And it seemed that they both carried on these medical discussions only in order to per- mit Olga Ivanovna to remain silent, that is, not to lie. After dinner Korostelev would sit down to the piano, and Dymov would say to him with a sigh: "Ech, brother! Well, well! Play us something sad." Raising his shoulders, arid spreading his fingers wide, Korostelev took several accords and began to sing in a tenor voice: "Show me a single dwelling, where the Russian peasant does not groan," and Dymov, sighing again, rested his head on his fist and sank into medita- tion. Of late Olga Ivanovna had been ex- tremely imprudent. Every morning she awoke in the very worst of humours, and with the thought that she no longer loved Ryabovsky, and that all was finished, thank God! But while she drank her coffee she thought that Ryabovsky had taken her husband from her, and that now she remained with- out her husband and without Ryabov- sky; then she remembered that her ac- quaintances had said that Ryabovsky was preparing for the exhibition some- thing astonishing, a mixture of a land- scape and a genre painting, in Polenov's style, and that everybody who had seen it in his studio was enthusiastic about it; but this, she thought, he had created under her influence, and in general, thanks to her influence, he had greatly changed for the better. Her influence was so beneficial and so essential that if she left him he might possibly perish. And she also remembered that the last time he had come to see her in a grey speckled frock-coat and a new tie and had asked her: "Am I not handsome?" He really was elegant; with his long curls and blue eyes he looked very hand- some, and (or perhaps she had only imagined it) he was very affectionate with her too. Remembernig many things and pon- dering over them, Olga Ivanovna dressed, and drove to Ryabovsky's studio in great agitation. She found him gay and in raptures with his really magnifi- cent picture; he jumped about, played the fool and answered serious questions with jokes. Olga Ivanovna was jealous of Ryabovsky's picture and hated it, but out of politness she stood before it for about five minutes in silence, sighing, as one sighs before a holy shrine, and at last she said in a low voice: "Yes, you have never painted any- thing like it. Do you know, it is ter- rible!" Then she began to implore him to love her, not to desert her, to have pity on28 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV her, poor unhappy thing. She wept, she kissed his hands, demanded that he should swear he loved her, proved to him that without her good influence he would stray from the right path and perish. And, having spoiled his good- humour and feeling that she had humili- ated herself, she drove off to her dress- maker, or to an actress she knew, to try to obtain tickets. If she did not find him in his studio she would leave a letter in which she swore that unless he came to her that very day she would certainly take poison. He was afraid, went to her and remained to dinner. Unrestrained by the presence of her husband, he was insolent to her, she returned insolence with insolence. Both felt they were a drag on each other, that they were despots and enemies and were angry, and owing to their anger they never noticed that they were both behaving in an unseemly manner, and that even closely cropped Korostelev understood everything. After dinner Ryabovsky hastily took leave and went away. "Where are you going?" Olga Iva- novna asked him in the ante-room, and she looked at him with hatred. Frowning and screwing up his eyes he named one of the ladies of their acquain- tance, and it was evident he was laughing at her jealousy and did it on purpose to vex her. She went into her bedroom and lay down on the bed; from jealousy, vexation, a feeling of humiliation and shame she bit the pillow and began to sob aloud. Dymov left Korostelev in the drawing-room, went into the bedroom and quite confused and perplexed he said to her softly: "Don't cry aloud, mama. . . . Why? One must be silent about it. ... One must not let people no- tice it. . . . You know, what's done can't be undone." Not knowing how she could quell the terrible jealousy she felt within her, which already caused her to have pain in the temples, and thinking she might still improve matters, she washed, powdered her tear-stained face and flew off to the lady of her acquaintance. Not finding Ryabovsky with her, she drove to another and then to a third. . . . At first she was ashamed of driving about in that way; but after a time she became used to it, and it sometimes happened that in one evening she went to all the women she knew, to look for Ryabovsky, and they all understood why she had come. One day she said to Ryabovsky about her husband: "That man crushes me with his magnanimity." This phrase pleased her so much that whenever she met the artists who knew of her romance with Ryabovsky she said each time, referring to her husband, and making an energetic gesture with her hand : "That man crushes me with his magnanimity!" The order of their life was the same as in the previous year. On Wednesdays there were small evening parties. The actor recited, the artists drew, the violon- cellist played, the singer sang, and in- variably at half-past eleven the door that led into the dining-room was opened, and Dymov with a smile on his face said: "Gentlemen, come to supper, please." As formerly, Olga Ivanovna looked out for great men, found them, was dis- satisfied with them and looked for others. As formerly, she returned homeLA GIGALE 29 late at night, but now Dymov was not asleep as he used to be the year before, but was sitting in his study working. He never went to bed till about three o'clock and he rose at eight. One evening when she was preparing to go to the theatre, she was standing before the pier-glass when Dymov, clad in a dress-coat and a white tie, came into her bedroom; he smiled meekly, and as formerly he looked his wife joyfully straight in the eyes. His face beamed. "I have just been defending my thesis," he said, sitting down and strok- ing his knees. "Defending?" Olga Ivanovna asked. "Ogo!" he laughed, and he stretched his neck in order to see his wife's face in the mirror, as she was still standing be- fore it with her back towards him ar- ranging her hair. "Ogo!" he repeated. 4'Do you know it is very probable I shall be offered "the post of professor's substitute on general pathology. It looks very like it." It was evident by his delight and ? his beaming face that if Olga Ivanovna had shared his happiness and triumph he ; would have forgiven her everything, the j present and the future, and he would 1 have forgotten everything, but she^did not understand what the post of pro- fessor's substitute or general pathology meant; besides, she was afraid of being late for the theatre and said nothing. He sat for two minutes, smiled culpably and then left the room. CHAPTER VII send! It was a most agitating day. \ Dymov had a very bad headache; in the morning he would not have any breakfast and he did not go to the hos- pital, but passed the whole day in his study lying on the Turkish divan. At one o'clock Olga Ivanovna went as usual to Ryabovsky's, in order to show him her new sketch of still-life, and to ask him why he had not been to see her on the previous day. The sketch appeared to her insignificant, and she had only painted it in order to have an extra excuse for going to the artist's. She entered the house without ring- ing, and while she was taking off her galoshes in the ante-room it seemed to her as if somebody had run quietly across the studio with a womanlike rustle of skirts, and when she hastened to look into the studio she saw for a moment a bit of a brown petticoat disappearing behind a large picture that, as well as the easel on which it stood, was covered with a long black linen that reached to the floor. She could not doubt that it was a woman. How often had Olga Ivanovna herself found a hiding-place behind that picture! Ryabovsky, evi- dently very much confused and seeming to be surprised at her arrival, held out both his hands to her and said with a forced smile: "Ah, ah, ah, ah! So pleased to see you. What good news do you bring me?" Olga Ivanovna's eyes filled with tears. She felt shame and bitterness, and not for a million could she have spoken in the presence of that strange woman, that rival, that liar, who was now standing behind the picture, and was probably giggling malevolently. "I have brought you a sketch . . she said timidly, in a faltering voice and her lips trembled—"a nature morte." "Ah, ah, ah! a sketch?"30 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV The artist took the sketch into his hand and while examining it he went as if mechanically into the next room. Olga Ivanovna followed him submis- sively. "Nature morte . . . first class," he muttered, as if he was searching for rhymes "sport. . .portkurort. . . Hasty steps and the rustle of a dress were heard in the studio. That meant she had gone away. Olga Ivanovna wanted to scream, to hit the artist with something heavy across the head and then go away, but she could see nothing through her tears; she was crushed by her shame and she felt not like Olga Ivanovna, the artist, but like a small insect. "I am tired . . the artist said languidly, looking at the sketch, and he shook his head in order to conquer his drowsiness. "This is pretty, of course, but to-day it is a sketch, and last year it was a sketch, and in a month's time it will be a sketch. . . . Doesn't it bore you? In your place I would chuck painting and give up my whole time to music or something else. Why, you are no painter but a musician. If you only knew how tired I am! I'll go and order tea. . . . Eh?" He left the room, and Olga Ivanovna heard him give some order to his man- servant. So as not to take leave, not to have an explanation, but chiefly not to begin sobbing, she hastened into the ante-room, put on her galoshes before Ryabovsky returned and ran into the street.) Here she sighed lightly and felt she was for ever free, not only from Ryabovsky, but from painting, and from the great shame that had weighed on her so heavily in the studio. All was finished! She drove to her dressr laker's and then called on Barnay (the famous German tragedian), who had only ar- rived the day before, then to a music shop, and the whole time she was think- ing how she was to write to Ryabovsky *! a cold, severe letter full of dignity, and \ then how in the spring or the summer j she would go with Dymov to the Crimea, I where she would free herself entirely ; from all the past and would begin quite a new life. When she returned home late at night she did not redress, but sat down in the drawing-room to write her letter. Ryabovsky had told her she was not an artist, and she, to revenge herself on him, would write that every year he painted the same thing over and over again, and every day he said the same thing, that he was stagnating and that he would do nothing better than what he had already produced. She wanted to write that he owed much to her good influence, and if he acted badly it was only because her influence was paralyzed by various equivocal individuals, like the one who that day had hidden behind the picture. "Mama!" Dymov called to her from his study without opening the door. "Mama!" "What do you want?" "Mama, don't come in here, but only come to the door. This is what has happened. . . . Three days ago I was infected with diphtheria in the hospi- tal . . . and now I am feeling queer. Send quickly for Korostelev." Olga Ivanovna called her husband like all her other male friends by their family names; his name Osip did not please her, because it reminded her of Gogol's Osip. Now she called out:LA GIGALE 31 "Osip, this cannot be!" "Send. I'm feeling bad/' Dymov said behind the closed door, and she heard him go to the divan and lie down. "Send," his voice came to her hoarsely. "What can this be?" Olga Ivanovna/ thought, and she grew cold with terror J "Why, it is dangerous!" Without any necessity for doing it, she took up a candle and went into her bedroom, and there while thinking what she ought to do, she unintentionally looked at herself in the pier-glass. In her pale, frightened face, in the jacket with long sleeves and yellow frills at the throat and the striped skirt made in an unusual fashion, she appeared to be frightful—to be bad. Suddenly she / became painfully sorry for Dymov, his unbounded love for her, his young life and even his widowed bed, on which for long he had not slept, and she remem- bered his usual meek, submissive smile. She began to cry bitterly, and wrote an imploring letter to Korostelev. It was two o'clock in the night. CHAPTER VIII never to awaken At past seven o'clock next morning, when Olga Ivanovna came out of her bedroom with a head heavy from want of sleep, unkempt and unbeautiful, and with a guilty expression on her face, an unknown gentleman with a .black beard (probably a doctor) passed her and went into the lobby. There was a smell of medicine about the house. Korostelev was standing near the door that led into the 'study, twirling the left side of Ms moustache with his right hand. "Excuse me, I cannot let you go to him," he said gloomily to Olga Iva- nova. "You might catch the infection. And really, why should you? And all the same it would do no good, as he is delirious." "Has he the real diphtheria?" Olga Ivanovna asked in a whisper. "People who rush into danger ought really to be prosecuted," Korostelev con- tinued without replying to Olga Iva- novna's question. "Do you know how he caught the infection? Last Tuesday he sucked the diphtheria membrane out of a boy's throat through a glass tube. What good could that do? It was stupid . . . sheer folly. . . "Is there danger? Is there much danger?" Olga Ivanovna asked. "Yes. They say it's a bad form. One ought really to send for Shrek." First a little red-haired man with a long nose and a Jewish accent came, then a tall, stooping man with long dishevelled hair, who looked like an archdeacon, took his place; he was followed by a very stout young man in spectacles with a red face. They were doctors, who came to watch at their colleague's bedside. Korostelev, though he had finished his time of watching, remained in the house and wandered about the rooms like a ghost. The housemaid served tea to the doctor on duty, and she had often to run to the chemist's, so there was no- body to do out the rooms. The house was quiet and dreary. Olga Ivanovna sat in her bedroom and thought that God was punishing her for being unfaithful to her husband. A silent, resigned creature, depersonalized by his own meekness, characterless and weak from a superfluity of goodness, was dully suffering there on his sofa, and did not complain. And had he complained, even if it had been in his delirium, the32 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV doctors, who were attending on him, would know that it was not alone the diphtheria that was to blame. If they asked Korostelev ... he knew every- thing, and it was not without cause that he looked on his friend's wife with those eyes that seemed to say she was the chief and the real miscreant, and that the diph- theria was only her accomplice. She no longer remembered the moonlit night on the Volga, nor the declaration of love, nor the poetical life in the £y&a;[she only remembered that from idle caprice, from mere indulgence she had soiled herself j entirely—body, legs and arms—in some- ! thing dirty, something sticky, which she ! could never again wash off. "Oh, how terribly I lied!" she thought when she remembered the troubled love she had had with Ryabovsky. "May it all be accursed! . . ." At four o'clock she dined with Korostelev. He ate nothing, he only drank claret and scowled. She also ate nothing. At times she prayed mentally and vowed to God that if Dymov only recovered she would love him again and be his faithful wife. At others, forget- ting herself for a moment, she would look at Korostelev and think: "How tiresome it must be to be an ordinary, in no way remarkable, and quite an un- known man, with such a wrinkled face and such bad manners too!" Then again she thought, that at that very mo- ment God would kill her because she, fearing the infection, had not once been in her husband's study. And in general she had a dull dejected feeling and a conviction that her life was spoilt and there was no way of mending it. After dinner darkness came on. When Olga Ivanovna went into the drawing-room she found Korostelev asleep on the couch with a gold em- broidered silk cushion under his head. "Kri-pua," he snored, "Kri-pua." The doctors, who came to watch at his bedside and went away again, did not notice this disorder. They did not no- tice that a strange man was asleep in the drawing-room and snoring, nor that there were sketches on the walls, nor that the room was furnished fantasti- cally, nor that the mistress of the house was unkempt and slovenly—all this did not arouse the slightest interest now. One of the doctors suddenly laughed at something, and this laugh sounded strange and timid and it produced a weird effect. Shortly after, when Olga Ivanovna went into the drawing-room again, Korostelev was no longer asleep. He was sitting up smoking. "He has the diphtheria of the nasal cavity," he said in a whisper. "The heart is also not working well. It's really a bad job." "Have you sent for Shrek?" Olga Ivanovna asked. "He has been already. He noticed that the diphtheria had attacked the nose. Eh, after all, who is Shrek? There's nothing really special about Shrek. He's Shrek and I'm Korostelev— that's all." Time went on terribly slowly. Olga Ivanovna lay on her bed, which had not been made since the morning, and dozed. It appeared to her that from floor to ceiling the whole house was filled with a huge piece of iron, and that it was only necessary to carry the iron out for everybody to become gay and relieved again. Awaking she remembered that this iron was Dymov's illness. "Nature morte—port," she thought,LA GIGALE 33 sinking into drowsiness again, . . sport . . . Kurort. . . . And how is Shrek . . . trek . . . wreck. . . ? Where are my friends now? Do they know that we are in trouble? Lord save us . . . remove it . . . Shrek— trek. . . And again there was the iron weight. . . . Time dragged on slowly and the clocks in the lower story struck very often. There was constant ring- ing of the door bell . . . doctors kept coming. . . . The housemaid came into the room with an empty glass on a tray and asked: "Madam, do you wish me to make the bed?" Receiving no answer she went out again. The clock below struck the hour. She dreamed of rain on the Volga, and then again somebody came into the bed- room. It appeared to be a stranger. Olga Ivanovna jumped up and recog- nized Korostelev. "What o'clock is it?" she asked. "About three." "Well, how is he?" "How, indeed! I have come to say he is passing away . . He sobbed and sat down on the bed next to her, brushing away his tears with his sleeve. At first she did not understand, but she felt cold all over and began to cross herself slowly. "Passing away . . ." he repeated in a shrill voice, and he sobbed again. "Dying, because he has sacrificed him- self. . . . What a loss for sciencel" he said bitterly. "He was a great, an extraordinary man. . . . None of us can be compared with him. What gifts! What hopes we all had of him!" Korostelev continued, wringing his hands. "My God, my God, what a man of science the world has lost; we shall never see his like again. Osip Dymov, Osip Dymov, what have you done? Oh! oh! My God! My God!" Korostelev buried his face in his hands and rocked to and fro. "And what moral force!" he con- tinued, becoming more and more in- censed with someone. "A kind, honest, loving soul, not a man, but glass! He served science and he died for science. He worked like an ox—day and night— nobody spared him; a young scientist, a future professor, he had to look out for private practice—to work all night at translations in order to pay for these . . . wretched rags!" Korostelev looked with hatred at Olga Ivanovna, and he seized the sheet with both hands and shook it angrily as if it were in fault. "He did not spare himself and he was not spared by others. But what is the use of talking now!" "Yes, he was a rare man!" somebody with a deep bass voice said in the draw- ing-room. Olga Ivanovna remembered all her past life with him, from the beginning to the end, with all its details, and she suddenly understood that he really was a rare, an uncommon man who, com- pared with all those she knew, was really a great man. And remembering how her late father and all his colleagues had treated him, she understood that they all looked upon him as a future celebrity. The walls, the ceiling, the Tamp and the carpet on the floor winked at her mockingly, as if they wanted to say: "Lost your chance, lost your chance!" With a cry she fled from the bedroom, rushed through the drawing-34 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV room, passing some strange man, and ran into her husband's study. He was lying, motionless on the Turkish divan, covered up to the waist with a quilt. His face was sunken and terribly emaciated, and it had the greyish yel- low colour that is never seen in the liv- ing. It was only by his forehead, by his dark eyebrows, and by his well- known smile that it was possible to recognize Dymov. Olga Ivanovna hastily felt his breast, his forehead and his hands. His breast was still warm, but his forehead and his hands were unpleasantly cold, and the half-open eyes did not look at Olga Ivanovna, but at the quilt. "Dymov," she called to him in a loud voice. "Dymov!" She wanted to explain to him that all had been a mistake, that not everything was lost, that life could yet be beautiful and happy, that he was an exceptional, an extraordinary, a great man, and that for her whole life she would revere him, pray to him and feel a sacred venera- tion for him. "Dymov," she called aloud, shaking him by the shoulder, not being able to believe that he would never awaken again. "Dymov, Dymov, listen!" At the same time Korostelev was say- ing to the housemaid: "What is the use of asking? Go to the Church beadle and ask him where the old women live; they will wash and lay out the body—they will do all that is necessary," Verotchka Ivan Alexeievitch Ognef? well recollects an August evening when he opened noisily the hall door and went out on the terrace with a light cloak and a wide-brimmed straw hat—the very hat which now, beside his top-boots, lies in the dust underneath his bed. He then carried in one hand heavy books and manuscripts, and in his other a heavy cane. In the doorway, stood his host, Kuznetsoff, aged and bald, with his long grey beard, and his white cotton jacket, lantern held aloft. And Kuznetsoff smiled kindly and nodded his head. "Good-bye, old fellow!" cried Ogneff. Kuznetsoff laid the lamp on the hall table, and followed Ogneff to the terrace. Their faint shadows swept down the steps, across the flower-beds, and came to a stop against the lime-trees. "Good-bye, and again thank you, old fellow," said Ogneff. "Thanks for your heartiness, your kindness, your love. . . . Never . . . never in my whole life shall I forget your goodness. . . . You have been so kind . . . and your daughter has been so kind . . . all of you have been so kind, so gay, so hearty. ... So good, indeed, that I cannot ex- press my gratitude.'* Under stress of feeling, under in- fluence of the parting glass, Ogneff's voice sounded like a seminarist's, and his feeling showed not only in his words but in the nervous twitching of eyes and shoulders. And Kuznetsoff, touched also by emotion and wine, bent over the young man and kissed him.VEROTCHKA 35 "I have grown as used to you as if I were your dog," continued Ogneff. "I have been with you day after day. I have spent the night at your house a dozen times, and drunk so much of your liqueurs that it frightens me to think of it. . . . But, most of all, Gavriil Petrovitch, I thank you for your co- operation and help. Without you, I should have been worrying over my sta- tistics till October. But I will put in my preface: "It is my duty to express to M. Kuznetsoff, President of the N. District Zemstvo Executive, my grati- tude for his kind assistance." Statistics have a brilliant future! Give my deepest regards to Vera Gavriilovna! And tell the doctors, the two magis- trates, and your secretary that I shall never forget their kindness. . . . And now, old friend, let us embrace and kiss for the last time!" Ogneff again kissed the old man. When he reached the last step, he turned his head and said— "I wonder shall we ever meet again." "God knows," answered Kuznetsoff. "Probably never." "I fear so. Nothing will lure you to Petersburg, and it is not likely that I shall ever return to these parts. Good- bye!" "But leave your books," called Kuznetsoff after him. "Why carry such a weight? My man will bring them to- morrow." But Ogneff, who had not heard him, walked quickly away. Warmed with wine, his heart was full at the same time of sorrow and, joy. He walked forward reflecting how often in life we meet such kindly men and women, how sad it is that they leave but memories behind. It is as on a journey. The traveller sees on the flat horizon the out- line of a crane; the weak wind bears its plaintive cry; yet in a moment it is gone; and strain his eyes as he may towards the blue distance, he sees no bird, and hears no sound. So in the affairs of men, faces and voices tremble a moment before use, and slip away into the gone- before, leaving behind them nothing but the vain records of memory. Having been every day at hearty Kuznetsoff's house since he arrived that spring at N., Ogneff had come to know and love as kinsmen the old man, his daughter, their servants. He knew every spot in the old house, the cosy terrace, the turns in the garden paths, the trees outlined against garden and bathing-box. And now in a few seconds when he had passed the wicket-gate, all these would be memories, void for evermore of real sig- nificance. A year—two years—would pass, and all these kindly images, dulled beyond restoring, would recur only in memory as the shapeless impressions of a dream. "In life," thought Ogneff, as he ap- proached the gate, "there is nothing better than men. Nothing!" It was warm and still. The whole world smelt of heliotropes, mignonette, and tobacco-plants which had not yet shed their blooms. Around shrubs and tree-trunks flowed a sea of thin, moon- light-soaked mist; and—what long re- mained in Ogneff's memory—wisps of vapour, white as ghosts, floated with mo- tion imperceptibly slow across the garden path. Near the moon, shining high in heaven, swam transparent patches of cloud. The whole world, it seemed, was built of coal-black shadows and wander- ing wisps of white; and, to Ogneff, it seemed as if he were looking not at Na-36 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV ture, but at a decorate scene, as if clumsy pyrotechnists, illuminating the garden with white Bengal fire, had flooded the air with a sea of snowy smoke. As Ogneff approached the wicket-gate a black shadow moved from the low palisade and came to meet him. "Vera Gavriilovna," he exclaimed joy- fully. "You here! After I had looked for you everywhere to say good-bye! . . . Good-bye, I am going." "So early—it is barely eleven o'clock." "But late for me. I have a five-verst walk, and I must pack up tonight. I leave early tomorrow. . . ." Before Ogneff stood Kuznetsoff's daughter, twenty-one-year-old Vera, whom he had seen so often, pensive and carelessly-dressed and interesting. Day- dreaming girls who spend the whole days lying down or in desultory reading, who suffer from tedium and melancholy, usually dress without care. But if Na- ture has given them taste and the in- stinct of beauty, this negligence in dress has often a charm of its own. And, in- deed, Ogneff, recalling the vision of pretty Vera, cannot imagine her without a loose jacket, hanging in folds away good figure, regular features, and pretty wavy hair. To Ogneff, who knew few women, she seemed beautiful. "I am going away," he said again, bidding her good-bye at the wicket-gate. "Think, well of me! And thanks for everything!" And again twitching his shoulders, and speaking in the sing-song seminarist's voice which he had used to the old man, he thanked Vera for her hospitality, her kindness, her heartiness. "I wrote about you to my mother in every letter," he said. "If all men were like you and your father, life on earth would be paradise. Every one in your house in the same. So simple, so hearty, so sincere. . . ." "Where are you going?" "First to my mother, in Oriol. I shall spend two days there. Then to St. Petersburg to work." "And then?" "Then? I shall work all winter, and in spring go somewhere in the country to collect material. Well ... be happy, live a hundred years, and think well of me! This is the last time we meet." Ogneff bowed his head and kissed from her waist, without untidy curls on^Verotchka's hand; then in silent confu- her forehead, without the red, shaggy tasselled shawl which all day long lay in the hall among the men's caps, or on the chest in the dining-room, where the old cat used it unceremoniously as bed. The shawl and the creased jacket seemed to express the easy-going indolence of a sedentary life. But perhaps it was be- cause Ogneff liked Vera, that every but- ton and fold exhaled to him goodness and poetry, something foreign to women in- sincere, void of the instinct of beauty, and cold. ... And Vera, too, had a sion straightened his cloak, rearranged his package of books, and said— "What a thick mist to-night!" "Yes. Have you not forgotten any- thing?" "Nothing ... I think." For a moment Ogneff stood silently. Then he turned awkwardly to the gate and went out of the garden. "Wait! Let me go with you as far as the wood," said Vera, running after him. They followed the road. Trees no longer obscured the view, and they couldVEROTCHKA 37 see the sky, and the country far ahead. Through breaks in the veil of semi- transparent smoke, the world exposed its fairness; the white mist lay unevenly around bushes and hayricks, or wandered in tiny cloudlets, clinging to the surface as if not to cut off the view. The road could be seen all the way to the wood, and in the ditches beside it rose little bushes which trapped and hindered the vagabond mist wisps. Half a verst away rose a dark belt of forest. JWhy has she come? I shall have to see her home," Ogneff asked himself. But looking at Vera's profile, he smiled kindly, and said— "I hate going away in weather like this. This evening is quite romantic, what with the moonlight, the silence . . . and all the honours! Do you know what, Vera Gavriilovna? I am now twenty-nine years old, yet have never had a single romance! In all my life so far, not one! So of trysts, paths of sighs, and kisses, I know only by hearsay. It is abnormal. Sitting in my own room in town, I never no- tice the void. But here in the open air I somehow feel it . . . strongly . . . it is almost annoying." "But what is the cause?" "I can't say. Perhaps it is because so far I have never had time, perhaps simply because I have never yet met a woman who . . . But I have few friends, and seldom go anywhere." They walked three hundred yards in silence. As Ogneff looked at Vera's shawl and uncovered head, he recalled the past spring and summer days, when far from his grey St. Petersburg rooms, caressed by kindly Nature and by kindly friends, pursuing his much-loved work, he had seen slip by, uncounted, sunset after dawn, day after day, nor noticed how, foreshadowing summer's end, the nightingale first, the quail, and then the corncrake ceased their songs. Time had passed unseen; and that, he supposed, meant that life had spun out pleasantly and without jar. He recalled how at the end of April he had arrived at N., a poor man, unused to society; and expected nothing but tedium, solitude, and con- tempt for statistics—which in his opinion took a high place among the useful sci- ences. He remembered the April even- ing of his arrival at the inn of Old-Be- liever Riabukhin, where for twenty kopecks a day he was given a bright, clean room, with only one restriction, that he should smoke out of doors. He remembered how he had rested a few hours, and, asking for the address of the President of the Zemstvo Executive, had set out on foot to Gavriil Petrovitch's house; how he had tramped through four versts of rich meadows and young plantations; how high under a veil of cloud trembled a lark, filling the world with silver sounds, while above the green pastures, with a stolid, pompous flapping of wings, the rooks flew up and down. "Is it possible?" Ogneff asked himself, "that they breathe this air every day, or is it perfumed only this evening in honour of me?" He remembered how, expecting a dry, business-like reception, he had entered Kuznetsoff's study timidly, with averted face, and shyly stroked his beard. And howr the old man contracted his brows, and failed utterly to understand what this young man with his statistics wanted with the Zemstvo Executive. But as he began to understand what statistics really mean, and how they are collected, Gavriil Petrovitch woke up, smiled, and38 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV with infantile curiosity began to examine his visitor's note-books. . . . And on the evening of the same day, Ogneff sat at KuznetsofPs supper-table, grew tipsy on strong liqueurs, and, watching the placid faces and lazy gestures of his new acquaintances, felt spreading through his whole body that sweet, drowsy indolence of one who, wanting to continue his sleep, stretches himself and smiles. And his new-found friends looked at him lovingly, asked were his father and mother alive, how much he earned a month, and whether he often went to the theatre. Ogneff recalled the long drives through the cantons, the picnics, the fishing parties, the trip to the convent when the Mother Superior presented each visitor with a bead-purse; he recalled the end- less, heated, truly Russian arguments in which the disputants, banging their fists on the table, misunderstood and inter- rupted without knowing what they meant to say, wandered from the sub- ject,, and after arguing fiercely a couple of hours, exclaimed with a laugh, "The devil knows what this dispute is about. We began about health, and are now arguing about rest in the grave!" "Do you remember when you and I rode to Shestovo with the doctor?" asked Ogneff as they drew near to the wood. "We met a lunatic. I gave him five kopecks, and he crossed him- self thrice, and threw the money in my face. What hosts of impressions I carry away—if fused in a compact mass, I should have a big ingot of gold! I never understood why clever, sensitive men crowd into big cities instead of living in the country. Is there more space and truth on the Nevsky, and in the big damp houses? My house, for instance, which is packed from top to bottom with artists, students, and journalists, al- ways seems to me to embody an absurd prejudice." Some twenty paces from the wood the road crossed a narrow bridge with posts at the corners. During their spring walks, this bridge was a stopping place for the Kuznetsoffs and their visitors. Thence they could draw echoes from the wood, and watch the road as it vanished in a black drive. "We are at the bridge," said Ogneff. "You must return." Vera stopped, and drew a deep breath. "Let us sit down for a minute," she said, seating herself on a pillar. "When we say good-bye to friends we always sit down here." Ogneff sat beside her on his parcel of books, and continued to speak. Vera breathed heavily, and looked straight into the distance, so that he could not see her face. "Perhaps some day, in ten years' time, we'll meet somewhere again," he said. "Things will be different. You will be the honoured mother of a family, and I the author of a respectable, useless book of statistics, fat as forty thousand albums put together. . . . To-night, the present counts, it absorbs and agitates us. But ten years hence we shall remember neither the date nor the month, nor even the year, when we sat on this bridge together for the last time. You, of course, will be changed. You will change." "I asked you just now. . . ." "I did not hear." Only now did Ogneff notice the change that had come over Vera. She was pale and breathless; her hands and lips trembled; and instead of the usual singleVEROTCHKA 39 lock of hair falling on her forehead, there were two. She did her best to mask her agitation and avoid looking him in the face; and to help in this, she first straightened her collar as if it were cutting her neck, and then drew the red shawl from one side to the other. "You are cold, I am afraid," began Ogneff. "You must not sit in the mist. Let me see you home." Vera did not answer. "What is the matter?" resumed Ogneff. "You do not answer my ques- tions. You are ill?" Vera pressed her hand firmly to her cheek, and suddenly drew it away. It is too awful," she whispered, with a look of intense agony. "Too awful!" "What is too awful?" asked Ogneff, shrugging his shoulders, and making no attempt to conceal his surprise. "What is the matter?" Still breathing heavily and twitching her shoulders, Vera turned away from him, and after looking a moment at the sky, began— "I have to speak to you, Ivan Alexeievitch. . . "I am listening." "I know it will seem strange to you . . . you will be astonished, but I do not care. . . ." Ogneff again shrugged his shoulders and prepared to listen. "It is this . . . ," began Vera, averting her eyes, and twirling the shawl- tassels in her fingers. "You see, this is . . . that is what I wanted to say. f . . It will seem absurd to you . . . and stupid . . . but I cannot bear it!" Vera's words, half smothered in in- coherent stammering, were suddenly in- terrupted by tears. She hid her face in the shawl, and wept bitterly. Ogneff, confused and stupefied, coughed, and, having no idea what to say or do, looked helplessly around. He was unused to tears, and Vera's breakdown seemed to make his own eyes water. "Come, come!" he stammered help- lessly. "Vera Gavriilovna! What does this mean? Are-you .ill? Some one has annoyed you? Tell me what it is . . . and perhaps I can help you." And when, in a last attempt to con- sole her, he drew her hands cautiously from her face, she smiled at him through her tears, and said— "I . . . I love you!" The words, simple and ordinary, were spoken in a simple and ordinary voice. But Ogneff, covered with intense con- fusion, turned his face away. His confusion was followed by fright. The atmosphere of mournfulness, warmth, and sentiment, inspired by li- queurs and leave-takings, suddenly made way for a sharp, unpleasant feeling of awkwardness. Feeling that his whole soul had been turned inside out, he looked shyly at Vera; and she, having avowed her love, and cast for ever away her woman's enhancing inaccessibility, seemed smaller, simpler, meaner. "What does it all mean?" he asked himself in terror. "And then ... do I love her ... or not?—that is the problem." But she, now that the hardest, pain- fullest part was ended, breathed easily and freely. She rose from her seat, and, looking straight into Ogneff's eyes, spoke quickly, warmly, without constraint. Those who have been overtaken by sudden terror seldom remember details, and Ogneff to-day recalls not one of Vera's words. He remembers only their import and the emotions they brought40 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV forth. He remembers her voice, which seemed to come from a strangled throat, a voice hoarse with emotion, and the magic passion and harmony in its in- tonations. Crying, smiling, scattering tear-drops from her eyes, she confessed that since the first days of their friend- ship she had been won by his originality, his intellect, his kind, clever eyes, and by the aims and aspirations of his life. That she loved him devoutly, passion- ately, madly; that in summer when she went from the garden into the house and saw his coat in the hall, or heard his voice, her heart thrilled with a presage of intense joy; that his most trivial jokes had made her laugh; that every figure in his note-books exhaled to her wis- dom and majesty; that even his cane standing in the hall had seemed to her lovelier than the trees. The wood, the patches of mist, even the black roadside ditches were charmed, it seemed, as they listened. But Og- neffs heart felt only estrangement and pain. Avowing her love, Vera was en- trancingly fair; her words wTere noble and impassioned. But Ogneff felt not the pleasure or vital joy which he him- self yearned for, but only sympathy with Vera, and pain that a fellow-creature should suffer so for his sake. Heaven only knows why it was so! But whether the cause was book-learned reason, or merely that impregnable objectivity which forbids somelnen to live as men, the ecstasy and passion of Vera seemed to him affected and unreal. Yet even while he felt this, something whispered that, in the light of Nature and per- sonal happiness, that which he listened to then was a thousand times more vital than all his books, his statistics, his eternal verities. And he was angry, and reproached himself, though he had no idea wherein he was at fault. What increased his confusion was that he knew he must reply. An answer was inevitable. To say to Vera plainly "I do not love you!" he had not the strength. But he could not say "I do," for with all his searchings he could not find in his heart a single spark. And he listened silently while she said that she could know no greater happi- ness than to see him, to follow him, to go with him wheresoever he might go, to be his w7ife and helper . . . and that if he abandoned her she would die of grief. "I cannot stay here," she exclaimed, wringing her hands. "I have come to de- test this house, and this wood, and this air. I am tired of this changeless rest- fulness and aimless life; I can stand no longer our colourless, pale people, as like one another as two drops of water! They are genial and kind . . . because they are contented, because they have never suffered and never struggled. But I can stand it no more. ... I want to go to the big grey houses, where people suffer, embittered by labour and need. . . And all this -seemed to Ogneff affected and unreal. When Vera ceased to speak he was still without an answer. But silence was impossible, and he stam- mered out— "I . . . Vera Gavriilovna ... I (am very grateful to you, although I ;feel that I deserve no such . . . such feelings. In the second place, as an honest man, I must say that . . . hap- piness is based on mutuality . . . that is, when both parties . . . when they love equally." Ogneff suddenly felt ashamed of hisVEROTCHKA 41 stammering speech, and was silent. He felt that his expression was guilty, stupid, and dull, and that his face was strained and drawn out. And Vera, it seemed, could read the truth in his look, for she paled, looked at him with terror, and averted her eyes. "You will forgive me," stammered Ogneff, feeling the silence past bearing. "I respect you so very, very much that . . . that I am sorry . . Vera suddenly turned away, and walked rapidly towards the house. Ogneff followed her. "No, there is no need!" she said, wav- ing her hand. "Do not come! I will go alone. . . But still ... I must see you home." All that Ogneff had said, even his last words, seemed to him flat and hateful. The feeling increased with each step. He raged at himself and, clenching his fists, cursed his coldness and awkward- ness with women. In a last vain effort to stir his own feelings he looked at Vera's pretty figure, at her hair, at the imprints of her little feet on the dusty road. He remembered her words and her tears. But all this filled him only with pain, and left his feelings dead. "Yes. ... A man cannot force himself to love!" he reasoned, and at the same time thought, "When shall I ever love except by force? I am nearly thirty. Better than Verotchka among women I have never met . . . and never shall meet. Oh, accursed old age. Old age at thirty!" Vera walked before him, each moment quickening her steps. Her face was bowed to the ground, and she did not look round once. It seemed to Ogneff that she had suddenly grown slighter and that her shoulders were narrower. "I can imagine her feelings," he said to himself. "Shame . . . and such pain as to make her wish for death! . . . And in her words there was life and poetry, and meaning enough to have melted a stone! But I . . . I am sense- less and blind." "Listen, Vera Gavriilovna." This cry burst from him against his will. "You must not think that I . . . that I . . ." Agneff hesitated and said nothing more. At the wicket-gate Vera turned, looked at him for an instant, and, wrap- ping her shawl tightly around her shoulders, walked quickly up the path. Ogneff remained alone. He turned back to the wood, and walked slowly, stopping now and then and looking towards the gate. His movements ex- pressed doubt of himself. He searched the road for the imprints of Verotchka's feet. He refused to credit that one whom he liked so much had avowed to him her love, and that he had awkwardly, boorishly scorned her. For the first time in life he realised how little one's actions depend from mere goodwill; and he felt as feels every honourable, kindly man who, despite his intentions, has caused his nearest and dearest unmeant and unmerited suffering. His conscience stung him. When Verotchka vanished in the garden he felt that he had lost something very dear which he would never find again. With Vera, it seemed to him, a part of his youth had passed away, and he knew that the precious moments he had let slip away without profit would never return. When he reached the bridge he stopped in thought, and sought the cause of his42 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV unnatural coldness. That it lay not outside himself, but within, he saw clearly. And he frankly confessed that this was not the rational calmness boasted by clever men, not the coldness of in- flated egoism, but simply impotence of soul, dull insensibility to all that is beau- tiful, old age before its day—the fruit, perhaps, of his training, his grim struggle for bread, his friendless, bachelor life. He walked slowly, as if against his own will, from the bridge to the wood. There where on a pall of impenetrable black the moonlight shone in jagged patches he remained alone with his thoughts; and he passionately longed to regain all that he had lost. And Ogneff remembers that he re- turned to the house. Goading himself forward with memories of what had passed, straining his imagination to paint Vera's face, he walked quickly as far as the garden. From road and garden the mist had melted away, and a bright, newly washed moon looked down from an unflecked sky; the east alone frowned with clouds. Ogneff remembers his cautious steps, the black windows, the drowsy scent of heliotropes and mignon- ette. He remembers how old friend Karpo, wagging genially his tail, came up and snuffed at his hand. But no other living thing did he see. He remembers how he walked twice around the house, stood awhile before the black window of Vera's room; and abandoning his quest with a sigh returned to the road. An hour later he was back in town; and, weary, broken, leaning his body and hot face against the gate, knocked at the inn. In the distance barked a sleepy dog; and the night watchman at the church beat an iron shield. "Still gadding about at night!" grumbled the Old-Believer, as in a long, woman's night-dress he opened the door. "What do you gain by it? It would be better for you if you stayed at home and prayed to God!" When he entered his room Ogneff threw himself upon the bed, and long gazed steadily at the fire. At last he rose, shook his head, and began to pack his trunk. The M.atch CHAPTER I committed On the morning of October 6, 1885, in the office of the Inspector of Police of the second division of S- Dis- trict, there appeared a respectably dressed young man, who announced that his master, Marcus Ivanovitch Klau- soff, a retired officer of the Horse Guards, separated from his wife, had been murdered. While making this an- nouncement the young man was white and terribly agitated. His hands trem- bled and his eyes were full of terror. "Whom have I the honor of address- ing?" asked the inspector. "Psyekoff, Lieutenant Klausoff's agent; agriculturist and mechanician!"THE MATCH 43 The inspector and his deputy , on vis- iting the scene of the occurence in com- pany with Psyekoff, found the follow- ing: Near the wing in which Klausoff had lived was gathered a dense crowd. The news of the murder had sped swift as lightning through the neighborhood, and the peasantry, thanks to the fact that the day was a holiday, had hurried together from all the neighboring vil- lages. There was much commotion and talk. Here and there, pale, tear-stained faces were seen. The door of Klau- soff's bedroom was found locked. The key was inside. "It is quite clear that the scoundrels got in by the window!" said Psyekoff as they examined the door. They went to the garden, into which the bedroom window opened. The win- dow looked dark and ominous. It was covered by a faded green curtain. One corner of the curtain was slightly turned up, which made it possible to look into the bedroom. "Did any of you look into the win- dow?" asked the inspector. "Certainly not, your worship!" an- swered Ephraim, the gardener, a little gray-haired old man, who looked like a retired sergeant. "Who's going to look in, if all their bones are shaking?" "Ah, Marcus Ivanovitch, Marcus Ivanovitch!" sighed the inspector, look- ing at the window, "I told you you would come to a bad end! I told the dear man, but he wouldn't listen! Dis- sipation doesn't bring any good!" "Thanks to Ephraim," said Psyekoff; "but for him, we would never have guessed. He was the first to guess that something was wrong. He comes to me this morning, and says: 'Why is the master so long getting up? He hasn't left his bedroom for a whole week!' The moment he said that, it was just as if some one had hit me with an ax. The thought flashed through my mind, 'We haven't had a sight of him since last Saturday, and to-day is Sunday'! Seven whole days—not a doubt of it!" "Ay, poor fellow!" again sighed the inspector. "He was a clever fellow, finely educated, and kind-hearted at that! And in society, nobody could touch him! But he was a waster, God rest his soul! I was prepared for any- thing since he refused to live with Olga Petrovna. Poor thing, a good wife, but a sharp tongue! Stephen!" the inspec- tor called to one of his deputies, "go over to my house this minute, and send Andrew to the captain to lodge an in- formation with him! Tell him that Marcus Ivanovitch has been murdered. And run over to the orderly; why should he sit there, kicking his heels? Let him come here! And go as fast as you can to the examining magistrate, Nicholas Yermolai'yevitch. Tell him to come over here! Wait; I'll write him a note!" The inspector posted sentinels around the wing, wrote a letter to the exam- ining magistrate, and then went over to the director's for a glass of tea. Ten minutes later he was sitting on a stool, carefully nibbling a lump of sugar, and swallowing the scalding tea. "There you are!" he was saying to Psyekoff; "there you are! A noble by birth! a rich man—a favorite of the gods, you may say, as Pushkin has it, and what did he come to? He drank and dissipated and—there you are— he's murdered." After a couple of hours the examin- ing magistrate drove up. Nicholas Yer-44 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV molai'yevitch Chubikoff—for that was the magistrate's name—was a tall, fleshy old man of sixty, who had been wrestling with the duties of his office for a quarter of a century. Everybody in the district knew him as an honest man, wise, energetic, and in love with his work. He was accompanied to the scene of the murder by his inveterate companion, fellow worker, and secre- tary, Dukovski, a tall young fellow of twenty-six. "Is it possible, gentlemen?" cried Chubikoff, entering Psyekoff's room, and quickly shaking hands with every- one. Is it possible? Marcus Ivano- vitch? Murdered? No! It is impos- sible ! Im-poss-i-ble!" "Go in there!" sighed the inspector. "Lord, have mercy on us! Only last Friday I saw him at the fair in Fara- bankoff. I had a drink of vodka with him, save the mark!" "Go in there!" again sighed the in- spector. They sighed, uttered exclamations of horror, drank a glass of tea each, and went to the wing. "Get back!" the orderly cried to the peasants. Going to the wing, the examining magistrate began his work by exam- ining the bedroom door. The door proved to be of pine, painted yellow, and was uninjured. Nothing was found which could serve as a clew. They had to break in the door. "Everyone not here on business is re- quested to keep away!" said the magis- trate, when, after much hammering and shaking, the door yielded to ax and chisel. "I request this, in the interest of the investigation. Orderly, don't let anyone in!" Chubikoff, his assistant, and the in- spector opened the door, and hesitat- ingly, one after the other, entered the room. Their eyes met the following sight: Beside the single window stood the big wooden bed with a huge feather mattress. On the crumpled feather bed lay a tumbled, crumpled quilt. The pil- low, in a cotton pillow-case, also much crumped, was dragging on the floor. On the table beside the bed lay a silver watch and a silver twenty-kopeck piece. Beside them lay some sulphur matches. Beside the bed, the little table, and the single chair, there was no furni- ture in the room. Looking under the bed, the inspector saw a couple of dozen empty bottles, an old straw hat, and a quart of vodka. Under the table lay one top boot, covered with dust. Casting a glance around the room, the magistrate frowned and grew red in the face. "Scoundrels!" he muttered, clench- ing his fists. "And where is Marcus Ivanovitch?" asked Dukovski in a low voice. "Mind your own business!" Chub- ikoff answered roughly. "Be good enough to examine the floor! This is not the first case of the kind I have had to deal with! Eugraph Kuzmitch," he said, turning to the inspector, and low- ering his voice, "in 1870 I had another case like this. But you must remember it—the murder of the merchant Por- traitoff. It was just the same there. The scoundrels murdered him, and dragged the corpse out through the win- dow-" Chubikoff went up to the window, pulled the curtain to one side, and care- fully pushed the window. The window opened.THE MATCH 45 "It opens, you see! It wasn't fas- tened. Hm! There are tracks under the window. Look! There is the track of a knee! Somebody got in there. We must examine the window thoroughly." "There is nothing special to be found on the floor," said Dukovski. "No stains or scratches. The only thing I found was a struck safety match. Here it is! So far as I remember, Marcus Ivanovitch did not smoke. And he al- ways used sulphur matches, never safe- ty matches. Perhaps this safety match may serve as a clew!" "Oh, do shut up!" cried the magis- trate deprecatingly. "You go on about your match! I can't abide these dream- ers! Instead of chasing matches, you had better examine the bed!" After a thorough examination of the bed, Dukovski reported: "There are no spots, either of blood or of anything else. There are like- wise no new torn places. On the pillow there are signs of teeth. The quilt is stained with something which looks like beer and smells like beer. The gen- eral aspect of the bed gives grounds for thinking that a struggle took place on it." "I know there was a struggle, with- out your telling me! You are not being asked about a struggle. Instead of looking for struggles, you had bet- "Here is one top boot, but there is no sign of the other." "Well, and what of that?" "It proves that they strangled him, while he was taking his boots off. He hadn't time to take the second boot off when-" "There you go!—and how do you know thev strangled him?" "There are marks of teeth on the pil- low. The pillow itself is badly crumpled, and thrown a couple of yards from the bed." "Listen to his foolishness! Better come into the garden. You would be better employed examining the garden than digging around here. I can do that without you!" When they reached the garden they began by examining the grass. The grass under the window was crushed and trampled. A bushy burdock growing under the window close to the wall was also trampled. Dukovski succeeded in finding on it some broken twigs and a piece of cotton wool. On the upper branches were found some fine hairs of dark blue wool. "What color was his last suit?" Du- kovski asked Psyekoff. "Yellow crash." "Excellent! You see they wore blue!'1 A few twigs of the burdock were cut off, and carefully wrapped in paper by the investigators. At this point Police Captain Artsuybasheff Svistakovski and Dr. Tyutyeff arrived. The captain bade them "Good day!" and immediately be- gan to satisfy his curiosity. The doc- tor, a tall, very lean man, with dull eyes, a long nose, and a pointed chin, without greeting anyone or asking about anything, sat down on a log, sighed, and began: "The Servians are at war again! What in heaven's name can they want now? Austria, it's all your doing!" The examination of the window from the outside did not supply any conclu- sive data. The examination of the grass and the bushes nearest to the window yielded a series of useful clews. For example. Dukovski succeeded in dis-46 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV covering a long, dark streak, made up of spots, on the grass, which led some distance into the center of the garden. The streak ended under one of the lilac bushes in a dark brown stain. Under this same lilac bush was found a top boot, which turned out to be the fellow of the boot already found in the bed- room. "That is a blood stain made some time ago," said Dukovski, examining the spot. At the word "blood" the doctor rose, and going over lazily, looked at the spot. "Yes, it is blood!" he muttered. "That shows he wasn't strangled, if there was blood," said Chubikoff, look- ing sarcastically at Dukovski. "They strangled him in the bedroom; and here, fearing he might come round again, they struck him a blow with some sharp-pointed instrument. The stain under the bush proves that he lay there a considerable time, while they were looking about for some way of carrying him out of the garden. "Well, and how about the boot?" "The boot confirms completely my idea that they murdered him while he was taking his boots off before going to bed. He had already taken off one boot, and the other, this one here, he had only had time to take half off. The half-off boot came off of itself, while the body was dragged over, and fell-" "There's a lively imagination for you!" laughed Chubikoff. "He goes on and on like that! When will you learn enough to drop your deductions? In- stead of arguing and deducing, it would be much better if you took some of the blood-stained grass for analysis!" When they had finished- their exam- ination, and drawn a plan of the lo- cality, the investigators went to the director's office to write their report and have breakfast. While they were breakfasting they went on talking: "The watch, the money, and so on— all untouched—" Chubikoff began, lead- ing off the talk, "show as clearly as that two and two are four that the mur- der was not committed for the purpose of robbery." "The murder was committed by an educated man!" insisted Dukovski. "What evidence have you of that?" "The safety match proves that to me, for the peasants hereabouts are not yet acquainted with safety matches. Only the landowners use them, and by no means all of them. And it is evident that there was not one murderer, but at least three. Two held him, while one killed him. Klausoff was strong, and the murderers must have known it!" "What good would his strength be, supposing he was asleep?" "The murderers came on him while he was taking off his boots. If he was taking off his boots, that proves that he wasn't asleep!" "Stop inventing your deductions! Better eat!" "In my opinion, your worship," said the gardener Ephraim, setting the sam- ovar on the table, "it was nobody but Nicholas who did this dirty trick!" "Quite possible," said Psyekoff. "And who is Nicholas?" "The master's valet, your worship," answered Ephraim. "Who else could it be? He's a rascal, your worship! He's a drunkard and a blackguard, the like of which Heaven should not permit! He always took the master his vodka and put the master to bed. Who elseTHE MATCH 47 could it be? And I also venture to point out to your worship,, he once boasted at the public house that he would kill the master! It happened on account of Aquilina, the woman, you know. He was making up to a soldier's widow. She pleased the master; the master made friends with her himself, and Nicholas—naturally, he was mad! He is rolling about drunk in the kitchen now. He is crying, and telling lies, say- ing he is sorry for the master-" The examining magistrate ordered Nicholas to be brought. Nicholas, a lanky young fellow, with a long, freckled nose, narrow-chested9 and wearing an old jacket of his master's, entered Psye- koff's room, and bowed low before the magistrate. His face was sleepy and tear-stained. He was tipsy and could hardly keep his feet. "Where is your master?" Chubikoff asked him. "Murdered! your worship!" As he said this, Nicholas blinked and began to weep. "We know he was murdered. But where is he now? Where is his body?" "They say he was dragged out of the window and buried in the garden!" "Hum! The results of the investi- gation are known in the kitchen already! —That's bad! Where were you, my good fellow, the night the master was murdered? Saturday night, that is." Nicholas raised his head, stretched his neck, and began to think. "I don't know, your worship," he said. "I was drunk and don't remem- ber." "An alibi!" whispered Dukovski, smiling, and rubbing his hands. "So-o! And why is there blood under the master's window?" Nicholas jerked his head up and con- sidered. "Hurry up!" said the Captain of Po- lice. "Right away! That blood doesn't amount to anything, your worship! I was cutting a chicken's throat. I was doing it quite simply, in the usual way, when all of a sudden it broke away and started to run. That is where the blood came from." Ephraim declared that Nicholas did kill a chicken every evening, and always in some new place, but that nobody ever heard of a half-killed chicken run- ning about the garden, though of course it wasn't impossible. "An alibi," sneered Dukovski; "and what an asinine alibi!" "Did you know Aquilina?" "Yes, your worship, I know her." "And the master cut you out with her?" "Not at all. He cut me out—Mr. Psyekoff there, Ivan Mikhailovitch; and the master cut Ivan Mikhailovitch out. That is how it was." Psyekoff grew confused and began to scratch his left eye. Dukovski looked at him attentively, noted his confusion, and started. He noticed that the di- rector had dark blue trousers, which he had not observed before. The trousers reminded him of the dark blue threads found on the burdock. Chubikoff in his turn glanced suspiciously at Psye- koff. "Go!" he said to Nicholas. "And now permit me to put a question to you, Mr. Psyekoff. Of course you were here last Saturday evening?" "Yes! I had supper with Marcus Ivanovitch about ten o'clock." "And afterwards?"48 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV "Afterwards—afterwards— Really, I do not remember," stammered Psyekoff. "I had a good deal to drink at supper. I don't remember when or where I went to sleep. Why are you all looking at me like that, as if I was the murderer?" "Where were you when you woke up?" "I was in the servants' kitchen, lying behind the stove! They can all con- firm it. How I got behind the stove I don't know-" "Do not get agitated. Did you know Aquilina?" "There's nothing extraordinary about that-" "She first liked you and then pre- ferred Klausoff?" "Yes. Ephraim, give us some more mushrooms! Do you want some more tea, Eugraph Kuzmitch?" A heavy, oppressive silence began and lasted fully five minutes. Dukovski si- lently kept his piercing eyes fixed on Psyekoff's pale face. The silence was finally broken by the examining magis- trate : "We must go to the house and talk with Maria Ivanovna, the sister of the deceased. Perhaps she may be able to supply some clews." Chubikoff and his assistant expressed their thanks for the breakfast, and went toward the house. They found Klaus- off's sister, Maria Ivanovna, an old maid of forty-five, at prayer before the big case of family icons. When she saw the portfolios in her guests' hands, and their official caps, she grew pale. "Let me begin by apoligizing for dis- turbing, so to speak, your devotions," began the gallant Chubikoff, bowing and scraping. "We have come to you with a request. Of course, you have heard already. There is a suspicion that your dear brother, in some way or other, has been murdered. The will of God, you know. No one can escape death, neither czar nor plowman. Could you not help us with some clew, some explana- tion-?" "Oh, don't ask me!" said Maria Ivan- ovna, growing still paler, and covering her face with her hands. "I can tell you nothing. Nothing! I beg you! I know nothing—What can I do? Oh, no! no!—not a word about my brother! If I die, I won't say anything!" Maria Ivanovna J)egan to weep, and left the room. The investigators looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders, and beat a retreat. "Confound the woman!" scolded Du- kovski, going out of the house. "It is clear she knows something, and is con- cealing it! And the chambermaid has a queer expression too! Wait, you wretches! We'll ferret it all out!" In the evening Chubikoff and his dep- uty, lit on their road by the pale moon, wended their way homeward. They sat in their carriage and thought over the results of the day. Both were tired and kept silent. Chubikoff was always un- willing to talk while traveling, and the talkative Dukovski remained silent, to fall in with the elder man's humor. But at the end of their journey the deputy could hold in no longer, and said: "It is quite certain," he said, "that Nicholas had something to do with the matter. Non dubitandum est! You can see by his face what sort of a case he is! His alibi betrays him, body and bones. But it is also certain that he did not set the thing going. He was only the stupid hired tool. You agree? And the humble Psyekoff was not with-THE MATCH 49 out some slight share in the matter. His dark blue breeches, his agitation, his lying behind the stove in terror after the murder, his alibi and—Aqui- lina-" "'Grind away, Emilian; it's your week!' So, according to you, whoever knew Aquilina is the murderer! Hot- head! You ought to be sucking a bot- tle, and not handling affairs! You were one of Aquilina's admirers yourself— does it follow that you are implicated too?" "Aquilina was cook in your house for a month. I am saying nothing about that! The night before that Saturday I was playing cards with you, and saw you, otherwise I should be after you too! It isn't the woman that matters, old chap! It is the mean, nasty, low spirit of jealousy that matters. The retiring young man was not pleased when they got the better of him, you see! His vanity, don't you see? He wanted revenge. Then, those thick lips of his suggest passion. So there you have it: wounded self-love and passion. That is quite enough motive for a mur- der. We have two of them in our hands; but who is the third? Nicholas and Psyekoff held him, but who smothered him? Psyekoff is shy, timid, an all-round coward. And Nicholas would not know how to smother with a pillow. His sort use an ax or a club. Some third person did the smothering; but who was it?" Dukovski crammed his hat down over his eyes and pondered. He remained silent until the carriage rolled up to the magistrate's door. "Eureka!" he said, entering the little house and throwing off his overcoat. "Eureka, Nicholas Yermolaiyevitch! The only thing I can't understand is, how it did not occur to me sooner! Do you know who the third person was?" "Oh, for goodness sake, shut up! There is supper! Sit down to your evening meal!" The magistrate and Dukovski sat down to supper. Dukovski poured himself out a glass of vodka, rose, drew himself up, and said, with sparkling eyes: "Well, learn that the third person, who acted in concert with that scoun- drel Psyekoff, and did the smothering, was a woman! Yes-s! I mean—the murdered man's sister, Maria Ivan- ovna!" Chubikoff choked over his vodka, and fixed his eyes on Dukovski. "You aren't—what's-its-name? Your head isn't what-do-you-call-it? You haven't a pain in it?" "I am perfectly well! Very well, let us say that I am crazy; but how do you explain her confusion when we ap- peared? How do you explain her un- willingness to give us any information? Let us admit that these are trifles. Very well! All right! But remember their relations. She detested her brother. She never forgave him for living apart from his wife. She is of the Old Faith, while in her eyes he is a godless profli- gate. There is where the germ of her hate was hatched. They say he suc- ceeded in making her believe that he was an angel of Satan. He even went in for spiritualism in her presence!" "Well, what of that?" "You don't understand? She, as a member of the Old Faith, murdered him through fanaticism. It was not only that she was putting to death a weed, a profligate—she was freeing the50 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV world of an antichrist!—and there in her opinion, was her service, her re- ligious achievement! Oh, you don't know those old maids of the Old Faith. Read Dostoyevsky! And what does Lyeskoff say about them, or Petcher- ski? It was she, and nobody else, even if you cut me open. She smothered him! O treacherous woman! wasn't that the reason why she was kneeling before the icons, when we came in, just to take our attention away? 'Let me kneel down and pray/ she said to her- self, "and they will think I am tranquil and did not expect them!' That is the plan of all novices in crime, Nicholas Yermolaiyevitch, old pal! My dear old man, won't you intrust this business to me? Let me personally bring it through! Friend, I began it and I will finish it!" Chubikoff shook his head and frowned. "We know how to manage difficult matters ourselves," he said; "and your business is not to push yourself in where you don't belong. Write from dicta- tion when you are dictated to; that is your job!" Dukovski flared up, banged the door, and disappeared. "Clever rascal!" muttered Chubikoff, glancing after him. "Awfully clever! But too much of a hothead. I must buy him a cigar case at the fair as a present." The next day, early in the morning, a young man with a big head and a pursed-up mouth, who came from Klau- soffs place, was introduced to the mag- istrate's office. He said he was the shepherd Daniel, and brought a very in- teresting piece of information. "I was a bit drunk," he said. "I was with my pal till midnight. On my way home, as I was drunk, I went into the river for a bath. I was taking a bath, when I looked up. Two men were walk- ing along the dam, carrying something black. 'Shoo!' I cried at them. They got scared, and went off like the wind toward Makareff's cabbage garden. Strike me dead, if they weren't carrying away the master!" That same day, toward evening, Psye- koff and Nicholas were arrested and brought under guard to the district town. In the town they were com- mitted to the cells of the prison. CHAPTER II confession A fortnight passed. It was morning. The magistrate Nicholas Yermolaiyevitch was sitting in his office before a green table, turn- ing over the papers of the "Klausoff case"; Dukovski was striding restlessly up and down, like a wolf in a cage. "You are convinced of the guilt of Nicholas and Psyekoff," he said, ner- vously plucking at his young beard. "Why will you not believe in the guilt of Maria Ivanovna? Are there not proofs enough for you?" "I don't say I am not convinced. I am convinced, but somehow I don't be- lieve it! There are no real proofs, but just a kind of philosophizing—fanati- cism, this and that-" "You can't do without an ax and bloodstained sheets. Those jurists! Very well, I'll prove it to you! You will stop sneering at the psychological side of the affair! To Siberia with your Maria Ivanovna! I will prove it! If philosophy is not enough for you, ITHE MATCH 51 have something substantial for you. It will show you how correct my philos- ophy is. Just give me permission-" "What are you going on about?" "About the safety match! Have you forgotten it? I haven't! I am going to find out who struck it in the murdered man's room. It was not Nicholas that struck it; it was not Psyekoff, for neither of them had any matches when they were examined; it was the third person, Maria Ivanovna. I will prove it to you. Just give me permission to go through the district to find out." "That's enough! Sit down. Let us go on with the examination." Dukovski sat down at a little table, and plunged his long nose in a bundle of papers. "Bring in Nicholas Tetekhoff!" cried the examining magistrate. They brought Nicholas in. Nicholas was pale and thin as a rail. He was trembling. "Tetekhoff!" began Chubikoff. "In 1879 you were tried in the Court of the First Division, convicted of theft, and sentenced to imprisonment. In 1882 you were tried a second time for theft, and were again imprisoned. We know all-" Astonishment was depicted on Nicholas's face. The examining magis- trate's omniscience startled him. But soon his expression of astonishment changed to extreme indignation. He began to cry and requested permission to go and wash his face and quiet down. They led him away. "Bring in Psyekoff!" ordered the ex- amining magistrate. They brought in Psyekoff. The young man had changed greatly during the last few days. He had grown thin and pale, and looked haggard. His eyes had an apathetic expression. "Sit down, Psyekoff," said Chubikoff. "I hope that today you are going to be reasonable, and will not tell lies, as you did before. All these days you have de- nied that you had anything to do with the murder of Klausoff, in spite of all the proofs that testify against you. That is foolish. Confession will lighten your guilt. This is the last time I am going to talk to you. If you do not confess to-day, to-morrow it will be too late. Come, tell me all-" "I know nothing about it. I know nothing about your proofs," answered Psyekoff, almost inaudibly. "It's no use! Well, let me relate to you how the matter took place. On Saturday evening you were sitting in Klausoff's sleeping room, and drinking vodka and beer with him." (Dukovski fixed his eyes on Psyekoff's face, and kept them there all through the exam- ination.) "Nicholas was waiting on you. At one o'clock, Marcus Ivano- vitch announced his intention of going to bed. He always went to bed at one o'clock. When he was taking off his boots, and was giving you direction about details of management, you and Nicholas, at a given signal, seized your drunken master and threw him on the bed. One of you sat on his legs, the other on his head. Then a third person came in from the passage—a woman in a black dress, whom you know well, and who hvad previously arranged with you as to her share in your criminal deed. She seized a pillow and began to smother him. While the struggle was going on the candle went out. The woman took a box of safety matches from her pocket, and lit the candle.52 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV Was it not so? I see by your face that I am speaking the truth. But to go on. After you had smothered him, and saw that he had ceased breathing, you and Nicholas pulled him out through the window and laid him down near the burdock. Fearing that he might come round again, you struck him with some- thing sharp. Then you carried him away, and laid him down under a lilac bush for a short time. After resting awhile and considering, you carried him across the fence. Then you entered the road. After that comes the dam. Near the dam, a peasant frightened you. Well, what is the matter with you?" "I am suffocating!" replied Psyekoff. "Very well—have it so. Only let me go out, please!" They led Psyekoff away. "At last! He has confessed!" cried Chubikoff, stretching himself luxuri- ously. "He has betrayed himself! And didn't I get round him cleverly! Reg- ularly caught him napping-" "And he doesn't deny the woman in the black dress!" exulted Dukovski. "But all the same, that safety match is tormenting me frightfully. I can't stand it any longer. Good-by! I am off!" Dukovski put on his cap and drove off. Chubikoff began to examine Aqui- lina. Acquilina declared that she knew nothing whatever about it. At six that evening Dukovski re- turned. He was more agitated than he had ever been before. His hands trem- bled so that he could not even unbutton his greatcoat. His cheeks glowed. It was clear that he did not come empty- handed. "Veni, vidi, vici!" he cried, rushing into Chubikoff's room, and falling into an armchair. "I swear to you on my honor, I begin to believe that I am a genius! Listen, devil take us all! It is funny, and it is sad. We have caught three already—isn't that so? Well, I have found the fourth, and a woman at that. You will never believe who it is! But listen. I went to Klausoff's village, and began to make a spiral round it. I visited all the little shops, public houses, dram shops on the road, everywhere asking for safety matches. Everywhere they said they hadn't any. I made a wide round. Twenty times I lost faith, and twenty times I got it back again. I knocked about the whole day, and only an hour ago I got on the track. Three versts from here. They gave me a packet of ten boxes. One box was missing. Immediately: 'Who bought the other box?' 'Such-a-one! She was pleased with them!' Old man! Nicholas Yermolai'yevitch! See what a fellow who was expelled from the sem- inary and who has read Gaboriau can do! From to-day on I begin to respect myself! Oof! Well, come!" "Come where?" "To her, to number four! We must hurry, otherwise—otherwise I'll burst with impatience! Do you know who she is? You'll never guess! Olga Petrovna, Marcus Ivanovitch's wife— his own wife—that's who it is! She is the person who bought the matchbox!" "You—you—you are out of your mind!" "It's quite simple! To begin with, she smokes. Secondly, she was head and ears in love with Klausoff, even after he refused to live in the same house with her, because she was always scolding his head off. Why, they say she used to beat him because she lovec him so much. And then he positivelyTHE MATCH 53 refused to stay in the same house. Love turned sour. 'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.' But come along! Quick, or it will be dark. Come!" "I am not yet sufficiently crazy to go and disturb a respectable honorable woman in the middle of the night for a crazy boy!" "Respectable, honorable! Do honor- able women murder their husbands? After that you are a rag, and not an examining magistrate! I never ventured to call you names before, but now you compel me to. Rag! Dressing-gown!— Dear Nicholas Yermolaiyevitch, do come, I beg of you-!" The magistrate made a deprecating motion with his hand. "I beg of you! I ask, not for myself, but in the interests of justice. I beg you! I implore you! Do what I ask you to, just this once!" Dukovski went down on his knees. "Nicholas Yermolaiyevitch! Be kind! Call me a blackguard, a ne'er-do-well, if I am mistaken about this woman. You see what an affair it is. What a case it is. A romance! A woman murdering her own husband for love! The fame of it will go all over Russia. They will make you investigator in all important cases. Understand, 0 foolish old man!" The magistrate frowned, and unde- cidedly stretched his hand toward his cap. "Oh, the devil take you!" he said. "Let us go!" It was dark when the magistrate's carriage rolled up to the porch of the old country house in which Olga Petrovna had taken refuge with her brother. "What pigs we are," said Chubikoff, taking hold of the bell, "to disturb a poor woman like this!" "It's all right! It's all right! Don't get frightened! We can say that we have broken a spring." Chubikoff and Dukovski were met at the threshold by a tall buxom woman of three and twenty, with pitch-black brows and juicy red lips. It was Olga Petrovna herself, apparently not the least dis- tressed by the recent tragedy. "Oh, what a pleasant surprise!" she said, smiling broadly. "You are just in time for supper. Kuzma Petrovitch is not at home. He is visiting the priest, and has stayed late. But we'll get on without him! Be seated. You have come from the examination?" "Yes. We broke a spring, you know," began Chubikoff, entering the sitting room and sinking into an armchair. "Take her unawares—at once!" whispered Dukovski; "take her un- awares!" "A spring—hum—yes—so we came in." "Take her unawares, I tell you! She will guess what the matter is if you drag things out like that." "Well, do it yourself as you want. But let me get out of it," muttered Chubikoff , rising and going to the window. "Yes, a spring," began Dukovski, going close to Olga Petrovna and wrinkling his long nose. "We did not drive over here —to take supper with you or—to see Kuzma Petrovitch. We came here to ask you, respected madam, wheie Marcus Ivanovitch is, whom you murdered!" "What? Marcus Ivanovitch mur- dered?" stammered Olga Petrovna, and her broad face suddenly and instan- taneously flushed bright scarlet. "I don't —understand!"54 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV "I ask you in the name cf the law! Where in Klausoff? We know all!" "Who told you?" Olga Petrovna asked in a low voice, unable to endure Dukovski's glance. "Be so good as to show us where he is!" "But how did you find out? Who told you?" "We know all! I demand it in the name of the law!" The examining magistrate, emboldened by her confusion, came forward and said: "Show us, and we will go away. Other- wise, we-" What do you want with him?" "Madam, what Is the use of these questions? We ask you to show us! You tremble, you are agitated. Yes, he has been murdered, and, if you must have it, murdered by you. Your ac- complices have betrayed you!" Olga Petrovna grew pale. Come!" she said in a low voice, wring- ing her hands. "I have him—hid—in the bath house! Only for heaven's sake, do not tell Kuzma Petrovitch. I beg and implore you! He will never forgive me!" Olga Petrovna took down a big key from the wall, and led her guests through the kitchen and passage to the courtyard. The courtyard was in darkness. Fine rain was falling. Olga Petrovna walked in advance of them. Chubdkoff and Dukovski strode behind her through the long grass, as the odor of wild hemp and dishwater splashing under their feet reached them. The courtyard was wide. Soon the dishwater ceased, and they felt freshly broken earth under their feet. In the darkness appeared the shadowy out- lines of trees, and among the trees a little house with a crooked chimney. "That is the bath house," said Olga Petrovna. "But I implore you, do not tell my brother! If you do, I'll never hear the end of it!" Going up to the bath house, Chubikoff and Dukovski saw a huge padlock on the door. "Get your candle and matches ready," whispered the examining magistrate to his deputy. Olga Petrovna unfastened the padlock, and let her guests into the bath house. Dukovski struck a match and lit up the anteroom. In the middle of the anteroom stood a table. On the table, beside a sturdy little samovar, stood a soup tureen with cold cabbage soup and a plate with the remnants of some sauce. "Forward!" They went into the next room, where the bath was. There was a table there also. On the table was a dish with some ham, a bottle of vodka, plates, knives, forks. "But where is it—where is the mur- dered man?" asked the examining magis- trate. "On the top tier," whispered Olga Petrovna, still pale and trembling. Dukovski took the candle in his hand and climbed up to the top tier of the sweating frame. There he saw a long human body lying motionless on a large feather bed. A slight snore came from the body. "You are making fun of us, devil take it!" cried Dukovski. "That is not the murdered man! Some live fool is lying here. Here, whoever you are, the devil take you!" The body drew in a quick breath and stirred. Dukovski stuck his elbow into it. It raised a hand, stretched itself, and lifted its head. "Who is sneaking in here?" asked aTHE MATCH 55 hoarse, heavy bass. "What do you want?" Dukovski raised the candle to the face of the unknown, and cried out. In the red nose, disheveled, unkempt hair, the pitch-black mustaches, one of which was jauntily twisted and pointed insolently toward the ceiling, he recognized the gal- lant cavalryman Klausoff. "You—Marcus—Ivanovitch? Is it possible?" The examining magistrate glanced sharply up at him, and stood spellbound. "Yes, it is I. That's you, Dukovski? What the devil do you want here? And who's that other mug down there? Great snakes; It is the examining magistrate! What fate has brought him here?" Klausoff rushed down and threw his arms round Chubikoff in a cordial em- brace. Olga Petrovna slipped through the door. "How did you come here? Let's have a drink, devil take it! Tra-ta-ti-to-tum —let us drink! But who brought you here? How did you find out that I was here? But it doesn't matter! Let's have a drink!" Klausoff lit the lamp and poured out three glasses of vodka. "That is—I don't understand you," said the examining magistrate, running his hands over him. "Is this you or not you!" "Oh, shut up! You want to preach me a sermon? Don't trouble yourself! Young Dukovski, empty your glass! Friends, let us bring this—What are you looking at? Drink!" "All the same, I do not understand!" said the examining magistrate, mechani- cally drinking off the vodka. "What are you here for?" "Why shouldn't I be here, if I am all right here?" Klausoff drained his glass and took a bite of ham. "I am in captivity here, as you see. In solitude, in a cavern, like a ghost or a bogey. Drink! She carried me off and locked me up, and—well, I am living here, in the deserted bath house, like a hermit. I am fed. Next week I think I'll try to get out. I'm tired of it here!" "Incomprehensible!" said Dukovski. "What is incomprehensible about it?" "Incomprehensible! For Heaven's sake, how did your boot get into the gar- den?" "What boot?" "We found one boot in the sleeping room and the other in the garden." "And what do you want to know that for? It's none of your business. Why don't you drink, devil take you? If you wakened me, then drink with me! It is an interesting tale, brother, that of the boot! I didn't want to go with Olga. I don't like to be bossed. She came under the window and began to abuse me. She always was a termagant. You know what women are like, all of them. I was a bit drunk, so I took a boot and heaved it at her. Ha-ha-ha! Teach her not to scold another time! But it didn't! Not a bit of it! She climbed in at the win- dow, lit the lamp, and began to hammer poor tipsy me. She thrashed me, dragged me over here, and locked me in. She feeds me now—on love, vodka, and ham! But where are you off to, Chubikoff? Where are you going?" The examining magistrate swore, and left the bath house. Dukovski followed him, crestfallen. They silently took their seats in the carriage and drove off. The road never seemed to them so long56 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV and disagreeable as it did that time. Both remained silent. Chubikoff trembled with rage all the way. Dukovski hid his nose in the collar of his overcoat, as if he was afraid that the darkness and the drizzling rain might read the shame in his face. When they reached home, the examin- ing magistrate found Dr. Tyutyeff await- ing him. The doctor was sitting at the table, and, sighing deeply, was turning over the pages of the Neva. "Such goings-on there are in the world!" he said, meeting the examining magistrate with a sad smile. "Austria is at it again! And Gladstone also to some extent-" Chubikoff threw his cap under the table, and shook himself. "Devils' skeletons! Don't plague me! A thousand times I have told you not to bother me with your politics! This is no question of politics! And you," said Chubikoff, turning to Dukovski and shaking his fist, "I won't forget this in a thousand years!" "But the safety match? How could I know?" "Choke yourself with your safety match! Get out of my way! Don't make me mad, or the devil only knows what I'll do to you! Don't let me see a trace of you!" Dukovski sighed, took his hat, and went out. "I'll go and get drunk," he decided, going through the door, and gloomily wending his way to the public house. Excellent People Once upon a time there lived in Moscow a man called Vladimir Sem- yonitch Liadovsky. He took his de- gree at the university in the faculty of law and had a post on the board of management of some railway; but if you had asked him what his work was, he would look candidly and openly at you with his large bright eyes through his gold pince-nez, and would answer in a soft, velvety, lisping baritone: "My work is literature." After completing his course at the university, Vladimir Semyonitch had had a paragraph of theatrical criticism accepted by a newspaper. From this paragraph he passed on to reviewing, and a year later he had advanced to writing a weekly article on literary mat- ters for the same paper. But it does not follow from these facts that he was an amateur, that his literary work was of an ephemeral, haphazard character. Whenever I saw his neat spare figure, his high forehead and long mane of hair, when I listened to his speeches, it always seemed to me that his writ- ing, quite apart from what and how he wrote, was something organically part of him, like the beating of his heart, and that his whole literary pro- gramme must have been an integral part of his brain while he was a baby in his mother's womb. Even in his walk, his gestures, his manner of shak- ing off the ash from his cigarette, I could read this whole programme from A to Z, with all its claptrap, dullness, and honorable sentiments. He was a literary man all over when with an in-EXCELLENT PEOPLE 57 spired face he laid a wreath on the cof- fin of some celebrity, or with a grave and solemn face collected signatures for some address; his passion for mak- ing the acquaintance of distinguished literary men, his faculty for finding talent even where it was absent, his perpetual enthusiasm, his pulse that went at one hundred and twenty a minute, his ignorance of life, the gen- uinely feminine flutter with which he threw himself into concerts and liter- ary evenings for the benefit of desti- tute students, the way in which he gravitated towards the young—all this would have created for him the repu- tation of a writer even if he had not written his articles. He was one of those writers to whom phrases like, "We are but few," or "What would life be without strife? Forward!" were pre-eminently becom- ing, though he never strove with any one and never did go forward. It did not even sound mawkish when he fell to discoursing of ideals. Every anni- versary of the University on St. Ta- tiana's Day, he got drunk, chanted Gaudeamus out of tune, and his beam- ing and perspiring countenance seemed to say: "See, I'm drunk; I'm keeping it up!" But even that suited him. Vladimir Semyonitch had genuine faith in his literary vocation and his whole programme. He had no doubts, and was evidently very well pleased with himself. Only one thing grieved him—the paper for which he worked had a limited circulation and was not very influential. But Vladimir Sem- yonitch believed that sooner or later he would succeed in getting on to a solid magazine where he would have scope and could display himself—and what little distress he felt on this score was pale beside the brilliance of his hopes. Visiting this charming man, I made the acquaintance of his sister, Vera Semyonovna, a woman doctor. At first sight, what struck me about this woman was her look of exhaustion and ex- treme ill-health. She was young, with a good figure and regular, rather large features, but in comparison with her agile, elegant, and talkative brother she seemed angular, listless, slovenly, and sullen. There was something strained, cold, apathetic in her movements, smiles, and words; she was not liked, and was thought proud and not very intelligent. In reality, I fancy, she was resting. "My dear friend," her brother would often say to me, sighing and flinging back his hair in his picturesque liter- ary way, "one must never judge by appearances! Look at this book: it has long ago been read. It is warped, tat- tered, and lies in the dust uncared for; but open it, and it will make you weep and turn pale. My sister is like that book. Lift the cover and peep into her soul, and you will be horror- stricken. Vera passed in some three months through experiences that would have been ample for a whole lifetime!" Vladimir Semyonitch looked round him, took me by the sleeve, and began to whisper: "You know, after taking her degree she married, for love, an architect. It's a complete tragedy! They had hardly been married a month when—whew— her husband died of typhus. But that was not all. She caught typhus from him, and when, on her recovery, she learnt that her Ivan was dead, she took58 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV a good dose of morphia. If it had not been for vigorous measures taken by her friends, my Vera would have been by now in Paradise. Tell me, isn't it a tragedy? And is not my sister like an ingenue, who has played already all the five acts of her life? The audience may stay for the farce, but the ingenue must go home to rest." After three months of misery Vera Semyonovna had come to live with her brother. She was not fitted for the practice of medicine, which exhausted her and did not satisfy her; she did not give one the impression of know- ing her subject, and I never once heard her say anything referring to her med- ical studies. She gave up medicine, and, silent and unoccupied, as though she were a pris- oner, spent the remainder of her youth in colorless apathy, with bowed head and hanging hands. The only thing to which she was not completely indiffer- ent, and which brought some brightness into the twilight of her life, was the presence of her brother, whom she loved. She loved him himself and his programme; she was full of reverence for his articles; and when she was asked what her brother was doing, she would answer in a subdued voice as though afraid of waking or distracting him: "He is writing. . . Usually when he was at his work she used to sit beside him, her eyes fixed on his writ- ing hand. She used at such moments to look like a sick animal warming itself in the sun. ... One winter evening Vladimir Sem- yonitch was sitting at his table writ- ing a critical article for his newspaper: Vera Semyonovna was sitting beside him, staring as usual at his writing hand. The critic wrote rapidly, with- out erasures or corrections. The pen scratched and squeaked. On the table near the writing hand there lay open a freshly-cut volume of a thick maga- zine, containing a story of peasant life, signed with two initials. Vladimir Sem- yonitch was enthusiastic; he thought the author was admirable in his han- dling of the subject, suggested Tur- genev in his descriptions of nature, was truthful, and had an excellent knowl- edge of the life of the peasantry. The critic himself knew nothing of peasant life except from books and hearsay, but his feelings and his inner convictions forced him to believe the story. He foretold a brilliant future for the author, assured him he should await the con- clusion of the story with great im- patience, and so on. "Fine story!" he said, flinging him- self back in his chair and closing his eyes with pleasure. "The tone is ex- tremely good." Vera Semyonovna looked at him, yawned aloud, and suddenly asked an unexpected question. In the evening she had a habit of yawning nervously and asking short, abrupt questions, not always relevant. "Volodya," she asked, "what is the meaning of non-resistance to evil?" "Non-resistance to evil!" repeated her brother, opening his eyes. "Yes. What do you understand by it?" "You see, my dear, imagine that thieves or brigands attack you, and you, instead of . . ." "No, give me a logical definition." "A logical definition? Um! Well." Vladimir Semyonitch pondered. "Non- resistance to evil means an attitude ofEXCELLENT PEOPLE 59 non-interference with regard to all that in the sphere of mortality is called evil." Saying this, Vladimir Semyonitch bent over the table and took up a novel. This novel, written by a woman, dealt with the painfulness of the ir- regular position of a society lady who was living under the same roof with her lover and her illegitimate child. Vladimir Semyonitch was pleased with the excellent tendency of the story, the plot and the presentation of it. Mak- ing a brief summary of the novel, he selected the best passages and added to them in his account: "How true to reality, how living, how picturesque! The author is not merely an artist; he is also a subtle psychologist who can see into the hearts of his characters. Take, for example, this vivid descrip- tion of the emotions of the heroine on meeting her husband," and so on. "Volodya," Vera Semyonovna inter- rupted his critical effusions, "I've been haunted by a strange idea since yes- terday. I keep wondering where we should all be if human life were or- dered on the basis of non-resistance to evil?" "In all probability, nowhere. Non- resistance to evil would give the full rein to the criminal will, and, to say nothing of civilization, this would leave not one stone standing upon another anywhere on earth." "What would be left?" "Bashi-Bazouke and brothels. In my next article I'll talk about that per- haps. Thank you for reminding me." And a week later my friend kept his promise. That was just at the period —in the eighties—when, people were be- ginning to talk and write of non-re- sistance, of the right to judge, to pun- ish, to make war; when some people in our set were beginning to do with- out servants, to retire into the coun- try, to work on the land, and to re- nounce animal food and carnal love. After reading her brother's article, Vera Semyonovna pondered and hardly perceptibly shrugged her shoulders. "Very nice!" she said. "But still there's a great deal I don't understand. For instance, in Leskov's story 'Belong- ing to the Cathedral' there is a queer gardener who sows for the benefit of all—for customers, for beggars, and any who care to steal. Did he behave sen- sibly?" From his sister's tone and expression Vladimir Semyonitch saw that she did not like his article, and, almost for the first time in his life, his vanity as an author sustained a shock. With a shade of irritation he answered: "Theft is immoral! To sow for thieves is to recognize the right of thieves to existence. What would you think if I were to establish a news- paper and, dividing it into sections, provide for blackmailing as well as for liberal ideas? Following the example of that gardener, I ought, logically, to provide a section for blackmailers, the intellectual scoundrels? Yes." Vera Semyonovna made no answer. She got up from the table, moved lan- guidly to the sofa and lay down. "I don't know, I know nothing about it," she said musingly. "You are prob- ably right, but it seems to me, I feel something false in our resistance to evil, as though there were something concealed or unsaid. God knows, per- haps our methods of resisting evil be- long to the category of prejudices which60 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV have become so deeply rooted in us, that we are incapable of parting with them, and therefore cannot form a cor- rect judgment of them." "How do you mean?" "I don't know how to explain to you. Perhaps man is mistaken in thinking that he is obliged to resist evil and has a right to do so, just as he is mistaken in thinking, for instance that the heart looks like an ace of hearts. It is very possible in resisting evil we ought not to use force, but to use what is the very opposite of force—if you, for instance, don't want this picture stolen from you, you ought to give it away rather than lock it up. . . "That's clever, very clever! If I want to marry a rich, vulgar woman, she ought to prevent me from such a shabby action by hastening to make me an offer herself!" The brother and sister talked till midnight without understanding each other. If any outsider had overheard them he would hardly have been able to make out what either of them was driving at. They usually spent the evening at home. There were no friends' houses to which they could go, and they felt no need for friends; they only went to the theater when there was a new play —such was the custom in literary cir- cles—they did not go to concerts, for they did not care for music. "You may think what you like," Vera Semyonoyna began again the next day, "but for me the question is to a great extent settled. I am firmly con- vinced that I have no grounds for re- sisting evil directed against me per- sonally. If they want to kill me, let them. My defending myself will not make the murderer better. All I have now to decide is the second half of the question: how I ought to behave to evil directed against my neighbors?" "Vera, mind you don't become rabid!" said Vladimir Semyonitch, laughing. "I see non-resistance is becoming your idSe fixe!" He wanted to turn off these tedious conversations with a jest, but somehow it was beyond a jest; his smile was artificial and sour. His sister gave up sitting beside his table and gazing rev- erently at his writing hand, and he felt every evening that behind him on the sofa lay a person who did not agree with him. And his back grew stiff and numb, and there was a chill in his soul. An author's vanity is vindictive, im- placable, incapable of forgiveness, and his sister was the first and only person who had laid bare and disturbed that uneasy feeling, which is like a big box of crockery, easy to unpack but im- possible to pack up again as it was before. Weeks and months passed by, and his sister clung to her ideas, and did not sit down by the table. One spring evening Vladimir Semyonitch was sit- ting at his table writing an article. He was reviewing a novel which described how a village schoolmistress refused the man whom she loved and who loved her, a man both wealthy and intel- lectual simply because marriage made her work as a schoolmistress impos- sible. Vera Semyonovna lay on the sofa and brooded. "My God, how slow it is!" she said, stretching. "How insipid and empty life is! I don't know what to do with myself, and you are wasting your best years in goodness knows what. LikeEXCELLENT PEOPLE 61 some alchemist, you are rummaging in old rubbish that nobody wants. My God!" Vladimir Semyonitch dropped his pen and slowly looked round at his sister. "It's depressing to look at you!" said his sister. "Wagner in 'Faust' dug up worms, but he was looking for a treasure, anyway, and you are looking for worms for the sake of the worms." "That's vague!" "Yes, Volodya; all these days I've been thinking, I've been thinking pain- fully for a long time, and I have come to the conclusion that you are hope- lessly reactionary and conventional. Come, ask yourself what is the object of your zealous, conscientious work? Tell me, what is it? Why, everything has long ago been extracted that can be extracted from that rubbish in which you are always rummaging. You may pound water in a mortar and analyse it as long as you like, you'll make nothing more of it than the chemists have made already. . . "Indeed!" drawled Vladimir Semyon- itch, getting up. "Yes, all this is old rubbish because these ideas are eternal; but what do you consider new, then?" "You undertake to work in the do- main of thought; it is for you to think of something new. It's not for me to teach you." "Me—an alchemist!" the critic cried in wonder and indignation, screwing up his eyes ironically. "Art, progress— all that is alchemy?" "You see, Volodya, it seems to me that if all you thinking people had set yourselves to solving great problems, all these little questions that you fuss about now would solve themselves by the way. If you go up in a balloon to see a town, you will incidentally, without any effort, see the fields and the villages and the rivers as well. When stearine is manufactured, you get glycerine as a by- product. It seems to me that contem- porary thought has settled on one spot and stuck to it. It is prejudiced, apa- thetic, timid, afraid to take a wide ti- tanic flight, just as you and I are afraid to climb on a high mountain; it is con- servative." Such conversations could not but leave traces. The relations of the brother and sister grew more and more strained every day. The brother be- came unable to work in his sister's pres- ence, and grew irritable when he knew his sister was lying on the sofa, looking at his back; while the sister frowned ner- vously and stretched when, trying to bring back the past, he attempted to share his enthusiasms with her. Every evening she complained of being bored, and talked about independence of mind and those who are in the rut of tradition. Carried away by her new ideas, Vera Semyonovna proved that the work that her brother was so engrossed in was con- ventional, that it was a vain effort of conservative minds to preserve what had already served its turn and was vanish- ing from the scene of action. She made no end of comparisons. She compared her brother at one time to an alchemist, then to a musty old Believer who would sooner die than listen to reason. By de- grees there was a perceptible change in her manner of life, too. She was capable of lying on the sofa all day long doing nothing but thinking, while her face wore a cold, dry expression such as one sees in one-sided people of strong faith. She began to refuse the attentions of62 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV the servants, swept and tidied her own room, cleaned her own boots and brushed her own clothes. Her brother could not help looking with irritation and even hatred at her cold face when she went about her menial work. In that work, which was always performed with a cer- tain solemnity, he saw something strained and false, he saw something pharisaical and affected. And knowing he could not touch her by persuasion, he carped at her and teased her like a schoolboy. "You won't resist evil, but you resist my having servants!" he taunted her. "If servants are an evil, why do you op- pose it? That's inconsistent!" He suffered, was indignant and even ashamed. He felt ashamed when his sister begun doing odd things before strangers. "It's awful, my dear fellow," he said to me in private, waving his hands in despair. "It seems that our ingenue has remained to play a part in the farce, too. She's become morbid to the marrow of her bones! I've washed my hands of her, let her think as she likes; but why does she talk, why does she excite me? She ought to think what it means for me to listen to her. What I feel when in my presence she has the effrontery to support her errors by blasphemously quoting the teaching of Christ! It chokes me! It makes me hot all over to hear my sister propounding her doc- trines and trying to distort the Gospel to suit her, when she purposely refrains from mentioning how the money-chang- ers were driven out of the Temple. That's, my dear fellow, what comes of being half educated, undeveloped! That's what comes of medical studies which provide no general culture!" One day on coming home from the office, Vladimir Semyonitch found his sister crying. She was sitting on the sofa with her head bowed, wringing her hands, and tears were flowing freely down her cheeks. The critic's good heart throbbed with pain. Tears fell from his eyes, too, and he longed to pet his sister, to forgive her, to beg her for- giveness, and to live as they used to be- fore. ... He knelt down and kissed her head, her hands, her shoulders. . . . She smiled, smiled bitterly, unaccount- ably, while he with a cry of joy jumped up, seized the magazine from the table and said warmly:. "Hurrah! We'll live as we used to, Verotchka! With God's blessing! And I've such a surprise for you here! In- stead of celebrating the occasion with champagne, let us read it together! A splendid, wonderful thing!" "Oh, no, no!" cried Vera Semyonovna, pushing away the book in alarm. "I've read it already! I don't want it, I don't want it!" "When did you read it?" "A year . . . two years ago. ... I read it long ago, and I know it, I know it!" "H'm! . . . You're a fanatic!" her brother said coldly, flinging the maga- zine on to the table. "No, you are a fanatic, not I! You!" And Vera Semyonovna dissolved into tears again. Her brother stood before her, looked at her quivering shoulders, and thought. He thought, not of the agonies of loneliness endured by any one who begins to think in a new way of his own, not of the inevitable sufferings of a genuine spiritual revolution, but of the outrage of his programme, the out- rage of his author's vanity. From this time he treated his sisterEXCELLENT PEOPLE 63 coldly, with careless irony, and he en- dured her presence in the room as one endures the presence of old women that are dependent on one. For her part, she left off disputing with him and met all of his arguments, jeers, and attacks with a condescending silence which irritated him more than ever. One summer morning Vera Semyon- ovna, dressed for traveling with a satchel over her shoulder, went in to her brother and coldly kissed him on the forehead. "Where are you going?" he asked with surprise. "To the province of N. to do vacci- nation work." Her brother went out into the street with her. "So that's what you've decided upon, you queer girl," he muttered. "Don't you want some money?" "No, thank you. Good-bye." The sister shook her brother's hand and set off. "Why, don't you have a cab?" cried Vladimir Semyonitch. She did not answer. Her brother gazed after her, watched her rusty-look- ing waterproof, the swaying of her figure as she slouched along, forced himself to sigh, but did not succeed in rousing a feeling of regret. His sister had be- come a stranger to him. And he was a stranger to her. Anyway, she did not once look round. Going back to his room, Vladimir Semyonitch at once sat down to the table and began to work at his article. I never saw Vera Semyonovna again. Where she is now I do not know. And Vladimir Semyonitch went on writing his articles, laying wreaths on coffins, singing Gaudeamus, busying himself over the Mutual Aid Society of Moscow Jour- nalists. He fell ill with inflammation of the lungs; he was ill in bed for three months —at first at home, and afterwards in the Golitsyn Hospital. An abscess devel- oped in his knee. People said he ought to be sent to the Crimea, and began getting up a collection for him. But he did not go to the Crimea—he died. We buried him in the Vagankovsky Ceme- tery, on the left side, where artists and literary men are buried. One day we writers were sitting in the Tatars' restaurant. I mentioned that I had lately been in the Vagan- kovsky Cemetery and had seen Vladi- mir Semyonitch's grave there. It was utterly neglected and almost indistin- guishable from the rest of the ground, the cross had fallen; it was necessary to collect a few roubles to put it in order. But they listened to what I said un- concernedly, made no answer, and I could not collect a farthing. No one remembered Vladimir Semyonitch. He was utterly forgotten. VOLUME IIThe Black NLonk CHAPTER I nerves Andrey Vasil'ich Kovrin, Master! of Arts, was overworked and nervous J He was not being treated, but one day while sitting with a doctor at wine he happened casually to speak about his F health. The physician advised him to pass the spring and summer in the country. Opportunely he received then r long letter from Tanya Pesotski, in- viting him to visit Borisovka. He de- cided that he really required a change. It was April. He went to his family estate of Kovrinka for three weeks; then, the roads being clear, he started on wheels to see his former guardian and tutor, Pesotski, the great horticul- turist. From Kovrinka to Borisovka, where the Pesotskis lived, it was only seventy versts, and it was a pleasure to take the drive. Egor Semenyeh Pesotski's house was huge, with columns and lions, but the plaster was cracking. The old park, severe and gloomy, laid out in the Eng- lish style, extended for nearly a verst from the house to the river, and fin- ished in abruptly precipitous clayey banks, on which there grew old pines with bare roots that looked like shaggy paws; down below the water glittered unsociably, and snipe flitted along its surface with plaintive cries. When there you always had the feeling that you must sit down and write a ballad. However, near the house, in the court- yard and in the fruit orchard, which together with the nurseries covered about thirty acres, it was gay and cheerful even in bad weather. Such wonderful roses, lilies and camellias, such tulips of all imaginable hues, be- ginning with brilliant white and finish- ing with tints as black as soot, such a wealth of flowers as Pesotski possessed Kovrin had never seen in any other place. It was only the beginning of spring, and the real luxuriance of the flower-beds was still hidden in the hot- houses; but even those which blos- somed in the borders along the walks and here and there on the flower-beds were sufficient to make you feel, when you passed through the garden, that you were in the kingdom of delicate tints, especially in the early morning, when a dewdrop glistened brightly on each petal. The decorative part of the garden, which Pesotski called contemptuously a mere trifle, had greatly impressed Kov- rin in his childhood. What wonderful whimsicalities were to be found there, what far-fetched monstrosities and mockeries of nature! There were es- paliers of fruit trees, pear trees that had the form of pyramidal poplars, oaks and limes shaped like balls, an umbrella made of an apple tree, arches, monograms, candelabra and even 1862 formed by a plum tree; this date de-66 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV noted the year when Pesotski first be- gan to occupy himself with horticulture. There you also found pretty graceful trees with straight strong stems like palms, and only when you examined them closely you saw that they were gooseberries and currants. But what chiefly made the garden pay and pro- duced an animated appearance was the constant movement in it. From early morning till evening people with wheel- barrows, shovels and watering-pots swarmed like ants round the trees, bushes, avenues and flower-beds. Kovrin arrived at the Pesotskis' in the evening, at past nine o'clock. He found Tania and her father in a very anxious mood. The clear starlit sky and the falling thermometer foretold a morning frost; the head gardener, Ivan Karlych, had gone to town, and there was nobody who could be relied on. During supper nothing but morning frost was talked of, and they settled that Tania was not to go to bed, but walk through the gardens and see if all was in order after midnight, and that her father would get up at three or probably earlier. Kovrin sat up with Tania, and after midnight he went with her into the orchard. It was very cold. In the yard there was a strong smell of burn- ing. / in the large orchard, which was called the commercial orchard and brought Egor Semenych a clear yearly profit of several thousand roubles, a thick, black, biting smoke spread along the earth, and by enveloping the trees saved those thousands from the frost. The trees were planted here in regular rows like the squares of a chess-board, and they looked like ranks of soldiers, this strictly pedentical regularity to- gether with the exact size and simi- larity of the stems and crowns of the trees made the picture monotonous and dull. Kovrin and Tania passed along the rows, where bonfires of manure, straw and all sorts of refuse were smouldering, and occasionally they met workmen, who were wandering about in the smoke like shadows. Only plums, cherries and some sorts of apple trees were in full blossom, but the whole orchard was smothered in smoke, and it was only when they reached the nur- series that Kovrin could draw a long breath. "From my childhood the smoke here has made me sneeze," he said, shrug- ging his shoulders; "but I still do not understand how this smoke can protect the trees from frost." "The smoke takes the place of clouds, when they are absent . . ." Tania an- swered. "Why are clouds necessary?" "In dull and cloudy weather there is never night frost." "Really?" He laughed and took her hand. Her broad, serious, cold face, with its finely marked black eyebrows, the high turned- up collar of her coat, which pre- vented her from moving her head with ease, her whole thin, svelte figure, with skirts well tucked up to protect them from the dew, affected him. "Good Lord, she's already grown up!" he said. "When I last drove away from here, five years ago, you were still quite a child. You were a thin, long- legged, bare-headed girl in short petti- coats, and I teased you and called you the heron. . . . What time does!" "Yes, five years!" Tania sighed. "Much water has flowed away sinceTHE BLACK MONK 67 then. Tell me, Andryusha, quite can- didly," she said rapidly, looking into his face, "have we become strangers to you? But, why should I ask? You're a man, you are now living your own interesting life, you are great. . . . Estrangement is so natural! But, how- ever it may be, Andryusha, I want you to consider us as your own people. We have that right." "Of course you have, Tama!" "Honour bright?" "Yes, honour bright." "You were surprised to-day to see we had so many of your portraits. You know my father adores you. Some- times I think that he loves you more than he does me. He is proud of you. You are a scholar, an extraordinary man, you have made a brilliant career, and he is convinced that you have be- come all that because he brought you up. I do not prevent him from think- ing this. Let him." The day began to break; this was chiefly to be noticed by the distinct- ness with which the clouds of smoke were perceptible in the air, and the bark of the trees became visible. Nightingales were singing and the cry of the quail was borne from the fields. "It's time to go to bed now," Tania said. "How cold it is!" She took his arm. "Thank you, Andryusha, for com- ing. We have but few acquaintances here, and they are not interesting. We have nothing but the garden, the gar- den, the garden—nothing but that. Standard, half-standard," she laughed, "pippins, rennets, codlins, grafting, bud- ding. . . . All, all our life has gone into the garden—I never dream of any- thing but apples and pears. Of course, all this is good and useful, but some- times I wish for something else for variety. I remember when you used to come for the holidays or simply on a visit the house seemed to grow fresher and lighter; it was as if the covers had been taken off the lustres and the chairs. I was a child then, still I understood." She talked for a long time and with great feeling. Suddenly the idea en- tered his head that in the course of the summer he might become attached to this little, weak, loquacious creature, he might be carried away and fall in love —in their position it was so possible and so natural! This thought amused and moved him; he bent over her charming troubled face and began to sing in a low voice: "Onegin, I'll not hide from you I love Tatiana madly . . When they reached the house, Egor Semenych was already up. Kovrin did not want to sleep; he began to talk with the old man and he returned with him to the garden. Egor Semenych was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a large stomach; he suffered from breathlessness, but he always walked so fast that it was difficult to keep up with him. He always had an extremely worried look, and he was always hurry- ing somewhere, with an expression that seemed to say if he were too late by one minute even, all would be lost! "Here's a strange thing, my dear fel- low," he said, stopping to take breath. "It's freezing on the ground, as you see, but if you raise the thermometer on a stick about fourteen feet above earth it's warm there. . . . Why is it?" "I really don't know," Kovrin said, laughing.68 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV "Hm. ... Of course, one can't know everything. . . . However vast a man's understanding may be it can't comprehend everything. You've chiefly gone in for philosophy?" "Yes. I lecture on psychology, but I study philosophy in general." "And it does not bore you?" "On the contrary, it's my very exis- tence." "Well, may God prosper your work ..." Egor Semenych exclaimed, and he stroked his grey whiskers re- flectively. "God prosper you! . . . I'm very glad for you. ... Very glad, indeed, my boy. . . ." Suddenly he seemed to listen, an ex- pression of anger passed over his face and he ran off to one side and was soon lost to sight among the trees in the clouds of smoke. "Who has tethered a horse to an apple tree?" his despairing, heartrend- ing cry could be heard. "What villain and scoundrel has dared to tie a horse to an apple-tree? Good God, good God! They have dirtied, spoilt, dam- aged, ruined it. The orchard is lost! The orchard is destroyed! My God!" When he returned to Kovrin he looked worn out and insulted. "What can you do with this accursed people?" he said in a plaintive voice, clasping his hands. "Stepka was cart- ing manure during the night and has tied his horse to an apple tree! The villain tied the reins so tight round it that the bark has been rubbed in three places. What do you think of that! I spoke to him, and he only stood open- mouthed, blinking his eyes! He ought to be hanged." When he was somewhat calmer he embraced Kovrin and kissed him on the cheek. "Well, God help you. . . . God help you . . ."he mumbled. "I'm very glad you've come. Delighted beyond words. . . . Thank you." Then he went round the whole gar- den at the same rapid pace and with the same troubled expression, and showed his former ward all the hot- houses, conservatories and fruit-sheds, also his two apiaries, which he called the wonder of the century. While they were walking round the sun rose and shed its brilliant rays over the garden. It became warm. Fore- seeing a bright, joyous and long day, Kovrin remembered it was only the be- ginning of May, and that the whole summer lay before them, also bright, joyous and long, and suddenly a glad- some, youthful feeling was aroused in his breast, like he used to have when running about that garden in his child- hood. He embraced the old man and kissed him tenderly. They were both much affected as they went into the house, where they drank tea with cream out of old china cups, and ate rich satisfying cracknels—these trifles again reminded Kovrin of his childhood and youth. The beautiful present and, the memories that were aroused in him of the pastjyere blended together; his soul was full and rejoiced. He waited for Tania to get up and had coffee with her and then a walk, after which he went into his own room and sat down to work. He read with attention, made notes, only raising his eyes from time to time to look out of the open window, or at the fresh flow- ers, still wet with dew that were in a vase on his table, and then he again\ THE RLACK MONK 69 V-V ■ \} r~ lowered his eyes to his book, and it ap- tentively he understood:[ A girl with a peared to him that every nerve in his diseased imagination heard one night system vibrated with satisfaction. mysterious sounds in the garden, which were so wonderfully beautiful and CHAPTER II strange that she thought they were holy a pale face! harmonies, but so incomprehensible for us mortals that they ascended again to In the country he continued to lead heaven. Once more Kovrin's eyes be- the same nervous and restless life as in gan to close. He rose, and feeling quite town. He read and wrote very much, exhausted he began to walk about the he learned Italian, and when he was drawing-room and then about the danc- walking he thought all the time of the ing hall. When they stopped singing pleasure he would have in sitting down he took Tania's arm and led her on to to work again. Everybody was astonfjj the balcony. ished how little he slept; if he hap-*^ "Ever since the morning an old legend pened to doze for half an hour during has been running in my head," he said, the day he would afterwards not sleep "I don't remember if I read it, or all night, and after a sleepless night whether it was told me, but the legend he felt himself active and gay, as if is a strange one, and not like any other, nothing had happened. To begin with it is not very clear. A He talked much, drank wine and thousand years ago a certain monk, smoked expensive cigars. Often, in- clad in black, was walking in the desert deed almost every day, some young somewEere in Syria or Arabia. . . . A girls from a neighbouring estate, friends few miles from the place where he was of Tania's, came to the Pesotskis'. walking some fishermen saw another They played on the piano and sang black monk moving slowly across the together. Sometimes another neigh- surface of a lake. This other monk bour, a young man, who played the was a mirage. Now you must forget violin very well, came too. Kovrin lis- all the laws of optics, which the legend tened to the music and singing with evidently does not admit, and listen to avidity, and he was quite overcome by the continuation. From the mirage it, which was evidenced by his eyes another mirage was obtained, and from closing and his head sinking on one that one a third, so that the image of side. the black monk was reproduced with- One day after the evening tea he was out end in one sphere of the atmos- sitting on the balcony reading. At that phere after another. He was seen time Tania—a soprano, one of her sometimes in Africa, sometimes in friends—a contralto and the young man Spain, sometimes in India, then again playing on his violin were practicing in the far North. ... At last he went Braga's celebrated serenade. Kovrin beyond the bounds of the earth's at- tried to make out the words—they were mosphere and is now wandering over Russian—and he was quite unable to the whole universe, always unable to understand their meaning. At last lay- enter into the conditions where he would ing his book aside and listening at- be able to disappear. Perhaps at pres-70 \ WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV ent he may be seen somewhere on Mars or on some star of the Southern Cross. But, my dear, the main point, the very essence of the whole legend, consists in this, that exactly a thousand years from the time the monk was walking in the desert the mirage will again be present in the atmosphere of the world, and it will show itself to men. It appears that those thousand years are nearly accomplished. . . . Accordingly to the legend we can ex- pect the Black Monk either to-day or to-morrow." "A strange mirage," Tiana said. She did not like the legend. "But the strangest thing is that I can't remember from where this legend has got into my head," Kovrin said, laughing. "Have I read it? Was it told me? Or perhaps I have dreamed about the Black Monk? By God, I can't remember. But the legend in- terests me. I think of it all day long." Allowing Tania to return to her guests he left the house, and plunged in meditation he passed along the flow- er-beds. The sun was already setting. The flowers, perhaps because they had just been watered, exhaled a moist ir- ritating odour. In the house they had again begun to sing, and at that dis- tance the fiddle sounded like a human voice. Kovrin, straining his memory to remember where he had heard or read the legend, bent his steps towards the park, walking slowly, and imperceptibly he arrived at the river. Running dowTn the steep footpath that passed by the bare roots he came to the water, disturbing some snipe and frightening a pair of ducks. Some of the tops of the gloomy pines were still illuminated by the rays of the setting sun, but on the surface of the river evening had already settled down. Kovrin crossed the footbridge to the other bank. Before him lay a wide field of young rye not yet in flower. Neither a human habitation nor a liv- ing soul was to be seen near or far, and it seemed as if this footpath, if only you went far enough along it, would lead to that unknown, mysterious place into which the sun had just descended, and where the glorious blaze of the evening brightness was still widespread. "What space, what freedom, what quiet is here!" Kovrin thought as he went along the footpath. "It seems as if the whole world was looking at me dissembling and waiting, that I should understand it. . . ." But just then waves passed over the rye and a light wind touched his bare head. A minute later there was again a gust of wind, but a stronger one. The rye began to rustle, and behind it the dull murmur of the pines was heard. Kovrin stopped in amazement. On the horizon something like a whirlwind or a water-spout—a high black column, stretched from the earth to the sky. Its outlines were indistinct; from the first minute it was evident that it did not remain on one spot, but was moving with terrible rapidity—moving straight towards Kovrin, and the nearer it came the smaller and clearer it became. Kov- rin rushed to one side into the rye to make room for it, and he had scarcely time to do so. . . . A monk clad in black, with a grey head and black eyebrows, his arms crossed on his breast, was borne past him. . . . His bare feet did not touch the earth. He had already passed Kovrin for a distance of about twelveTHE BLACK MONK 71 feet, when he looked back at him, nod- ded his head and smiled affably, but at the same time cunningly. What a pale—a terribly pale—and thin face! Again beginning to grow larger, he flew across the river, struck noiselessly against the clayey bank and the pines and, passing through them, disappeared like smoke. "Well, you see?" Kovrin mumbled. "So the legend is true." Without trying to explain to himself this strange apparition, but feeling pleased that he had chanced to be so close, and had seen so distinctly not only the black garb, but even the monk's face and eyes, he returned home in pleasant agitation. In the park and the gardens people were quietly moving about; in the house they were playing—that meant he alone had seen the monk. He was very anxious to tell Tania and Egor Semenych all he had seen, but he thought that they would certainly con- sider his words mere nonsense, and it would frighten them—it was best to remain silent. He laughed loudly, he sang and danced the mazurka, he was gay and everybody—the guests and Tania—thought that his face had never looked so radiant and inspired, and that he certainly was a most interest- ing man. CHAPTER III she loves After supper, when their guests had departed, he went to his room and lay down on the sofa: he wanted to think about the monk. But a minute later Tania entered the room. "Here, Andryusha, are some of father's articles; read them," she said, giving him a parcel of pamphlets and proofs. "They are splendid articles. He writes very well." "Well, indeed," said Egor Semenych, with a forced laugh, following her into the room; he was confused. "Don't listen to her, please, and don't read them. However, if you want to go to sleep you may as well read them: they are excellent soporifics." "I think them excellent articles," Tania said, with deep conviction. "Read them, Andryusha, and persuade papa to write oftener. He might write a whole course of horticulture." Egor Semenych forced a laugh, blushed and began to say such phrases as con- fused authors are wont to say. At last he gave in. "If you must, then first read this ar- ticle by Gaucher and these Russian no- tices," he murmured, turning the pam- phlets over with trembling hands, "or else you won't understand it. Before reading my refutation you must know what I refute. However, it's all non- sense . . . and very dull. Besides, I should say it's time to go to bed." Tania left the room. Egor Semenych sat down on the sofa next to Kovrin and sighed deeply. "Yes, my dear fellow . . he began after a short silence. "So it is, my most amiable Master of Arts. Here am I writing articles, taking part in exhibi- tions, receiving medals. . . . People say Pesotski has apples the size of a man's head, people say Pesotski has made a fortune by his orchards and gardens. In a word, 'Kochubey is rich and fa- mous.' Query: To what does all this lead? The garden is really beautiful— a model garden. ... It is not simply72 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV a garden, it is an institution, possessing great importance for the empire, because it is, so to speak, a step in a new era of Russian economy—of Russian industry. But what for? For what object?" "The business speaks for itself." 'That is not what I mean. I ask: What will become of the gardens when I die? In the condition you see it now, it will not exist for a single month with- out me. The whole secret of its success is not because the garden is large and there are many labourers, but because I love the work—you understand? I love it, perhaps more than my own self. Look at me. I do everything myself. I work from morning to night. I do all the graft- ing myself. I do all the pruning myself— all the planting—everything. When I am assisted I am jealous and irritable to rudeness. The whole secret lies in love, that is, in the vigilant master's eye, in the master's hand too, in the feeling that when you go anywhere, to pay a visit of an hour, you sit there and your heart is not easy; you're not quite yourself, you're afraid something may happen in the garden. When I die who will look after it all? Who will work? A gar- dener? Workmen? Yes? I tell you, my good friend, the chief enemy in Our business is not the hare, not the cock- chafer, not the frost, but tljejj^anger." "But Tania?" Kovrin asked, laughing. "She can't be more injurious than the hare. She loves and understands the business." "Yes, she loves and understands it. If after my death she, gets the garden, and becomes the mistres$, I could wish for nothing better. But if, God forbid it, she should get married?" Egor Semenych whispered ; and looked at Kovrin with alarm. "That's just what I fear! She gets married, children ar- rive, and then there's no time to think of the garden. What I chiefly fear is that she'll get married to some young fellow, who'll be stingy and will let the garden to some tradesman, and the whole place will go to the devil in the first year! In our business women are the scourge of God!" Egor Semenych sighed and was silent for a few moments. "Perhaps it is egoism, but, to speak frankly, I don't want Tania to marry. I'm afraid. There's a young fop with a fiddle, who comes here and scrapes at it; I know very well Tania will not marry him. I know it very well, but I can't bear him! In general, dear boy, I'm a great oddity. I confess it." Egor Semenych rose and paced about the room for some time, much agitated; it was evident that he wanted to say something very important, but could not make up his mind to do so. "I love you very much, and will speak to you quite frankly," he said at last, and thrust his hands into his pockets. "There are certain ticklish subjects I regard quite simply, and I say quite openly what I think of them. I cannot bear so-called hidden thoughts. I say to you plainly: You are the only man I would not be afraid to give my daughter to. You are a clever man, you have a good heart, and you would not allow my cherished work to perish. But the chief reason is—I love you as if you were my son—and I am proud of you. If you and Tania could settle a little ro- mance between yourselves, why—what then? I would be very glad—very happy! As an honest man I say this quite openly, without mincing matters." Kovrin laughed. Egor SemenychTHE BLACK MONK 73 opened the door to leave the room, but he stopped on the threshold. "If a son were to be born to you and Tania I'd make a gardener of him," he said reflectively. "However, these are empty thoughts. . . . Sleep well!7' Left alone, Kovrin lay down more com- fortably on the sofa and began to look through the articles. One was entitled: "Of Intermediate Culture," another was called: "A few words concerning Mr. Z-'s remarks on the digging up of ground for a new garden," a third was: "More about the budding of dormant eyes"; they were all of a similar nature. But what an uneasy, uneven tone, what nervous almost unhealthy passion! Here was an article one would suppose of the most peaceful nature, and on the most in- different subject: it was about the Rus- sian Antonov apple. However, Egor Semenych began with, "audiatur altera pars" and finished, "sapienti sat" and between these two quotations there was quite a fountain of various poisonous words addressed to the "learned ignorance of our qualified gardeners who observe nature from the height of their cathedras," or else M. Gaucher, "whose success has been created by the unlearned and the dilettante." Here again, quite out of place, was an insincere regret that it was now no longer possible to flog the ' peasants who stole fruit and broke the trees. "The work is pretty, charming, healthy, but even here are passions and war," Kovrin thought. "It must be that every- where and in all arenas of human activity \ intellectual people are nervous and re- I markable for their heightened sensitive- | ness. Apparently this is necessary." He thought of Tania, who was so de- lighted with her father's articles. She was small, pale and so thin that her col- lar-bones were visible; she had dark, wide-open clever eyes that were always looking into something, searching for something; her gait was short-stepped and hurried like her father's; she spoke much, she liked to argue, and then even the most unimportant phrase was accom- panied by expressive looks and gestures. She certainly was nervous to the highest degree. Kovrin continued to read, but he could understand nothing, so he threw the book away. The same pleasant excitement he had felt when he danced the mazurka and listened to the music now overcame him again, and aroused in him numberless thoughts. He rose and began to walk about the room, thinking of the black monk. It entered his head that if he alone had seen this strange supernatural monk it must be because he was ill and I had hallucinations. This reflection alarmed him, but not for long. "But I feel very well, and I do no- body any harm; therefore there is nothing bad, in my hallucinations," he thought, and he again felt quite con- tented. He sat down on the sofa and seized his head in both hands, trying to restrain the incomprehensible joy that filled his whole being, then he went to the table and began to work. But the thoughts he read in the books did not satisfy him. He wanted something gigantic, immense, as- tounding. Towards morning he un- dressed and reluctantly lay down in bed: he ought to sleep! When he heard Egor Semenych's foot- steps going down to the garden, Kovrin rang the bell and ordered the man-servant to bring him some wine. He drank several glasses of Chateau-Laffitte with74 WGRKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV pleasure, and then covered himself up to the head; his senses became dim and he went to sleep. CHAPTER IV tears of tania Egor Semenych and Tania often quarreled and said unpleasant things to each other. One morning they had a quarrel. Tania began to cry and went to her room. She did not appear at dinner nor at tea. At first Egor Semenych went about look- ing very important and sulky, as if he wished everybody to know that for him the interests of justice and order stood above everything in the world, but soon he was unable to maintain that character and became depressed. He wandered sadly about the park and constantly sighed: "Oh, good God, good God!" At dinner he would not eat a crumb. At last feeling guilty and having qualms of conscience he knocked at his daughter's locked door and called to her timidly: "Tania, Tania!" And in answer he heard on the other side of the door a weak voice exhausted with crying, but still very positive, re- ply: "Leave me alone, I beg you!" The master's trouble affected the whole house, even the people working in the garden were under its influence. Kovrin was immersed in his own interesting work, but at last he too became sad and felt awkward. In order in some measure to dissipate the general gloomy mood he decided to intervene, and early in the evening he knocked at Tania's door. He was admitted. "Oh, oh, what a shame!" he began jokingly, looking with astonishment at tania's tear-stained, sad little face that was all covered with red blotches. "Is it possible it is so serious? Oh, oh!" "If you only knew how he tortures me!" she said, and tears—bitter, plenti- ful tears—welled up in her large eyes. "He has worn me quite out!" she con- tinued, wringing her hands. "I said nothing to him . . . nothing at all." . . . I only said there is no need to keep . . . extra workmen if . . . if it is possible to get day labourers when- ever they are wanted. Why, why the workmen have been doing nothing for a whole week. ... I ... I only said this and he shouted at me and he told me . . . many offensive, many deeply insulting things. Why, why?" "Enough! Enough!" Kovrin said as he arranged a lock of her hair. "You have abused each other, you have wept, and that's enough. One must not be angry for long, that's wrong . . . all the more because he loves you tenderly." "He ... he has spoilt my whole life," Tania continued. "I am only in- sulted and . . . wounded here. He considers me superfluous in his house/ What am I to do? He is right. I'll go away from here to-morrow and become' a telegraph girl. . . . Let him . . .'V "Well, well, well. . . . Tania, don't cry. You, mustn't, my dear. . . . You are both hot-headed, irritable, and* you are both in fault. Come along, I'll make peace between you." Kovrin spoke affectionately and per- suasively, but she continued to cry, her shoulders shaking and her hands clenched, as if a terrible misfortune had befallen her. He was all the more sorry for her because her grief was not serious, yet she suffered deeply. What trifles were sufficient to make this poor creature un-THE BLACK MONK 75 happy for a whole day, yes, perhaps even for her whole life! While comforting Tania, Kovrin thought that besides this girl and her father he might search the whole world without being able to find any other people who loved him as one of their family. If it had not been for these two people perhaps he, who had lost both his parents in his early child- hood, would not have known to his very death what sincere affection was, nor that naive, uncritical love that only exists between very near blood relatives. And he felt that his half-diseased, overtaxed nerves were drawn towards the nerves of this weeping, shuddering girl as iron is drawn to the magnet. He could never love a healthy, strong, red-cheeked woman, but pale, fragile, unhappy Tania attracted him. He was pleased to stroke her hair, pat her shoulders, press her hands and wipe away her tears. At last she stopped crying; but for a long time she continued to complain about her father, and of her difficult, unbearable life in that house, begging Kovrin to enter into her posi- tion; then she gradually began to smile and to sigh that God had given her such a bad character, and at last she laughed aloud, called herself a fool and ran out of the room. Shortly after, when Kovrin went into the garden, Egor Semenych and Tania were walking together in the avenue eat- ing black bread and salt (they were both hungry), as if nothing had happened. CHAPTER V red spots Delighted that the part of peace- maker had been successful, Kovrin went into the park. While sitting on a bench thinking he heard the sound of wheels and of girls' laughtefr—visitors had ar- rived. When the shades of evening had begun to settle down on the gardens faint sounds of a violin and of voices singing reached his ear, and this re- minded him of the black monk. Where, in what land or on what planet was that optical incongruity now being borne? He had scarcely remembered the legend, and recalled to his memory the dark vision he had seen in the rye field, when just before him a middle-sized man with a bare grey head andlbare feet, who looked like a beggar, came silently out of the pine wood, walking with small, unheard steps. On his pale, deathlike face the black eyebrows stood out sharply. Nodding affably this beggar or pilgrim came noiselessly and sat down on the bench. Kovrin recognized in him the black monk. For a minute they looked at each other—Kovrin with as- tonishment; the monk in a kindly and, as on the previous occasion, in a some- what cunning manner, and with a self- complacent expression. "But you are a mirage," Kovrin ex- claimed; "why are you here and sitting on one place too? That is not in ac- cordance with the legend." "That's all the same," the monk re- plied after a pause, in a low quiet voice, turning his face towards Kovrin. "The mirage, the legend and I are all the products of your excited imagination. I am a phantom." "Then, you do not exist?" Kovrin asked. "Think what you like," the monk an- swered with a faint smile. "I exist in your imagination, and your imagination is part of nature, consequently I exist in nature too."76 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV 4'You have a very old, clever and ex- pressive face; just'as if you had really existed for more than a thousand years," Kovrin said. "I did not know that my imagination was capable of creating such phenomena. But why are you looking at me with such rapture? Do I please you?" "Yes. You are one of the few who are justly called the chosen of God. You serve the eternal truth. Your thoughts, your intentions, your extraor- dinary science and you whole life bear the godlike, the heavenly stamp, as they are devoted to the reasonable and the beautiful, that is to say, to that which is eternal." "You said the eternal truth. . . . But can people attain to the eternal truth, and is it necessary for them if there is no eternal life?" "There is eternal life," the monk an- swered. "Do you believe in the immortality of man?" "Yes, of course. A great brilliant fu- ture awaits you men. And the more men like you there are on earth, the sooner this future will be realized. Without you, the servants of the first cause, you who live with discernment and in free- dom, the human race would, indeed, be insignificant. Developing in a natural way it would long have waited for the end of its earthly history. You are lead- ing it to the kingdom of eternal truth several thousand years sooner—and in this lies your great service. ... You incarnate in yourselves the blessing with which God has honoured mankind." "But what is the object of eternal life?" Kovrin asked. "The same as of all life—enjoyment. True enjoyment is knowledge, and eternal life offers numberless and inex- haustible sources of knowledge; this is the meaning of: 'in my Father's House are many mansions.'" "If you only knew how pleasant it is to listen to you," Kovrin said, rub- bing his hands with satisfaction. "I'm very pleased." "But I know that when you go away I will be troubled about your reality. You are a vision, a hallucination. Conse- quently I am physically ill, I am not normal." 1 "And what of that! Why are you troubled? You are ill because you have worked beyond your strength and you are exhausted, which means that you have sacrificed your health to an idea, and the time is near when you will sacri- fice your life to it too. What could be better? It is the object to which all noble natures, gifted from above, con- stantly aspire." "If I know that I am mentally dis- eased, can I believe in myself?" "How do you know that the men of genius, who are believed in by the whole world, have not also seen visions? Scholars say now that genius is allied to insanity. My friend, only the ordin- ary people—the herd—are quite well and normal. All this consideration about the nervous century, overwork, degeneration, etc., can only seriously alarm those whose object in life is the present—that is the people of the herd." "The Romans said: 'mens sana in corpore sano.' " "Not all that the Romans and Greeks, said is true. Overstrain, excitement, ecstacy, all that distinguishes the prophets, the poets, the martyrs for ideas, from ordinary people, is opposed to the animal side of man's nature, thatTHE BLACK MONK 77 is, to his physical health. \ I repeat, if you wish to be healthy arid normal go to the herd." "It is strange, you say what often comes into my mind," Kovrin said. "You appear to have looked into my soul and listened to my most secret thoughts. But let us not speak of me. What do you mean by the eternal truth?" The monk did not reply. Kovrin glanced at him and could not distinguish his face. The features became misty and melted away. The monk's head and hands gradually disappeared, his body seemed to be blended with the bench and with the evening twilight and then he (vanished entirely. "The hallucination is over," Kovrin said, and he laughed. "What a pity!" He returned towards the house gay and happy. What little the black monk had said to him flattered not only his self-love, but his whole soul, his whole being. To be one of the; chosen, to serve the eternal truth, to stand in the ranks of those who will render mankind worthy of the Kingdom of God a few thousand years sooner than it would otherwise have been, that is, will save mankind from an extra thousand years of struggle, sin and suffering, to sacrifice everything—youth, strength, health, to the idea—to be ready to die for the general good—what a high, what a happy fate! His clean, chaste life, so full of work passed through his memory; he remembered what he himself had learned, what he had taught others, and he ar- rived at the conclusion that there was no exaggeration in the words the monk had spoken. Tania came to meet him through the park. She was dressed in another frock. "Here you are at last!" she said. "We are looking for you everywhere. But what has happened to you?" she said with astonishment, gazing at his enraptured, beaming countenance and his eyes that were brimming over with tears. "How strange you look, An- dryusha." "I am satisfied, Tania," Kovrin said, putting his hands on her shoulders. "I am more than satisfied, I am happy! Tania, dear Tania, you are a most con- genial creature! Dear Tania, I am so glad, so glad!" He kissed both her hands passionately and continued: "I have just passed through bright, beautiful, unearthly moments. But I cannot tell you all because you would call me mad, or you would not believe me. Let us talk of you. Dear, charm- ing Tania! I love you, and I have be- come used to love you. Your nearness, our meetings, ten times daily have be-' come a necessity for my soul. I don't know how I shall be able to exist with- out you, when I go home." "Well!" and Tania laughed, "you will forget us in two days. We are little people, and you are a great man." "No, let us talk seriously," he said. "I will take you with me. Yes? Won't you come with me? You want to be mine?" "Well, well!" Tania said and again she wanted to laugh, but laughter would not come, and red spots came out on her face. She began to breathe fast, and she walked on very quickly, not towards the house, but deeper into the park. "I never thought of this never!" she said, clasping her hands as if in despair. Kovrin followed her and continued to78 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV speak with the same brilliant, excited face. "I want love that would conquer me entirely, and that love, Tania, you alone can give me. I am happy, happy!" She was stupefied, she bent, she shrivelled, she seemed suddenly to grow ten years older, and he thought her beautiful and he expressed his thoughts aloud: "How beautiful she is!" CHAPTER VI the black guest When Egor Semenych heard from Kovrin that the romance had not only begun, but that there was to be a wed- ding, he walked about the rooms for a long time trying to hide his agitation. His hands began to tremble, his neck seemed to grow thicker and became purple; he ordered his racing droshky to be put to and drove off somewhere. Tania, seeing how he whipped the horse and how low down, almost over his ears, he had pressed his cap, understood his mood, shut herself up in her room and cried all day. The peaches and plums were already ripening in the hot-houses; the packing and sending off to Moscow of these deli- cate and tender goods required much at- tention, trouble and work. Owing to the summer having been very hot and dry, it was necessary to water every tree; this took up much time and la- bour, besides multitudes of caterpillars appeared on the trees, which the work- people, as well as Egor Semenych and Tania, crushed with their fingers, to Kovrin's great disgust. Besides all this work it was necessary to accept orders for fruit and trees for the autumn de- liveries, and to carry on a large corres- pondence. While at the busiest time, when it seemed that nobody had a mo- ment to spare, the season for field work came on and took away more than half the hands from the garden. Egor Semenych, very much sunburnt, ex- hausted and irritated, rushed about now in the gardens, now in the fields, crying that he was torn to pieces, and that he would send a bullet through his head. There was also all the bustle caused by the preparation of the trousseau, on< which the Pesotskis set great store; everybody in the house was made quite dizzy by the click of scissors, the noise of sewing machines, the fumes of hot irons and the caprices of the milliner, a nervous lady, who was easily offended. And, as if on purpose, every day saw the arrival of guests, who had to be entertained and fed, and who often even stayed the night. However, all this drudgery passed by almost unperceived as if in a mist. Tania felt that love and happiness had come upon her unawares, although for some reason from the age of fourteen she had been convinced that Kovrin would be sure to marry her. She was amazed, she was perplexed, she could not believe it herself. ... At times she was suddenly everpowered by such joy, that she wanted to fly above the clouds, and pray to God there; at others, equally suddenly, she would re- member that in August she would have to take leave of her paternal home and her father, or—God knows from where the thought would come—that she was insignificant, small and unworthy ofs such a great man as Kovrin—then she; went to her own room, locked herself! in and wept bitterly during several hours. When they had company it would sud-THE BLACK MONK 79 denly appear to her that Kovrin was un- commonly handsome, and that all the women were in love with him, and were envious of her, then her soul was filled with pride and delight as if she had conquered the whole world, but he had only to smile affably at one of the girls to cause her to tremble with jealousy and retire to her own room; then there were tears again. These new sensations quite took possession of her; she helped her father mechanically, and never no- ticed, the peaches nor the caterpillars, nor the labourers, nor even how quickly the time flew. Much the same happened to Egor Semenych. He worked from morning to night, he was always hurrying some- where, he constantly lost his temper, he was irritable, but all this took place in a sort of enchanted state of semi-sleep. It was as if there were two men in him: one was the real Egor Semenych who, listening to his gardener, Ivan Karlych, making his report about the disorders in the gardens, would be indig- nant, and put his hands to his head in despair; and the other, not the real one who, as if in a half-tipsy state, would suddenly break into the business report in the middle of a word and placing his hand on the gardener's shoulder would begin to murmur: "Whatever one may say there is mucji , in blood. His mother was a wonderful, a most noble, a most clever woman. It was a delight to look at her good, bright, pure face, like an angel's. She painted beautifully, she wrote verses, she could speak five foreign languages, she sang. . . . Poor thing, may the heavenly kingdom be hers, she died of consump- > tion." The unreal Egor Semenych sighed, and after a pause continued: "When he was a boy growing up in my house, he had the same angelic, bright and good face. He has the same look, the same movements and the same soft, elegant manner of speaking that his mother had. And his intellect! He always astonished us by his intellect. By the way, it is not for nothing that he is a Master of Arts! . . . No, not for nothing! But wait a little, Ivan Karlych, you'll see what he'll be in ten years! He'll be quite unapproachable!" But here the real Egor Semenych, checking himself, made a serious face, caught hold of his head and shouted: "Devils! They've dirtied, destroyed, devastated everything! The garden is lost! The garden is ruined!" Kovrin worked with the same zeal as before, and did not notice the hurly- burly around him. Love only added oil to the fire. After each meeting with Tania he returned to his room happy, en- raptured, and with the same passion with which he had just kissed Tania and had told her of his love, he seized a book or set to work at his manuscript. All that the black monk had said about the chosen of God, eternal truth, the bril- liant future of the human race, etc., only gave his work a special, an uncommon meaning and filled his soul with pride, and the consciousness of his own emi- nence. Once or twice a week either in the park or in the house he met the black monk and conversed with him for a long time; but this did not frighten him; on the contrary, it delighted him, as he was firmly convinced that such an ap- parition only visited the chosen, the eminent people, who had devoted them- selves to the service of the idea.80 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV One day the monk appeared during dinner and sat down in the dining-room near the window. Kovrin was delighted, and he very adroitly turned the conver- sation with Egor Semenych and Tania upon subjects that might interest the monk. The black guest listened and nodded his head affably; Egor Semenych and Tania also listened and smiled gaily, never suspecting that Kovrin was not talking to them, but to his vision. Unperceived the fast of the Assump- tion was there, and soon after it the wed- ding-day arrived. The marriage was celebrated according to Egor Semenych's persistent desire "with racket," that is, with senseless festivities that lasted two days. They ate and drank far more than three thousand roubles, but owing to the bad hired band, the shrill toasts, the hurrying to and fro of the lackeys, the noise and the overcrowding, nobody could appreciate the bouquet of the ex- pensive wines nor the taste of the won- derful delicacies that had been ordered from Moscow. CHAPTER VII don't be afraid! It happened on one of the long winter nights that Kovrin was lying in bed reading a French novel. Poor little Tania, who was not yet accustomed to live in a town, had a bad headache, as she often had by the evening, and was long since asleep, but from time to time she was uttering disconnected phrases in her sleep. It had struck three. Kovrin blew out his candle and lay down. He lay long with closed eyes, but could not get to sleep, because (so it seemed to him) it was very rhot in the bedroom and Tania was talking in her sleep. At half-past four he again lit the candle, and at that moment he saw the black monk sitting on the arm-chair that stood near the bed. "How do you do?" the monk said, and after a short pause he asked: "Of what are you thinking now?" "Of fame," Kovrin answered. "In the French novel I have just been reading there is a man, a young scientist who did stupid things, and who pined away from longing for fame. These longings are incomprehensible to me." "Because you are wise. You look upon fame with indifference, like a play- thing that does not interest you." "Yes, that is true." "Fame has no attraction for you. What is there flattering, interesting or in- structive in the fact that your name will be carved on your gravestone, and then time will efface this inscription together with its gilding? Besides, happily you are too many for man's weak memory to be able to remember all your names." "Naturally," Kovrin agreed. "Why should they be remembered? But let us speak of something else. For ex- ample, of happiness. What is happi- ness?" When the clock struck five he was sitting on his bed with his feet resting on the rug and turning to the monk he was saying: "In ancient times one happy man was at last frightened at his own happi- ness—it was so great! And in order to propitiate the gods he sacrificed to them his most precious ring. You know that story? Like Poly crates, I am beginning to be alarmed at my own happiness. It appears to me strange that from morning to night I only experience joy; I am filled with joy and it smothers all other|THE BLACK MONK 81 feelings. I do not know what sadness, grief or dullness is. Here am I not asleep. I suffer from sleeplessness, but I am not dull. Quite seriously, I'm beginning to be perplexed." "Why?" the monk asked in astonish- ment. "Is joy a superhuman feeling? Ought it not to be the normal condition of man? The higher a man is in his intellectual and moral development, the more free he is, the greater are the pleasures that life offers him. Socrates, Diogenes and Marcus Aurelius knew joy, and not grief. The apostle says: 'Re- joice always.' Therefore rejoice and be happy." "What if suddenly the gods were an- gered?" Kovrin said jokingly, and he laughed. "What if they take from me my comfort and make me suffer cold and hunger, it will scarcely be to my taste." In the meantime Tania had awaked and looked at her husband with amaze- ment and terror. He was talking, ad- dressing himself to the arm-chair, gesticulating and laughing; his eyes glistened and there was something strange in his laughter. "Andryusha, with whom are you talk- ing?" she asked, catching hold of the hand he was stretching out to the monk. "Andryusha, with whom? . . "Eh? With whom?" Kovrin became confused. "With him. There he sits," he answered, pointing to the black monk. "There's nobody here . . . no- body! Andryusha, you're ill!" Tania put her arms round her husband and pressed close to him, and as if to protect him from visions she put her hand over his eyes. "You are ill!" She sobbed and her whole body trembled. "Forgive me, darling, my dear one; I have long noticed that your soul is troubled about something. You are mentally ill, Andryusha. . . Her shivering fit was communicated to him. He looked again at the arm- chair, which was now empty; he sud- denly felt a weakness in the arms and legs, he was alarmed and began to dress. "It's nothing, Tania, nothing . . ." he mumbled, shivering. "I really feel a little out of sorts . . . it's time to admit it." "I have long noticed it—and papa has noticed it too," she said, trying to restrain her sobs. "You talk to your- self, you smile in a strange way . . . you don't sleep. Oh, my God, my God, save us!" she said in terror. "But you must not be afraid, Andryusha, don't be afraid, for God's sake, don't be afraid. . . ." She also began to dress. Only now, when he looked at her, Kovrin under- stood all the danger of his position, he understood what the black monk and his talks with him meant. It was now quite clear to him that he was a mad- man. They both dressed, without knowing why, and went into the drawing-room. She went first, he followed her. Here Egor Semenych, who was staying with them, was already standing in his dress- ing-gown with a candle in his hand. "Don't be afraid, Andryusha," Tania said again, trembling like one with a fever. "Don't be afraid. Papa, it will soon pass, it will soon pass." Kovrin was too excited to be able to speak. He wanted to say to his father- in-law in a playful tone: "Congratulate me, I think I'm out of my mind," but his lips only moved, and he smiled bitterly.82 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV At nine o'clock in the morning he was wrapped up in a fur coat and a shawl and driven in a carriage to the doctor's. He began a cure. CHAPTER VIII torture Summer had come back again, and the doctor ordered Kovrin to go to the country. Kovrin was already cured, he had ceased seeing the black monk, and it only was necessary to restore his physical strength. While living on his father-in-law's estate he drank much milk, he worked only two hours a day, he did not drink wine, nor did he smoke. On the eve of St. Elias's day vespers were celebrated in the house. When the deacon handed the censer to the priest there was an odour of the churchyard in the whole of the huge old hall, and it made Kovrin feel dull. He went into the garden. He walked about there with- out noticing the magnificent flowers; he sat on one of the benches and then wandered into the park; when he came to the river he went down to the water's edge and stood there for some time plunged in thought looking at the water. The gloomy pines, with their rough roots that but a year ago had seen him so young, joyful and hale, now did not whisper together, but stood motionless and dumb, just as if they did not recog- nize him. And, really, he was changed since last year; his head was closely cropped, his long beautiful hair was gone, his gait was languid, his face had grown stouter and paler. He crossed over the foot-bridge to the other bank. Where the year before there had been rye, now mowed-down oats lay in long rows. The sun had already disappeared, and on the horizon the red glow of sunset was still wide- spread, foretelling wind for the next day. It was quiet. Looking in the direction where a year before the black monk had made his first appearance, Kovrin stood for about twenty minutes till the bright- ness of the sunset had faded away. When he returned to the house languid and dissatisfied, vespers were over. Egor Semenych and Tania were sitting on the steps of the terrace drinking tea. They were talking about something, but when they saw Kovrin coming they sud- denly were silent, and he concluded, judging by their faces, that the conver- sation had been about him. "I think it's time for you to have your milk," Tania said to her husband. "No, it's not time . . he an- swered as he sat down on the very lowest step. "Drink it yourself. I don't want it." Tania exchanged an anxious glance with her father and said in a guilty tone: "You yourself have noticed that milk does you good." "Oh yes, very much good," Kovrin said, smiling. "I congratulate you; since Friday I have added another pound to my weight." He squeezed his head tightly between his hands and said sadly: "Why, why do you make me have this cure? All sorts of bromatic preparations, idleness, warm baths> watching, poor-spirited, alarm for every mouthful, for every step—all this in the end will make a perfect idiot of me. I went mad, I had the mania of great- ness, but for all that I was gay, healthy and even happy; I was interesting anc original. Now I have become more sober-minded and matter-of-fact, but inTHE BLACK MONK 83 consequence I am now like everybody else. I am mediocre, life is tiresome to me. . . . Oh, how cruelly you have acted towards me! I saw hallucina- tions; in what way did that interfere with anybody? I ask you, with whom did that interfere ?" "God knows what you are saying!" Egor Semenych said with a sigh. "It's tiresome to listen to you!" "Then don't listen." The presence of people, especially of Egor Semenych, irritated Kovrin. He answered him drily, coldly, even rudely, and when he looked at him it was always with derision and with hatred. Egor Semenych was confused and coughed guiltily, although he could feel no blame. Unable to understand this sudden and sharp change in their friendly and kind- hearted relations, Tania pressed close to her father, and looked into his eyes with troubled glances; she wanted to under- stand the cause, but could not; all that was clear to her was that their relations became with every day worse and worse, that latterly her father had aged very much, and that her husband had become irritable, capricious, quarrelsome and un- interesting. She could no longer laugh and sing, she ate nothing at dinner, she often had sleepless nights, expecting something dreadful, and she was so worn out that once she lay in a faint from dinner-time until evening. During vespers it had appeared to her that her father was crying, and now when they were all three sitting together on the terrace she had to make an effort not to think of this. "How happy were Buddha, Mo- hammed and Shakespeare, that their kind relations and doctors did not try to cure them of their ecstasies and in- spirations!" Kovrin said. "If Mo- hammed had taken bromide to calm his nerves, had worked only two hours a day and had drunk milk, as little would have remained of this remarkable man as of his dog. The doctors, and the kind re- lations will in the end so blunt the capaci- ties of mankind that at last mediocrity will be considered genius and civilization will perish. If you only knew how thankful I am to you!" Kovrin said with vexation. He felt greatly irritated and to pre- vent himself from saying too much he rose quickly and went into the house. The night was calm, and the scent of tobacco and jalap was borne through the open window. In the large dark ballroom the moonlight lay in green patches on the floor and on the piano. Kovrin remembered his raptures of the previous summer, when the jalaps smelt in the same way and the moon looked in at the windows. In order to renew last year's frame of mind he hurried into his study, lit a strong cigar and ordered the butler to bring him some wine. But the cigar only left an un- pleasantly bitter taste in his mouth, and the wine had not the same flavour it had had the year before. What loss of habit does! He got giddy from the cigar, and after two sips of wine he had pal- pitations of the heart, so he had to take a dose of bromide. When she was going to bed Tania said to him: "My father adores you. You are angry with him for some reason and it is killing him. Only look at him: he is ageing not by days, but by hours. I implore you, Andryusha, for God's sake, for the sake of your late father, for the84 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV sake of my peace, be more affectionate with him." "I can't, and I won't." "But why?" Tania asked, beginning to tremble all over. "Tell me why?" "Because I don't like him, that's all," Kovrin said carelessly, and shrugged his shoulders; "but let us not talk of him, he is your father." "I can't, I really can't understand," Tania said, pressing her hands to her temples and looking at a point in front of her. "Something incomprehensible, something terrible is happening in our house. You are changed, you are not like yourself. You are clever, you are no ordinary man and you get irritated with trifles; you meddle in all sort of tittle-tattle. Such trifles agitate you, that sometimes one is astonished and cannot believe it, and asks oneself: Is it you? Well, well, don't be angry, don't be angry," she continued, alarmed by her own words and kissing his hands. "You are clever, kind, noble. You will be towards with my father. He is so good." "He's not good, but good-natured. The good-natured uncles in farces, who are somewhat like your father—well-fed and with good-natured faces, extremely hospitable and a little comical—appeared touching and amusing to me in novels and farces and also in real life at one time—now they are repugnant to me. They are all egoists to the marrow of their bones. What's most repugnant to me is their being overfed and their abdominal, their entirely oxlike or swine- like optimism." Tania sat down on the bed and laid her head on the pillow. "This is torture," she said, and her voice showed she was quite exhausted, and that it was difficult for her to speak. "Ever since the winter there has not been a single quiet moment. Good God, it is terrible! I suffer . . "Yes, of course, I am Herod, and you and your little papa are the Egyptian infants. Oh, of course!" His face appeared to Tania to be ugly and disagreeable; hatred and an expres- sion of derision did not become him. For some time she had noticed there was something wanting in his face; it was as if a change had taken place in his countenance ever since the time his hair had been cut. She wanted to say something insulting to him, but at the moment she caught herself having such inimical feelings that she became alarmed and left the bedroom. CHAPTER IX blood of kovrin Kovrin was appointed to a professor's chair. His inaugural address was an- nounced for the second of December, and the notice of this lecture was hung up in the corridor of the University. But on the appointed day he sent a telegram to inform the provost that owing to illness he was unable to give the lecture. He had had a severe haemorrhage from the throat. For some time he had spat blood, but about twice a month the haemorrhage was considerable, and after these attacks he experienced great weakness and feel into a somnolent con- dition. This illness did not cause him any special anxiety, as he knew that his mother had lived for ten years and even longer with exactly the same malady, and the doctors assured him that there was no danger; they advised him onlyTHE BLACK MONK 85 to be calm, to live a regular life and to talk as little as possible. V V* In January he was again unable to give the lecture owing to the same cause, and in February it was already too late to begin the course, and it had to be postponed until the next year. At that time he no longer lived with Tania, but with another woman, who was two years older than he was, and who looked after him as if he were a child. His frame of mind was peaceful and tranquil: he obeyed willingly, and when Va^vara Nikolaevna decided to take him to tEeTTfimea he consented, al- though he had a foreboding that nothing good would come of this journey. They arrived in Sevastopol towards evening and stayed the night at an hotel to rest before proceeding the next day to Yalta. They were both exhausted from the long journey. Varvara Nikolaevna had some tea, went to bed and was soon sound asleep. But Kovrin remained up. An hour before leaving home he had received a letter from Tania, and he had not been able to make up his mind to open it; it was still lying in his side pocket, and the thought of its being there agitated him unpleasantly. In the depths of his soul he now quite sincerely considered his marriage to have been a mistake; he was glad that he had definitely separated from her, and the remembrance of that woman, who at last had turned into a live walking skeleton and in whom all appeared to be dead with the exception of the large clever eyes that looked steadily at you—aroused in him nothing but pity and sorrow for himself, and the handwriting on the envelope re- minded him how unjust and cruel he had been two years ago, how he had vented his own voidness of soul, dull- ness, solitude and dissatisfaction with ili'e on quite mnocent peopleTTEis also reminded him of how one day he had torn into small pieces his dissertation and all the articles he had written dur- ing his illness and how he had thrown them out of the window, and the scraps of paper, blown about by the wind, had fluttered on to the flowers and the trees: in each line he saw strange pretensions that were founded on nothing, hare- brained passions, insolence, the mania of greatness, and this had produced on him the effect of reading a description of his own vices; but when the last copy-book had been torn up and had flown out of the window for some reason he had sud- denly become sorry and embittered, and he had gone to his wife and had told her all sorts of unpleasant things. Good God, how he had pestered her! One day wanting to cause her pain he had told her that her father had played an uneviable part in their romance as he had asked him to marry her. Egor Semenych, who had accidentally over- heard this, rushed into the room and in his despair was unable to utter a word; he only stood there shifting from one foot to another and uttering a strange lowing sound as if he had been deprived of the power of speech, and Tania, gaz- ing at her father, gave a piercing shriek and fell down in a swoon. It was dis- graceful! All this recurred to his memory at the sight of the familiar handwriting. Kovrin went out on to the balcony; it was a calm warm evening, and there was a scent of the sea. The moon and lights were reflected in the beautiful bay, which was of a colour for which it was difficult to find a name. It was86 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV a delicate and soft blending of blue and green; in places the water assumed the colour of green copperas, and in other places it seemed as i?The moonlight had solidified, and instead of water had filled the bay, and in general what har- mony of colour there was all around, what a peaceful, calm and lofty enjoy- ment! In the floor below, just under the bal- cony, the window was probably open, because one could distinctly hear women's voices and laughter. It was evident an evening party was going on there. Kovrin made an effort, unsealed the letter and reentering his room he read: "My father has just died. I owe this to you as you have killed him. Our garden is ruined; strangers are now masters there; that is to say, what my poor father so feared is happening. I owe this to you too. I hate you with my whole soul, and I hope you will soon perish. Oh, how I suffer. My soul is consumed by unbearable pain. May you be accursed. I mistook you for an ex- traordinary man, for a genius. I loved you, but you proved to be a mad- man. . . ." Kovrin could read no farther, he tore up the letter and threw it away. He was overpowered by a feeling of uneasiness that was almost like fear. Varvara Nikolaevna was sleeping behind the screen, and he could hear her breathing; from the story below the sound of women's voices and laughter were borne to him, but he had a sort of feeling that in the whole of the hotel there was not a living soul besides himself. Because unhappy, sorrowing Tania had cursed him in her letter, and had wished him to perish; a feeling of dread came over him, and he looked furtively at the door as if he feared that the unknown power, which in the space of some two years had caused such ruin in his life and in the lives of those dearest to him, would enter the room and again take possession of him. By experience he knew that when his nerves were unstrung the' best remedy was work. He must sit down to the table and force himself to concentrate his mind on some special subject. He took out of his portfolio a copy-book in which he had jotted down the synopsis of a small compilatory work he had thought of writing if the weather proved to be bad in the Crimea, as it was dull to be without occupation. He sat down to the table and began to work at this synopsis, and it appeared to him that his old peaceful, submissive, equitable frame of mind was coming back. The copy-book with the synopsis aroused in him thoughts of wordly vanities. He thought how much life takes for the in- significant or very ordinary blessings that it is able to give man in exchange. For example, in order to receive before forty an ordinary professorial chair, and to expound in a languid, tiresome, heavy style very ordinary thoughts, which be- sides are the thoughts of other people— in a word, to attain the position of a moderately good scholar, he, Kovrin, had to study for fifteen years, to work day and night, pass through a serious mental disease, to survive an unsuccessful mar- riage and commit all sorts of follies and injustices, which it would be pleasant to forget. Kovrin realized now quite plainly that he was an ordinary mediocrity and he was quite satisfied jwitl'this, as he considered every man |nustj)e contented with what he was.THE BLACK MONK 87 His synopsis would have been able to calm him if the white scraps of the torn-up letter that lay on the floor had not prevented him from concentrating his thoughts. He rose from the table, collected the fragments of the letter and threw them out of the window; but a light wind was blowing from the sea and the scraps of paper were scat- tered on the window-sill. He again was seized by a feeling of uneasiness that was almost like fear, and it seemed to him that in the whole of the hotel with the exception of himself there was not a single living soul. . . . He went on to the balcony. The bay, as if alive, looked at him with numberless azure, dark blue, turquoise-blue and fiery "eyes ancTenticed him towards itself. " It was really hot and sultry, and it would be pleasant to have a bath. Suddenly in the lower story just under the balcony there was the sound of a violin and two delicate women's voices began to sing. They were singing some- thing very familiar. The song that was ^ being sung below told of a girl who had ? a sick imagination, who heard mysterious ^ sounds at night in the garden, and made up her mind that they were sacred har- monies that were incomprehensible to us mortals. . . . Kovrin had catchy ings of his breath and his heart grew heavy with sadness, and a beautiful sweet joy, such as he had long forgotten, p throbbed in his breast. A high black column that looked like a whirlwind or a waterspout appeared on the opposite shores of the bay. With terrible rapidity it moved across the bay in the direction of the hotel, becoming smaller and darker, and Kovrin had scarcely time to stand to one side to make room for it. . . .A monk with a bare head and black eyebrows, bare- footed, with hands crossed on his breast, was borne past him and stopped in the middle of the room. "Why did you not believe me?" he asked reproachfully, and looked kindly at Kovrin. "If you had believed me then, when I told you that you were a genius, you would not have passed these two years so sadly and so miserably." Kovrin believed that he was the chosen of God and a genius, he instantly remembered all his former conversations with the black monk, and he wanted to speak but blood began to flow from his throat straight on to his breast, and he, not knowing what to do, passed his hands over his chest and his cuffs be- came saturated with blood. He wanted to call Varvara Nikolaevna, who was sleeping behind the screen; he made an effort and said: "Tania!" He fell on the floor and raising himself [on his arm again called: }"l ."Tania!" *v tie called to Tania, he called to the great gardens with their lovely flowers sprinkled with dew, he called to the park, to the pines with their rugged roots, to the fields of rye, to his wonderful science, to his youth, courage, joy, he called to life that was so beautiful. He saw on the floor close to his face a large pool of blood, and from weakness he could not utter another word, but an inexpressible, a boundless happiness filled his whole being. Below, just under the balcony, they were playing the serenade, and the black monk whispered to him that he was a genius and that38 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV he was only dying because his weak human body had lost its balance and could no longer serve as the garb for a genius. When Varvara Nikolaevna awoke and came from behind the screen Kovrin was already dead and his face had stiffened in a blissful smile. A Family Council To keep the family skeleton of the Uskoffs off the street, the most rigorous measures were taken. Half of the servants were sent to the theatre and circus, and half stayed in the kitchen. Orders were given to admit no one. The wife of the culprit's uncle, her sister, and the governess, although aware of the mystery, pretended that they knew nothing about it. They sat silently in the dining-room, and never left it. Sasha Uskoff, aged twenty-five, the cause of all this consternation, arrived some time ago; and on the advice of kind-hearted Ivan Markovitch, his maternal uncle, sat in the corridor out- side the study and prepared to confess all and openly. On the other side of the door the family council was being held. The dis- cussion ran on a ticklish and very dis- agreeable subject. The facts of the matter were as follows. Sasha Uskoff had discounted at a bankers a forged bill of exchange, the term of which ex- pired three days before; and now his two paternal uncles, and Ivan Markovitch, an uncle on his mother's side, were dis- cussing the solemn problem: should the money be paid and the family honour saved, or should they wash their hands of the whole matter, and leave the law to take its course? To people unconcerned and un- interested such questions seem very trivial, but for those with whom the solution lies they are extraordinarily complex. The three uncles had already had their say, yet the matter had not advanced a step. "Heavens!" cried the Colonel, a paternal uncle, in a voice betraying both weariness and irritation. "Heavens! who said that family honour was a prejudice? I never said anything of the kind. I only wanted to save you from looking at the matter from a false stand- point—to point out how easily you may make an irremediable mistake. Yet you don't seem to understand me! I sup- pose I am speaking Russian, not Chinese!" "My dear fellow, we understand you perfectly," interposed Ivan Markovitch soothingly. "Then why do you say that I deny family honour? I repeat what I have said! Fam—ily hon—our false—ly under—stood is a pre—ju—dice! Falsely under—stood, mind you! That is my point of view. From any convic- tion whatever, to screen and leave un- punished a rascal, no matter who he is, both contrary to law and unworthy of an honourable man. It is not the saving of the family honour, but civic cowar- dice. Take the Army, for example! The honour of the Army is dearer to a soldier than any other honour. ButA FAMILY COUNCIL 89 we do not screen our guilty members . . . we judge them! Do you imagine that the honour of the Army suffers thereby? On the contrary!" The other paternal uncle, an official of the Crown Council, a rheumatic, taci- turn, and not very intelligent man, held his peace all the time, or spoke only of the fact that if the matter came into court the name of the Uskoffs would ap- pear in the newspapers; in his opinion, therefore, to avoid publicity it would be better to hush up the matter while there was still time. But with the ex- ception of this reference to the news- papers, he gave no reason for his opinion. But kind-hearted Ivan Markovitch, the maternal uncle, spoke fluently and softly with a tremula in his voice. He began with the argument that youth has its claims and its peculiar tempta- tions. Which of us was not once young, and which of us did not sometimes go a step too far? Even leaving aside ordinary mortals, did not history teach that the greatest minds in youth were not always able to avoid infatuations and mistakes. Take for instance the biog- raphies of great writers. What one of them did not gamble and drink, and draw upon himself the condemnation of all right-minded men? While on the one hand we remembered that Sasha's errors had overstepped the boundary into crime, on the other we must take into account that Sasha hardly received any education; he was expelled from the gymnasium when in the fifth form; he lost his parents in early childhood, and thus at the most susceptible age was deprived of control and all beneficent influences. He was a nervous boy, easily excited, without any naturally strong moral convictions, and he had been spoiled by happiness. Even if he were guilty, still he deserved the sympathy and concern of all sympathetic souls. Punished, of course, he must be; but then, had he not already been punished by his conscience, and the tortures which he must now be feeling as he awaited the decision of his relatives. The comparison with the Army which the Colonel had made was very flatter- ing, and did great honour to his gener- ous mind; the appeal to social feelings showed the nobility of his heart. But it must not be forgotten that the mem- ber of society in every individual was closely bound up with the Christian. "And how should we violate our so- cial duty," asked Ivan Markovitch, "if instead of punishing a guilty boy we stretch out to him the hand of mercy?" Then Ivan Markovitch reverted to the question of the family honour. He himself had not the honour to belong to the distinguished family of Uskoff, but he knew very well that that illustrious race dated its origin from the thirteenth century, and he could not forget for a moment that his beloved, unforgotten sister was the wife of a scion of the race. In one word—the Uskoff family was dear to him for many reasons, and he could not for a moment entertain the thought that for a paltry fifteen hundred roubles a shadow should be cast for ever upon the ancestral tree. And if all the argument already adduced were in- sufficiently convincing then he, in con- clusion, asked his brothers-in-law to ex- plain the problem: What is a crime? A crime was an immoral action, having its impulse in an evil will. So most people thought. But could we affirm that the human will was free to decide? To this90 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV important question science could give no conclusive answer. Metaphysicians maintained various divergent theories. For instance, the new school of Lom- broso refused to recognize free-will, and held that every crime was the product of purely anatomical peculiarities in the individual. "Ivan Markovitch!" interrupted the Colonel imploringly. "Do, for Heaven's sake, talk sense. We are speaking seriously about a serious matter . . . and you, about Lombroso! You are a clever man, but think for a moment— how can all this rattle-box rhetoric help us to decide the question?" Sasha Uskoff sat outside the door and listened. He felt neither fear nor shame nor tedium—only weariness and spiritual vacuity. He felt that it did not matter a kopeck whether he was forgiven or not; he had come here to await his sen- tence and to offer a frank explanation, only because he was begged to do so by kindly Ivan Markovitch. He was not afraid of the future. It was all the same to him, here in the corridor, in prison, or in Siberia. "Sibera is only Sibera—the devil take it!" Life has wearied Sasha, and has be- come insufferably tedious. He is inex- tricably in debt, he has not a kopeck in his pocket, his relatives have become odious to him; with his friends and with women he must part sooner or later, for they are already beginning to look at him contemptuously as a parasite. The future is dark. Sasha, in fact, is indifferent, and only one thing affects him. That is, that through the door he can hear himself being spoken of as a scoundrel and a criminal. All the time he is itching to jump up, burst into the room, and, in answer to the destestable metallic voice of the Colonel, to cry: "You are a liar!" A criminal—it is a horrid word. It is applied as a rule to murderers, thieves, robbers, and people incorrigibly wicked and morally hopeless. But Sasha is far from this. . . . True, he is up to his neck in debts, and never attempts to pay them. But then indebtedness is not a crime, and there are very few men who are not in debt. The Colonel and Ivan Markovitch are both in debt. "What on earth am I guilty of?" asked Sasha. He had obtained money by presenting a forged bill. But this was done by every young man he knew. Khandrikoff and Von Burst, for instance, whenever they wanted money, discounted bills with forged acceptances of their parents and friends, and when their own money came in met them. Sasha did exactly the same thing, and only failed to meet his bill owing to Khan- drikoff's failure to lend the money which he had promised. It was not he, but circumstance which was at fault. . . . It was true that imitating another man's signature was considered wrong, but that did not make it a crime but merely an ugly formality, a manoeuvre con- stantly adopted which injured nobody; and Sasha when he forged the Colonel's name had no intention of causing loss to anyone. "It is absurd to pretend that I have been guilty of a crime," thought Sasha. "I have not the character of men who commit crimes. On the contrary, I am easy-going and sensitive . . . when I have money I help the poor. . . While Sasha reasoned thus, the dis-A FAMILY COUNCIL 91 cussion continued on the other side of the door. "But, gentlemen, this is only the be- ginning!" cried the Colonel. "Suppose, for the sake of argument, that we let him off and pay the money! He will go on still in the same way and continue to lead his unprincipled life. He will indulge in dissipation, run into debt, go to our tailors and order clothes in our names. What guarantee have we that this scandal will be the last? As far as I am concerned, I tell you frankly that I do not believe in his reformation for one moment." The official of the Crown Council muttered something in reply. Then Ivan Markovitch began to speak softly and fluently. The Colonel impatiently shifted his chair, and smothered Ivan Markovitch's argument with his detest- able, metallic voice. At last the door opened, and out of the study came Ivan Markovitch with red spots on his meagre, clean-shaven face. "Come!" he said, taking Sasha by the arm. "Come in and make an open- hearted confession. Without pride, like a good boy . . . humbly and from the heart." Sasha went into the study. The official of the Crown Council continued to sit, but the Colonel, hands in pockets, and with one knee resting on his chair, stood before the table. The room was full of smoke and stiflingly hot. Sasha did not look at either the Colonel or his brother, but suddenly feeling ashamed and hurt, glanced anxiously at Ivan Markovitch and muttered: "I will pay ... I will give . . "May I ask you on what you relied when you obtained the money on this bill?" rang out the metallic voice. "I . . . Khandrikoff promised to lend me the money in time." Sasha said nothing more. He went out of the study and again sat on the chair outside the door. He would have gone away at once had he not been stifled with hatred and with a desire to tear the Colonel to pieces or at least to in- sult him to his face. But at this mo- ment in the dim twilight around the dining-room appeared a woman's figure. It was the Colonel's wife. She beckoned Sasha, and, wringing her hands, said with tears in her voice: "Alexandre, I know that you do not love me, but . . . listen for a moment! My poor boy, how can this have hap- pened? It is awful, awful! For Heaven's sake beg their forgiveness . . . justify yourself, implore them!" Sasha looked at her twitching shoulders, and at the big tears which flowed down her cheeks; he heard be- hind him the dull, nervous voices of his exhausted uncles, and shrugged his shoulders. He had never expected that his aristocratic relatives would raise such a storm over a paltry fifteen hun- dred roubles. And he could understand neither the tears nor the trembling voices. An hour later he heard indications that the Colonel was gaining the day. The other uncles were being won over to his determination to leave the matter to the law. "It is decided!" said the Colonel stiffly. "Basta!" But having decided thus, the three uncles, even the inexorable Colonel, per- ceptibly lost heart. "Heavens!" sighed Ivan Markovitch. "My poor sister!" And he began in a soft voice to92 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV announce his conviction that his sister, Sasha's mother, was invisibly present in the room. He felt in his heart that this unhappy, sainted woman was weep- ing, anguishing, interceding for her boy. For the sake of her repose in the other world it would have been better to spare Sasha. Sasha heard someone whimpering. It was Ivan Markovitch. He wept and muttered something inaudible through the door. The Colonel rose and walked from corner to corner. The discussion began anew. . . . The clock in the drawing-room struck two. The council was over at last. The Colonel, to avoid meeting a man who had caused him so much shame, left the room through the antechamber. Ivan Markovitch came into the corridor. He was plainly agitated, but rubbed his hands cheerfully. His tear-stained eyes glanced happily around him, and his mouth was twisted into a smile. "It is all right, my boy!" he said to Sasha. "Heaven be praised! You may go home, child, and sleep quietly. We have decided to pay the money, but only on the condition that you repent sincerely, and agree to come with me to the country to-morrow, and set to work." A minute afterwards, Ivan Markovitch and Sasha, having put on their over- coats and hats, went down-stairs to- gether. Uncle Ivan muttered something edifying. But Sasha didn't listen; he felt only that something heavy and pain- ful had fallen from his shoulders. He was forgiven—he was free! Joy like a breeze burst into his breast and wrapped his heart with refreshing cool- ness. He wished to breathe, to move, to live. And looking at the street lamps and at the black sky he remembered that to-day at "The Bear," Von Burst would celebrate his name-day. A new joy seized his soul. "I will go!" he decided. But suddenly he remembered that l^e had not a kopeck, and that his friends already despised him for his penurious- ness. He must get money at all cost. "Uncle, lend me a hundred roubles!" he said to Ivan Markovitch. Ivan Markovitch looked at him in amazement, and staggered back against a lamp-post." "Lend me a hundred roubles!" cried Sasha, impatiently shifting from foot to foot, and beginning to lose his temper. "Uncle, I beg of you . . . lend me a hundred roubles!" His face trembled with excitement, and he nearly rushed at his uncle. "You won't give them?" he cried, see- ing that his uncle was too dumfounded to understand. "Listen, if you refuse to lend them, I'll inform on myself to- morrow. I'll refuse to let you pay the money. I'll forge another to-morrow!" Thunderstruck, terror-stricken, Ivan Markovitch muttered something inco- herent, took from his pocket a hundred- rouble note, and handed it silently to Sasha. And Sasha took it and hurriedly walked away. And sitting in a droschky, Sasha grew cool again, and felt his heart expand with renewed joy. The claims of youth of which kind-hearted uncle Ivan had spoken at the council-table had inspired and taken possession of him again. He painted in imagination the coming feast, and in his mind, among visions of bottles, women, and boon companions, twinkled a little thought: "Now I begin to see that I was in the wrong."Woe Grigori Petroff, long reputed the cleverest turner and most shiftless muzhik in all Galtchink canton, drove to Zemstvo hospital with his old spouse. It was a good thirty versts, on a road too bad for a driver of experience, much more for lazy Grigori. In the turner's face beat a sharp, icy wind, and it wras hard to say whether the snow came from heaven or from earth. Fields, telegraph posts, trees and even the horses were scarcely seen. The mare was worn out and dragged its hoofs out of the deep snow, shaking its head. The turner was in a hurry, and whipped her up. "Don't cry, Matrena!" he stammered. "Bear it a little longer! We'll soon, God grant, be at the hospital, and then you'll . . . Pavl Ivanuitch'll give you a powder, or let your blood; perhaps he'll rub some sort of spirit into you. Pavl Ivanuitch will do his best. . . . He'll shout, and stamp his feet, but he'll do his best. . . . He's a first-rate doctor, he knows his business, may God be good to him! . . . The minute we arrive he'll run out of his lodgings and look at you. 'What!' he'll shout at me. 'Why didn't you come before? Do you think I am a dog to waste all day with you devils? Why didn't you come in the morning? Begone! Come back to-morrow!' And I will answer, 'Mis- ter doctor! Pavl Ivanuitch! Your honour! . . " The turner whipped his horse, and without looking at his old woman, con- tinued to mutter— " 'Your honour! Truly before God! ... on my oath, I started at daybreak. . . . How could I get here sooner when God . . . the Mother of God was angry and sent such a storm? You can see for yourself! Even with a good horse I couldn't get here in time, and, as you can see for yourself, mine is not a horse, but a disgrace!' And Pavl Inanuitch will frown and shout, 'I know you! Al- ways the same excuse! You, in particu- lar, Grisha! I've known you for years. You stopped five times at a drink-shop!' And I shall answer him, 'Your honour! Don't think me a ruffian! My old wo- man is giving her soul to God; she's dying! Do you think I'd go near a drink- shop? May they be cursed, these drink- shops!' Then Pavl Ivanuitch will tell them to take you into the hospital. And I shall bow to the ground. 'Pavl Ivan- uitch! Your honour! I thank you hum- bly! Forgive us fools, anathemas; don't condemn us, poor muzhiks! You ought to kick us out of the hall! Yet you come out to meet us, and wet your legs in the snow!' "And Pavl Ivanuitch will look as if he wanted to hit me, and say, 'Don't throw yourself at my feet, fool! You'd do better to drink less vodka and have pity on your wife. You ought to be flogged!' 'That's God's truth. Pavl Ivanuitch, may I be flogged; may God flog me! But why not throw myself at your feet? You are our benefactor, our own father! Your honour! It is the truth, before God; spit in my face if I lie: as soon as my Matrena, this same Matrena, gets well, I will make anything your honour wants. A cigar- case, if you wish it, of yellow birch . . .94 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV a set of croquet balls, nine-pins—I can make them like the best foreign ones. ... I will make them all for you. I won't charge a kopeck. In Moscow such cigar-cases cost four roubles. I won't take a kopeck.' And the doctor will laugh and say to me, 'Well, well . . . agreed! I'm sorry for you. Only it's a pity you're such a drunkard!' I know how to manage with these gentlemen! There's no man on earth I can't stand up to. Only may God keep us from losing the road! Akh, my eyes are full of snow." And the turner muttered without cease. As if to dull the pain of his own feelings, he babbled on mechanically. But many as the words on his lips, there were still more thoughts and problems in his head. Woe had come upon the turner suddenly, unexpectedly; and now he could not recover his self-possession. Till now he had lived peacefully in drunken apathy, insensible to sorrow and to joy; and now he had been struck an intolerable blow. The shiftless, drunken lie-abed suddenly found himself busy, tormented, and, it seemed, in conflict with Nature herself. The turner remembered that his sor- rows began only yesterday. When, drunk as usual, he had returned to his home the night before, and, by virtue of old custom, abused his wife and shook his fists at her, the old woman looked at him as she had never looked before. Formerly her old eyes expressed martyr- dom, and the affection of a much-beaten, badly-fed dog; this night she looked at him morosely, steadfastly, as only saints and dying women look. With these unaccustomed eyes, all the trouble began. The frightened turner borrowed a neigh- bour's horse, and was driving the old woman to hospital in the hope that Pavl Ivanuitch with powders and ointments would restore to his wife her old expres- sion. "And listen, Matrena," he stammered. "If Pavl Ivanuitch asks do I ever beat you, say no, never! For I will never beat you again! I swear it. I never did beat you out of anger. I beat you only casually! I am sorry for you now. Another man would pay no attention to you, but I take you to hospital. . . . I do my best. But the storm, the storm, Lord God, Thy will! May God keep us from losing the road! Does your side hurt? Matrena, why don't you answer? I ask, does your side hurt? "Why is it the snow doesn't melt on her face?" he asked himself, feeling a cold wind on his back and frozen legs. "My snow thaws, but hers. . . . It's strange!" He could not understand why the snow on his wife's face did not thaw, why her face was drawn-out, severe, and serious, and had turned the colour of dirty wax. "You are a fool!" muttered the turner. "I spoke to you from my conscience, be- fore God!. . . . and you haven't the manners to answer. . . . Fool! If you're not more careful, I won't take you to Pavl Ivanuitch!" The turner dropped the reins, and thought. He could not make up his mind to look at his wife. He was nervous; and soon his wife's unmannerly silence frightened him. At last, to end his un- certainty, without looking at his wife, he felt her icy hand. The unlifted hand fell, as a whip. "She's dead, I suppose. An adven- ture!"WOE 95 And the turner wept. He wept less from grief than vexation. He reflected how quickly everything happens in this world; how he had hardly entered into his woe ere the woe was past. He hardly seemed to have had time to live with his wife, speak to her, feel for her, and now she was dead. True, they had lived together forty years, but the forty years had fled away like a mist. What with drink, poverty, and quarrels, life had passed away unlived. And, what was bitterest of all, the old woman died at a moment when he felt that he pitied her, could not live without her, and was guilty before her. "And she even went out and begged," he remembered. "I sent her myself to beg bread. An adventure! She ought to have lived another ten years. She thought, I suppose, that I'm really a bad lot. Mother in heaven, where am I driving to? It's no more a case of cure, but of funerals. Turn back." The turned turned back and flogged his horse with all his might. The road grew worse and worse. He could no longer see even the yoke. Sometimes the sledge drove into fir-trees, sometimes something dark scratched the turner's hands and flashed past his eyes. But he saw nothing except a whirling field of white. "To live over again!" he said to him- self. He remembered that forty years ago Matrena was young, pretty, and gay, and that she came from a prosperous home. It was his reputation as crafts- man that won her. And, indeed, he had every qualification for living well. But soon after marriage he began to drink, he sprawled all day on the stove, and, it seemed to him, he slept ever since. He remembered his wedding-day, but of what followed he could recall nothing save that he drank, sprawled, fought. And so passed forty years. The white snow-clouds turned slowly grey. Evening was near. "Where am I going? asked the turner. "I ought to be taking her home, and here I am still going to hospital! I am going crazy!" The turner again pulled round his horse and again flogged it. The mare strained all her strength, snorted, and broke into a trot. Behind the turner something tapped, tapped, tapped; and though he dared not look around, he knew that it was his wife's head bang- ing against the back of the sledge. As the air darkened the wind blew colder and sharper. "To live over again!" thought the turner. "To get new tools, to take orders, to give money to the old woman. . . . Yes!" He dropped the reins. A moment later he tried to find them, but failed. His hands no longer obeyed him. "It is all the same," he thought. "She will go on herself. She knows the road. To sleep a bit now. . . . Then the funeral, a mass. . . He closed his eyes and slumbered. A moment later, as it seemed to him, the horse stopped. He opened his eyes and saw before something dark, a cabin or hay rick. He tried to get out of the seldge to find out where he was, but his body was numbed with such pleasant indolence that he felt he would sooner freeze than move. And he fell restfully asleep. He awoke in a big room with red walls. Through the window came bright sun- rays. The turner saw men before him,96 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV and he obeyed his first instinct to show himself off as a serious man, a man with ideas. "Have a mass served, brothers!" he begun. "Tell the priest . . "That is all right!" came back voices. "Lie down!" "Batiushka! Pavl Ivanuitch!" said the turner in amazement. He saw the doctor before him. "Your honour! Benefactor!" He wished to jump up and throw him- self at the doctor's feet. But his hands and feet no longer obeyed him. "Your honour, where are my legs? Where are my hands?" "Good-bye to your legs and hands! They're frozen off, that's all. Well; well . . . there's no uset crying. You are old . . . glory be to God . . . sixty years' life is enough!" "Forgive me, your honour! If you could give me five or six years!" "Why do you want them?" "The horse isn't mine. I must return it! . . . The old woman must be buried. . . . Akh, how quickly things happen in this world! Your honour! Pavl Ivan- uitch! A cigar-case of birchwood of the first quality? I will make you cro- quet-balls ..." The doctor waved his hand and went out of the room. The turner was dead. Women In the village of Riabuzhka, opposite the church, stands a house with stone foundations, an iron roof two stories high. In the lower story, with the owner, Philip Ivanoff Kamin, nicknamed "Diudya" keeps his family overhead, in rooms hot in summer and cold in winter, lodge passing officials, merchants, and country gentlemen. Diudya rents land, sells a drink of tar honey and magpies; and is worth a good eight thousand roubles as bank records could show. Feodor, his elder son, is foreman me- chanic at a factory; and, as the peasants say, he is so far up the hill that you can't get near him. Homely and sickly Sophia, Feodor's wife, lives at home with her father-in-law, cries half the day, and every Sunday drives to hospital for treatment. Hunchbacked Aliosha, Di- udya's second son, also lives at home. He lately married Varvara, who is young, pretty, healthy, poor and fond of dress. The passing officials and traders let no one serve them in room or shop but Varvara. One evening in July as the sun set, and the air reeked of hay, hot manure, and new milk, into Diudya's yard came a cart with three men. One, aged about thirty, wore a canvas suit; the boy of seven or eight beside him wore a long black coat with big buttons; the third, a young lad in a red shirt, was the driver. The driver unhitched the horses and walked them up and down the street; and the man of thirty washed, prayed towards the church, and spreading a fur rug beside the cart, sat down with the boy to supper. He ate slowly and gravely; and Diudya, who had studied many a traveller in his day, found him a capable, serious man, who knew his own worth.WOMEN 97 Diudya, capless, and in shirt-sleeves, sat on the steps and waited for the trav- eller to speak. His patrons usually spent the evening story-telling, and their stories gave him pleasure. His old wife Afanasievna and his daughter-in-law Sophia milked cows in a shed; Varvara, wife of his younger son, sat upstairs at an open window and ate sunflower seeds. "I suppose this boy is your son?" asked Diudya. "My adopted son," answered the trav- eller. "I took him, orphan, for the saving of my soul." The pair soon gossiped at ease. The traveller seemed a takative, eloquent man; and Diudya learned that he was a petty burgher from town, a house- owner, by name Matvei Savvitch, that he was on his way to inspect some gar- dens which he rented from German colonists, and that the boy's name was Kuzka. It was hot and stifling; no one wished to sleep. When it grew dark, and the sky was dotted with pale stars, Matvei Savvitch began to tell the story of Kuzka. Afanasievna and Sophia stood some way off, and Kuzka loitered at the gate. "I may say, grandfather, that this story is involved in the extreme," began Matvei Savvitch. "If I were to tell you everything that happened it would last all night. Well! About ten years ago in our street, exactly in a line with us, where now stands the candle factory and oil mill, lived Mary a Semionovna Kapluntseff, an old widow with two sons. One of these sons was a tram-con- ductor; the other, Vasya, a lad of my own age, lived at home with his mother. Old Kapluntseff had kept horses—five pairs of them—and sent his draymen all over town; and his widow continued the business, and, as she managed the dray- men no worse than her husband, on some days she made a clear five roubles profit. "And Vasya, too, had his earnings. He kept prize tumblers and sold them to fanciers; I remember him standing on the roof, throwing up a broom and whis- tling, and the pigeons would fly right into the sky. He trapped goldfinches and starlings, and made good cages. A trifling business, you think, but you can easily make your ten roubles a month out of trifles. Well ... as time passed the old woman lost the use of her legs, and lay all day in bed. The house re- mained without mistress, and what is that but a man without eyes? The old woman resolved to marry her Vasya. She hired a match-maker, did everything quickly . . . woman's talk . . . and Vasya went to have a look at his bride. She was the widow Samokvalika's Mashenka. Vasya didn't waste time over it; in one week the whole business was finished. She was a young girl, little, shortish, with a white, pleasant face—all the qualities of a young lady; and a portion too, not bad—five hun- dred roubles, a cow, a bed! And the old woman—she felt it coming—two days after the wedding set out for Jerusalem of the hills, where there is neither sick- ness nor sighs. The young ones said mass for her soul and began to live. Six months they lived together happily; and then, suddenly, a new misfortune! Vasya was summoned to draw lots as a conscript. They took him, poor fellow, as a soldier, and remitted nothing. They shaved his head, and packed him off to the kingdom of Poland. It was God's will, and there was no appeal. When he said good-bye to his wife in the yard98 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV he was cool enough, but, looking up- wards at the hayloft with the pigeons, he cried as if his heart would break. It hurt me to see him. For company's sake Mashenka took her mother to live with her; and the mother stayed till child was born, that is, this same Kuzka; and then went away to another married daughter who lived at Oboyan. So Mashenka was left with her child. And there were five draymen, all drunken and impudent; horses and carts; broken fences and soot catching fire in the chimneys—no affair at all for a woman. And as I was a neighbour, she would come to me on all sorts of business; and I did my best for her, arranged more than one affair, gave her advice. And sometimes I would go to her house, have a drink, and a bit of a chat. I was a young man, clever, and I loved to talk about things; and she, too, was educated and had good manners. She dressed neatly and carried a parasol in summer. I remember; I would start upon theology or politics, and she felt flattered by this, and would treat me to tea and jam. . .In short, grandfather, I will waste no more words on it, a year had not passed when the unclean spirit seized me, the enemy of all mankind! I noticed that when a day passed without meeting Mashenka I felt out of sorts, and was bored. And all my time was spent in finding excuses to call on her. 'It's time,' I'd say to myself, 'to put in the double window- frames'; and I would spend the whole day in her house putting in the frames, and carefully leaving the work un- finished, so as to return next day. 'We ought to count Vasya's pigeons, and make sure none are lost.' And so on always. I spent hours talking to her across the fence; and at last, to avoid going round to the door, I made a little gate in the fence. Woman's sex is the cause of much evil and offence in this world! Not only we, sinners, but even holy men are seduced. Mashenka did not repulse me. When she ought to have thought of her husband, and kept guard on her conduct, she fell in love with me. I noticed soon that she also was tired of it, and that she spent all day walking along the fence and looking through the crevices into my yard. "My head whirled round. On Thurs- day in Holy Week I was up early, before daybreak; I had to go to market. I had to pass the gate; and the devil was there! The grating of the gate was raised, and there stood Mashenka in the middle of the yard, already up, and busy feeding the ducks. I lost control of myself. I called her by name. She came up and looked at me through the grating. Her face was white, her eyes were sleepy and caressing. I liked her very much! And I began to pay her compliments as if we were not at the gate, but as if it were a birthday visit. And Mashenka blushed, laughed, and looked at me with the same eyes, never taking them off me. I went quite mad, and told her straight that I loved her. She opened the gate, let me in, and from that day forward we lived as man and wife." Matvei paused. Into the yard, breath- less, came hunchback Aliosha, and, without looking at the group, ran into the house; a minute later he rushed out with a concertina, and jingling the cop- pers in his pocket and chewing a sun- flower seed, disappeared behind the gate. "Who is that man?" asked Matvei Sa witch. "My son Alexei," answered Diudya.WOMEN 99 "He's gone off to amuse himself, rascal! God cursed him with a hump, so we're not hard on him!" "He does nothing but play with the children," sighed Afansievna. "Before Shrovetide we married him, and thought he'd improve, but he's got worse than ever." "It was no use," said Diudya. "We only made a strange girl happy, without profit." From behind the church came the sound of a mournful but pleasant song. The words were indistinguishable, but the voices, two tenors and a bass, could easily be made out. All listened. Sud- denly two of the singers, with a loud laugh, ceased to sing, but the third, the tenor, continued, and sang so high that all mechanically looked upward as if they thought the voice had reached the sky. Varvara came out of the house, and, shading her eyes with her hand as if the sun dazzled her, looked at the church. "It's the priest's sons and the school- master," she said. Again all three voices sang together. Matvei Sawitch sighed and continued:— "So it happened, grandfather! . . . Well, in two years a letter came from Vasya. He wrote from Warsaw and told us that he had been discharged for ill-health. He was invalided. But by that time I had driven my madness out of my head, and, what's more, I was thinking of making a good match, and was only waiting an excuse to get rid of my lovebird. Every day I resolved to speak to Mashenka, but I never knew how to begin, and I can't abide a woman's howl. The letter gave me my chance. As Mashenka read it aloud to me she turned white as snow, and I said to her, 'Glory be to God,' I said. Thou wilt again be an honest woman.* She answered. 'I never loved him, and I married him against my will. My mother forced me to.' But that doesn't get round the question, fool,' I said. 'Were you married to him in church or not?', 'I was married in church,' she answered me, 'but I love only thee, and I will be thy wife till thy very death. Let people jeer at me! I care nothing for them!' 'You are a believing woman/ I said to her. 'You read the Bible; what is there written there?' " "Once given to her husband with her husband she must live," said Diudya. "Husband and wife are of one flesh and blood," resumed Matvei Sawitch. " 'Thou and I have sinned,' I said. 'We must listen to our consciences and have the fear of God. We will ask forgive- ness of Vasya. He is a peaceful, timid man—he won't murder you. But bet- ter,' I added, 'far better in this world to tolerate torture from thy lawful husband than gnash thy teeth when the Day of Judgment is nigh!' The silly wouldn't listen to me. Not a word would she say but 'I love thee!' and nothing more. Vasya came home on the Saturday before Trinity early in the morning. I watched the whole business through the fence. In ran Vasya into the house, and a minute later out he came with Kuzka in his arms, laughing and crying at the same time. He kissed Kuzka and looked up at the hayloft; he wanted to go to his pigeons, but he wouldn't let hold of Kuzka. He was a soft sort of man— sentimental! The day passed quietly enough. They rang the bells for the vesper service, and I kept thinking to myself, 'Why don't they decorate the gates and the yard with birches? Some-100 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV thing is wrong,' I thought. I went into their house and looked. Vasya sat on the floor in the middle of the room, twitching his eyes as if in drink; the tears flowed down his cheeks, his hands shook; he took out of his handkerchief cracknels, necklaces, gingerbread—all sorts of gifts—and threw them on the floor. Kuzka—he was then aged three— crept on the floor and chewed the ginger- breads; and Mashenka stood by the stove, pale and trembling, and muttered, 'I am not thy wife; I will not live with thee,' and a lot more nonsense of that kind. I threw myself on the boards at Vasya's feet and said, 'We two are guilty before thee, Vassili Maksimuitch; forgive us for the love of Christ!' and then I rose and said to Mashenka, 'It is your duty, Marya Semionovna, to wash Vassili Maksimuitch's feet, and be to him an obedient wife, and pray for me to God that He, the All-Merciful, may forgive me my sin.' I was inspired by a heavenly angel! I spoke edifica- tion; spoke with such feeling that I be- gan to cry. And two days later up to me comes Vasya. 'I forgive you,' says he; 'I forgive you, Matiusha, and I for- give my wife; God be with you both. She is a soldier's wife after all, and women are queer things; she is young, it was hard for her to guard herself. She is not the first, and she will not be the last. There is only one thing,' he added. 'I beg you henceforth to live as if there was nothing between us; let nothing be seen, and I,' he says, 'will try to please her in everything so that she may love me again.' He gave me his hand on it, drank some tea, and went away contented. 'Glory be to God!' I said to myself; and I felt happy that all had been settled so well. But hardly had Vasya got outside the yard when Mashenka appears. I had no peace, you see! She hung on my neck, howled, and implored me 'For the love of God do not forsake me! I cannot live with- out thee! I cannot, I cannot!'" "The shameless trull!" sighed Diudya. "But I bawled at her, stamped my feet, dragged her into the hall, and locked the door. 'Go back!' I shouted, 'to thy husband. Do not shame me before the people! Have the fear of God in thy heart.' And every day this history was repeated. I stood one morn- ing in the yard near the stable and mended a bridle. Suddenly up I looked, and saw her running through the gate, bare-footed, with nothing on but a petti- coat. Straight up to me she ran, seized the bridle, and got covered with tar, and trembling all over, howled, ' I can- not live with that brute! It is beyond my strength. If thou no longer lovest me, then kill me!' It was too much for my patience. I struck her twice with the bridle. But at that moment in runs Vasya and cries despairingly, 'Don't strike her, don't strike her.' But he himself seemed to have gone out of his mind, for, flourishing his arms, he began to beat her with his clenched fists with all his might, then flung her down in the dust, and trampled her into it. I tried to defend her, but he seized hold of the reins, and beat her without mercy. Beat her as he'd beat a horse, gee, gee, gee!" "A good thing if they did it to you," growled Varvara, walking away. "You murdered our sister between you, ac- cursed!" "Hold your tongue!" shouted Diudya. "Mare!" "Gee, gee, gee!" continued MatveiWOMEN 101 Savvitch. "One of the draymen ran in from his yard; I called up some of my workmen, and between us we rescued Mashenka and carried her home. It was a shame! She lay there in bed, all bandaged, all in compresses—only her eyes and nose could be seen—and looked up at the ceiling. " 'Good day, Marya Semionovna,' I would say to her. But she spoke not a word. "And Vasya sat in another room, tore his hair, and cried, 'I am a ruffian! I have murdered my wife! Send me in Thy mercy, Lord, death." "I sat half an hour with Mashenka, and spoke edification. I frightened her. " The righteous,' I said. 'The righteous of this world are rewarded in Paradise, but thy place is fiery Gehenna with all adulteresses . . . . Do not dare resist thy husband, go down on thy knees to him!' But she hadn't a word for me; even her eyes were still; I might as well have preached to a pillar. "A day later Vasya was taken ill— something, it was, like cholera; and that same evening I heard he was dead. They buried him. Mashenka was not at the funeral; she wouldn't let people see her shameless face and her blue marks. But soon they began to say in town that Vasya's death was not natural, that he was murdered by Mashenka. The police soon heard it. They dug up Vasya, cut him open, and found his stomach full of arsenic. It was a simple case. Of course, the police took away Mashenka, and with her innocent Kuzka. They put her in gaol. . . . About eight months later she was tried. She sat, I remember, in the dock in a grey gown with a white handkerchief on her head—thin, pale, sharp-eyed, the picture of misery. And behind her a soldier with a rifle! Of course she denied it. Some said she'd poisoned her husband; others argued that he had poisoned himself from grief. Anyway, I was a witness. When they questioned me I told them the honest truth. 'She was a sinful woman/ I told them. 'She did not love her hus- band—it's no use hiding it. She was an obstinate woman. . . The trial be- gan in^ the morning and didn't end till night. It was penal servitude in Sibera, thirteen years of it. "Mashenka remained in our local gaol three months after trial. I used to go and see her. I was sorry for her, and would bring her tea and sugar. . . . And she—I remember—when she caught sight of me, would wring her hands, and mutter, 'Go away! Go away.' And Kuzka would press himself to her dress, as if he feared I might take him. 'Look!' I would say to Mashenka. 'See what you've brought yourself to! Akk, Masha, Masha, perishing soul! When I tried to teach you reason, you wouldn't listen; so weep now! It is you yourself,' I would say, 'who are guilty; accuse yourself!' And I spoke edification to her; but the only words she answered were, 'Go away! Go away!' Then she'd press little Kuzka to the wall, and tremble all over. Well! When she was taken out of our province, I went to see her off at the railway station, and put into her hand a rouble, for Christ's sake. She didn't reach Sibera. Before she had crossed the government frontier she was down with gaol-fever, and in gaol she died." "To a dog a dog's death!" said Diuyda. "Kuzka was sent back. I thought the102 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV matter out, and took him to live with me. What else could I do? He's a sprig of a gaol-bird, that's true, but all the same he's a Christian, a living soul. I was sorry for him. I will make him a clerk, and if I have no children of mine, a trader. Nowadays, wherever I go I take him with me; he is learning busi- ness." While Matvei Sawitch told his story, Kuzka sat on a stone at the gate, and, resting his head on his hands, looked at the sky; when it grew dusk he looked like a stump of a tree. "Kuzka, go to bed!" cried Matvei Savvitch. "It's time," said Diudya, rising. He yawned audibly, and added, "They think themselves clever and disobey their elders—that's the cause of their troubles." The moon already shone in the sky overhead; it seemed to speed swiftly to one side and the clouds beneath it to the other; the clouds drifted away and the moon was soon clear of them. Matvei Savvitch prayed towards the church, bade the others good night, and lay on the ground near his cart. Kuzka also prayed, lay down in the cart, and covered himself with a coat; to increase his comfort he made a hollow in the hay, and bent in two until his elbows touched his knees. From the yard could be seen Diudya, lighting a candle in the lower story; after which he took his spectacles, stood in the corner with a book, bowed before the ikon, and read. The travellers slept. Afanasievna and Sophia crept up to the cart, and looked at Kuzka. "The orphan's asleep," said the old woman. "All skin and bone, poor lad! No mother on earth, and no one to feed him on his journey." "My Grishutka, I think, is about two years older," said Sophia. "He lives in that factory like a slave, and has no mother either. . . . His master beats him. When I first looked at this lad he reminded me of my Grishutka; the blood in my heart froze up." Five minutes passed in silence. "I wonder does he remember his mother," said the old woman. "How should he remember?" And from Sophia's eyes fell big tears. "He's twisted himself into a roll," she said, sobbing and laughing from pity and emotion. "Poor little orphan!" Kuzka started and opened his eyes. He saw above him an ugly, wrinkled, tear-stained face; and near it another face, old and toothless, with a sharp chin and a humped nose; and above the faces was the unfathomable sky with its flying clouds and moon. He cried out with terror. Sophia also cried out; an echo answered both; and the heavy air seemed to tremble with restlessness. A watch- man not far off signalled; a dog barked. Matvei Savvitch muttered in his sleep, and turned on the other side. Late at night when the others— Diudya, his wife, and the watchman— were asleep, Sophia came out to the gate and sat on a bench. The heat was still stifling, and her head ached from crying. The street was wide and long; it stretched two versts to the right, and two more to the left—there was no end to it. One side only was lighted by the moon; the other lay in deep gloom; the long shadows from poplars and starling-cotes stretched across it, and the black and menacing shadow of the church spread far, embracing Diudya'sWOMEN 103 gate and half his house. No one moved or spoke. But from the end of the street came faint sounds of music. Aliosha played on his concertina. Something moved in the shadow of the church fence; but no one could say whether it was man or cow, or neither— perhaps the sound came from some big bird rustling in the trees. But suddenly out of this shadow came a figure, and this figure stopped, said something in a man's voice, and disappeared down a lane near the church. A minute later, two fathoms from the gate emerged a woman, who, seeing Sophia on the bench, stood still. "Varvara, is it you?" asked Sophia. J? It was Varvara. She stood still a moment longer, then came up to the bench and sat down. "Where have you been" asked Sophia. Varvara was silent. "You will bring the same end on yourself, young one," said Sophia. "You heard about Mashenka, and the tramp- ling underfoot . . . and the reins. Take care that something of that sort doesn't happen to you." "I don't care if it does." Varvara laughed in her handkerchief, and said in a whisper— "I have been with the priest's son." "Nonsense?" "I swear." "It's a sin!" whispered Sophia. "I don't care. It's nothing to regret. A sin is a sin, and better the lightning strike me than lead such a life. I am young . . . and healthy, and my hus- band is a hunchback, miserable, surly, worse than Diudya accursed! Before I was married I had not enough to eat and walked barefoot; but for the sake of Aliosha's money I became a slave, like a fish in a net, and I would sooner sleep with a serpent than with this scabby Aliosha. And your life? Can you bear it? Your Feodor sent you home to his father from the factory, and lives there with another woman; he took your boy away from you and sold you into slavery. You work like a horse, and never hear a decent word. Better never marry, better take half-roubles from the son of the priest, better beg for bread, drown yourself in a well . . ." "It's a sin!" sighed Sophia. "I don't care." From the church again came the mournful song of the three voices, the two tenors and the bass. And again the words were indistinguishable. And Varvara began to whisper that she went out at night with the priest's son, and told what he said to her, and what his friends were like; and that she carried on also with passing officials and traders. And Sophia began to laugh; she felt it was sinful and awful and sweet to listen; and she envied Varvara, and felt sorry that she had not been a sinner when she was young and handsome. The church bells struck midnight. "It's time for bed," said Sophia, ris- ing. "Diudya may catch us." Both went cautiously into the yard. "I went away and didn't hear what happened to Mashenka afterwards," said Varvara, spreading her bed under the window. "She died, he said, in prison. She poisoned her husband." Varvara lay down beside Sophia, thought, and said softly— "I could murder my Aliosha without a qualm."104 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV "You talk nonsense, God be with you." When Sophia was almost asleep Var- vara pressed against her and whispered in her ear— "Let us murder Diudya and Aliosha!" Sophia shuddered and said nothing at first. After a moment she opened her eyes and looked steadfastly at the sky. "People would find out," she said. "Nobody'll find out. Diudya is old; his time, in any case, has come; and Aliosha, they'll say, killed himself with drink." Neither of the women slept. Both thought, silently. "It's cold," said Sophia, beginning to shudder. "I expect it will soon be light, Are you asleep?" 4'No. . . . Pay no attention to what I said to you," whispered Varvara. "I lose my temper with them, accursed, and sometimes don't myself know what I say. . . . Go to sleep!" The two women were silent, and grad- ually calmed down and went to sleep. Old Afanasievna awoke first of all. She called Sophia, and both went to the shed to milk the cows. Next appeared hunchback Aliosha, hopelessly drunk, and without his concertina. His chest and knees were covered with dust and straw; it was plain he had fallen on the road. Rolling tipsily from side to side, he went into the shed and, without undressing, threw himself on a sledge and at once began to snore. When the rising sun burnt with a fierce glow the crosses on the church, when later the windows imaged it, when across the yard through the dewy grass stretched shadows from the trees, only then did Matvei Savvitch rise and begin to bustle about. "Kuzka, get up!" he shouted. "It's time to yoke the horses. Look sharp!" The morning's work began. A young Jewess in a brown, flounced dress led a horse to water. The windlass creaked plaintively, the bucket rattled. Kuzka, sleepy, unrested, covered with dew, sat on the cart and drew on his coat lazily and, listening to the water splashing in the well, shuddered from the cold. "Auntie!" cried Matvei Savvitch. "Sing out to my lad to come and yoke the horses!" And at the same minute Diudya called out of the window— "Sophia, make the Jewess pay a kopeck for the water. They take it al- ways, the scabbies!" Up and down the street ran bleating sheep; women bawled at the shepherd; and the shepherd played his reed, flourished his whip, and answered in a rough, hoarse bass. Three sheep ran into the yard and crowded together at the fence. The noise awoke Varvara, who took her bed in her arms and went towards the house. "You might at least drive out the sheep!" cried the old woman. "My fine lady!" "What more? You think I'll work for a pack of Herods like you," growled Varvara, entering the house. The axles were soon oiled and the horses harnessed. From the house came Diudya with an abacus, and sitting on the steps, made up his account against the travellers for lodging, oats, and water. "You charge high, grandfather, for the oats," said Matvei Savvitch. "If they're too dear, don't take them. We won't force you to." When the travellers were ready toA HUSK 105 climb into the cart an accident delayed them. Kuzka had lost his cap. "What have you done with it, swine?" bawled Matvei Sawitch angrily. "Where is it gone to?" Kuzka's face was contorted with ter- ror. He searched about the cart and, finding no cap there, went to the gates. The old woman and Sophia also searched. "I'll cut off your ears," roared Matvei Sawitch. "Accursed pup!" The cap was found at the bottom of the cart. Kuzka brushed the hay from it, put it on timidly as if he expected a blow from behind, and took his seat. Matvei Sawitch crossed himself, the driver pulled the reins, and the cart rolled slowly out of the yard. A Husk In a shed belonging to the Starost, Procofi, on the outskirts of the village of Mironocitsk, some belated sports- men had disposed themselves to spend the night. There were two, the veteri- nary-surgeon, Ivan Ivanitch, and the schoolmaster, Burkin. Ivan Ivanitch bore a somewhat strange family name— Tchimsha Himalayski—which seemed in no wise to fit him; so in the whole dis- trict he was simply known by his name and patronymic. He lived near the town on a stud-farm, and had come to do a little shooting so as to get a breath of fresh air. The schoolmaster, Burkin, spent every summer on the property of Count N-, and for some time had felt quite at home there. They were not yet asleep. Ivan Ivanitch, a tall, spare old man, with long moustaches, was sitting in the moonlight outside the door, smoking his pipe. Burkin was lying inside on the hay, and could not be seen in the darkness. They were telling each other stories. Among other things, they spoke about the Starost's wife, Mavra, a healthy and not stupid woman, who in all her life had never been outside her native vil- lage, had never seen any town nor rail- way, and for the last ten years had sat by her stove all day, and taken her walks abroad at nights. "There is nothing wonderful in that/' said Burkin. "People who are solitary by nature, who, like the anchorite crab or snail, seek to retire into their shell, are not so scarce in this world. It may be a manifestation of atavism, a return to that epoch when the predecessors of man were not yet gregarious animals, but lived alone in their holes; and it may also be simply one of the human character's diversities—who knows? I am not a naturalist, and it is not my concern to solve such questions. I only wish to say that people like Mavra are not of such rare occurrence. Why, not to seek further, two months ago a teacher of Greek, a friend of mine, a certain Bielikov, died in our town. You must assuredly have heard of him? His peculiarity was, that even in the very finest weather he would go out in galoshes, carry an umbrella, and wear a wadded coat. His umbrella was always in its sheath, his watch always in a chamois-leather case, and when he pulled106 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV out his pocket-knife to sharpen a pencil, that also was in its little case. He wore black eye-glasses, a waist-coat, stuffed cotton wool in his ears, and when he got into a cab he had the hood put up. In fact, one noticed in this individual a fixed and irresistible longing to withdraw into a cover, to make, as it were, a husk around himself, which would isolate him and protect him from outside influences. Actuality annoyed him, alarmed him, kept him in a constant state of suspense, and it may have been to justify this timidity of his, this repugnance to the present, that he always lauded the past and things which had never existed; and the dead tongues which he taught were, in reality, those same galoshes and um- brella behind which he sought protection in actual life. " 'Oh, how sonorous, how beautiful is the Greek language!' he exclaimed, with a fond expression, and as a proof of his assertion he blinked his eyes, raised a finger, and pronounced the word: 'Anthropos!' "Bielikov strove, too, to wrap up his thoughts in a sheath. For him the only clear things were circulars and news- paper articles in which something was forbidden. When a circular was pub- lished forbidding teachers to be out in the streets after nine o'clock in the evening, or some newspaper article cen- sured carnality, that was definite and obvious to him—and so basta. In a de- cision or a concession always lay an ele- ment of doubt, something undefined and disquieting. If the town decided to al- low a dramatic circle or a reading-club, or a tea-shop, he would shake his head, and say gently: 'They are quite right; of course, it's most excellent, but what will come of it?' "Any kind of infraction, deviation, or violation of rules plunged him in despair, although, as it might happen, it had nothing to do with him. If any of his companions were late for the Te Deum, or there were rumors of some students' pranks, or an instructress had been seen late in the evening in the company of some officer, he would get very much agitated, and continually repeat: 'What will come of it?' And at our Teachers' Meetings he simply trampled on us with his precaution, his mistrust, and his sheath-bound statements with respect to things, such as: in mixed schools the young people always behave badly, al- ways make a noise in class. 'Ah; may the heads not hear of it. Ah! What will come of it?' That if Peter were expelled from the second class, and George from the fourth, it would be a very good thing. Well, what with his sighs, his complaints, his black eye- glasses, his small white face—you know he was like a polecat—he so oppressed us that we yielded, lessened Peter's and George's good conduct marks, had them punished, and finally expelled Peter and George. "He had a peculiar habit of walking unbidden into our rooms. He would come into the class-room, and sit down in silence and as if in contemplation of something. There he would sit, hour after hour, without uttering a word, then go away. This was called 'keeping on good terms with his colleagues.' Ap- parently, coming thus to our rooms was irksome to him, and he only did it be- cause he considered it a friendly obliga- tion. We teachers were afraid of him. And the director, too, was afraid of him. Just think, we teachers are all a thinking folk, thoroughly orderly,A HUSK 107 brought up on Turgeniev and Chtche- drine. Yet this specimen of a man, always going about in galoshes and carrying an umbrella, kept in hand the whole school for fully fifteen years! Nay, the whole school?—the whole town! Our womenkind did not organize private theatricals on Saturdays for fear lest he should hear of it; our priests were embarrassed in his presence if they were not fasting, or if they played cards. Under the influence of such a person as was Bielikov, the whole town for the last ten to fifteen years was afraid of everything. They were afraid to speak too loud, to send letters, to make ac- quaintances, to read books; they were afraid to help the poor, to teach. . . Ivan Ivanitch wished to say some- thing, and coughed, but first took a puff at his pipe, looked at the moon, and then said very deliberately: "Yes. Thinking, orderly people read Chtchedrine and Turgeniev, there are several Bokels there, and others who submitted and endured. And that's just what it is." "Bielikov lived where I did," con- tinued Burkin, "on the same floor, next door to me; we saw a lot of each other, and I knew him very intimately. At home it was the same story, dressing- gown, night-cap, shutters, locks, a whole array of protective limitations, and ever, 4What will come of it?' Fasting was in- jurious, and the reverse useless, so, if you please, they say Bielikov did not keep the fasts, but ate pike-perch with butter, which is not fasting, neither can it be called full fare. He did not keep a woman-servant, for fear of evil sus- picions, so he kept a man-cook, Athan- asius, a man of sixty, a drunkard and half wit, who had been a soldier-servant, and had some idea of cooking. Athan- asius generally stood about the door, with his arms crossed, and muttering, with a deep sigh, always the same thing: 'They have discharged a lot of them now.' "Bielikov's bedroom was small, about the size of a box, and his bed had cur- tains. He also lay with his head under the bed-clothes. His room was hot and stuffy; the wind rattled at the door, thrummed in the stove; there were sounds of deep sighing in the kitchen, sighs of ill-omen. . . . And he lay trembling under his bed-clothing. He was afraid something was about to hap- pen, that Athanasius would murder him, that thieves would steal in; all night he would have terrifying dreams, and in the morning, when we went to the school together, he wa9 downcast and pale, and it was quite evident that the thronged school, towards which he was walking, was awful and antagonistic to his whole being, and that to walk along- side of me was irksome to him, who by nature was such a solitary-disposed man. " They make a great deal of noise in our classes,' he said, as if striving to find an explanation for his feeling of depression. Tt's like nothing on earth/ "Now, would you believe it, this teacher of Greek, this man in the husk, almost got married!" Ivan Ivanitch glanced quickly round into the shed, and said: "You're joking!" "Yes, however strange it may seem, he almost got married. They appointed, as a new teacher of history and geog- raphy, a certain Kovalenko, Michael Savitch, a Little Russian. He did not arrive alone, but came with his sister,108 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV Varinka. He was young, tall, sun-burnt, had enormous hands; by his face you could see he had a bass voice, and in face it was so—it seemed to come out of a barrel. She was not quite young— about thirty—but was also tall, well- built, black-browed, red-cheeked, in a word, not a maid but marmalade! She was jolly, noisy, always singing Little Russian songs and roaring with laughter; about nothing she would break out into her loud 'Ha—ha—ha!' Our first real acquaintance with the Kovalenkos took place, I remember, on the director's namesday. Among those austere, deadly-bored pedagogues, who attend the namesday out of necessity, suddenly we see a new Aphrodite born out of the foam: she walked with her hands on her hips, laughed loudly, sang, danced. . . . She sang, with great feeling, 'Blew the whirlwinds,' then another song, and yet another, till she captivated us all, even Bielikov. He sat by her side and said, smiling sweetly: " The Little Russian accents, by their tenderness and soft harmonies, re- mind one of the ancient Greek.' "This flattered her, and she began tell- ing him, touchingly and convincingly, of a farm she owned in the district of Gadiatchsko; that on the farm resided her old nurse, and that such pears grew there, such melons, such watermelons! The Little Russians call pumpkins, watermelons, and watermelons, gourds, and they make their borshtch with little red and bluey ones, 'which are so tasty, so awfully tasty.' "We listened and listened, then, all at once, the very same thought flashed upon us all: " 'It would be such a good thing to marry them,' whispered the director's wife to me. "For some reason or other, we all re- membered that our Bielikov was un- married, and it now seemed to us odd that up to this time we had not noticed, had driven from view, such an im- portant detail of his life. How does he usually behave with women, how does he solve for himself this quotidian ques- tion? Previously it had had no interest whatever for us; it may be that we never entertained the thought that a man who, in no matter what weather, walked about in galoshes, and slept under a curtain, could love. " 'He is well over forty, and she is thirty,' putting words to her thought, said the director's wife. 'It's likely she would do very well for him.' "How much that is useless and absurd do we not do in the provinces out of boredom! And that, because we en- tirely neglect what ought to be done. For instance, now, why should we all at once find it necessary to marry Bielikov, whom it was impossible even to imagine married to oneself? The direc- tor's wife, the inspector's wife, and all the lady-teachers of our school resus- citated, looked better, as if they had suddenly discovered the aim of life. The director's wife takes a box at the theater, and behold! in it sits the ra- diantly happy Varinka fanning herself, and by her side little Bielikov. sitting doubled up and looking as if he had been dragged there with forceps. I gave a small evening party, and the ladies in- sisted on my inviting both Bielikov and Varinka. In a word, they were all work- ing the wheels. It seemed also as if Varinka was not averse to getting mar- ried. Her life with her brother wasA HUSK 109 not so very cheerful; we knew that they fought and abused each other for days together. Here is an instance: Ko- valenko, a tall, strong, clumsy-looking figure, wearing a peasant's shirt, and with a lock of hair falling below his cap on his forehead, strides down the street; he has a packet of books in one hand, and a thick knobbly stick in the other. His sister walks just behind him, also with a packet of books. " 'All the same, Michael, you did not read it!' she loudly disputes. 'I tell you, I swear you never read it at all!' " 'And I tell you I did read it!' shouts Kovalenko, thumping his stick on the pavement. "'Ah, good God, Mintchick! What do you get so angry for, seeing the es- sential thing for us is conversation?' "'And I tell you, I did read it!' yet louder shouts Kovalenko. "And if an outsider came to the house, a fusillade began at once. Such a life assuredly bored her, she wanted her own nook; and one must also take her age into consideration. There was not much time to pick and choose; it was better to marry him who offered himself even if he were a teacher of Greek. And one must allow that, so long as they married it did not much matter to our young ladies who the man was. However this may be, Varinka began to show a very decided inclination for Bielikov. "And what about Bielikov? He visited Kovalenko just as he did us. He would go and see him, and remain seated in silence. He remained silent, and Varinka would sing to him 'Blew the whirlwind,' or gaze at him with her dark pensive eyes, or suddenly burst into a loud 'Ha, ha, ha!' "In love affairs, and especially with marriage, suggestion plays a great part. Everyone—his companions and the ladies—began to assure Bielikov that he ought to marry, that nothing remained to him in life but to marry. We all congratulated him, uttered divers plati- tudes with serious faces, such as, Mar- riage was a serious step. Besides, Varinka was not ugly; she was interest- ing, she was the daughter of a Coun- cillor, and owned a farm; and, most im- portant of all, she was the first woman who had shown favor and fondness for him. His head began to swim, and he decided that in very deed he ought to get married." "But then he ought to have thrown aside his galoshes and umbrella," inter- posed Ivan Ivanitch. "Imagine, though, this evidently was impossible. He placed Varinka's photo- graph on his table, was always coming to me and talking about Varinka, about family life, that marriage was a serious step, often visited the Kovalenkos, but his manner of life he changed not a tittle. On the contrary, even his re- solve to marry had an almost harmful effect on him; he grew thinner, paler, and seemed to retire further into his husk. " 'I like Varvara Savischna,' he said to me with a feeble, forced smile, 'and I know marriage is indispensable for everyone, but ... all this, do you know, has happened so suddenly. . . . I must think it over.' " 'What is there to think over?' I asked him. 'Marry, and that's all about it.' " 'No, marriage is a serious matter, and one must first duly consider the ac- tual obligations and responsibilities, so that nothing unforeseen should happen.110 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV It all disturbs me, so that I lie awake every night. And, I confess, it frightens me. She and her brother have a rather strange trend of thought; their reason- ings, you know, are somewhat odd, and in character they are intrepid. One might get married, and later, in spite of everything, get into some trouble.' "So he did not propose, always pro- crastinated, to the great annoyance of the director's wife and all our women- kind. He was all the time weighing his actual obligations and responsibilities, and, meanwhile, went out walking nearly every day with Varinka, thinking, no doubt, that this was necessary under the circumstances, and came to me to talk over family life. And most likely, in the end he would have proposed, and consummated one of those useless, stupid marriages of which from bore- dom, and having nothing to do, there are thousands, if, all of a sudden, there had not arisen a Kolossalisclie Scandal. It is incumbent to say that Varinka's brother, Kovalenko, loathed Bielikov, and could not stand him from the first day of their acquaintance. " 'I cannot understand,' he said to us, shrugging his shoulders, 'how you put up with such a spy, such an abominable rascal. Oh, how you can live here! Your whole atmosphere is stifling and infected. Are all your teachers pedagogues? You are functionary-rid- den; yours is not a seat of learning, but an ecclesiastical tribunal, and it has a nauseous stink like a police court. No, mates, I shall stay here a little longer, and then shall go to my farm, and there catch crabs, and teach the Little Rus- sians. I shall go away, and you will remain with your little Judas.' "Or else, he would laugh till he cried in deep and high tones, and ask me, wav- ing his hands: " 'Why does he sit with me? What does he want? He sits there looking at nothing.' "He also nick-named Bielikov, 'A Chinese Spider.' So, of course, we lost no time in informing him that his sister Varinka was thinking of marrying the 'Chinese Spider.' One day, the director's wife remarked to him, that it would be a very good thing to see his sister mar- ried to such a staid and so universally esteemed man as Bielikov was. He frowned, and muttered: " 'It's not my business. She can marry a reptile if she likes; I don't like interfering with other people.' "Now, listen what happened next. Some wretch drew a caricature of Bielikov in galoshes, home-spun trousers, holding up his umbrella, and arm-in- arm with Varinka; beneath was the in- scription, 'the enamored anthropos The resemblance was remarkable and exact. It was not the work either of a single night, for all the teachers in the school, male and female, the teachers in the seminary, the functionaries, each received a copy. Bielikov, too, received one. The caricature made a most pain- ful impression on him. "We left the house together—it hap- pened to be the first of May, a Sunday, and all of us, teachers and pupils, had agreed to meet at the school, and then all go together on foot, out of the town, into the woods. We started out; he greener, gloomier than any cloud. " 'How bad and wicked some people are!' he began, with quivering lips. "I at once felt sorry for him. We walked on, when suddenly, imagine, Kovalenko rides by on a bicycle, and be-A HUSK 111 hind him Varinka, red and perspiring, but cheerful and happy, also on a bicycle! " 'We are going ahead/ she called out. 'Oh, such glorious weather—so awfully glorious!' And they were both soon out of sight. Poor Bielikov from green turned white, and seemed turned to stone, he stood still and looked at me. " 'But I ask you, what is this?' he asked. 'Did my eyesight deceive me, or is it proper for school-teachers and women to ride bicycles ?' " 'What is there improper in that?' I asked. It's very good for their health.' " 'But it is impossible,' he cried, hor- rified at my calm. 'What are you say- ing?' "He was so upset that he could not go any farther, and went back home. "The next day, he was all the time nervously rubbing his hands together, having shivers, and looked very far from well. He shirked part of his work, a thing which happened for the first time in his life. He had no supper. Towards evening he put on warmer clothes than ever, although it was quite summer weather outside, and directed his steps towards the Kovalenkos' house. Varinka was not at home, he only found her brother. " Tray, take a seat,' Kovalenko said coldly, and with a frown. He was still half asleep; he had just rested after his dinner, and felt in a very bad temper. "Bielikov sat down, remained silent for ten minutes, then began: " 'I have come to you so as to relieve my mind. I am very, very much up- set. Some lampooner, with intent to ridicule, has drawn myself and another person in very close proximity. I con- sider it my duty to assure you that I am in no way responsible for it. I gave no occasion for such pleasantry; on the contrary, I have behaved all the time like a perfectly respectable man.' "Kovalenko sat sulking in silence. Bielikov waited a little, then continued quietly in a pained voice: " 'And I have something else to tell you. I am nearing the end of my work, whereas you are only just at the be- ginning of yours, and I consider it my duty, as an elder colleague, to give you a warning. You ride a bicycle, and that is a recreation quite unsuitable to an instructor of youth.' " 'And why?' in a deep voice, inquired Kovalenko. " 'Is there anything to explain, Michael Savitch? Is it not quite clear? If the teachers ride bicycles, what is there left for the pupils? Nothing is left for them except to walk on their heads! It must be forbidden at once by a circular. I was horrified yesterday! When I saw your sister, my head seemed to swim. A woman or a girl on a bicycle—it's awful!' " 'What is it you want?' " 'I want only one thing—that is to warn you, Michael Savitch. You are a young man, and the future is before you; you must be very, very careful, you are in default so often—oh, so very often! You go about in a peasant shirt, walk about the streets with bundles of books, and now, in addition, you ride a bicycle. The director will know that you and your sister ride a bicycle, then it will reach the ears of the curator. . . . That will be nice, won't it?' " 'That my sister and I ride a bicycle is nobody's business,' said Kovalenko, crimson with rage, 'and whoever inter-112 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV feres with my family or private affairs I will send to the devil!' "Bielikov turned pale, and rose from his chair. " 'If you speak to me in that tone, I cannot continue,' said he, 'and I beg you never to express yourself thus about our superiors in my presence. You must be respectful to the authorities.' " 'And did I say anything against the authorities?" asked Kovalenko, looking angrily at him. 'You will please leave me alone. I am a respectable man, and I do not wish to have any conversation with such a fellow as you. I do not care about spies!' "Bielikov began to fuss nervously, and put on his things quickly, with an ex- pression of horror on his face, for this was the first time in his life he had been subjected to such rudeness. " 'You may say what you like,' he said, going out of the door on to the little landing of the staircase, 'but I must warn you that perhaps our con- versation has been overheard, so to pre- vent any misunderstanding and anything happening, I shall have to report the outstanding features of it to the director. That I must do!' " 'Report it? Get out with you, in- former!' "Kovalenko seized him behind by the collar and gave him a shove, and Bielikov slid down the stairs with a sound of rubbing galoshes. The staircase was long and steep, but he arrived safely at the bottom, stood up, and felt his nose to see if his eye-glasses were unbroken. But just as he was sliding down the stairs, Varinka appeared, with two ladies, and they stood there watching him; this was more dreadful than anything for Bielikov. He felt it would have been better to have broken his neck and both legs than to be ridiculous, for now the whole town would hear of it, it would reach the director's ears, and the curator's. Ah! whatever would come of it? There would be another caricature drawn, and it would end by an order for him to retire. "When he stood up, Varinka recog- nized him, and as she looked at his funny face, crumpled coat, and his galoshes, not grasping the situation, but inferring that he himself had fallen un- intentionally, could not restrain her laughter, which went ringing through the whole house: '"Ha, ha, ha!' "And this loud rippling 'Ha, ha, ha' put an end to everything: Bielikov's marriage and his terrestrial existence. He no longer heard what Varinka was saying, nor did he see anything further. He returned to his rooms, first of all re- moved the photograph from his table, then lay down on his bed, not to rise again. "At the end of three days Athanasius came to me, and asked if it were necessary to send for the doctor, as there was something very wrong with his master. I went to see Bielikov. He lay behind the bed curtains, all covered up, and spoke not a word. If he was asked a question he merely answered Yes or No, and nothing further. He lay there while Athanasius hovered around, frowning, looking gloomy, heaving deep sighs, and smelling of vodka, like a tavern. "At the end of a month Bielikov died. We all, that is, both schools and the seminary, went to his funeral. And now that he lay in his coffin, his expression was peaceful, contented, even cheerful,A HUSK 113 just as if he were pleased that, at last, he lay in a sheath out of which he would never more be taken. Yes, he had attained his ideal! And as if in honor of him during his funeral the weather was overcast and rainy, so we all wore galoshes, and held up our um- brellas. Varinka was also at the funeral, and when they lowered the coffin into the grave, she cried a little. "I have noticed that the Little Rus- sians only cry or laugh—there is no middle mood with them. I confess, that to bury such people as Bielikov gives one the greatest satisfaction. As we re- turned from the cemetery our faces wore discreet, penitential expressions, no one wished to manifest that feeling of satisfaction, a feeling akin to that which we experienced long, long ago as chil- dren, when the elders left the house, and we ran about the garden hour after hour, rejoicing in our untrammeled freedom. Ah, freedom! freedom! Even an illusion of it, even the faintest hope of its possibility gives wings to the soul. Isn't it so? "We returned from the cemetery in good humor. But hardly more than a week had elapsed before our life was stagnating as before—just as austere, de- pressing, unintelligible; a life not re- stricted by circulars, but not solved in any way. And how many more of such people in husks remained, how many others there will be!" "That's just it," said Ivan Ivanitch, smoking his pipe. "How many others there will be!" re- peated Burkin. The school-teacher came out of the shed. He was a man of middle height, stout, quite bald, with a black beard almost to his waist; and two dogs fol- lowed him out. "A moon, what a moon!" he said, looking up. It was midnight. On the right was seen the whole village, a long street stretching far away, about five versts. It lay plunged in a soft deep sleep; no movement, no sound, it hardly seemed credible that nature could lie so still. When, on a moonlit night, one sees the wide street of a village, its cottages, haystacks, slumbering willows, one's soul is quieted; for, in this its peace, in this withdrawing from labor, anxiety and sorrow in the shades of the night, it is placid, beautiful, sad. It seems as if the stars were looking at it fondly and tenderly, and that there is no more evil on earth, and all is well. To the left, where the village ended, the field began. It could be seen as far as the horizon, and in the whole length and breadth of this field, bathed in moon- light, there was no movement nor sound either. "That's just it," repeated Ivan Ivanitch. "But do we not live in towns, are we not stifled and crowded, read useless papers, play vint—is not that a husk? And since we spend all our lives among good-for-nothings, squabblers, fools, idle women, talk and listen to all sorts of nonsense, is not that a husk? Now, if you like, I will tell you a most instructive story." "No, it's time to go to sleep," an- swered Burkin. "Tell it tomorrow." They both went into the shed and lay down on the hay. They had both covered themselves over and were doz- ing off, when of a sudden were heard some light footsteps, tup, tup . someone was walking close to the shed;114 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV they came nearer, then stopped; in a moment, again, tup, tup. . . . The dogs barked. "That is Mavra," said Burkin. The sound of steps ceased. "To see and hear them tell lies," slowly said Ivan Ivanitch, turning over on his other side, "while they call you a fool because you suffer them to lie; to endure offenses and humiliations; not to have the courage openly to declare that you are on the side of honest, free men, but to lie yourself, and smile, and all that for a crust of bread, a warm little nook, some little decoration or other, the value of which is no more than a groat—no, to live on like that is not possible!" "Come now, that is another subject, Ivan Ivanitch," said the teacher. "Let's sleep." And in ten minutes Burkin was asleep. But Ivan Ivanitch turned over from one side to the other, and sighed; then he got up, went outside, and, seating himself by the door, smoked his pipe. VOLUME IIIAnna Round the Neck CHAPTER I the young couple After the wedding no refreshments were served. . The young couple had each a glass of wine, dressed and drove to the station. Instead of music and dancing—a journey of two hundred versts to pray at a sacred shrine. Many people approved saying, that for Modestus Alekseich, an official of high rank and aged, a noisy wedding might appear out of place; it was tiresome to listen to music when a bureaucrat of fifty-two got married to a girl of just eighteen years. It was also said that Modestus Alekseich, a man of prin- ciples, had really arranged this journey to a monastery in order to make his young wife understand that, even in matrimony, he desired religion and morality. The young couple were escorted to the station by a crowd of colleagues and relations with champagne glasses in their hands, waiting for the train to start in order to shout: "Hurrah!" and Petr Leontich, the bride's father, in a top- hat and a schoolmaster's dress-coat, al- ready drunk and very pale, stretched towards the window, his glass in his hand, and said in a beseeching voice: "Anuta! Anya! Anya, just one word!" Anya bent out of the window towards him, and he whispered something to her, pouring out on her a strong smell of brandy, and blowing into her ear—but nothing could be understood—he made the sign of the cross over her face, breast and hands; his breathing shook and tears shone in his eyes. Anya's brothers, Petya and Andryusha, gym- nasium boys, pulled him from behind by his coat-tails and whispered shame- facedly: "Papochka, enough! . . . Pa- pochka, don't! . . When the train started, Anya saw her father run a few steps after the coach, with unsteady gait and spilling his wine. What a pitiful, kind and guilty face he had! "Hur-rah!—ah!" he shouted. The young couple remained alone. Modestus Alekseich looked round the compartment, arranged their things in the racks and then sat down opposite his young wife, smiling. He was an official of middle height, somewhat stout, puffy and very well-fed, with long whiskers, but no moustache, and his round shaven, sharply outlined chin resembled a heel. The most characteristic trait of his face was the absence of a moustache, and this freshly shaven, bare place gradu- ally merged into fat cheeks that trembled like jellies. His demeanour was sedate, his movements slow, his manner suave. "At this moment I can't help remem- bering a certain circumstance," he said, smiling. "Five years ago when Kosorotov received the order of Saint Anna of the second class and came to 115116 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV thank for it His Excellency expressed himself thus: 'Consequently you now have three annas: one in your button- hole and two round your neck.' And I must tell you that just at that time Kosorotov's wife, a very quarrelsome and giddy woman, who was celled Anna, had just returned to him. I trust, when I receive Anna of the second class, His Excellency will have no cause to say the same thing to me." He smiled with his small eyes. And she also smiled, being troubled at the thought that at any moment this man might kiss her with his full, moist lips, and that now she had not the right to refuse to be kissed. The sleek move- ments of his bloated body frightened her, she felt terrified and disgusted. He rose, slowly took off his orders, his dress-coat and waistcoat and put on his dressing-gown. "That's all right," he said, sitting down next to Anya. She remembered how painful the mar- riage ceremony had been, when it had appeared to her that the priest, the guests and all the people who were in the church looked at her sadly; why, why had she, such a pretty, nice girl, married this elderly, uninteresting gentleman? That morning she had still been in raptures that everything had been settled so well; but during the marriage ceremony and now, while sit- ting in the railway coach, she felt culpable, deceived and ridiculous. Now she was married to a rich man, and still she had no money, her bridal dress had been made on credit, and to-day, when her father and brothers had seen her off, she had perceived by their faces that they had not a kopeck in their pockets. Would they have any supper to-day? And to-morrow? And now for some reason she seemed to see her father and the boys sitting hungry and experiencing the same sadness as they felt the first evening after her mother's funeral. "Oh, how unhappy I am!" she thought. "Why am I so unhappy?" With the awkwardness of a sedate man who is unaccustomed to the treat- ment of women, Modestus Alekseich put his arm round her waist and patted her on the shoulders, and she thought of money, of her mother and of her death. When her mother died, her father, Petr Leontich, a teacher of calligraphy and drawing in the gymnasium, took to drinking, and they began to feel want; the boys had no boots or galoshes, their father was summoned before the magis- trate, there was an execution in their flat and an inventory was made of their furniture. . . . What shame! Anya had to look after her drunken father, darn her brothers' stockings, go to market, and when her beauty, youth and elegant manners were admired, it ap- peared to her that the whole world saw her cheap hat and the hole in her shoes that was smeared with ink. At night there were tears and troublesome thoughts that she could not get rid of, the dread that very soon, owing to his weakness, her father would be dismissed from the gymnasium, and that he would not be able to endure this and would die like her mother. But then some ladies of their acquaintance had begun to take an interest in her and to look out for a good husband for her. Very soon Modestus Alekseich had been found; he was neither young nor hand- some, but he had money. He had about a hundred thousand roubles in the bankANNA ROUND THE NECK 117 and he owned a patrimonial estate which he had leased to somebody. He was a man of principles, and he was in His Excellency's good books; it would be quite easy for him, Anya was told, to get a note from His Excellency to the director of the gymnasium, or even to the curator, with instructions that Petr Leontich was not to be dismissed. . . . While she was thinking of all these details the sound of music and the noise of voices suddenly burst through the window. The train had stopped at a small wayside station. Beyond the plat- form somebody in the crowd who was playing gaily on an accordion, accom- panied by a cheap squeaking fiddle, and from the other side of the tall birches and poplars, from, the country houses which were flooded with moonlight came the sounds of a military band: there was a ball in one of them. Crowds of the inhabitants and people from town, who had come down to breathe the pure air, were walking about the platform. Among others was Artynov, the owner of this country resort and a very rich man. He was tall, stout and dark- haired, with the face of an Armenian and goggle eyes, and he was dressed in a strange costume. He wore a Russian shirt which was unbuttoned on the chest, top-boots with spurs, and a long mantle that hung from his shoulders and trailed on the ground like a train. Following him were two large greyhounds, with their sharp muzzles hanging low. Tears still glistened in Anya's eyes, but she no longer remembered her mother, nor money, nor her wedding; she was pressing the hands of some gym- nasium boys and officers, old acquain- tances of hers, laughing gaily and say- ing quickly: "How do you do! How are you?" She went out on to the platform, into the moonlight, and stood there in such a way that everybody could see her in her magnificent new dress and hat. "Why are we standing here?" she asked. "This is a siding," she was answered. "The post train is expected." Noticing that Artynov was looking at her, she half closed her eyes coquettishly and began to speak French in a loud voice, and because her own voice sounded so well, because music was heard and the moon was reflected in the pond, because Artynov, that well-known Don Juan and rake, was looking at her covetously, and because all were gay she suddenly felt happy. When the train started again and her friends the officers had saluted her as she left, she began to hum the polka, the sounds of which played by the military band somewhere behind the trees was wafted after her; she returned to her compartment with a feeling as if she had been convinced at this wayside station that she certainly would be happy despite everything. The young couple remained in the monastery two days, and then they re- turned to town. Their flat was in a house belonging to the Crown. When Modestus Alekseich went to his office Anya played on the piano, or cried be- cause she was dull, or lay down on the couch and read novels or looked through fashion magazines. At dinner Modestus Alekseich ate very much and talked about politics, about new appointments, promotions and gratuities, about its being necessary to work hard; about family life not being a pleasure, but a duty; he said that if you took care of the kopecks the roubles would take care118 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV of themselves, and that he placed re- ligion and morality above everything else on earth. And holding his knife in his fist like a sword, he said: "Every man must have his duties!" Anya listened to him, was afraid and could not eat, and she usually rose from table hungry. After dinner her husband rested and snored loudly, and she went over to see her people. Her father and the boys looked at her in quite a strange manner; exactly as if just before she had come they had been blaming her for having married for money an un- loved, unpleasant and tiresome man; her rustling dress, bracelets and, in general, her ladylike appearance embarrassed and offended them; in her presence they were a little confused and did not know what to say to her. She sat down and ate with them their cabbage soup, stiff gruel and potatoes fried in mutton dripping that smelt of tallow candles. With a trembling hand Petr Leontich took up a decanter and filled his glass, which he drank off quickly, with greediness, with repulsion, then he drank another and a third. . . . Petya and Andryusha, thin, pale little boys, with large eyes, took the decanter away, and said in an abashed voice: "Don't, Papochka. . . . Enough, Papochka. ..." Anya, too, was troubled and implored him not to drink any more; but he sud- denly flew out at them and thrumped the table with his fist. "I won't allow anybody to look after me!" he shouted. "Youngsters, girl, I will turn you all out." But in his voice there could be heard weakness and goodness, and nobody was afraid of him. After dinner he usually made himself smart; with a pale face and a chin that had been cut when shav- ing; stretching out his thin neck he would stand for half an hour before the mirror, trying to improve his appearance, now by combing his hair, or by twisting his black moustache, or by sprinkling himself with scents and carefully tying his cravat in a bow; and then he put on his gloves, took his silk hat and went out to give private lessons. But if it was a holiday he remained at home and either painted or played on a hor- monium, which hissed and wheezed; he tried to draw from it harmonious and melodious tones, and sang in a low voice, or he was angry with the boys. "Young scamps! Villains, they have spoilt the instrument!" Of an evening Anya's husband played cards with those of his colleagues, who lived under the same roof in the house belonging to the Crown. During these card parties the wives of the officials also met; they were ugly, tastelessly dressed and as coarse as cooks, and then in their flats there began gossip and scandal that was as ugly and tasteless as they were themselves. It also hap- pened that Modestus Alekseich took Anya to the theatre. During the intervals he did not let her go from his side for a moment, but walked about the passages and the foyer arm in arm with her. When he bowed to anybody he whispered to Anya: "A, councillor of State . . . received by His Excellency," or: "With a fortune . . . he has his own house. . . When they passed through the refresh- ment-room Anya wanted very much something sweet; she was very fond of chocolates and apple tarts, but she had no money, and she was afraid to ask her husband. He would take up a pearANNA ROUND THE NECK 119 and press it with his fingers in an un- decided way and ask: "What is the price?" "Twenty-five kopecks." "Indeed!" he exclaimed, putting the pear in its place; but as it was awkward to go away from the buffet without buy- ing something he ordered a bottle of soda water and finished the whole bottle himself, while tears appeared in his eyes and Anya hated him at that moment. Or suddenly he would get quite red and say to her hurriedly: "Bow to that old lady!" "But I am not acquainted with her." "All the same. She is the wife of the Director of the Court of Exchequer! Don't you hear, I tell you to bow!" he grumbled insistently. "Your head won't fall off." Anya bowed, and her head really did not fall off, but it was painful. She did everything her husband required, and was angry with herself that he had duped her like the veriest little fool. She had married him only for money, and now she had even less than before her mar- riage. Formerly her father would give her from time to time a twenty-kopeck piece, but now she never had a grosh. She could not take it by stealth, nor ask for money; she was afraid of her husband and trembled before him. It appeared to her that she had borne the fear of this man in her soul for very long. At one time in her childhood the power that appeared to her the most terrible and inspired the greatest fear was the director of the gymnasium, who seemed to approach like a cloud or a steam engine ready to crush her; another similar power about which they often talked in the family, and which for some reason they feared, was His Excellency; there were besides some dozen other powers, though smaller ones, and among them were the teachers of the gym- nasium, with their shaven moustaches, strict, inexorable, and now at last there was Modestus Alekseich, a man with principles, who even in face resembled the director. In Anya's imagination all these powers were blended in one, in the form of a terrible, huge, white bear that moved towards the weak and guilty people, like her father, and she feared to say anything in contradiction to him; but with a forced smile and expressions of feigned pleasure she suffered his coarse caresses and defiling embraces that only caused her horror. Only once Petr Leontich had ven- tured to ask him for a loan of fifty roubles in order to settle a very un- pleasant debt, but what suffering it had caused! "Very well, I will give it," Modestus Alekseich had said after reflection, "but I warn you that I will never again help you until you leave off drinking. Such a weakness is shameful for a man who is in government employ. I cannot refrain from reminding you of the uni- versally known fact that many very capable men have been ruined by this vice, while by temperance they might, perhaps, in time have attained high rank." This was followed by long periods: "according as . . "in consequence of this state . . "in consideration of what has been said." Poor Petr Leontich suffered from the humiliation, and felt a strong desire to drink. The boys, too, who came to see Anya usually in torn boots and threadbare trousers, had also to listen to precepts.120 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV "Every man must have his duties!" Modestus Alekseich told them. But he gave them no money. At the same time he gave Anya rings, bracelets, and! brooches, saying it was as well to have these things for a black day. And he often opened her chest of drawers to verify if all these things were safe. CHAPTER II the ball Meanwhile winter had begun. Long before Christmas the local news- papers announced that the usual winter ball would "be given" on the 29th of December in the Hall of the Nobility Club. Every evening when the card- playing was over Modestus Alekseich whispered excitedly with the wives of the officials, looking anxiously at Anya, and afterwards he paced the room from corner to corner for a long time im- mersed in thought. At last, late at night, he stopped before Anya and said: "You must have a ball dress made for yourself. Do you understand? But, please, consult Marya Grigorevna and Natalya Kuzminishna." And he gave her a hundred roubles. She took the money; but when she or- dered her dress she did not consult any- body; she only spoke to her father about it, and tried to imagine how her mother would have, dressed for the ball. Her late mother had always been dressed in the last fashion, and had always taken great pains with Anya and had dressed her very elegantly—like a doll-—and she had taught her to speak French and to dance the mazurka admirably (be- fore she had got married she had been a governess for five years). Like her mother Anya could make a new dress out of an old one, clean her gloves with benzene, hire jewellery for the evening, and, like her mother, she also knew how to screw up her eyes, burr, get into pretty poses, become enraptured when necessary, or look sad and enigmatic. And from her father she had inherited her dark hair and eyes, her nervousness and her habit of always dressing very carefully. When Modestus Alekseich, without his coat, came into her room half an hour before they had to start for the ball, in order to fix his order round his neck in front of her pier-glass, he was so enchanted with her beauty and the elegance of her fresh and airy toilette that he combed his whiskers with self- satisfaction, saying: "So that's how my wife is . that's how you are! Anyuta!" he con- tinued, suddenly falling into a solemn tone. "I have made you happy, and to-day you can make me happy. I beg you to get introduced to His Ex- cellency's wife! For God's sake do! Through her I can get the post of first secretary!" They drove to the ball. Here they were at the Hall of the Nobility at the entrance door with its doorkeeper. The antechamber was full of clothes-pegs, fur coats, sleeping lackeys and bare- necked women, covering themselves with their fans as a protection from the draught; there was a smell of gas and soldiers. When going up the staircase on her husband's arm, Anya heard the sounds of music and saw the reflection of the whole of herself in the huge mirror illuminated by numberless lights, a feel- ing of joy, and the same presentiment of happiness that she had felt on theANNA ROUND THE NECK 121 moonlit night at the wayside station, awoke in her soul. She walked proudly, with self-confidence, for the first time she felt herself no longer a girl but a married lady, and involuntarily she imitated her late mother in her gait and manner. And for the first time in her life she felt herself rich and free. Even the presence of her husband did not embarrass her, as from the moment she crossed the threshold of the Club she guessed instinctively that the vicinity of her old husband would in no way depre- ciate her; but, on the contrary, it would stamp her with the piquant mysterious- ness that is very attractive to men. The band already resounded in the large hall, and dancing had begun. After their apartments in the government house Anya was bewildered by the im- pressions of light, of many colours, of music and of noise. She cast a glance over the hall, thinking: "Oh, how de- lightful !" and she instantly spotted all her friends amid the crowd, all those people she had met formerly at parties or on her promenades, all those officers, teachers, lawyers, officials, landowners, His Excellency, Artynov and the so- ciety ladies smartly decked out and very dScolletee, both the pretty and the ugly, who were already taking their places in the kiosks and pavilions of the Charity Bazaar, to begin the sale for the poor. A huge officer in epaulettes—she had made his acquaintance in the Old Kiev Street when she was still a gymnasium girl and now she could not even recall his name—appeared before her as if he had sprung out of the earth and invited her for a waltz, and she flew away from her husband. It seemed to her as if she were sailing in a boat in a severe storm, and her husband had remained far away on the bank. . . . She was a passionate dancer, she danced with enthusiasm waltzes, polkas, quadrilles, passing from hand to hand, becoming dizzy from the music and the noise, mixing up French and Russian words, burring, laughing, not thinking of her husband nor of anybody nor of anything. She had success with the men; that was quite evident—it could not have been otherwise—she was breathless with ex- citement, she pressed her fan convul- sively in her hand and wanted to drink. Her father, in a crumpled dresscoat which exhaled an odour of benzene, came up, offering her a plate with a red ice in his outstretched hand. "You are bewitching to-day," he said, looking at her enraptured; "never be- fore have I regretted so much that you married with so much haste. . . . Why? I know you did it for our sake, but . . with trembling hands he took a packet of rouble notes out of his pocket and said: "To-day I received my fee for lessons, I can repay your husband my debt." She thrust her plate into his hand and, seized by somebody, she was carried off, and he had a glimpse of her far away, while she, looking over her partner's shoulder, saw her father gliding over the floor with his arm round a lady's waist and twirling with her through the room. "How charming he is when he is sober!" she thought. She danced the mazurka with the same huge officer. Walking along in an important and heavy manner, looking like a carcass in uniform, slightly leading with raised shoulders and expanded breast, and hardly stamping with his feet, he appeared very unwilling to dance, while she fluttered beside him ex-122 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV citing him with her beauty and bare neck; her eyes shone provokingly, her movements were passionate, while he became more and more indifferent and stretched out his hand to her graciously like a king. "Bravo! Bravo!" the public shouted. Little by little the huge officer was also carried away; he became animated, excited; he succumbed to the enchant- ment, he was carried away and moved lightly, youthfully, while she only shrugged her shoulders and looked slyly at him, as if now she were the queen and he her slave, and at that moment it seemed to her that the whole hall was looking at them, that all the people were spellbound and envied them. The huge officer had scarcely had time to thank her, when the people around sud- denly made way and the men held them- selves up stiffly in a strange manner and let their arms fall to their sides. It was His Excellency, in a dress-coat, with two stars on his breast, who was coming towards her. Yes, His Excellency was really coming to her, because he looked straight at her and smiled sweetly, at the same time chewing his lips, as he al- ways did when he saw a pretty woman. "Very pleased, very pleased . . he began. "I shall order your husband to be put under arrest in the guard- house for having hidden away such a treasure from us for so long. I have come to you with a commission from my wife," he continued, giving her his hand. "You must help us. H'm-m, yes, we must award you the prize of beauty . . . as they do in America. . . . H'm-m. . . . The Americans. . . . My wife is waiting for you with im- patience." He led her to one of the huts, to an elderly lady who had a face in which the lower part was disproportionately large, so that it looked as if she had a big stone in her mouth. "Help us," she said through the nose in a drawling voice. "All the pretty women are working for the Charity Bazaar, but for some reason you alone are amusing yourself. Why don't you want to help us?" She went away and Anya took her place near the silver samovar and the teacups. Brisk trade began at once. Anya took not less than a rouble for a cup of tea, and she made the huge officer drink three cups. Artynov, the rich man with the goggle eyes, came up to her stall. He was suffering from breathlessness, but he no longer wore the strange costume in which Anya had seen him in the summer; he was now in evening dress, like all the other men. Without removing his eyes from Anya he drank a glass of champagne and paid a hundred roubles for it, then he had a cup of tea and gave another hundred, and all this was done in silence, as he was suffering from asthma. Anya in- vited purchasers to come in, and she took their money from them, being firmly convinced that her smiles and glances could afford these men nothing but great pleasure. She already under- stood that she was created solely for this noisy, brilliant, laughing life with music, dancing, admirers, and her former fear, of the power that was ap- proaching and threatened to crush her, appeared to her absurd; she feared no- body any longer, and she only regretted that her mother was not there to re- joice with her at her success. Petr Leontich, already pale, but still firm on his legs, came to the hut andANNA ROUND THE NECK 123 asked for a glass of cognac. Anya blushed, fearing he would say something unsuitable (she was already ashamed that she had such a poor, such an ordinary father); but he emptied his glass, threw a ten-rouble note, which he took from his pocket, on to the counter and went away in an important manner, without having said a word. A little later she saw him with his partner dancing in the grand rond, and now he was rather tottery and was calling out something, to the great confusion of his partner, and Anya remembered at a ball, that had taken place three years before, he had also tottered and had called out in the same way; it had finished by the policeman having to take him home to bed, and the next day the Director had threatened to dismiss him. How un- timely were these recollections! When the fires of the samovars had gone out in the huts, and the weary benefactresses had handed over their re- ceipts to the elderly lady with the stone in her mouth, Artynov gave his arm to Anya and led her into the hall, where supper was served for all who had taken part in the Charity Bazaar. There were about twenty people at the supper, hardly more, but it was very noisy. His Excellency proposed the toast: "This luxurious dining-room is the right place to drink to the prosperity of the cheap dining-rooms that are the object of to-day's Bazaar." The Brigadier- General proposed that they should drink "to the power before which even the artillery is powerless," and everybody rose to click glasses with the ladies. It was very, very gay! . . . The sky was already getting light when Anya was escorted home, and the cooks were going to market. Joyous, intoxicated, full of new impressions and tired out she undressed, fell on her bed and was instantly fast asleep. . . . It was past one next day when her maid woke her and announced that Mr. Artynox had come to pay her a visit. She dressed quickly and went into the drawing-room. Soon after Artynov left, His Excellency arrived to thank her for having taken part in the Charity Bazaar. He looked at her sweetly, chewing his lips, kissed her little hand, asked per- mission to come again and departed, and she stood in the middle of the drawing- room amazed and enchanted, unable to believe in this change in her life, this won- derful change had taken place so quickly; at that very moment her husband, Modestus Alekseich, came into the room. . . . And he, too, stood before her now with that ingratiating, slavishly respectful expression, which she was ac- customed to see on his face in the presence of the strong and the illus- trious; and with rapture, with indigna- tion, with contempt, already confident that she would not have to suffer for it, she said, pronouncing each word dis- tinctly : "Go away, blockhead!" After that Anya never had a single free day, as she took part in picnics, drives and plays. Every day she only returned home towards morning, and lay down in the drawing-room on the floor, and then she told everybody touchingly that she slept under flowers. She required very much money now, but she was no longer afraid of Modestus Alekseich, and she spent his money as if it were her own; she did not ask, or demand, she simply sent him her bills or little notes: "pay the bearer124 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV two hundred roubles" or "pay immedi- ately a hundred roubles." At Easter Modestus Alekseich re- ceived the order of St. Anna of the second class. When he went to thank for it, His Excellency put his newspaper aside and sit down deeper into his arm- chair. "Consequently, you have now three Annas," he said as he looked at his white hands and pink nails, "one in your buttonhole and two round your neck." Out of caution Modestus Alekseich put two fingers to his lips, in order not to laugh aloud, and said: "Now it only remains to await the appearance of a little Vladimir in the world. May I venture to ask Your Excellency to be godfather." He hinted at a Vladimir of the fourth class, and he already imagined how he would relate everywhere to his friends this joke that was so successful by its ready wit and boldness, and he was preparing to say something equally good, but His Excellency was again entirely absorbed in his newspaper and only nodded his head. And Anya was always driving about with three horses, she went with Artynov to his shooting-box, she took part in one-act plays, she was at supper-parties; but she went more and more seldom to her own people. They always dined alone now. Petr Leontich drank more than formerly; he had no money, and long since the harmonium had been sold for debt. Now the boys never al- lowed him to go alone into the street, and always followed him, to save him from falling. When it happened that Anya flew past them in the Old Kiev Street, driving with a pair of horses and a side-horse and Artynov on the coach-box instead of a coachman, Petr Leontich would take off his top-hat and when about to call to her, Petya and Andryusha would seize him by the arms, and say: "Don't, Papochka! Enough, Pa- pochka!" The Incubus No sooner had Kunin, a young man of thirty, and life-member of the Peasant's Government Board, returned from Petersburg to his estate of Borissov, than he sent a horseman in all haste to Father Jacob Smirnov, the then Priest of Sinkino. About five hours later Father Jacob appeared. "Very pleased to make your acquain- tance," said Kunin, coming out to greet him in the vestibule. "As I have been living and working here a year, it is time we came to know each other. Welcome. But how young you look!" said Kunin in surprise; "how old are you?" "Twenty-eight . . answered Father Jacob, giving a very slight pres- sure to the hand held out to him, and blushing, he knew not why. Kunin led his guest into his sitting-room, and took a look at him. "What a coarse, womanish face," he thought. Father Jacob's face was certainly ofTHE INCUBUS 125 a very womanish type, with its snub- nose, fat, bright red cheeks, gray-blue eyes, and his scant, faintly marked eye- brows. His hair was long, red, smooth, and dry, and hung down to his shoul- ders like strands of grass. His mous- tache was just sprouting into the re- semblance of a man's moustache, whereas his beard belonged to that class of good-for-nothing beard, which the Seminarists for some reason call "demivolte." It was scarce and trans- parent ; it would be impossible to smooth or comb such a beard, but it might be snipped now and again. All this scanty vegetation grew in very uneven clumps, just as if Father Jacob, having thought he would disguise himself as a priest, had begun to glue on a beard and had been interrupted halfway through. He wore a cassock the color of coffee diluted with chicory, and it had two large patches at the elbows. "What a strange being," thought Kunin, looking at the very mud-stained cassock. "He comes into the house for the first time in his life, and can't even dress himself tidily." "Take a seat, batushka," he began, familiarly rather than affably, and drawing a chair up to the table. "Take a seat, pray!" Father Jacob coughed into his hand, seated himself awkwardly on the edge of the armchair, and rested both his hands on his knees. He was small, nar- row-shouldered, with a perspiring red face; Kunin had never imagined before that such a wanting, pitiable-looking priest could exist in Russia. As Father Jacob sat there on the arm of the chair, his whole attitude, with his palms resting on his knees, seemed to reveal a complete absence of dignity, and even something equivocal, and from the first produced on Kunin the very worst impression. "I invited you, batushka, on business," Kunin began, leaning back in his chair. "To my lot has fallen the pleasant ob- ligation of helping you in one of your useful enterprises. The fact is, on my return from Petersburg, I found a letter from the Mareschal on my table. Egor Dmitritch proposes that I should take over the guardianship of the parish church school which is just being opened at Sinkino. I am delighted, batushka, whole-heartedly so—nay more, I seize this opportunity with enthusiasm." Kunin got up, and walked about the room. "Of course, Egor Dmitrich, and probably you, know I have not much money at my disposal. My estate is mortgaged, and I live entirely on my pay as life-member of the Board, so that you cannot reckon on great help, but whatever is in my power I will do. What do you think of opening the school, batushka?" "When there is the money," an- swered Father Jacob. "What means are at present at your disposal?" "Hardly any. The moujiks decided at their meeting that thirty kopeks should be paid yearly for every male; but that is only promised. To provide the bare necessities we want to start with at least two hundred roubles." "M—yes. Unfortunately I have not that amount at present," sighed Kunin. "I spent it all on the journey. I even owe a little. Let us give all our atten- tion to finding some way." Kunin began to think aloud. As he gave rein to his reflections, he followed the expression on Father Jacob's face.126 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV seeking for approval or consent, but the face remained impassive and immovable, and expressed nothing but shamefaced timidity and uneasiness. You might think, looking at him, that Kunin was speaking such words of wisdom that Father Jacob could not understand them, was only listening out of politeness, and besides, was afraid lest he should be convicted later of not comprehending. "The little fellow is obviously not of the brightest," thought Kunin. "Timid and dull beyond measure." Father Jacob only showed a little animation and broke into a smile when the servant came into the room with a tray, two glasses of tea, and a plate full of cracknels. He took his glass, and at once began to drink his tea. "Why should not we write to his Eminence?" said Kunin, continuing his reflections aloud. "For properly speak- ing, it is not the zemstvo, nor us, but the superior spiritual authorities who raised the question of parish church schools. They ought, in reality, to find the money. I remember, I read some- where that there was a sum of money allotted for that purpose. Do you know anything of it?" Father Jacob was so busy drinking his tea that he was unable to answer this question at once. He raised his gray- blue eyes on Kunin, thought a moment, then, as if just remembering he had been asked something, made a negative sign of the head. An expression of satisfac- tion and of the most ordinary and prosaic hunger appeared on his ugly face, and spread from ear to ear. He drank, and gulped, and smacked his lips. When he had finished the very last drop, he put down his glass on the table, took it up again, looked in the bottom, and re- placed it on the table; the expression of satisfaction faded from his face. Then Kunin saw his guest take a cracknel from the biscuit plate, bit it, turn it round in his hand, then swiftly slip it into his pocket. "This is not very sacerdotal," thought Kunin, contemptuously shrug- ging his shoulders. "What is it? priestly greed or puerility?" Having given his guest another glass of tea, and having seen him off from the vestibule, Kunin stretched himself on the sofa, and yielded to the un- pleasant feeling with which Father Jacob's visit had affected him. "What a strange uncivilized man," he thought. "Dirty, slovenly, rude, stupid, and a drunkard undoubtedly. My God, and he is a priest, a spiritual father! An instructor of the people! Just imagine the irony in the deacon's voice as he intones to him at every Mass: 'Give us thy blessing.' A fine superior! Without one drop of dignity, unedu- cated, secreting biscuits in his pockets like a school-boy—Phew! Good Lord, where were the eyes of the Prelate when he ordained such a man? What do they expect of the people when they give them such instructors? One wants men who. . . ." Here Kunin thought a little what the Russian priest ought to be like. "Say, for instance, I was pope. An educated man, liking his duties of pope, could do a great deal; I should have had the school opened long before this. And the sermons? If the pope is only sincere and inspired with love for his work, what wonderful rousing sermons he can deliver!" Kunin closed his eyes, and mentally composed a sermon.THE INCUBUS 127 A little later he was sitting at the table quickly writing it down: "I will give it to carroty-hair, he can read it in church," he thought. The following Sunday, Kunin went over in the morning to Sinkino to settle the question of the school, and at the same time to get to know the church of which he was considered a parishioner. It was a beautiful morning, although it was the season of bad roads; the sun was shining and dartirlg its rays into the white layers of lingering snow; the snow, as it took its leave of the earth, glistened with such bright jewels that it dazzled one to look at it; and the winter- corn was growing green through it all. The rooks were sedately hovering over the earth, then one descended, and be- fore settling himself on his feet took a few little jumps. The wooden church where Kunin now arrived was old and gray; the columns of the porch had once been decorated with white paint, which had entirely peeled off, so they resembled two plain shafts. The picture over the door looked like one continuous black blot. This " poverty-stricken appearance touched and moved Kunin; humbly lowering his eyes, he stepped into the church and stood by the door. The service had only just begun—the old Cantor, bent like a bow, was reading the "hours" in a dull monotonous tenor voice; Father Jacob, officiating without a deacon, was incensing the church. Had it not been humility which had in- duced Kunin to enter this poor little church, he must have smiled at the sight of Father Jacob. This under-sized priest wore a crumpled chasuble, of some frayed yellow material, and it was so much too long for him that it trailed on the ground. The church was not at all full, and in the first glance Kunin was struck by one extraordinary fact—he could only see old people and children. Where were the adult workers? Where were youth and manhood? But after a while he examined the old people's faces more carefully and discovered that he had mistaken the young for the old. How- ever, he did not attach any particular importance to this little optical illusion. The interior of the church was as old and gray as the exterior. There was not one little space, on the ikonostase or the fawn-colored walls, which was not bespotted and scratched by time. There were plenty of windows, but, the pre- dominating color being gray, the church looked gloomy. "He who is pure of heart can pray here," thought Kunin. "Just as at St. Peter's in Rome, one is impressed by the grandeur, here one is touched by the modesty and simplicity." But this prayerful disposition van- ished like smoke when Father Jacob went to the altar and began the Mass. Although at a very early age ordained a priest, from the very benches of the seminary, Father Jacob had not yet adopted any regular way of conducting the service. When he read he seemed to be choosing which was the most suit- able voice, a high tenor or mezzo-bass. He bowed awkwardly, walked rapidly, closed and opened the holy gates with violence. The old Cantor was evidently ailing and deaf, and frequently did not hear the terminations of prayers, which consequently led to a few little mis- understandings. Father Jacob would not have finished his part before the Cantor128 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV would already be intoning his, or else Father Jacob had finished some time, and the old man was still straining his ear towards the altar, listening, and remain- ing silent till someone pulled at his vest- ment. The old Cantor had a monotonous asthmatic voice with a quaver in it, and he also lisped. To complete the list of misfortunes, he was accompanied by a very small boy, whose head hardly ap- peared above the railing of the choir. The boy sang in a shrill treble, and seemed to make every effort not to drop upon the right note. Kunin stopped a little to listen, then went out and smoked; he was completely dis- enchanted, and looked almost with hatred at the gray church. "They complain of the loss of re- ligious feeling among the people," he sighed. "I should think so; they had better fix us up with a few more of such popes!" Kunin went back into the church three times, but each time he was forcibly compelled to return to the fresher air outside. He waited for the end of the Mass, then went over to Father Jacob's house. From its exterior the priest's house was in no way dis- tinguishable from a peasant's cottage, al- though the straw on the roof lay a trifle more evenly, and there were some little white curtains in the windows. Father Jacob led Kunin into a small light room, the floor of which was of clay and the walls pasted over with cheap paper. Apart from some efforts towards luxuri- ousness in the shape of photographs in frames, and a clock, on the pendulum of which was hung a pair of scissors, the surroundings struck one as very beggarly. Looking at the furniture, one might think Father Jacob had collected them separately on his visits; in one place they had given him a round- three-legged table, in another a stool, in the third a chair with its back curved very far backwards, in a fourth a chair with a very straight back but with a very low sunk seat, in the fifth they must have felt very liberal, and had given him something in the shape of a sofa, with a flat back and a cane seat. This similitude of a sofa was colored in dark red, and smelt strongly of paint. Kunin at first thought of sitting on one of the chairs, then he decided to sit on the stool. "Is it the first time you have been to our church?" Father Jacob asked, hang- ing his hat on a large misshapen nail. "Yes, it's the first time. I'll tell you what, batushka, before we get to busi- ness, let's have some tea. I am quite parched." Father Jacob blinked, gave a croak, and went behind a partition. There was a sound of whispering. "He must be talking to his wife," thought Kunin. "It will be interesting to see Carroty's popess." A little while after, Father Jacob came from behind the partition, very red, perspiring, and with an attempt at a smile, sat opposite Kunin on the edge of the sofa. "They'll prepare the samovar directly," he said, not looking at his guest. "Good Lord, they have not got the samovar ready," Kunin thought with horror. "Well, we shall have to wait." "I have brought the rough draft of a letter I have written to the Prelate," he said. "We will read it after our tea; perhaps vou will find something to add."THE INCUBUS 129 "Very well." There was silence. Father Jacob glanced uneasily at the partition, smoothed his hair, and blew his nose. "It's wonderful weather," he said. "Yes. By the way, I read a very in- teresting thing last night: the Communal Zemstvo have decided to give back their schools to the clergy. It's very char- acteristic." Kunin got up and began walking about the room, at the same time expressing his opinions. "That is nothing," he said, "if only the clergy were on a level with their calling and clearly understood their task. To my misfortune, I know priests who in intellectual developments, and by their moral qualities, are not fit to be army scribes, much less priests. And you must allow that a bad teacher does less harm to a school than a bad priest." Kunin glanced at Father Jacob, who was sitting doubled up, thinking intently about something, and obviously not listening to his guest. "Iasha, just come here a minute," a woman's voice was heard to say be- hind the partition. Father Jacob gave a start, and went behind the partition; again there was a sound of whispering. Kunin felt oppressed with despair about the tea. "No, I won't wait here for some tea," he thought, looking at the clock. "I don't seem exactly a welcome guest. My host has hardly deigned to speak a word; he just sits there blinking his eyes." Kunin reached for his hat, waited for Father Jacob, then took his departure. "The morning has been wasted," he thought angrily, on his way back. "Dolt, blockhead, he takes as much in- terest in the school as I do in last year's snow! No, I won't cook kasha with him! We shall do nothing with that fellow. If the Mareschal knew the kind of pope we had here, he would not be in such a hurry to chatter about a school. We must first look about for a good pope, and then think of the school." Kunin almost hated Father Jacob now. That pitiable little caricature of a creature in the long crumpled chasuble, with his womanish face, his way of officiating, his manner of life, his servile and timid deference, snuffed out that small particle of religious feeling which had kept till then a place in Kunin's breast, gently simmering along with the other cradle-songs of his childhood. The coldness and inattention, which his sin- cere and fervid interests in the other one's affairs had encountered, were too much for Kunin's amour-propre to bear. That same evening Kunin walked about his room for a long time, then sat down resolutely at the table, and began a letter to the Prelate. Having re- quested money and blessings for the school, he, among other things, humbly, and as a son to his father, expressed his opinion on the priest of Sinkino. "He is young, he wrote, "not sufficiently developed, seems somewhat intemperate, and altogether does not answer to those requirements which the centuries have laid upon the Russian people with re- gard to their pastors." When he had finished the letter Kunin gave a little sigh of relief, and lay down to sleep with the consciousness of hav- ing done a good work. On the Monday morning, while he was still in bed, they came to announce that Father Jacob wanted to see him. He did not feel inclined to get up, so130 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV he told them to say he was not at home. He went away on the Tuesday to an assembly, and, returning on the Satur- day, heard from the servants that Father Jacob had called every day during his absence. "It looks as if he liked my cracknels!" thought Kunin. On Sunday, towards evening, Father Jacob arrived. This time not only the folds of his cassock but also his hat was bespattered with mud. As on his first visit, he was red in the face and perspiring, and, as then, he sat on the arm of the chair. Kunin decided not to start the con- versation about the school, not to throw away pearls. "I have brought you a list of the school-books, Paul Michaelitch," Father Jacob began. "Thank you." But it was too evident that Father Jacob had not come on account of the list. His whole manner expressed great uneasiness, at the same time decision was clearly written on his face, like someone suddenly illuminated by an idea. He had something important, or at the very least necessary to say, and was endeavoring to overcome his shy- ness. "What is he silent for?" angrily thought Kunin. "He has sat himself here—shall I never get rid of him?" So as somewhat to pass off the awk- wardness of his silence, and to conceal the struggle going on within, the priest began to smile constrainedly. What with the perspiration, and the redness of his face, and the incompatibility of the fixed look of his gray-blue eyes with this lengthy tortured smile, Kunin turned away with loathing. "Excuse me, batushka, I must leave you." Father Jacob gave a start like some- one who had been struck while asleep, then, without ceasing to smile, began in some agitation to arrange the folds of his cassock. Notwithstanding his aver- sion to this man, Kunin suddenly felt sorry for him, and wished to make amends for his harshness. "Till next time, batushka," he said, "and before you leave I have a request to make. I have just been inspired, and have written two sermons. I will give them to you to look over. Read them at your leisure." "Very good," said Father Jacob, cov- ering with his hand Kunin's sermons ly- ing on the table. I'll take them. . . He stood for a moment, hesitated, and, still arranging the folds of his cas- sock, suddenly ceased to smile con- strainedly, and resolutely raised his head. "Paul Michaelitch," he said, appar- ently with an attempt to speak loudly and distinctly. "What do you want?" "I heard that you had . . . paid off your secretary, and . . . and . . . were now looking for another. . . "Yes. Have you someone to recom- mend?" "I, do you see . . . I . . . Could not you give this place . . . to me?" "But are you giving up the priest- hood?" said Kunin in surprise. "No, no," quickly answered Father Jacob, turning pale and trembling in all his limbs. "The Lord preserve me! It is not at all necessary—don't fear—I could do it between whiles ... to in- crease my income. ... It would not be necessary—don't worry."THE INCUBUS 131 ■ "Hm . . . income. But I only give my secretary twenty roubles a month." "Ghospodi! but I would take ten," whispered Father Jacob looking round. "I would be content with ten! You . . . you are astonished, and everyone is astonished. The greedy covetous pope, what does he do with his money? I myself feel that it is greedy . . . and condemn, blame myself, and look at peo- ple in the face with shame. To you, Paul Michaelitch, I confess, I call the Truth of God to witness. . . Father Jacob took breath, and con- tinued: "I prepared the whole confession on the way here; but I have forgotten it, and now I can't find the words. I get a yearly income of one hundred and fifty roubles, and everyone wonders what I do with this money. I will clear my conscience: I send forty roubles a year to my brother Peter at the clerical school. I can write it all down, only my paper and pen. . . "Ah, I believe you, I believe you. But what about it?" said Kunin, wav- ing a hand, and feeling a fearful burden imposed on him in this great confidence of his guest, and not knowing how to get out of the way of the fearful glint of his eyes. "Then, I have not entirely paid off my account at the Consistory; they reckoned two hundred roubles for my time there, to be paid in monthly in- stallments of ten roubles. Consider how much remains to me! And then, be- sides that, I have to give Father Abra- ham at least three roubles a month." "Who is Father Abraham?" "Father Abraham was priest before me at Sinkino. They dismissed him be- cause ... of a failing, and he now is living in Sinkino. Where could he go? How was he to get food? He may be old, but he wants a fire, and bread, and clothing. I cannot admit that he in his position should have to beg. If it were so, I should be sinning. It would be to my shame. He owes everyone money, and it would be my sin if X did not pay for him." Father Jacob jumped up, and, fixing the door with a senseless stare, began to walk from end to end of the room. "My God! My God!" he muttered, raising and lowering his hands. "Save us Lord, and have mercy! Wherefore take upon oneself such a position if one had so little faith and no strength? There is no end to my despair! Save us, Mother of God!" "Calm yourself, batushka!" said Ku- nin. "I am famished, Paul Michaelitch," continued Father Jacob; "graciously forgive me, for I have not strength left. I know I have only to humble myself to ask, and everyone would help me, but ... I cannot. It is against my conscience; how can I beg of moujiks? You work here and see for yourself. Who would dare raise a hand to ask the poor? And to beg of the rich, the local landowners, I cannot! It's pride— shame." Father Jacob gesticulated, and nervously combed back his hair with his hands. "It's a disgrace. God! how ashamed I am; I am too proud to let people see my poverty. When you came to see me there was no tea in the house, Paul Michaelitch, not a scrap, and you see, pride prevented my telling you so. I am ashamed of my clothes—just look at these patches; I am ashamed of my chasuble, my hunger. Is it right for a priest to have pride?"132 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV ■ Father Jacob stood still in the middle of the room, as if he did not notice the presence of Kunin, and began to reason with himself. "Now, suppose I bear hunger and shame? But then, good Lord, I have my wife, and I have taken her from comfortable surroundings; her hands are white and soft, she is accustomed to tea, and white bread, and sheets. When she was with her parents she played the piano; she is still young, not twenty— she would no doubt like to dress up, amuse herself, go and pay visits. But she lives with me less well than any cook, and does not like to show herself in the street. My God! My God! Her only treat is when I bring her an apple, or a cracknel, from one of my visits." Father Jacob again combed his hair back with his fingers. "And the result is, not love, but pity. I can't see her without a feeling of pain. And these are the things which happen on earth, ghospodi! Things happen which, if they were in the newspapers, people wouldn't believe them. And when will all this end?" "That'll do, batushka!" Kunin cried, frightened by his tone. "Why look so gloomily on life?" "Graciously forgive me, Paul Michael- itch," Father Jacob mumbled as if he were drunk. "Forgive all this—it's noth- ing, don't notice it. . . . I only blame myself, and will always do so . . . al- ways." Father Jacob looked around, then whispered: "One morning, early, I was going from Sinkino to Lutchkovo, when I noticed a woman standing by the river. I went nearer, and couldn't believe my eyes. Mercy! it was the doctor's wife rinsing her linen. ... The doctor's wife had done her course at the Institute, there- fore ... in order not to be discovered washing, waited her opoprtunity, got up before anyone else, and went a verst away from the village. There's pride! When she saw that I was quite close to her and had discovered her poverty, she grew quite red. I lost my wits, I was scared, I rushed up to her, I wanted to help her, but she hid her linen from me, afraid lest I should see her torn chem- ises." "It all seems incredible," said Kunin sitting down, and looking almost with horror at Father Jacob's white face. "That's just it—incredible. It has never before happened, Paul Michael- itch, never, that the doctor's wife has to go to the river to rinse her linen! Never in any country has it happened! I, as pastor and spiritual father, should not allow this, but what am I to do? What? I myself am just waiting to be attended to for nothing by her husband. You remarked just now: 'It all seemed incredible.' One can't believe one's eyes. During Mass, for instance, I look from the altar, I see my congregation, the hungry Abraham, his wife, and I think of the doctor's wife, with her hands blue from the ice-cold water; believe me, one's senses leave one, and one stands there like a fool, insensible, till the sac- ristan calls. It's awful!" Father Jacob again began to walk about. "Oh, Jesus!" he said, with a gesture of his hands. "Holy Saints! I can't even officiate; you talk to me of a school, while I stand like a wooden figure, understanding nothing, and think- ing only of food, even at the altar. But what am I doing?" he suddenly recol-THE INCUBUS 133 lected. "You want to go—excuse me, it is just me! . . . forgive me. . . Kunin silently gave his hand to Father Jacob, and accompanied him to the vestibule; then, returning to his room, stood at the window. He saw Father Jacob leave the house, pull his wide- brimmed rusty-colored hat over his eyes, and, hanging his head as if ashamed of his disclosures, slowly walk away. "I don't see his horse," thought Kunin. Kunin dared not think that the priest had come to see him day after day on foot: it was seven or eight versts to Sinkino, and mud up to one's neck. A moment after, Kunin saw Andrew, the coachman, and the boy, Paramon, run- ning towards Father Jacob for his bless- ing, and splashing him with mud as they jumped over the puddles. Father Jacob slowly took off his hat, blessed Andrew, then blessed the boy and stroked his head. Kunin passed his hand over his eyes, and it seemed to him there was mois- ture on it. He left the window, and with a chagrined expression surveyed the room, in which he still seemed to hear the timid choking voice of the priest. He glanced at the table—fortunately, Father Jacob, in his hurry, had forgot- ten to take the sermons with him; Kunin seized them, tore them into little bits, and flung them with loathing under the table. "And I did not know!" he moaned, sinking into the sofa. "I, who have been working here for over a year as life- member of the Council, Honorary Jus- tice of the Peace, Member of the School Committee! Blind puppet! Popinjay! We must help him quickly. We must, indeed!" He tossed uneasily, applied his hand to his forehead, and exerted his brain. "On the 20th day of this month I shall get my pay of 200 roubles. With some plausible excuse I will slip some into his hand, and some to the doctor's wife. I'll order a thanksgiving service from the one, and I'll feign illness for the doctor, in that way I shall not offend their pride. And I'll help Abraham. ..." He counted his money on his fingers, and did not like to allow to himself that these 200 roubles were scarcely sufficient to pay the steward, the servants, and the moujik who brought the meat. Involuntarily, he remem- bered the recent past, in which he had senselessly run through his father's patrimony; when as a twenty-year-old novice he had made presents of expen- sive fans to courtesans, had paid the cab-driver Kuzma ten roubles a day, and out of vanity had offered presents to actresses. Ah, how useful all those squandered three-rouble, ten-rouble notes would be now! "Father Abraham lives on three roubles a month," thought Kunin. "For a rouble, the popess could make herself a skirt, and the doctor's wife could have a washer-woman. I will help them all the same. It's a duty!" And here . . . suddenly . . . Kunin remembered the information he had written to the Prelate, and he shriveled up as if seized by a sudden attack of cold. The recollection of this over- whelmed him with a feeling of crushing shame towards himself and the Invisible Truth. . . . And so began and ended the sincere efforts towards useful activity of a well- intentioned but thoroughly overfed and inconsiderate being.Miss N. About nine years go, during hay- making time, I and Peter Sergeich, as- sistant magistrate, rode over to the sta- tion to fetch the letters, one summer night. The weather was clear, but when re- turning we heard thunder and saw an angry black cloud speeding towards us. On its dark background our house and the church looked white and the tall poplars seemed turned to silver. There was a scent of rain and new-mown hay in the air. My companion was gay, laughed and talked all sorts of nonsense. He said if on our way we could come across some mediaeval castle, a shelter from the storm, and where in the end we would be killed by the lightning, he would rejoice. Suddenly the first wave passed over the rye and oat fields, and a violent gust of wind raised a cloud of dust on the road. Peter Sergeich laughed and spurred his horse on. "Great!" he shouted. "This is ideal!" Infected by his gaiety and by the thought that I would soon be wet to the skin, and might be killed by the lightning, I also began to laugh. This whirlwind and the rapid riding against the storm took the breath away, making one feel like a bird; it agitated and tickled the breast. When we rode into our yard the wind had subsided, but large drops of rain rattled on the grass and on the roofs. There was not a soul near the stables. Peter Sergeich unbridled the horses and led them to the stalls. While wait- ing for him to finish, I stood at the door and looked at the slanting rain. N/s Story The luscious and exciting odour of the hay was more perceptible here than in the fields; the clouds and rain made it dusk. "What a peal!" Peter Sergeich said, coming up to me after a terribly pro- longed peal of thunder, when it ap- peared as if the sky had been rent asun- der. "Wasn't that a peal?" He stood beside me in the doorway, still breathing heavily from the rapid riding, and he looked at me. I noticed that he was admiring me. "Natalia Vladimirovna," he said, "I would give everything I possess if I could only remain thus and look at you for ever. You are beautiful to-day." He gazed at me enraptured, and with entreaty in his eyes; his face was pale, and on his beard and moustache rain- drops glistened, and they, too, seemed to look at me with love. "I love you!" he said. "I love you and am happy when I see you. I know you cannot be my wife; I want nothing, I require nothing, but that you should know I love you. Be silent, do not answer me, do not pay any attention to me, only know that you are dear to me, and permit me to look at you." His enthusiasm was communicated to me. I looked at his inspired face; I heard his voice which was blended with the noise of the rain, and as if enchanted I was unable to move. I wished to look at his brilliant eyes and listen to him without end. "You are silent—excellent!" Peter Sergeich said. "Continue to be silent." I was happy. I laughed with pleasure and ran under the pelting rain into theMISS N. N.'S STORY 135 house; he also laughed, and with a skip and a jump he ran after me. Making a noise like two children we both rushed, wet and breathless, up the stairs and bounced into the room. My father and brother, who were unaccus- tomed to see me laughing and gay, looked at me with surprise, and they also began to laugh. The storm clouds passed away, the thunder became silent, but still the rain- drops glistened in Peter Sergeich's beard. The whole of that evening until supper he sang, whistled, played noisily with the dog, chased it round the rooms and just missed knocking the man- servant, who was bringing in the samo- var, off his legs. At supper he ate very much, talked very loud, and asserted that when you ate fresh cucumbers in the winter you had a taste of spring in the mouth. When I went to bed I lit my candle, opened the window wide and gave my- self up to the undefined feelings that possessed my breast. I remembered that I was free, healthy, distinguished, rich, that I was loved, but chiefly that I was distinguished and rich—distin- guished and rich—how nice that was, my God! . . . Then feeling the cold that was borne to me together with the dew from the garden, I cuddled up in bed and tried to understand if I loved or did not love Peter Sergeich . . . and not being able to understand any- thing I fell asleep. In the morning when I saw a trembling spot of sunshine and the shadow of lime branches on my bed, all that had happened the day before arose vividly in my mind. Life appeared to me rich, varied, full of attractions. I dressed quickly, singing, and ran into the garden. . . . And what was afterwards? After- wards—was nothing. In the winter, when we were living in town, Peter Sergeich came to us but seldom. The acquaintances of the country are only charming in the country and in summer —in town, and in winter they lose half their attraction. When in town you offer them tea, they seem to be in other people's coats, and stir their tea too long with the spoons. Sometimes in town Peter Sergeich also spoke of love, but how different it sounded when spoken in the village. In town we felt more strongly the wall that separated us! I was distinguished and rich; and he was poor, he was not even noble, only the son of a deacon, he was only an assistant magistrate; we both—I from youth, and he, God knows why—considered this wall very high and thick, and he, when he came to us in town, smiled affectedly and criticized the higher society, or re- mained gloomily silent when anybody else was in the drawing-room. There is never a wall that cannot be broken through; but the heroes of present-day fiction, as far as I know them, are too timid, too slow, too lazy and fearsome, and they are too apt to be satisfied with the thought that they are failures, and that their own life has duped them; instead of struggling, they only criticize and call the world mean, and they forget that their own criticism gradually de- generates into meanness. I was loved;, happiness was near, and it appeared to be living shoulder to shoulder with me. I sang as I lived, not trying to understand myself, not knowing for what I waited, or what I wanted from life—and time sped on and136 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV on. People passed me with their love, bright days and warm nights flitted by; nightingales sang—there was the scent of hay—and all this so charming and wonderful in recollection passed quickly by me unvalued, as with everybody, leaving no trace and vanished like a mist. . . . Where is it all? My father died. I have grown old. All that pleased me, that caressed me, that gave me hope—the noise of rain, the rolling of thunder, the thoughts of happiness, the words of love—all this has become a mere recollection, and I see before me a flat, empty plain; there is not a single living soul on the plain, and there on the distant horizon it is dark and terrible . . . There was a bell. Peter Sergeich had come to see me. When I see the country in winter and remember how green it became for me in summer, I whisper: "Oh, my darlings!" And when I see the people with whom I passed my spring, I grow sad and warm, and I whisper the same words. Long since, by my father's influence, he had been transferred to town. He has grown somewhat older, somewhat thinner. Long ago he ceased to talk to me of love, he no longer talked non- sense, he did not like his work; he had some sort of ailment, he was disap- pointed with something; he had given up expecting anything from life and he had no zest in existence. He sat down near the fire and looked silently into the flames. And I, not knowing what to say, asked: "Well, what is it?" "Nothing," he replied. Then there was silence again. The red glow of the fire skipped about his sad face. I remembered the past, and suddenly my shoulders began shaking, and I burst into bitter tears. I became unbearably sorry for myself, and for this man, and I passionately longed for that which was passed, and for that which life now refused us. And now I no longer thought that I was distinguished and rich. I sobbed aloud, pressing my temples and murmured: "My God, my God, life is ruined . . And he sat there in silence and did not say: "Do not cry." He understood that it was necessary to cry, and that the time had come for that. I saw in his eyes that he was sorry for me, and I, too, was sorry for him, and I was vexed for that poor timid wretch who had not been able to arrange either my life or his own. When I conducted him to the door it appeared to me that he was purposely very long in the ante-room in putting on his fur coat. He kissed my hand a couple of times, and he looked long into my tear-stained eyes. I think at that moment he remembered the thunder- storm, the streams of rain, our laughter and my face as it was then. He wanted to say something to me, and he would have been glad to have said it; but he said nothing, he only shook his head and pressed my hand hard. God bless him! When he had gone I returned into my boudoir and sat down again on the carpet in front of the fire. The red coals had changed into ashes and were going out. The frost knocked more fiercely at the windows, and the wind began singing a song about something in the chimney. My maid came into the room, and thinking I had fallen asleep, called to me. . . .The Young Wife The little town of B-, consisting of two or three crooked streets, was sound asleep. There was a complete stillness in the motionless air. Nothing could be heard but far away, outside the town no doubt, the barking of a dog in a thin, hoarse tenor. It was close upon daybreak. Everything had long been asleep. The only person not asleep was the young wife of Tchernomordik, a qualified dis- penser who kept a chemist's shop at B-. She had gone to bed and got up again three times, but could not sleep, she did not know why. She sat at the open window in her nightdress and looked into the street. She felt bored, depressed, vexed ... so vexed that she felt quite inclined to cry—again she did not know why. There seemed to be a lump in her chest that kept rising into her throat. ... A few paces behind her Tchernomordik lay curled up close to the wall, snoring sweetly. A greedy flea was stabbing the bridge of his nose, but he did not feel it, and was positively smiling, for he was dreaming that everyone in the town had a cough, and was buying from him the King of Denmark's cough-drops. He could not have been wakened now by pinpricks or by cannon or by caresses. The chemist's shop was almost at the extreme end of the town, so that the chemist's wife could see far into the fields. She could see the eastern horizon growing pale by degrees, then turning crimson as though from a great fire. A big broad-faced moon peeped out un- expectedly from behind bushes in the distance. It was red (as a rule when the moon emerges from behind bushes it appears to be blushing). Suddenly in the stillness of the night there came the sound of footsteps and a jingle of spurs. She could hear voices. "That must be the officers going home to the camp from the Police Captain's," thought the chemist's wife. Soon afterwards two figures wearing officers' white tunics came into sight: one big and tall, the other thinner and shorter. . . . They slouched along by the fence, dragging one leg after the other and talking loudly together. As they passed the chemist's shop, they walked more slowly than ever, and glanced up at the windows. "It smells like a chemist's," said the thin one. "And so it is! Ah, I remem- ber. ... I came here last week to buy some castor-oil. There's a chemist here with a sour face and the jawbone of an ass! Such a jawbone, my dear fellow! It must have been a jawbone like that Samson killed the Philistines with." "M'yes," said the big one in a bass voice. "The pharmacist is asleep. And his wife is asleep too. She is a pretty woman, Obtyosov." "I saw her. I liked her very much. . . . Tell me, doctor, can she possibly love that jawbone of an ass? Can she?" "No, most likely she does not love him," sighed the doctor, speaking as though he were sorry for the chemist. "The little woman is asleep behind the window, Obtyosov, what? Tossing with the heat, her little mouth half open . . . and one little foot hanging out of bed. I bet that fool the chemist 137138 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV doesn't realize what a lucky fellow he is. ... No doubt he sees no difference between a woman and a bottle of car- bolic !" "I say, doctor," said the officer, stop- ping. "Let us go into the shop and buy something. Perhaps we shall see her." "What an idea—in the night!" "What of it! They are obliged to serve one even at night. My dear fel- low, let us go in!" "If you like. . . The chemist's wife, hiding behind the curtain, heard a muffled ring. Looking round at her husband, who was smiling and snoring sweetly as before, she threw on her dress, slid her bare feet into her slippers, and ran to the shop. On the other side of the glass door she could see two shadows. The chemist's wife turned up the lamp and hurried to the door to open it, and now she felt neither vexed nor bored nor in- clined to cry, though her heart was thumping. The big doctor and the slender Obtyosov walked in. Now she could get a view of them. The doctor was corpulent and swarthy; he wore a beard and was slow in his movements. At the slightest motion his tunic seemed as though it would crack, and perspira- tion came on to his face. The officer was rosy, clean-shaven, feminine-look- ing, and as supple as an English whip. "What may I give you?" asked the chemist's wife, holding her dress across her bosom. "Give us . . . er-er . . . four pennyworth of peppermint lozenges!" Without haste the chemist's wife took down a jar from a shelf and began weighing out lozenges. The customers stared fixedly at her back; the doctor screwed up his eyes like a well-fed cat, while the lieutenant was very grave. "It's the first time I've seen a lady serving in a chemist's shop," observed the doctor. "There's nothing out of the way in it," replied the chemist's wife, looking out of the corner of her eye at the rosy-cheeked officer. "My husband has no assistant, and I always help him." "To be sure. . . . You have a charming little shop! What a number of different . . . jars! And you are not afraid of moving about among the poisons? Brrr!" The chemist's wife sealed up the parcel and handed it to the doctor. Obtyosov gave her the money. Half a minute of silence followed. . . . The men exchanged glances, took a step towards the door, then looked at one another again. "Will you give me two pennyworth of soda?" said the doctor. Again the chemist's wife slowly and languidly raised her hand to the shelf. "Haven't you in the shop anything . . . such as . . ." muttered Obtyosov, moving his fingers, "some- thing, so to say, allegorical . . . revivifying . . . seltzer-water, for instance. Have you any seltzer-water?" "Yes," answered the chemist's wife. "Bravo! You're a fairy, not a woman! Give us three bottles!" The chemist's wife hurriedly sealed up the soda and vanished through the door into the darkness. "A peach!" said the doctor, with a wink. "You wouldn't find a pineapple like that in the island of Madeira! Eh? What do you say? Do you hear the snoring, though? That's his worship the chemist enjoying sweet repose."THE YOUNG WIFE 139 A minute later the chemist's wife came back and set five bottles on the counter. She had just been in the cel- lar, and so was flushed and rather ex- cited. "Sh-sh! . . . quietly!'' said Obtyosov when, after uncorking the bottles, she dropped the corkscrew. "Don't make such a noise; you'll wake your husband." "Well, what if I do wake him?" "He is sleeping so sweetly ... he must be dreaming of you. ... To your health!" "Besides," boomed the doctor, hiccup- ping after the seltzer-water, "husbands are such a dull business that it would be very nice of them to be always asleep. How good a drop of red wine would be in this water!" "What an idea!" laughed the chemist's wife. "That would be splendid. What a pity they don't sell spirits in chemist's shops. Though you ought to sell wine as a medicine. Have yo* any vinum gallicum rubrum?" "Yes." "Well, then, give us some! Bring it here, damn it!" "How much do you want?" "Quantum satis. . . . Give us an ounce each in the water, and afterwards we'll see. . . . Obtyosov, what do you say? First with water and after- wards per se. . . The doctor and Obtyosov sat down to the counter, took off their caps, and began drinking the wine. "The wine, one must admit, is wretched stuff! Vinum nastissimuml Though in the presence of . . . er . . . it tastes like nectar. You are enchanting, madam! In imagination I kiss your hand." "I would give a great deal to do so not in imagination," said Obtyosov. "On my honor, I'd give my life." "That's enough," said Madame Tchernomordik, flushing and assuming a serious expression. "What a flirt you are, though!" the doctor laughed softly, looking slyly at her from under his brows. "Your eyes seem to be firing shot: piff-paff! I con- gratulate you: you've conquered! We are vanquished!" The chemist's wife looked at their ruddy faces, listened to their chatter, and soon she, too, grew quite lively. Oh, she felt so gay! She entered into the conversation, she laughed, flirted, and even, after repeated requests from the customers, drank two ounces of wine. "You officers ought to come in oftener from the camp," she said; "it's awful how dreary it is here. I'm simply dying of it." "I should think so!" said the doctor indignantly. "Such a peach, a miracle of nature, thrown away in the wilds! How well Griboyedov said, 'Into the wilds, to Saratov!' It's time for us to be off, though. Delighted to have made your acquaintance . . . very. How much do we owe you?" The chemist's wife raised her eyes to the ceiling and her lips moved for some time. "Twelve roubles forty-eight kopecks," she said. Obtyosov took out of his pocket a fat pocketbook, and after fumbling for some time among the notes, paid. "Your husband's sleeping sweetly . . . he must be dreaming," he140 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV muttered, pressing her hand at part- ing. "I don't like to hear silly re- marks. . . "What silly remarks? On the con- trary, it's not silly at all . . . even Shakespeare said: 'Happy is he who in his youth is young.'" "Let go my hand." At last after much talk and after kiss- ing the lady's hand at parting, the cus- tomers went out of the shop irresolutely, as though they were wondering whether they had not forgotten something. She ran quickly into the bedroom and sat down in the same place. She saw the doctor and the officer, on coming out of the shop, walk lazily away a distance of twenty paces; then they stopped and began whispering together. What about? Her heart throbbed, there was a pulsing in her temples, and why she did not know. . . . Her hear beat violently as though those two whispering outside were deciding her fate. Five minutes later the doctor parted from Obtyosov and walked on, while Obtyosov came back. He walked past the shop once and a second time. . . . He would stop near the door and then take a few steps again. At last the bell tinkled discreetly. "What? Who is there?" the chemist's wife heard her husband's voice suddenly. "There's a ring at the bell, and you don't hear it," he said, severely. "Is that the way to do things?" He got up, put on his dressing-gown, and staggering, half asleep, flopped in his slippers to the shop. "What ... is it?" he asked Obtyosov. "Give me . . . give me four penny- worth of peppermint lozenges." Sniffing continually, yawning, drop- ping asleep as he moved, and knocking his knees against the counter, the chemist went to the shelf and reached down the jar. Two minutes later the chemist's wife saw Obtyosov go out of the shop, and, after he had gone some steps, she saw him throw the packet of peppermints on the dusty road. The doctor came from behind a corner to meet him. . . . They met and, gesticulating, vanished in the morning mist. "How unhappy I am!" said the chemist's wife, looking angrily at her husband, who was undressing quickly to get into bed again. "Oh, how un- happy I am!" she repeated, suddenly melting into bitter tears. "And nobody knows, nobody knows. . . ." "I forgot fourpence on the counter," muttered the chemist, pulling the quilt over him. "Put it away in the till, please. . . ." And at once he fell asleep again.The Feasants CHAPTER I blows Nikolai Tchikildeyeff, waiter, of the Slaviansky Bazaar Hotel at Moscow, became ill. Once in a corridor he stumbled and fell with a tray of ham and peas and had to resign. What money he had, his own and his wife's, soon went on treatment. He was tired of idleness and had to return to his native village. It was cheaper to live at home, after all, and the best place for in- valids; and there is some truth in the proverb, "At home the walls feel good." He arrived at Zhukovo towards even- ing. He pictured his birthplace as cosy, and comfortable as a child, but now when he entered the hut he knew it was close, and dirty inside. And his wife Olga and little daughter Sasha looked questioningly at the big, sooty stove, black from smoke, which took up half the hut and was covered with flies. The stove was crooked, the logs in the walls sloped, and it seemed that every minute the hut would tumble to pieces. The ikon-corner, instead of pictures, was hung with bottle-labels and newspaper- cuttings. Poverty, poverty! Of the grown-ups no one was at home—they reaped in the fields; and alone on the stove sat an eight-year-old girl, fair- haired, unwashed, and so indifferent that she did not even look at the strangers. Beneath, a white cat rubbed herself against the pot-hanger. "Puss, puss!" cried Sasha. "Pussy!" "She can't hear," said the girl on the stove. "She's deaf!" "How deaf?" "Deaf. . . . From beating." The first glance told Nikolai and Olga the life awaiting them; but they said nothing, silently laid down their bundles, and went into the street. The hut was the third from the corner, and the oldest and poorest in sight; its next-door neighbour, indeed, was little better; but the corner cabin boasted an iron roof and curtains in the windows. This cabin had no fence, and stood alone; it was the village inn. In one continuous row stretched other huts; and, as a whole, the village, peaceful and medita- tive, with the willows, elders, and moun- tain-ash peeping out of the gardens, was pleasing to see. Behind the cabins the ground sloped steeply towards the river; and here and there in the clay stuck denuded stones. On the slope, around these stones and the potters' pits, lay heaps of potsherds, some brown, some red; and below stretched a broad, flat, and bright green meadow, already mown, and now given over to the peasants' herds. A verst from the village ran the winding river with its pretty tufted banks; and be- yond the river another field, a herd, long strings of white geese; then, as on the village side, a steep ascent. On the crest of the hill rose another village with a five-cupolaed church, and a little beyond it the local noble's house. "It's a fine place, your village," said Olga, crossing herself towards the church. "What freedom, Lord!" At that moment (it was Saturday 141142 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV night) the church bells rang for vesper service. In the valley beneath, two little girls with a water-pail turned their heads towards the church and listened to the bells. "At the Slaviansky Bazaar they're sitting down to dinner," said Nikolai thoughtfully. Seated on the brink of the ravine, Nikolai and Olga watched the setting sun and the image of the gold and purple sky in the river and in the church win- dows, and inhaled the soft, restful, in- expressibly pure air, unknown to them in Moscow. When the sun had set came lowing cattle and bleating sheep; geese flew towards them; and all was silent. The soft light faded from the air and evening shadows swept across the land. Meantime the absent family returned to the hut. First came Nikolai's father and mother, dry, bent, and toothless, and of equal height. Later, their sons' wives, Marya and Fekla, employed on the noble's farm across the river. Marya, wife of Nikolai's brother Kiriak, had six children; Fekla, wife of Denis, then a soldier, two; and when Nikolai, entering the hut, saw the whole family, all these big and little bodies, which moved in the loft, in cradles, in corners; when he saw the greed with which the old man and women ate black bread soaked in water, he felt that he had made a mistake in coming home, sick, penniless, and—what was worse—with his family. "And where is brother Kiriak?" he asked, greeting his parents. "He's watchman at the trader's," answered the old man. "In the wood. He's a good lad, but drinks heavily." "He's no profit," said the old woman in a lachrymose voice. "Our men are not much use, they bring nothing home with them, and only take things. Our Kiriak drinks; and the old man, there's no use hiding it, himself knows the way to the drink-shop. They've angered our Mother in Heaven!" In honor of the guests the samovar was brought out. The tea smelt of fish, the sugar was damp and looked as if it had been gnawed, the bread and vessels were covered with cockroaches; it was painful to drink, and painful to hear the talk—of nothing but poverty and sick- ness. Before they had emptied their first glasses, from the yard came a loud drawling, drunken cry— "Ma-arya!" "That sounds like Kiriak," said the old man. "Talk of the devil and he appears!" The peasants were silent. A moment later came the same cry, rough and drawling, and this time it seemed to come from underground. "Ma-arya!" The elder daughter-in-law, Marya, turned deadly pale and pressed her body to the stove; and it was strange to see the expression of terror on the face of this strong, broad-shouldered, ugly wo- man. Her daughter, the little, indif- ferent girl who had sat on the stove, sud- denly began to cry loudly. "Stop howling, cholera!" cried angrily Fekla, a good-looking woman, also strong and broad-shouldered. "He won't kill you!" From the old man Nikolai soon learned that Marya was afraid to live with her husband in the forest; and that when he had drunk too much Kiriak came for her, and made scenes and beat her mercilessly. "Ma-arya!" came the cry, this time from outside the door.THE PEASANTS 143 "Help me, for the love of heaven, help me!" chattered Marya, breathing as if she had been thrown into icy water. "Help me, kinsmen-" The houseful of children suddenly be- gan to cry, and, seeing them, Sasha did the same. A drunken cough echoed without, and into the hut came a tall, black-bearded muzhik wearing a winter cap. In the dim lamp-light his face was barely visible, and all the more terrible. It was Kiriak. He went straight to his wife, flourished his arm, and struck her with his clenched fist in the face. Marya did not utter a sound, the blow seemed to have stunned her, but she seemed to dwindle; a stream of blood flowed out of her nose. "It's a shame, a shame," muttered the old man, climbing on the stove. "And before our visitors! It's a sin!" The old woman kept silence, and, bent in two, seemed lost in thought. Fekla rocked the cradle. Kiriak seized Marya's hand, dragged her to the door, and, to increase her terror, roared like a beast. But at that moment he saw the visitors, and stopped. "So you've come!" he began, releas- ing his wife. "My own brother and his family. . . He prayed a moment before the im- age, staggered, opened his red, drunken eyes, and continued— "My brother and family have come to their parents' house . . . from Mos- cow, that means . . . The old capital, that means, the city of Moscow, mother of cities. . . . Excuse . . ." Amid the silence of all, he dropped ,on the bench near the samovar, and began to drink loudly from a saucer. When he had drunk ten cupfuls he leaned back on the bench and began to snore. Bed-time came. Nikolai, as an in- valid, was given a place on the stove beside the old man; Sasha slept on the floor; and Olga went with the young women to the shed. "Never mind, my heart!" she said, lying on the hay beside Marya. "Cry- ing is no help. You must bear it. In the Bible it is written, 'Whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.' Don't cry, my heart!" And then, in a whisper, she began to tell of Moscow, of her life there, how she had served as housemaid in fur- nished lodgings. "In Moscow the houses are big and built of brick," said Olga. "There is no end of churches—forty forties of them—my heart; and the houses are all full of gentlemen, so good-looking, so smart!" And Marya answered that she had never been in the district town, much less in Moscow; she was illiterate, and knew no prayers, not even "Our Fa- ther." Both she and her sister-in-law Fekla, who sat some way off and lis- tened, were ignorant in the extreme, and understood nothing. Both disliked their husbands; Marya dreaded Kiriak, shook with terror when he stayed with her, and after his departure her head ached from the smell of vodka and tobacco. And Fekla, in answer to the question did she want her husband, an- swered angrily— "What? . . . Him?" For a time the women spoke, and then lay down. It was cold, and a cock crew loudly, hindering sleep. When the blue morn-144 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV ing light began to break through the chinks, Fekla rose stealthily and went out, and her movements could be heard, as she ran down the street in her bare feet. CHAPTER II marya When Olga went to church she took with her Marya. As they descended the path to the meadow, both were in good humour. Olga liked the free- dom of the country; and Marya found in her sister-in-law a kindred spirit. The sun was rising. Close to the meadow flew a sleepy hawk; the river was dull, for there was a slight mist, but the hill beyond it was bathed in light; the church glittered, and rooks cawed in the garden of the big house beyond. "The old man is not bad," said Marya. "But my mother-in-law is cross and quarrelsome. Our own corn lasted till Shrovetide; now we have to buy at the inn; and the old woman is angry, and says, 'You eat too much.'" "Never mind, my heart! You must bear that too. It is written in the Bible, 'Come unto Me all ye that are weary and heavy laden.'" Olga spoke gravely and slowly; and walked, like a pilgrim, quickly and briskly. Every day she read the Gos- pel, aloud, like a clerk; and though there was much that she did not un- derstand, the sacred words touched her to tears, and words like astche, don- dezhe she pronounced with beating heart. She believed in God, in the Virgin, in the saints; and her faith was that it was wrong to do evil to any man, even to Germans, gipsies, and Jews, When she read aloud the Gospel, even when she stopped at words she did not understand, her face grew compassionate, kindly, and bright. "What part are you from?" asked Marya. "Vladimir. I have been long in Mos- cow, since I was eight years old." They approached the river. On the other bank stood a woman, undressing herself. "That is our Fekla!" said Marya. "She's been across the river at the squire's house. With the stewards! She's impudent and ill-spoken—awful!" Black-browed Fekla, with loosened hair, jumped into the river, and, young and firm as a girl, splashed in the water, making big waves. "She's impudent—awful!" repeated Marya. Across the river was a shaky bridge of beams, and at that moment beneath it in the clear, transparent water swam carp. On the green bushes, imaged in the water, glistened dew. It was warm and pleasant. What a wonderful morn- ing! And indeed, how splendid would be life in this world were it not for poverty, hideous, hopeless poverty, from which there is no escape! But look back to the village, and memory awak- ens all the events of yesterday; and, the intoxication of joy vanishes in a wink. The women reached the church.v Marya stopped near the door, afraid to go inside. She feared, too, to sit down, though the service would not begin till nine o'clock, and stood all the time. As the Gospel was being read the worshippers suddenly moved, and made way for the squire's family. In came two girls in white dresses with wide-THE PEASANTS 145 brimmed hats, and behind them a stout, rosy boy dressed as a sailor. Their coming pleased Olga; she felt that here at last were well-taught, orderly, good- looking people. But Marya looked at them furtively and gloomily, as if they were not human beings but monsters who would crush her if she failed to make way. And when the deacon sang out in a bass voice, she fancied she heard the cry "Ma-arya!" and shuddered. CHAPTER III songs The village quickly heard of the visitors' arrival, and when church was over the hut was crowded. The Leo- nuitcheffs, Matveitcheffs, and Ilitchoffs came for news of their kinsmen in Mos- cow. Every man in Zhukovo who could read and write was taken to Moscow as waiter or boots; and, similarly, the village across the river supplied only bakers; and this custom obtained since before the Emancipation, when a cer- tain legendary Luka Ivanuitch, of Zhu- kovo, was lord of the buffet in a Mos- cow club, and hired none but fellow- villagers. These, in turn attaining power, sent for their kinsmen and found them posts in inns and restaurants; so that from that time Zhukovo was called by the local population Khams- kaya or Kholuefka. Nikolai was taken to Moscow at the age of eleven, and given a post by Ivan Makaruitch, one of the Matveitcheffs, then porter at the Hermitage Gardens. And, now, turning to the Matveitcheffs, Nikolai said gravely— "Ivan Makaruitch was my benefac- tor; it is my duty to pray God for him day and night, for it was through him I became a good man." "Batiushka mine!" said tearfully a tall, old woman, Ivan Makaruitch's sis- ter. "And have you no news of him?" "He was at Omon's last winter; and this season, I heard, he's in some gar- dens outside town. . . . He's grown old. Once in the summer he'd bring home ten roubles a day, but now every- where business is dull—the old man's in a bad way." The women, old and young, looked at the high felt boots on Nikolai's legs, and at his pale face, and said sadly— "You're no money-maker, Nikolai Osipuitch, no money-bringer!" And all caressed Sasha. Sasha was past her tenth birthday, but, small and very thin, she looked not more than seven. Among the sunburnt, untidy village girls, in their long cotton shirts, pale-faced, big-eyed Sasha, with the red ribbon in her hair, seemed a toy, a little strange animal caught in the fields, and brought back to the hut. "And she knows how to read!" boasted Olga, looking tenderly at her daughter. "Read something, child!" she said, taking a New Testament from the corner. "Read something aloud and let the orthodox listen!" The old, heavy, leather-bound, bent- edged Bible smelt like a monk. Sasha raised her eyebrows, and began in a loud drawl— ". . . And when they were departed, behold the angel of the Lord appeareth to Joseph in a dream, saying, Arise and take the young child and his mother . . " 'The young child and his mother,'" repeated Olga. She reddened with joy. ". . . and flee into Egypt . . . and146 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV be thou there until I bring thee word. . . At the word "until" Olga could not longer restrain her emotion and began to cry. Marya followed her example, and Ivan Makaruitch's sister cried also. The old man coughed and fussed about, seeking a present for his grandchild, but he found nothing, and waved his hand. When the reading ended, the visitors dispersed to their homes, deeply touched, and pleased with Olga and Sasha. As the day was Sunday the family remained in the hut. The old woman, whom husband, daughters-in-law, and grandchildren alike addressed as "grand- mother," did everything with her own hands: she lighted the stove, set the samovar; she even worked in the fields; and at the same time growled that she was tortured with work. She tortured herself with dread that the family might eat too much, and took care that her husband and daughters-in-law did not sit with idle hands. Once when she found that the innkeeper's geese had got into her kitchen-garden, she rushed at once out of the house armed with a long stick; and for half an hour screamed piercingly over her cabbages, which were as weak and thin as their owner. Later she imagined that a hawk had swooped on her chickens, and with loud curses she flew to meet the hawk. She lost her temper and growled from morning to night, and often screamed so loudly that passers-by stopped to listen. Her husband she treated badly, de- nouncing him sometimes as a lie-abed, sometimes as "cholera." The old man was a hopeless, unsubstantial muzhik, and perhaps, indeed, if she had not spurred him on, he would have done no work at all, but sat all day on the stove and talked. He complained to his son at great length of certain ene- mies in the village and of the wrongs he suffered day by day; and it was tiresome to hear him. "Yes," he said, putting his arms to his waist. "Yes. A week after Ele-, vation I sold my hay for thirty kopeks a pood. Yes. Good! . . . and this means that one morning I drive my hay cart and interfere with nobody; and suddenly, in an evil moment, I look round, and out of the inn comes the headman, A n t i p Siedelnikoff. 'Where are you driving, old So-and-so?' and bangs me in the ear!" Kiriak's head ached badly from drink, and he was ashamed before his brother. "It's drink that does it. Akh, my Lord God!" he stammered, shaking his big head. "You, brother and you, sister, forgive me, for the love of Christ; I feel bad myself." To celebrate Sunday, they bought herrings at the inn, and made soup of the heads. At midday all sat down to tea and drank until they sweated and, it seemed, swelled up; and when they had drunk the tea they set to on the soup, all eating from the same bowl. The old woman hid away the herrings. At night a potter baked his pots in the ravine. In the meadow below, the village girls sang in chorus; and some one played a concertina. Beyond the river also glowed a potter's oven, and village girls sang; and from afar the music sounded soft and harmonious. The muzhiks gathered in the inn; they sang tipsily, each a different song; andTHE PEASANTS 147 the language they used made Olga shud- der and exclaim— "Akhj batiushki!" She was astonished by the incessant blasphemy, and by the fact that the older men, whose time had nearly come, blasphemed worst of all. And the chil- dren and girls listened to this language, and seemed in no way uncomfortable; it was plain they were used to it, and had heard it from the cradle. Midnight came; the potters' fires on both river-banks went out, but on the meadow below and in the inn the merry- making continued. The old man and Kiriak, both drunk, holding hands, and rolling against one another, came to the shed where Olga lay with Marya. "Leave her alone!" reasoned the old man. "Leave her. She's not a bad sort. . . . It's a sin. . . "Ma-arya!" roared Kiriak. "Stop! It's sinful. . . . She's not a bad sort." The two men stood a moment by the shed and went away. "I love wild flowers . . sang the old man in a high, piercing tenor. "I love to pull them in the fields!" After this he spat, blasphemed, and went into the hut. CHAPTER IV dreams! Grandmother stationed Sasha in the kitchen garden, and ordered her to keep off the geese. It was a hot August day. The innkeeper's geese could get into the kitchen garden by the back way, but at present they were busy picking up oats near the inn and quietly conversing, though the old gander stood aloof, his head raised as if to make sure that grandmother was not coming with her stick. The other geese could I also get into the garden; but these \ were feeding far across the river, and, j like a big white garland, stretched i across the meadow. Sasha watched a 1 short time, and then got tired, and, seeing no geese in sight, went down to the ravine. There she saw Motka, Marya's eld- est daughter, standing motionless on a big stone, and looking at the church. Marya had borne thirteen children; but only six remained, all girls, and the eldest was eight years old. Bare- footed Motka, in her long shirt, stood in the sun; the sun burnt the top of her head, but she took no notice of this, and seemed turned to stone. Sasha stood beside her, and looking at the church, began— "God lives in the church. People burn lamps and candles, but God has red lamps, green and blue lamps, like eyes. At night God walks about the church, and with him the Holy Virgin, and holy Nicholas . . . toup, toup, toup! . . . The watchman is fright- ened, terribly! Yes, my heart," she said, imitating her mother. "When the Day of Judgment comes all the churches will be carried to heaven." "With the bells?" asked Motka in a bass voice, drawling every word. "With the bells. And on the Day of Judgment good people will go to para- dise, and wicked people will burn in fire eternal and unextinguishable, my heart! To mother and Marya God will say, 'You have offended no one, so go to the right, to paradise'; but He'll say to Kiriak and grandmother, 'You go to the left, into the fire!' And148 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV people who eat meat on fast-days will go to the fire too." She looked up at the sky, opened wide her eyes, and continued— / "Look up at the sky, don't wink ... and you'll see angels." Motka looked at the sky, and a min- ute passed in silence. "Do you see them?" asked Sasha. "No," answered Motka in her bass voice. "But I can. Little angels fly about the sky, with wings . . . little, little, like gnats." Motka thought, looked at the ground, and asked— "Will grandmother burn really?" "She'll burn, my heart." From the stone to the bottom of the hill was a gentle, even slope covered with green grass so soft that it invited repose. Sasha lay down and slid to the bottom. Motka with a serious, severe face, puffed out her cheeks, lay down, and slid, and as she slid her shirt came up to her shoulders. "How funny I felt!" said Sasha in delight. The two children climbed to the top intending to slide down again, but at that moment they heard a familiar, squeaky voice. Terror seized them. Toothless, bony, stooping grandmother, with her short grey hair floating in the wind, armed with the long stick, drove the geese from the kitchen gar- den, and screamed— "You've spoiled all the cabbage, ac- cursed; may you choke; threefold an- athemas; plagues, there is no peace with you!" She saw the two girls, threw down her stick, took up a bundle of brush- wood, and seizing Sasha's shoulders with fingers dry and hard as tree-forks, began to beat her. Sasha cried from pain and terror; and at that moment a gander, swinging from foot to foot and stretching out its neck, came up and hissed at the old woman; and when he returned to the geese, all welcomed him approvingly: go-go-go! Thereafter grandmother seized and whipped Mot- ka, and again Motka's shirt went over her shoulders. Trembling with terror, crying loudly, Sasha went back to the hut to complain, and after her went Motka, also crying in her bass voice. Her tears were unwiped away, and her face was wet as if she had been in the river. "Lord in heaven!" cried Olga as they entered the hut. "Mother of God, what's this?" Sasha began her story, and at that moment, screaming and swearing, in came grandmother. Fekla lost her tem- per, and the whole hut was given over to noise. "Never mind, never mind!" consoled Olga, pale and unnerved, stroking Sasha's head. "She's your grand- mother; you've no right to be angry. Never mind, child!" Nikolai, already tortured by the con- stant shouting, hunger, smell, and smoke, hating and despising poverty, and ashamed of his parents before his wife and child, swung his legs over the stove and said to his mother with an irritable whine— "You mustn't touch her! You have no right whatever to beat her!" "Nu, you'll choke there on the stove, corpse!" cried Fekla angrily. "The devil sent you to us, parasite!" And Sasha and Motka, and all theTHE PEASANTS 149 little girls, hid on the stove behind Nikolai's back, and the throbbing of k their little hearts was almost heard. In every family with an invalid, long sick and hopeless, there are moments when all, timidly, secretly, at the bot- tom of their hearts, wish for his death; alone, children always dread the death I of any one kin to them, and feel terror at the thought. And now the little girls, with bated breath and mournful faces, looked at Nikolai, and thinking that he would soon die, wanted to cry and say something kindly and compas- sionate. Nikolai pressed close to Olga, as if seeking a defender, and said in a soft, trembling voice— "Olga, my dear, I can stand this no longer. It is beyond my strength. For the love of God, for the love of Christ in heaven, write to your sister, Claudia Abramovna; let her sell or pledge everything, and send us the money to get out of this. O Lord," he cried, with longing, "to look at Moscow again, even with one eye! Even to see it in dreams!" When evening came and the hut grew dark, all felt such tedium that it was hard to speak. Angry grand- mother soaked rye crusts in a bowl, and took an hour to eat them. Marya milked the cow, carried in the milk- pail, and set it down on a bench; and grandmother slowly poured the milk into jugs, pleased at the thought that now at Assumption fast no one would drink milk, and that it would remain whole. But she poured a little, very little, into a saucer for Fekla's young- est. When she and Marya carried the milk to the cellar Motka suddenly started up, climbed down from the stove, and going to the bench poured the sau- cer of milk into the wooden bowl of crusts. Grandmother, back in the hut, sat down again to the crusts, and Sasha and Motka, perched on the stove, looked at her, and saw with joy that she was drinking milk during fast time, and therefore would go to hell. Con- soled by this, they lay down to sleep; and Sasha, going off to sleep, imagined the terrible chastisement: a big stove, like the potter's, and a black unclean spirit horned like a cow drove grand- mother into the stove with a long stick, as she herself had lately driven the geese. CHAPTER V fire! On the night of Assumption, at eleven o'clock, the young men and girls playing below in the meadow suddenly cried and shrieked and ran back to- wards the village. The boys and girls who sat above, on the brink of the ravine, at first could not understand the cause of their cries. "Fire! Fire!" came from beneath in a despairing scream. "The hut's on fire!" The boys and girls on the ravine turned their heads and saw a picture terrible and rare. Over one of the farthest thatched huts rose a fathom- high pillar of fire which curled and scattered fountain-wise on all sides showers of bright sparks. And imme- diately afterwards the whole roof caught fire, and the crackling of burn- ing beams was heard by all. The moonlight faded, and soon the whole village was bathed in a red, trem-150 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV bling glare; black shadows moved across the ground, and there was a smell of burning. The merry-makers from below, all panting, speechless, shuddering, jostled one another and fell; dazzled by the bright light, they saw nothing, and could not even tell who was who. The sight was terrible; and most terrible of all was that in the smoke above the conflagration fluttered doves, and that the men in the inn, knowing nothing of the fire, continued to sing and play the concertina as if nothing had happened. "Uncle Semion is burning!" cried a loud, hoarse voice. Marya with chattering teeth wan- dered about her hut weeping and wring- ing her hands, although the fire was far away at the other end of the village; Nikolai came out in his felt boots, and after him the children in their shirts. At the village policeman's hut they beat the alarm. Bern, bem, bem! echoed through the air; and this tireless, re- peated sound made the heart sink and the listeners turn cold. The old women stood about with images. From the yards were driven sheep, calves, and cows; and the villagers carried into the street their boxes, sheepskins, and pails. A black stallion, kept apart from the herd because he kicked and injured the horses, found himself in freedom, and neighing loudly, he tore up and down the village, and at last stopped beside a cart and kicked it violently. In the church beyond the river the fire-alarm was rung. It was hot all around the burning hut, and in the bright glare even the blades of grass were visible. On a box which the peasants had managed to save sat Semion, a big-nosed, red- headed muzhik, in short coat, with a forage-cap pressed down to his ears; his wife lay on her face on the earth and groaned. A little, big-bearded capless, gnome-like stranger of eighty, evidently partial to fires, wandered around, carrying a white bundle; his bald head reflected the glare. The starosta, Antip Siedelnikoff, swarthy and black-haired as a gipsy, went up to the hut with his axe, and for no ap- parent reason beat in all the windows and began to hack at the steps. "Women, water!" he roared. "Bring the engine! Look sharp!" The peasants, fresh from merry-mak- ing in the inn, dragged up the fire- engine. All were drunk; they staggered and fell; their expressions were help- less, and tears stood in their eyes. "Bring water, girls!" cried the sta- rosta, also drunk. "Look sharp!" The young women and girls ran down the slope to the well, returned with pails and pitchers of water, and, hav- ing emptied them into the engine, ran back for more. Olga, and Marya, and Sasha, and Motka, all helped. The wa- ter was pumped up by women and small boys; the hose-nozzle hissed; and the starosta, aiming it now at the door, now at the windows, held his finger on the stream of water, so that it hissed still more fiercely. "Good man, Antip!" came approving cries. "Keep it up!" And Antip went into the hall and cried thence— "Bring more water! Do your best, Orthodox men and women, on this un- fortunate occasion!" The muzhiks stood in a crowd withTHE PEASANTS 151 idle hands and gaped at the fire. No one knew what to start on, not one was capable of help; although around were stacks of grain, hay, outhouses, and heaps of dry brushwood. Kiriak and his father Osip, both tipsy, stood in the crowd. As if to excuse his idleness, the old man turned to the woman who lay on the ground and said— "Don't worry yourself, gossip! The hut's insured—it's all the same to you!" And Semion, addressing each muz- hik in turn, explained how the hut caught fire. "That old man there with the bundle is General Zhukoff's servant. . . . He was with our general, heaven kingdom to him! as cook. He comes up to us in the evening and begins, 'Let me sleep here tonight.' ... We had a drink each, of course. . . . The woman prepared the samovar to get the old man tea, when in an unlucky moment she put it in the hall; and the fire from the chimney, of course, went up to the roof, the straw and all! We were nearly burnt ourselves. And the old man lost his cap; it's a pity." The fire-alarm boomed without cease; and the bells of the church across the river rang again and again. Olga, panting, bathed in the glare, looked with terror at the red sheep and the red pigeons flying about in the smoke; and it seemed to her that the boom of the fire-alarm pierced into her soul, that the fire would last for ever, and that Sasha was lost. . . . And when the roof crashed in she grew so weak with fear lest the whole village burn that she could no longer carry water; and she sat on the brink of the ravine with her pail beside her; beside her sat other women, and spoke as if they were speaking of a corpse. At last from the manor-house came two cartloads of factors and workmen. They brought with them a fire-engine. A very youthful student in white, un- buttoned tunic rode into the village on horseback. Axes crashed, a ladder was placed against the burning log-walls; and up it promptly climbed five men led by the student, who was very red. and shouted sharply and hoarsely, and in a tone which implied that he was well accustomed to extinguishing fires. They took the hut to pieces, beam by beam; and dragged apart stall, the wat- tle fence, and the nearest hayrick. "Don't let them break it!" came an- gry voices from the crowd. "Don't let them!" Kiriak with a resolute face went into the hut as if to prevent the new-com- ers breaking, but one of the workmen turned him back with a blow on the neck. Kiriak tumbled, and on all fours crept back to the crowd. From across the river came two pretty girls in hats; the student's sis- ters, no doubt. They stood some way off and watched the conflagration. The scattered logs no longer burned, but smoked fiercely; and the student, han- dling the hose, sent the water some- times on the logs, sometimes into the crowd, sometimes at the women who were carrying pails. "George!" cried the frightened girls reproachfully. "George!" The fire ended. Before the crowd dispersed the dawn had begun; and all faces were pale and a little dark—or152 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV so it always seems in early morning when the last stars fade away. As they went to their homes the muzhiks laughed and joked at the expense of General Zhukoff's cook and his burnt cap: they reenacted the fire as a joke, and, it seemed, were sorry it had come so quickly to an end. "You put out the fire beautifully, sir," said Olga to the student. "Quite in the Moscow way; there we have fires every day." "Are you really from Moscow?" asked one of the girls. "Yes. My husband served in the Slaviansky Bazaar. And this is my lit- tle girl." She pointed to Sasha, who pressed close to her from the cold. "Also from Moscow, miss." The girls spoke to the student in French, and handed Sasha a twenty- kopeck piece. When old Osip saw this his face grew bright with hope. "Thank God, your honour, there was no wind," he said, turning to the stu- dent. "We'd have been all burnt up in an hour. Your honour, good gen- tleman," he added shamefacedly. "It's a cold morning; we want warming badly ... a half a bottle from your kind- ness . . ." Osip's hint proved vain; and, grunt- ing, he staggered home. Olga stood at the end of the village and watched as the two carts forded the stream, and the pretty girls walked through the meadow towards the carriage waiting on the other side. She turned to the hut in ecstasies— "And such nice people! So good- looking. The young ladies, just like little cherubs!" "May they burst asunder!" growled sleepy Fekla angrily. CHAPTER VI the hut Marya was unhappy, and said that she wanted to die. But life as she found it was quite to Fekla's taste: she liked the poverty, and the dirt, and the never-ceasing bad language. She ate what she was given without picking and choosing, and could sleep comfortably anywhere; she emptied the slops in front of the steps: threw them, in fact, from the threshold, though in her own naked feet she had to walk through the puddle. And from the first day she hated Olga and Nikolai for no rea- son save that they loathed this life. "We'll see what you're going to eat here, my nobles from Moscow!" she said maliciously. "We'll see!" Once on an early September morning, Fekla, rosy from the cold, healthy, and good-looking, carried up the hill two pails of water; when she entered the hut Marya and Alga sat at the table and drank tea. "Tea . . . and sugar!" began Fekla ironically. "Fine ladies you are!" she added, setting down the pails. "A nice fashion you've got of drinking tea every day! See that you don't swell up with tea!" she continued, looking with hatred at Olga. "You got a thick snout already in Moscow, fatbeef!" She swung round the yoke and struck Olga on the shoulder. The two women clapped their hands and exclaimed— Akh, batiushki!" After which Fekla returned to the river to wash clothes, and all the time cursed so loudly that she was heard in the hut. The day passed, and behind it came the long autumn evening. All sat wind-.THE PEASANTS 153 ing silk, except Fekla, who went down to the river. The silk was given out by a neighbouring factory; and at this work the whole family earned not more than twenty kopecks a week. "We were better off as serfs," said the old man, winding away busily. "In those "O Lord!" sighed the cook. From the light in the windows it was hard to judge whether the moon still shone or whether dawn had come. Marya rose and went out; and she was heard milking the cows and shouting "Stand!" Grandmother also went out. It was still dark in the hut, but every- thing could be seen. Nikolai, who had spent a sleepless night, climbed down from the stove. He took from a green box his evening dress-THE PEASANTS 155 coat, put it on, and going over to the window, smoothed the sleeves and the folds, and smiled. Then he took off the coat, returned it to the box, and lay down. Marya returned, and began to light the stove. Apparently she was not yet quite awake. Probably she still dreamed of something, or recalled the stories of last night, for she stretched herself lazily before the stove and said— "No, we're better in freedom." CHAPTER VII who else? In the village arrived "the gentle- man," as the peasants called the superin- tendent of police. Every one knew a week ahead the day and cause of his arrival. For though Zhukovo had only forty houses, it owed in arrears to the Imperial Treasury and the Zemstvo more than two thousand roubles. The superintendent stopped at the inn, drank two glasses of tea, and then walked to the starosta's hut, where al- ready waited a crowd of peasants in arrears. The starosta, Antip Siedelnikoff, despite his youth—he was little over thirty—was a stern man who always took the side of the authorities, al- though he himself was poor and paid his taxes irregularly. It was clear to all that he was flattered by his position and revelled in the sense of power, which he had no other way of displaying save by sternness. The mir feared and listened to him; when in the street or at the inn he met a drunken man he would seize him, tie his hands behind his back, and put him in the village goal; once, indeed, he even imprisoned grandmother for several days, because, appearing at the mir instead of her husband, she used abusive language. The starosta had never lived in town and read no books; but he had a copious collection of learned words and used them so liberally that people respected him, even when they did not understand. When Osip with his tax book entered the starosta's hut, the superintendent, a thin, old, grey-whiskered man in a grey coat, sat at a table in the near cor- ner and made notes in a book. The hut was clean, the walls were decorated with pictures from magazines, and in a prom- inent placc near the ikon hung a por- trait of Alexander of Battenberg, ex- Prince of Bulgaria. At the table, with crossed arms, stood Antip Siedelnikoff. "This man, your honour, owes 119 roubles," he said when it came to Osip's turn. "Before Holy Week, he paid a rouble, since then, nothing." The superintendent turned his eyes on Osip, and asked— "What's the reason of that, brother?" "Your honour, be merciful to me . . ." began Osip in agitation. "Let me explain . . . this summer Squire Liutoretzky . . . 'Osip,' he says, 'sell me your hay. . . . Sell it,' he says. ... I had a hundred poods for sale, which the women mowed. . Well, we bargained. All went well, without friction. . . He complained of the starosta, and now and again turned to the muzhiks as if asking for support; his flushed face sweated, and his eyes turned bright and vicious. "I don't understand why you tell me all that," said the superintendent. "I ask you . . . it's you I ask, why you don't pay your arrears? None of you pay, and I am held responsible."156 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV "I'm not able to." *''These expressions are without con- sequence, your honour," said the starosta magniloquently. "In realty, the Tchikil- deyeffs belong to the impoverished class, but be so good as to ask the others what is the reason. Vodka and impudence . . . without any comprehension.'' The superintendent made a note, and said to Osip in a quiet, even voice, as if he were asking for water— "Begone!" Soon afterwards he drove away; and as he sat in his cheap tarantass and coughed, it was plain, even from the ap- pearance of his long, thin back, that he had forgotten Osip, and the starosta, and the arrears of Zhukovo, and was thinking of his own domestic affairs. He had hardly covered a verst before Antip Siedelnikoff was carrying off the Tchikildeyeff samovar; and after him ran gradmother, and whined like a dog. "I won't give it! I won't give it to you, accursed!" The starosta walked quickly, taking big steps; and grandmother, stooping and fierce and breathless, tottered after him; and her green-grey hair floated in the wind. At last she stopped, beat her breast with her fists, and exclaimed, with a whine and a sob— "Orthodox men who believe in God! Batiushki, they're wronging me! Kins- men, they've robbed me. Oi, oi, will no one help me!" "Grandmother, grandmother!" said the starosta severely, "have some reason in your head!" With the loss of the samovar, things in the Tchikildeyeffs' hut grew even worse. There was something humiliat- ing and shameful in this last privation, and it seemed that the hut had suddenly lost its honour. The table itself, the chairs, and all the pots, had the starosta seized them, would have been less missed. Grandmother screamed, Marya cried, and the children, listening, began to cry also. The old man, with a feel- ing of guilt, sat gloomily in the corner and held his tongue. And Nikolai was silent. As a rule grandmother liked him and pitied him; but at this crisis her pity evaporated, and she cursed and reproached him, and thrust her fists under his nose. She screamed that he was guilty of the family's misfortunes and asked why he had sent so little home, though he boasted in his letters that he earned fifty roubles a month at the Slaviansky Bazaar. Why did he come home, and still worse, bring his family? If he died whence would the money come for his funeral? . . . And it was painful to look at Nikolai, Olga and Sasha. The old man grunted, took his cap, and went to the starosta's. It was get- ting dark. Antip Siedelnikoff, with cheeks puffed out, stood at the stove and soldered. It was stifling. His children, skinny and unwashed—not better than the Tchkildeyeffs'—sprawled on the floor; his ugly, freckled wife wound silk. This, too, was an unhappy, God- forsaken family; alone Antip was smart and good-looking. On a bench in a row stood five samovars. The old man prayed towards the Battenberg prince, and began— "Antip, show the mercy of God: give me the samovar! For the love of God!" "Bring me three roubles, and then you'll get it." "I haven't got them." Antip puffed out his cheeks, the fire hummed and hissed, and the samovarsTHE PEASANTS 157 shone. The old man fumbled with his cap, thought a moment, and repeated— "Give it to me!" The swarthy starosta seemed quite black and resembled a wizard; he turned to Osip and said roughly and quickly— "All depends from the Rural Chief. In the administrative session of the twenty-sixth of this month you can ex- pose the causes of your dissatisfaction verbally or in writing." Not one of these learned words was understood by Osip, but he felt con- tented, and returned to his hut. Ten days later the superintendent re- turned, stayed about an hour^ and drove away. It had turned windy and cold, but though the river was frozen, there was no snow, and the state of the roads Was a torture to every one. On Sunday evening the neighbours looked in to see and talk with Osip. They spoke in the darkness; to work was a sin, and no one lighted the lamp. News was ex- changed, chiefly disagreeable. Three houses away the hens had been taken in payment of arrears and sent to the cantonal office, and there they died of starvation; sheep had also been taken, and while they were being driven away tied with ropes and transferred to fresh carts at each village one had died. And now they discussed the question, Who was responsible? "The Zemstvo!" said Osip. "Who else?" "Of course, the Zemstvo!" They accused the Zemstvo of every- thing—of arrears, of oppression, of famines, although not one of them knew exactly what the Zemstvo was. And that rule had been observed since wealthy peasants with factories, shops, and houses were elected as Zemstvo members, and being discontented with the institution, thenceforth in their fac- tories and inns abused the Zemstvo. They complained of the fact that God had sent no snow, and that though it was time to lay in firewood, you could neither drive nor walk upon the frozen roads. Fifteen years before, and earlier, the small-talk of Zhukovo was infinitely more entertaining. In those days every old man pretended he held some secret, knew something, and waited for something; they talked of rescripts with gold seals, redistribution of lands, and hidden treasures, and hinted of things mysterious; to-day the people of Zhukovo had no secrets; their life was open to all; and they had no themes for conversation save need, and forage, and the absence of snow. . . . For a moment they were silent. But soon they remembered the hens and dead sheep, and returned to the problem, Who was responsible? "The Zemstvo!" said Osip gloomily. "Who else?" CHAPTER VIII died The parish church was Kosogorovo, six versts away, but the peasants went there only to christen, marry, or bury; they worshipped at the church across the river. On Sundays, when the weather was fine, the village girls dressed in their best and went in a crowd to the service; and the red, yellow, and green dresses fluttering across the meadow were pleasant to see. In bad weather all stayed at home. They fasted, prayed, and prepared for the sacrament. From those who had failed in this duty during the Great Fast, the priest, when he went158 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV round the huts with his crucifix, took fifteen kopecks fine. The old man did not believe in God, because he had hardly ever thought of Him; he admitted the supernatural, but held that that was an affair for women; and when others spoke of religion, or of miracles, and asked him questions on the subject, he scratched himself and said reluctantly— "Who knows anything about it?" Grandmother believed vaguely; in her mind all things were confused, and when she began to meditate on death and sal- vation, hunger and poverty took the upper hand, and she forgot her medita- tions. She remembered no prayers, but at night before lying down she stood before the ikons and muttered— "Mother of God of Kazan, Mother of God of Smolensk, Three-Handed Mother of God! . . Marya and Fekla crossed themselves and fasted, but knew nothing of re- ligion. They neither taught their chil- dren to pray nor spoke to them of God; and they taught them no principles save that they must not eat meat during fasts. With the other villagers it was the same; few believed and few understood. Nevertheless, all loved the Scriptures, loved them dearly and piously; the mis- fortune was that there were no books and no one to read and explain, so that when Olga read aloud the Gospel she was treated with respect, and all ad- dressed her and her daughter Sasha as "You." At Church festivals Olga often walked to neighbouring villages, and even to the district town, where there were two monasteries and twenty-seven churches. She was abstracted, and as she walked on her pilgrimage forgot her family. When she returned home it seemed that she had only just discovered her hus- band and daughter, and she smiled and said radiantly— "God has sent us His mercy!" Everything that happened in the vil- lage repelled and tormented her. On Elijah's Day they drank, at Assumption they drank, at Elevation they drank. At Intercession Zhukovo had its parish festival; and this the muzhiks observed by drinking for three days; they drank fifty roubles from the communal funds; and then went round the huts and col- lected money for more vodka. On the first days the Tchikildeyeffs killed a ram, and ate mutton in the morning, at dinner, and for supper; and in the night all the children got out of bed to eat more. Kiriak was drunk all three days; he drank away his cap and boots, and beat Marya so badly that she had to be soused with water. And then all were sick with shame. Despite this, even this Zhukovo, this Kholuefka, had once a real religious fes- tival. That was in August, when through every village in the district was borne the Life-giving Ikon. The day it was due at Zhukovo was windless and dull. Early in the morning the village girls, in their bright, holiday dress, set out to met the ikon, which arrived at evening with a procession and singing; and at that moment the church bells rang loudly. A vast crowd from Zhukovo and neighbouring villages filled the street; there were noise, dust, and crushing. And the old man, grand- mother, and Kiriak—all stretched out their hands to the ikon, looked at it greedily, and cried with tears— "Intercessor, Mother! Intercessor!" All at once, it seemed, realised thatTHE PEASANTS 159 there is no void between earth and heaven, that the great and strong of this world have not seized upon everything, that there is intercession against in- jury, against slavish subjection, against heavy, intolerable need, against the ter- rible vodka. "Intercessor, Mother!" sobbed Marya. "Mother!" When the service was said and the ikon carried away, all things were as of old, and noisy, drunken voices echoed from the inn. \ Death was dreaded only by the wealthy muzhiks; the richer they grew the less their faith in God and in sal- vation; and only out of fear of the end of the world, to make certain, so to speak, they lighted candles in the church and said mass. The poorer muzhiks knew no fear of death. They told the old man and grandmother to their faces that they had lived their day, that it was high time to die, and the old man and grandmother listened indifferently. They did not scruple to tell Fekla in Nikolai's presence that when he, Nikolai, died, her husband, Denis, would get his discharge from the army and be sent home. And Marya not only had no fear of death, but was even sorry that it lingered; and she rejoiced when her own children died. • But though they knew no dread of death, they looked on sickness with ex- aggerated dread. The most trifling ail- ment, a disordered stomach, a slight chill, sent grandmother on to the stove, where she rolled herself up, and groaned loudly without cease, "I'm dying!" And the old man would send for the priest to confess her and administer the last sacrament. They talked eternally of colds, of worms, of tumours which begin in the stomach and slowly creep towards the heart. Most of all they dreaded colds, and even in summer dressed warmly, and cowered over the stove. Grandmother loved medical treatment, and constantly drove to hos- pital, where she said she was fifty- eight instead of seventy, for she feared that if the doctor knew her age, he would refuse to treat her, and would tell her it was time to die. She usually started for the hospital at early morn- ing, taking a couple of the little girls, and returned at night, hungry and ill- tempered, with a mixture for herself and ointments for the girls. Once she took with her Nikolai, who for the next- two weeks dosed himself with a mixture and said that he felt better. Grandmother knew every doctor, feldscher, and wise-woman within thirty versts and disapproved of all. At In- tercession, when the priest made his round of the huts with a crucifix, the clerk told her that near the town prison there was an old man, formerly an army feldscher, who doctored cleverly, and he advised grandmother to see him. She took the advice. When the first snow fell she drove into town, and brought back an old, bearded Jew in a long caftan, whose whole face was covered with blue veins. At that time journey- men worked in the hut: an old tailor in terrifying spectacles made a waist- coat out of rags; and two young lads made felt for top-boots. Kiriak, dis- missed for drunkenness, and now living at home, sat beside the tailor and mended a horse-collar. The hut was close and smoky. The Jew looked at Nikolai, and said that he must be bled. He applied leeches, and the old tailorr Kiriak, and the little girls looked on,160 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV and imagined they saw the disease coming out of Nikolai. And Nikolai also' watched the leeches sucking his chest, and saw them fill with dark blood ; and feeling that, indeed, something was coming out of him, he smiled con- tentedly. "It's a good way!" said the tailor. "God grant that it does him good!" The Jew applied twelve leeches to Nikolai, then twelve more; drank tea, and drove away. Nikolai began to tremble; his face turned haggard, and— as the women put it—dwindled into a fist; his fingers turned blue. He wrapped himself up in the counterpane •and then in a sheepskin coat; but felt colder and colder. Towards evening he was peevish; asked them to lay him on the floor, asked the tailor not to smoke, then lay still under the sheepskin; and towards morning died. CHAPTER IX give alms! It was a rough, a long winter. Since Christmas there had been no grain, and flour was bought outside. Kiriak, who still lived at home, made scenes at night, causing terror to all; and next morning his head ached, and he was ashamed, so that it was painful to see him. Night and day in the stall a hungry cow lowed, and rent the hearts of grandmother and Marya. And to make things worse the frost grew severer, and the snow heaped itself high in the street, and the winter stretched out. Annunciation was marked by a genuine winter snowstorm, and snow fell in Holy Week. But even this ended. The beginning of April brought warm days and frosty nights. Winter gave way reluctantly, but the hot sunshine foiled him, and at last the brooks melted and the birds began to sing. The fields and shrubs by the river-side were hidden in spring floods, and from Zhukovo to the village beyond stretched a big lake, given over to wild duck. The spring sunsets, fiery and with splendid clouds, yielded each day sights new and incredible, sights which are often laughed at when they appear on canvas. The cranes cried mournfully, as if they called on men to follow them. Standing on the brink of the ravine, Olga looked at the flood, at the sun, at the bright, it seemed rejuvenated, church; and her tears flowed and she panted with passionate longing to go away, though it might be to the end of the earth. And indeed, it was decided that she should return to Moscow and seek a place as housemaid; and with her would go Kiriak to earn his living as dvornik, or somehow else. Akh, to get away soon! When the roads dried and the weather turned hot they prepared for the journey. Olga and Sasha with wallets on their backs, both in bast-shoes, left at dawn; and Marya came to see them off. Kiriak, ill, remained for a week more. For the last time Olga prayed towards the church, and thought of her husband, and though she did not cry, her face wrinkled, and seemed ugly, as an old woman's. During the winter she had grown thinner, uglier, and a little grey; instead of the old charm and pleasant smile her face expressed sub- missiveness and sorrow outlived; and her look was dull and fixed as if she were deaf. She was sorry to leave the village and the muzhiks. She remem-THE PEASANTS 161 bered how they carried away Nikolai; how mass was said at nearly every hut; and how all wept, feeling her grief their own. Summer and winter there were hours and days when it seemed to her that these men lived worse than beasts, and to look at them was terrible: they were coarse, dishonest, dirty, drunken; they lived in discord; they fought eternally, because they despised, feared, and suspected one another. Who kept the drink shop and dosed the muzhik with drink? The muzhik. Who squandered and spent on drink the money of the commune, of the school, of the Church? The muzhik. Who stole from his neighbour, burnt his house, perjured himself in court for a bottle of vodka? The muzhik. Who first spoke at the Zemstvo and on other boards against the muzhik? The muzhik. Yes; to live with them was torture! But despite all this, they were men, they suffered and wept as men; and in their whole lives there was not one act for which an excuse might not be found. Labour unbearable, from which the whole body ached at night, fierce winters, scanty harvests, crowding; help from nowhere, and no hope of help! The richer and the stronger gave no help because they themselves were rude, dis- honest, intemperate, and foul-tongued; the pettiest official or clerk treated the muzhiks as vagabonds; even the can- tonal chiefs and Church elders addressed them as "Thou," and believed they had a right thereto. Yes! And could there be help or good example from the self- ish, the greedy, the dissolute, the idle, who came to these villages with but one intent: to insult, terrify, and rob? Olga remembered the piteous, humiliated faces of the old men when in winter Kiriak was brought out to be, flogged! And now she was sorry for all these men and women; and on her last walk through the village she looked at every hut. When she had accompanied them three versts Marya said good-bye; then fell upon her knees, and with her face touching the ground, cried loudly— "Again I am left alone; alas, poor me, poor, poor, unfortunate! . . And she continued to keen, so that long afterwards Olga and Sasha could see her on her knees, bent on one side, holding her head with her hands. And above her head flew rooks. The sun rose higher: the day grew warm. Zhukovo was left far behind. The travellers followed many circuitous paths, and Olga and Sasha soon forgot the village and Marya. They were in good humour, and everything amused them. First a mound; then a line of telegraph posts, with mysterious hum- ming wires, which vanished on the hori- zon, and sped to some unknown destina- tion; then a farm, buried in green, which sent from afar a smell of damp- ness and hemp, and seemed to say that it was the home of happy people; then a horse's skeleton lying white in a field. And larks sang untiredly; quails cried to one another; and the landrail cried with a sound like the drawing of an old bolt. At midday Olga and Sasha reached a big village, and, in the broad street, came upon General Zhukoff's old cook. He was hot, and his red, sweating bald patch shone in the sun. At first he did not recognise Olga; then he looked and recognised her, but both, without162 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV exchanging a word, continued their paths. Olga stopped and bowed low before the open windows of a hut which seemed richer and newer than its neighbours, and cried in a loud, thin, and singing voice— "Orthodox Christians, give alms for the love of Christ; Kingdom of Heaven to your father and mother, eternal rest." "Orthodox Christians," echoed little Sasha. "Give for the love of Christ, Heavenly Kingdom. . . VOLUME TVThe Shooting Party PRESCRIPT In the year 1880 during April the doorman Andrey came to my private room and in a mysterious whisper said that a gentleman was demanding insis- tently to see the editor. "He appears to be a chinovnik," Andrey added. "He has a cockade. . . "Tell him to come another time," I said, "I am busy now. Tell him the editor only talks on Saturdays." "He was here the day before yester- day and asked for you. He says his business is urgent. He begs, almost with tears in his eyes, to see you and says he is not free on Saturday. ..." I sighed, laid down my pen, and set- tled myself in my chair to receive the gentleman with the cockade. Young authors, and in general everybody who is new to the profession, are generally so awed by the words "editorial office" that they delay a considerable time. After the editor's "Show him in," they cough and blow their noses a long time, open the door very slowly, come into the room still more slowly, and thus waste your time. The gentleman with the cockade was different. The door had scarcely had time to close after Andrey before I saw a tall, broad- shouldered man, a paper in one hand and a cap with a cockade in the other, facing me. This man of the interview plays a very important part in my story. I shall describe him. First, he was as vigorous as a fine cart horse. His face was rosy, his hands strong, his chest deep. Over forty, dressed according to the last fashion, in tweed. A thick gold watch-chain with breloques decorated his chest, and on his little finger a diamond ring shone. But, what is most important, and so essential to the hero of a novel or story of any repute, he was extraordinarily handsome. I am neither a woman nor an artist and have but little understand- ing of manly beauty, but the appearance of the gentleman with the cockade with his large muscular face remained for ever impressed on me. A real Greek nose with a slight hook, thin lips and blue eyes of virtue and something else of mystery. That "something" can be seen in the eyes of little animals when they are sad or ill. Something implor- ing, childish, resignedly suffering. . . . Clever people never have such eyes. His whole face seemed to breathe candour and sincerity. If it be true that the face is the mirror of the soul, I could have taken an oath from the very first day of my acquaintance with the gentle- man with the cockade that he was unable to lie. I might even have gambled upon it. Whether I should have lost or not, the reader will see later. His chestnut hair and beard were thick and soft as silk, and soft hair is the sign of a sweet, sensitive soul. Criminals and abandoned characters have, in most cases, harsh hair. If this be true or not the reader will also see164 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV further on. Neither the expression of his face, nor the softness of his beard was as soft and delicate in this gentle- man with the cockade as the move- ments of his huge form. These move- ments seemed to denote education, light- ness, grace, and if you will forgive the expression, something womanly. It would cause my hero but a slight effort to bend a horseshoe or to flatten out a tin sardine box, with his first and at the same time not one of his move- ments showed his physical strength. He took hold of the door handle or of his hat, as if they were butterflies—deli- cately, carefully, hardly touching them with his fingers. He walked noiselessly, he pressed my hand feebly. When look- ing at him you forgot that he was as strong as Goliath, and that he could lift with one hand weights that five men like our office servant Andrey could not have moved. Looking at his light move- ments, it was impossible to believe that he was strong and heavy. Spencer might have called him a model of grace. When he entered my office he became confused. His delicate, sensitive nature was probably shocked by my frowning, dissatisfied face. "For God's sake forgive me!" he began in a soft, mellow baritone voice. "I have broken in upon you not at the appointed time, and I have forced you to make an exception for me. You are very busy! But, Mr. Editor, you see. this is how the case stands. To-morrow I must start for Odessa on very impor- tant business. ... If I had been able to put off this journey till Saturday, I can assure you I would not have asked you to make this exception for me. I submit to rules because I love order. . . "How much he talks!" I thought as I stretched out my hand towards the pen, showing by this movement I was pressed for time. (I was terribly bored by visitors just then.) "I will only take up a moment of your time," my hero continued in an apologetic tone. "But first allow me to introduce myself. . . . Ivan Petro- vich Kamyshev, Bachelor of Law and former examining magistrate. I have not the honour of belonging to the fellowship of authors, nevertheless I appear before you from motives that are purely those of a writer. Notwith- standing his forty years, you have be- fore you a man who wishes to be a beginner. . . . Better late than never!" "Very pleased. . . . What can I do for you?" The man wishing to be a beginner sat down and continued, looking at the floor with his imploring eyes: "I have brought you a short story which I would like to see published in your journal. Mr. Editor, I will tell you quite candidly I have not written this story to attain an author's celebrity, nor for the sake of sweet-sounding words. I am too old for these good things. I venture on the writer's path from purely commercial motives. . . . I want to earn something. ... At the present moment I have absolutely no occupation. I was a magistrate in the S-district for more than five years, but I did not make a fortune, nor did I keep my innocence either. . . Kamyshev glanced at me with his kind eyes and laughed gently. "Service is tiresome. ... I served and served till I was quite fed up, and chucked it. I have no occupation now, sometimes I have nothing to eat. . . ,THE SHOOTING PARTY 165 If, despite its unworthiness, you will publish my story, you will do me more than a great favour. . . .You will help me. ... A journal is not an alms- house, nor an old-age asylum. ... I know that, but . . . won't you be so kind. . . "He is lying," I thought. The breloques and the diamond ring on his little finger belied his having written for the sake of a piece of bread. Besides, a slight cloud passed over Kamyshev's face such as only an expe- rienced eye can trace on the faces of people who seldom lie. "What is the subject of your story?" I asked. "The subject? What can I tell you? The subject is not new. . . . Love and murder. . . . But read it, you will see. . . . 'From the Notes of an Examining Magistrate.' . . ." I probably frowned, for Kamyshev looked confused, his eyes began to blink, he started and continued speaking rapidly: "My story is written in the conven- tional style of former examining magis- trates, but . . . you will find in it facts, the truth. ... All that is written, from beginning to end, happened before my eyes. . . . Indeed, I was not only a witness but one of the actors." "The truth does not matter. ... It is not absolutely necessary to see a thing to describe it. That is unimpor- tant. The fact is our poor readers have long been fed up with Gaboriau and Shklyarevsky. They are tired of all those mysterious murders, those artful devices of the detectives, and the ex- traordinary resourcefulness of the ex- amining magistrate. The reading public, of course, varies, but I am talking of the public that reads our newspaper. What is the title of your story?" ' The Shooting Party." "Hm! . . . That's not serious, you know. . . . And, to be quite frank with you, I have such an amount of copy on hand that it is quite impossible to ac- cept new things, even if they are of undoubted merit." "Pray accept my work, . . . You say it is not serious, but ... it is difficult to give a title to a thing before you have seen it. . . . Besides, is it possible you cannot admit that an examining magistrate can write serious works?" All this Kamyshev said stammeringly, twisting a pencil about between his fingers and looking at his feet. He fin- ished by blinking his eyes and becom- ing exceedingly confused. I was sorry for him. "All right, leave it," I said. "But I can't promise that your story will be read very soon. You will have to wait. . . ." "How long?" "I don't know. Look in ... in about two to three months. . . ." "That's pretty long. . . . But I dare not insist. . . . Let it be as you say. . . ." Kamyshev rose and took up his cap. "Thank you for the audience," he said. "I will now go home and dwell in hope. Three months of hope! How- ever, I am boring you. I have the honour to bid you good-bye!" "One word more, please," I said as I turned over the pages of his thick copy- book, which were written in a very small handwriting. "You write here in the first person. . . . You therefore mean the examining magistrate to be yourself?" "Yes, but under another name. The166 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV part I play in this story is somewhat scandalous. ... It would have been awkward to give my own name. . . . In three months, then?" "Yes, not earlier, please. . . . Good- bye !" The former examining magistrate bowed gallantly, turned the door handle gingerly, and disappeared, leaving his work on my writing table. I took up the copy-book and put it away in the table drawer. Handsome Kamyshev's story reposed in my table drawer for two months. One day, when leaving my office to go to the country, I remembered it and took it with me. When I was seated in the railway coach I opened the copy-book and began to read from the middle. The middle interested me. That same evening, not- withstanding my want of leisure, I read the whole story from the beginning to the words "The End," which were writ- ten with a great flourish. That night I read the whole story through again, and at sunrise I was walking about the ter- race from corner to corner, rubbing my temples as if I wanted to rub out of my head some new and painful thoughts that had suddenly entered my mind. . . . The thoughts were really painful, un- bearably sharp. It appeared to me that I, neither an examining magistrate nor even a psychological juryman, had dis- covered the terrible secret of a man, a secret that did not concern me in the slightest degree. I paced the terrace and tried to persuade myself not to believe in my discovery. ... Kamyshev's story did not appear in my newspaper for reasons that I will explain at the end of my talk with the reader. I shall meet the reader once again. Now, when I am leaving him for a long time, I offer Kamyshev's story for his perusal. This story is not remarkable in any way. It has many lengthy passages and many inequalities. . . . The author is too fond of effects and strong expres- sions. ... It is evident that he is writ- ing for the first time, his hand is un- accustomed, uneducated. Nevertheless, his narrative reads easily. There is a plot, a meaning, too, and what is most important, it is original, very charac- teristic and what may be called sui generis. It also possesses certain liter- ary qualities. It is worth reading. Here it is. THE NARRATIVE (From the Notebook of mi Examining Magistrate) CHAPTER I cries! "The husband killed his wife! Oh, how stupid you are! Give me some sugar!" These cries awoke me. I stretched myself, feeling indisposition and heavi- ness in every limb. One can lie upon one's legs or arms until they are numb, but now it seemed to me that my whole body, from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet, was benumbed. An afternoon snooze in a sultry, dry atmosphere amid the buzzing and hum- ming of flies and mosquitoes does not act in an invigorating manner but has an enervating effect. Broken and bathed in perspiration, I rose and went to the window. The sun was still high and baked with the same ardour it had done three hours before. Many hours stillTHE SHOOTING PARTY 167 remained until sunset and the coolness of the evening. "The husband killed his wife!" "Stop lying, Ivan Dem'yanych!" I said as I gave a slight tap to Ivan Dem'yanych's nose. "Husbands kill their wives only in novels and in the tropics, where African passions boil over, my dear. For us such horrors as thefts and burglaries or people living on false passports are quite enough." "Thefts and burglaries!" IvanDem'y- anych murmured through his hooked nose. "Oh, how stupid you are!" "What's to be done, my dear? In what way are we mortals to blame for our brain having its limits? Besides, Ivan Dem'yanych, it is no sin to be a fool in such a temperature. You're my clever darling, but doubtless your brain, too, gets addled and stupid in such heat." My parrot is not called Polly or by any other of the names given to birds, but he is called Ivan Dem'yanych. He got this name quite by chance. One day, when my man Polycarp was clean- ing the cage, he suddenly made a dis- covery without which my noble bird would still have been called Polly. My lazy servant was suddenly blessed with the idea that my parrot's beak was very like the nose of our village shopkeeper, Ivan Dem'yanych, and from that time the name and patronymic of our long- nosed shopkeeper stuck to my parrot. From that day Polycarp and the whole village christened my extraordinary bird "Ivan Dem'yanych." By Polycarp's will the bird became a personage, and the shopkeeper lost his own name, and to the end of his days he will be known among the villagers under the nickname of the "magistrate's parrot." I had bought Ivan Dem'yanych from the mother of my predecessor, the ex- amining magistrate, Pospelov, who had died shortly before my appointment. I bought him together with some old oak furniture, various rubbishy kitchen uten- sils, and in general the whole of the household gods that remained after the deceased. My walls are still decorated with photographs of his relatives, and the portrait of the former occupant is still hanging above my bed. The de- parted, a lean, muscular man with a red moustache and a thick under-lip, sits looking at me with staring eyes from his faded nutwood frame all the time I am lying on his bed. ... I had not taken down a single photograph, I had left the house just as I found it. I am too lazy to think of my own com- fort, and I don't prevent either corpses or living men from hanging on my walls if the latter wish to do so.* Ivan Dem'yanych found it as sultry as I did. He fluffed out his feathers, spread his wings, and shrieked out the phrases he had been taught by my predecessor, Pospelov, and by Polycarp. To occupy in some way my after- dinner leisure, I sat down in front of the cage and began to watch the move- ments of my parrot, who was indus- triously trying, but without success, to escape from the torments he suffered from the suffocating heat and the in- sects that dwelt among his feathers. * I beg the reader to excuse such ex- pressions. Kamyshev's story is rich in them, and if I do not omit them it is only because I thought it necessary in the interest of the characterization of the author to print his story in toto. —A. Ch.168 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV . . . The poor thing seemed very un- happy. . . . "At what time does he awake?" was borne to me in a bass voice from the lobby. k'That depends!" Polycarp's voice an- swered. ''Sometimes he wakes at five o'clock, and sometimes he sleeps like a log till morning. . . . Everybody knows he has nothing to do." ''You're his valet, I suppose?" "His servant. Now don't bother me; hold your tongue. Don't you see I'm reading?" I peeped into the lobby. My Polycarp was there, lolling on the large red trunk, and, as usual, reading a book. With his sleepy, unblinking eyes fixed attentively on his book, he was moving his lips and frowning. He was evidently irritated by the presence of the stranger, a tall, beared muzhik, who was standing near the trunk persistently trying to inveigle him into conversation. At my appear- ance the muzhik took a step away from the trunk and drew himself up at atten- tion. Polycarp looked dissatisfied, and without removing his eyes from the book he rose slightly. "What do you want?" I asked the muzhik. "I have come from the Count, your honour. The Count sends you his greet- ings, and begs you to come to him at once. . . "Has the Count arrived?" I asked, much astonished. "Just so, your honour. ... He ar- rived last night. . . . Here's a letter, sir. . . "What the devil has brought him back!" my Polycarp grumbled. "Two summers we've lived peacefully without him, and this year he'll again make a pigsty of the district. We'll again not escape without shame." "Hold your tongue, your opinion is not asked!" "I need not be asked. . . . I'll speak unasked. You'll again come home from him in drunken disorder and bathe in the lake just as you are, in all your clothes. . . . I've to clean them after- wards ! They cannot be cleaned in three days!" "What's the Count doing now?" I asked the muzhik. "He was just sitting down to dinner when he sent me to you. . . . Before dinner he fished from the bathing house, sir. . . . What answer is there?" I opened the letter and read the fol- lowing : "My Dear Lecoq,—If you are still alive, well, and have not forgotten your ever-drunken friend, do not delay a mo- ment. Array yourself in your clothing and fly to me. I only arrived last night and am already dying from ennui. The impatience I feel to see you knows no bounds. I myself wanted to drive over to see you and carry you off to my den, but the heat has fettered all my limbs. I am sitting on one spot fanning myself. Well, how are you? How is your clever Ivan Dem'yanych? Are you still at war with your pedant, Polycarp? Come quickly and tell me everything. -—"Your A. K " It was not necessary to look at the signature to recognize the drunken, sprawling, ugly handwriting of my friend, Count Alexey Karneev. The shortness of the letter, its pretension to a certain playfulness and vivacity proved that my friend, with his limitedTHE SHOOTING PARTY 169 capacities, must have torn up much notepaper before he was able to com- pose this epistle. The pronoun "which" was absent from this letter, and adverbs were care- fully avoided—both being grammatical forms that were seldom achieved by the Count at a single sitting. 4'What answer is there, sir?" the muzhik repeated. At first I did not reply to this ques- tion, and every clean-minded man in my place would ha^ve hesitated too. The Count was fond of me, and quite sin- cerely obtruded his friendship on me. I, on my part, felt nothing like friend- ship for the Count; I even disliked him. It would therefore have been more honest to reject his friendship once for all than to go to him and dissimulate. Besides, to go to the Count's meant to plunge once more into the life my Polycarp had characterized as a "pig- sty," which two years before during the Count's residence on his estate and until he left for Petersburg had injured my good health and had dried up my brain. That loose, unaccustomed life so full of show and drunken madness, had not had time to shatter my constitution, but it had made me notorious in the whole Government. ... I was popular. . . . My reason told me the whole truth, a blush of shame for the not distant past suffused my face, my heart sank with fear that I would not possess suf- ficient manliness to refuse to go to the Count's, but I did not hesitate long. The struggle lasted not more than a minute. "Give my compliments to the Count," I said to his messenger, "and thank him for thinking of me. . . . Tell him I am busy, and that. . . . Tell him that I . . ." And at the very moment my tongue was about to pronounce a decisive "No," I was suddenly overpowered by a feeling of dullness. . . . The young man, full of life, strength and desires, who by the decrees of fate had been cast into this forest village, was seized by a sensation of ennui, of loneli- ness. ... I remembered the Count's gardens with the exuberant vegetation of their cool conservatories, and the semi-dark- ness of the narrow, neglected avenues. . . . Those avenues protected from the sun by arches of the entwined branches of old limes know me well; they also know the women who sought my love and semi-darkness. ... I remembered the luxurious drawing-room with the sweet indolence of its velvet sofas, heavy curtains and thick carpets, soft as down, with the laziness so loved by young healthy animals. ... There re- curred to my mind my drunken audacity that knew no limits to its boundless Satanic pride, and contempt of life. My large body wearied by sleep again longed for movement. . . . "Tell him I'll come!" The muzhik bowed and retired. "If I'd known, I wouldn't have let that devil in!" Polycarp grumbled, quickly turning over the pages of his book in an objectless manner. "Put that book away and go and saddle Zorka," I said. "Look sharp!" "Look sharp! Oh, of course, cer- tainly. . . . I'm just going to rush off. ... It would be all right to go on business, but he'll go to break the devil's horns!" This was said in an undertone, but170 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV loud enough for me to hear it. Having whispered this impertinence, my servant drew himself up before me and waited for me to flare up in reply, but I pre- tended not to have heard his words. My silence was the best and sharpest arms I could use in my contests with Polycarp. This contemptuous manner of allowing his venomous words to pass unheeded disarmed him and cut the ground away from under his feet. As a punishment it acted better than a box on the ear or a flood of vituperation. . . . When Polycarp had gone into the yard to saddle Zorka, I peeped into the book which he had been prevented from reading. It was The Count of Monte Cristo, Dumas' terrible romance. . . . My civilized fool read everything, be- ginning with the signboards of the pub- lic houses and finishing with Auguste Comte, which was lying in my trunk together with other neglected books that I did not read; but of the whole mass of written and printed matter he only approved of terrible, strongly exciting novels with "celebrated personages," poison and subterranean passages; all the rest he dubbed "nonsense." I shall have again to recur to his reading, now I had to ride off. A quarter of an hour later the hoofs of my Zorka were raising the dust on the road from the village to the Count's estate. The sun was near setting, but the heat and the sultriness were still felt. The hot air was dry and motionless, although my road led along the banks of an enormous lake. ... On my right I saw the great expanse of water, on the left my sight was caressed by the young vernal foliage of an oak forest; nevertheless, my cheeks suffered the dryness of Sahara. "If there could only be a storm!" I thought, dreaming of a good cool downpour. The lake slept peacefully. It did not greet with a single sound the flight of my Zorka, and it was only the piping of a young snipe that broke the grave- like silence of the motionless giant. The sun looked at itself in it as in a huge mirror, and shed a blinding light on the whole of its breadth that extended from my road to the opposite distant banks. And it seemed to my blinded eyes that nature received light from the lake and not from the sun. The sultriness impelled to slumber the whole of that life in which the lake and its green banks so richly abounded. The birds had hidden themselves, and fish did not splash in the water, the field crickets and the grasshoppers waited in silence for coolness to set in. All around was a waste. From time to time my Zorka bore me into a thick cloud of littoral mosquitoes, and far away on the lake, scarcely moving, I could see the three black boats belonging to old Mikhey, our fisherman, who leased the fishing rights of the whole lake. CHAPTER II vodka I did not ride in a straight line as I had to make a circuit along the road that skirted the round lake. It was only possible to go in a straight line by boat, while those who went by the road had to make a large round and the distance was almost eight versts farther. All the way, when looking at the lake, I could see beyond it the opposite clayey banks, on which the bright strip of a blossom- ing cherry orchard gleamed white, while farther still I could see the roofs of theTHE SHOOTING PARTY 171 Count's barns dotted all over with many coloured pigeons, and rising still higher the small white belfry of the Count's chapel. At the foot of the clayey banks was the bathing house with sailcloth nailed on the sides and sheets hanging to dry on its railings. I saw all this, and it appeared to me as if only a verst separated me from my friend, the Count, while in order to reach his estate I had to ride about sixteen versts. On the way, I thought of my strange relations to the Count. It was interest- ing for me to give myself an account of how we stood and try to settle it, but, alas! that account was a task be- yond my strength. However much I thought, I could come to no satisfactory decision, and at last I arrived at the conclusion that I was but a bad judge of myself and of man in general. The people who knew both the Count and me explained our mutual connexion. The narrow-browed, who see nothing beyond the tip of their nose, were fond of asserting that the illustrious Count found in the "poor and undistinguished" magistrate a congenial hanger-on and boon companion. To their understand- ing, I, the writer of these lines, fawned and cringed before the Count for the sake of the crumbs and scraps that fell from his table. In their opinion the illustrious millionaire, who was both the bugbear and the envy of the whole of the S-district, was very clever and liberal; otherwise his gracious conde- scension that went as far as friendship for an indigent magistrate and the gen- uine liberalism that made the Count tolerate my familiarity in addressing him as "thou," would be quite incom- prehensible. Cleverer people explained our intimacy by our common "spiritual interests." The Count and I were of the same age. We had finished our studies in the same university, we were both jurists, and we both knew very little: I knew a little, but the Count had forgotten and drowned in alcohol the little he had ever known. We were both proud, and by virtue of some reason which was only known to ourselves, we shunned the world like misanthropes. We were both indifferent to the opinion of the world—that is of the S-dis- trict—we were both immoral, and would certainly both end badly. These were the "spiritual interests" that united us. This was all that the people who knew us could say about our relations. They would, of course, have spoken differently had they known how wreak, soft and yielding was the nature of my friend, the Count, and how strong and hard was mine. They would have had much to say had they known how fond this infirm man was of me, and how I disliked him! He was the first to offer his friendship and I was the first to say "thou" to him, but with what a differ- ence in the tone! In a fit of kindly feel- ing he embraced me, and asked me timidly to be his friend. I, on the other hand, once seized by a feeling of con- tempt and aversion, said to him: "Canst thou not cease jabbering non- sense?" And he accepted this "thou" as an expression of friendship and submitted to it from that time, repaying me with an honest, brotherly "thou." Yes, it would have been better and more honest had I turned my Zorka's head homewards and ridden back to Polycarp and myjvan Dem'yanych. Afterwards I often thought: "How much misfortune I would have avoided172 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV bearing on my shoulders, how much good I would have brought to my neigh- bours, if on that night I had had the resolution to turn back, if only my Zorka had gone mad and had carried me far away from that terribly large lake! What numbers of tormenting rec- ollections which now cause my hand to quit the pen and seize my head would not have pressed so heavily on my mind!" But I must not anticipate, all the more as farther on I shall often have to pause on misfortunes. Now for gaiety. . . . My Zorka bore me into the gates of the Count's yard. At the very gates she stumbled, and I, losing the stirrup, almost fell to the ground. "An ill omen, sir!" a muzhik, who was standing at one of the doors of the Count's long line of stables, called to me. I believe that a man falling from a horse may break his neck, but I do not believe in prognostications. Having given the bridle to the muzhik, I beat the dust off my top-boots with my riding- whip and ran into the house. Nobody met me. All the doors and windows of the rooms were wide open, nevertheless the air in the house was heavy, and had a strange smell. It was a mixture of the odour of ancient, deserted apart- ments with the tart narcotic scent of hothouse plants that have but recently been brought from the conservatories into the rooms. ... In the drawing- room, two tumbled cushions were lying on one of the sofas that was covered with a light blue silk material, and on a round table before the sofa I saw a glass containing a few drops of a liquid that exhaled an odour of strong Riga balsam. All this denoted that the house was inhabited, but I did not meet a living soul in any of the eleven rooms that I traversed. The same desertion that was round the lake reigned in the house. . . . A glass door led into the garden from the so-called "mosaic" drawing-room. I opened it with noise and went down the marble stairs into the garden. I had gone but a few steps through the avenue when I met Nastasia, an old woman of ninety, who had formerly been the Count's nurse. This little wrinkled old creature, forgotten by death, had a bald head and piercing eyes. When you looked at her face you involuntarily re- membered the nickname "Scops-Owl" that had been given her in the village. . . . When she saw me she trembled and almost dropped a glass of milk she was carrying in both hands. 4'How do you do, Scops?" I said to her. She gave me a sidelong glance and silently went on her way. ... I seized her by the shoulder. "Don't be afraid, fool. . . . Where's the Count?" The old woman pointed to her ear. "Are you deaf? How long have you been deaf?" Despite her great age, the old woman heard and saw very well, but she found it useful to calumniate her senses. I shook my finger at her and let her go. Having gone on a few steps farther, I heard voices, and soon after saw people. At the spot where the avenue widened out and formed an open space surrounded by iron benches and shaded by tall white acacias, stood a table on which a samovar shone brightly. People were seated at the table, talking. I went quietly across the grass to the openTHE SHOOTING PARTY 173 space and, hiding behind a lilac bush, searched for the Count with my eyes. My friend, Count Karneev, was seated at the table on a folding cane-bottomed chair, drinking tea. He was dressed in the same many-coloured dressing-gown in which I had seen him two years be- fore, and he wore a straw hat. His face had a troubled, concentrated expression, and it was very wrinkled, so that a man not acquainted with him might have imagined he was troubled at that mo- ment by some serious thought or anx- iety. . . . The Count had not changed at all in appearance during the two years since last we met. He had the same thin body, as frail and wizened as the body of a corn-cake. He had the same narrow, consumptive shoulders, surmounted by a small red-haired head. His small nose was as red as formerly, and his cheeks were flabby and hanging like rags, as they had been two years before. On his face there was nothing of boldness, strength or manliness. . . . All was weak, apathetic and languid. The only imposing thing about him was his long, drooping moustache. Some- body had told my friend that a long moustache was very becoming to him. He believed it, and every morning since then he had measured how much longer the growth on his pale lips had become. With this moustache he reminded you of a moustached but very young and puny kitten. Sitting next to the Count at the table was a stout man with a large closely- cropped head and very dark eyebrows, who was unknown to me. His face was fat and shone like a ripe melon. His moustache was longer than the Count's, his forehead was low, his lips were com- pressed, and his eyes gazed lazily into the sky. . . . The features of his face were bloated, but nevertheless they were as hard as dried-up skin. The type was not Russian. . . . The stout man was without his coat or waistcoat, and on his shirt there were dark spots caused by perspiration. He was not drinking tea but Seltzer water. At a respectful distance from the table a short, thick-set man with a stout red neck and sticking out ears was standing. This man was Urbenin, the Count's bailiff. In honour of the Count's arrival he was dressed in a new black suit and was now suffering tor- ments. The perspiration was pouring in streams from his red, sunburnt face. Next to the bailiff stood the muzhik, who had come to me with the letter. It was only here I noticed that this muzhik had only one eye. Standing at attention, not allowing himself the slightest movement, he was like a statue, and waited to be questioned. "Kusma, you deserve to be thrashed black and blue with your own whip," the bailiff said to him in his reproachful soft bass voice, pausing between each word. "Is it possible to execute the master's orders in such a careless way. You ought to have requested him to come here at once and to have found out when he could be expected." "Yes, yes, yes. . . the Count ex- claimed nervously. "You ought to have found out everything! He said: 'I'll come!' But that's not enough! I want him at once! Pos-i-tively at once! You asked him to come, but he did not understand!" "Why do you require him?" the fat man asked the Count. "I want to see him!" "Only that? To my mind, Alexey,174 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV that magistrate would do far better if he remained at home to-day. I have no wish for guests." I opened my eyes. What was the meaning of that masterful, authorita- tive "I." "But he's not a guest!" my friend said in an imploring tone. "He won't prevent you from resting after the jour- ney. I beg you not to stand on cere- monies with him. . . . You'll like him at once, my dear boy, and you'll soon be friends with him!" I came out of rny hiding place behind the lilac bushes and went up to the tables. The Count saw and recognized me, and his face brightened with a pleased smile. "Here he is! Here he is!" he ex- claimed, getting red with pleasure, and he jumped up from the table. "How good of you to come!" He ran towards me, seized me in his arms, embraced me and scratched my cheeks several times with his bristly moustache. These kisses were followed by lengthy shaking of my hand and long looks into my eyes. "You, Sergey, have not changed at all! You're still the same! The same handsome and strong fellow! Thank you for accepting my invitation and coming at once!" When released from the Count's em- brace, I greeted the bailiff, who was an old friend of mine, and sat down at the table. "Oh, Golubchek!" the Count con- tinued in an excitedly anxious tone. "If you only knew how delighted I am to see your serious countenance again. You are not acquainted? Allow me to introduce you—my good friend, Kaetan Kazimirovich Pshekhotsky. And this," he continued, introducing me to the fat man, "is my good old friend, Sergey Petrovich Zinov'ev! Our magistrate." The stout, dark-browed man rose slightly from his seat and offered me his fat, and terribly sweaty hand. "Very pleased," he mumbled, exam- ining me from head to foot. "Very glad!" Having given vent to his feelings and become calm again, the Count filled a glass with cold, dark brown tea for me and moved a box of biscuits towards my hand. "Eat. . . . When passing through Moscow I bought them at Einem's. I'm very angry with you, Serezha, so angry that I wanted to quarrel with you! . . . Not only have you not written me a line during the whole of the past two years, but you did not even think a single one of my letters worth answer- ing! That's not friendly!" "I do not know how to write letters," I said. "Besides, I have no time for letter writing. Can you tell me what could I have written to you about?" "There must have been many things!" "Indeed, there was nothing. I admit of only three sorts of letters: love, con- gratulatory, and business letters. The first I did not write to you because you are not a woman, and I am not in love with you; the second you don't require; and from the third category we are relieved as from our birth we have never had any business connexion to- gether." "That's about true," the Count said, agreeing readily and quickly with every- thing; "but all the same, you might have written, if only a line. . . . And what's more, as Petr Egorych tells me, all these two years you've not set footTHE SHOOTING PARTY 175 here, as though you were living a thou- sand versts away or disdained my prop- erty. You might have lived here, shot over my grounds. Many things might have happened here while I was away." The Count spoke much and long. When once he began talking about any- thing, his tongue chattered on without ceasing and without end, quite regard- less of the triviality or insignificance of his subject. In the utterance of sounds he was as untiring as my Ivan Dem'yanych. I could hardly stand him for that facility. This time he was stopped by his butler, Il'ya, a tall, thin man in a well-worn, much-stained livery, who brought the Count a wineglass of vodka and half a tumbler of water on a silver tray. The Count swallowed the vodka, washed it down with some water, making a grimace with a shake of the head. "So it seems you have not yet stopped tippling vodka!" I said. "No, Serezha, I have not." "Well, you might at least drop that drunken habit of making faces and shaking your head! It's disgusting!" "My dear boy, I'm going to drop everything. . . . The doctors have for- bidden me to drink. I drink now only because it's unhealthy to drop habits all at once. ... It must be done grad- ually. . . I looked at the Count's unhealthy, worn face, at the wineglass, at the butler in yellow shoes. I looked at the dark- browed Pole, who from the very first moment for some reason had appeared to me to be a scoundrel and a black- guard. I looked at the one-eyed muzhik, who stood there at attention, and a feel- ing of dread and of oppression came over me. ... I suddenly wanted to leave this dirty atmosphere, having first opened the Count's eyes to all the un- limited antipathy I felt for him. . . . There was a moment when I was ready to rise and depart. . . . But I did not go away. ... I was prevented (I'm ashamed to confess it!) by physical laziness. . . . "Give me a glass of vodka, too!" I said to Il'ya. Long shadows began to be cast on the avenue and on the open space where we were sitting. . . . The distant croaking of frogs, the cawing of crows and the singing of orioles greeted the setting of the sun. A gay evening was just beginning. . . . "Tell Urbenin to sit down," I whis- pered to the Count. "He's standing be- fore you like a boy." "Oh, I never thought of that! Petr Egorych," the Count addressed his bailiff, "sit down, please! Why are you standing there?" Urbenin sat down, casting a grateful glance at me. He who was always healthy and gay appeared to me now to be ill and dull. His face seemed wrinkled and sleepy, his eyes looked at us lazily and as if unwillingly. "Well, Petr Egorych, what's new here? Any pretty girls, eh?" Karneev asked him. "Isn't there something special . . . something out of the common?" "It's always the same, your Excel- lency. . . ." "Are there no new . . . nice little girls, Petr Egorych?" Moral Petr Egorych blushed. "I don't know, your Excellency. . . . I don't occupy myself with that. ..." "There are, your Excellency," broke in the deep bass voice of one-eyed176 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV Kuz'ma, who had been silent all the time. "And quite worth notice, too." "Are they pretty?" "There are all sorts, your Excellency, for all tastes. . . . There are dark ones and fair ones—all sorts. . . "O, ho! . . . Stop a minute, stop a minute. ... I remember you now. . . . My former Leporello, a sort of secretary. . . . Your name's Kuz'ma, I think?" "Yes, your Excellency. . . ." "I remember, I remember. . . „ Well, and what have you now in view? Some- thing new, all peasant girls?" "Mostly peasants, of course, but there are finer ones, too. . . ** "Where have you found finer ones . . ." Il'ya asked, winking at Kuz'ma. "At Easter the postman's sister-in- law came to stay with him . . . Nasta- sia Ivanovna. ... A girl all on springs. I myself would like to eat her, but money is wanted. . . . Cheeks like peaches, and all the rest as good. . . . There's something finer than that, too. It's only waiting for you, your Excel- lency. Young, plump, jolly ... a beauty! Such a beauty, your Excel- lency, as you've scarcely found in Petersburg. . . . "Who is it?" "Olenka, the forester Skvortsov's daughter." Urbenin's chair cracked under him. Supporting himself with his hands on the table, purple in the face, the bailiff rose slowly and turned towards one- eyed Kuz'ma. The expression on his face of dullness and fatigue had given place to one of great anger. "Hold your tongue, serf!" he grum- bled. "One-eyed vermin! Say what you please, but don't dare to touch respect- able people!" "I'm not touching you, Petr Egorych," Kuz'ma said imperturbably. "I'm not talking about myself, block- head! Besides. . . . Forgive me, your Excellency," the bailiff turned to the Count, "forgive me for making a scene, but I would beg your Excellency to forbid your Leporello, as you were pleased to call him, to extend his zeal to persons who are worthy of all re- spect!" "I don't understand . . the Count lisped naively. "He has said nothing very offensive." Insulted and excited to a degree, Urbenin went away from the table and stood with his side towards us. With his arms crossed on his breast and his eyes blinking, hiding his purple face from us behind the branches of the bushes, he stood plunged in thought. Had not this man a presentiment that in the near future his moral feelings would have to suffer offences a thou- sand times more bitter? "I don't understand what has offended him!" the Count whispered in my ear. "What a caution! There was nothing offensive in what was said." After two years of sober life, the glass of vodka acted on me in a slightly intoxicating manner. A feeling of light- ness, of pleasure, was diffused in my brain and through my whole body. Added to this, I began to feel the cool- ness of evening, which little by little was supplanting the sultriness of the day. I proposed to take a stroll. The Count and his new Polish friend had their coats brought from the house, and we set off. Urbenin followed us.THE SHOOTING PARTY 177 CHAPTER III her sins The Count's gardens in which we were walking are worthy of special de- scription owing to their striking luxu- riousness. From a botanical or an eco- nomical point of view, and in many other ways, they are richer and grander than any other gardens I have ever seen. Besides the above-mentioned avenue with its green vaults, you found in them everything that capricious indulgence can demand from pleasure gardens. You found here every variety of indigenous and foreign fruit tree, beginning with the wild cherry and plum and finishing with apricots that were the size of a goose's egg. You came across mulberry trees, barberry bushes, and even olive trees at every step. . . . Here there were half-ruined, moss-grown grottoes, fountains, little ponds destined for gold- fish and tame carp, hillocks, pavilions and costly conservatories. . . . And all this rare luxury which had been col- lected by the hands of grandfathers and fathers, all this wealth of large, full roses, poetical grottoes and endless avenues, was barbarously abandoned to neglect, and given over to the power of weeds, the thievish hatchet and the rooks who unceremoniously built their ugly nests on the branches of rare trees! The lawful possessor of all this wealth walked beside me, and the muscles of his lean, satiated face were no more moved by the sight of this neglect, this crying human slovenliness, than if he had not been the owner of these gar- dens. Once only, by way of making some remark, he said to his bailiff that it would not be a bad thing if the paths were sanded. He noticed the absence of the sand that was not wanted by anybody, but he did not notice the bare trees that had been frozen in the hard winters, or the cows that were walking about in the garden. In reply to his remark, Urbenin said it would require ten men to keep the garden in order, and as his Excellency was not pleased to reside on his estate, the outlay on the garden would be a useless and unpro- ductive luxury. The Count, of course, agreed with this argument. "Besides, I must confess I have no time for it!" Urbenin said with a wave of the hand. "All the summer in the fields, and in winter selling the corn in town. . . . There's no time for gar- dens here!" The charm of the principal, the so- called "main avenue," consisted in its old broad-spreading limes, and in the masses of tulips that stretched out in two variegated borders at each side of its whole length and finished at the end in a yellow spot. This was a yellow stone pavilion, which at one time had contained a refreshment room, billiards, skittles and other games. We wandered, without any object, towards this pa- vilion. At its door we were met by a live creature which somewhat unsettled the nerves of my companion, who was never very courageous. "A snake!" the Count shrieked, seiz- ing me by the hand and turning pale. "Look!" The Pole stepped back, and then stood stock still with his arms outstretched as if he wanted to bar the way for the apparition. On the upper step of the half-crumbled stone stair there lay a young snake of our ordinary Russian species. When it saw us it raised its178 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV head and moved. The Count shrieked again and hid behind me. "Don't be afraid, your Excellency. . . Urbenin said lazily as he placed his foot on the first step. "But if it bites ?'* "It won't bite. Besides, the danger from the bite of these snakes is much exaggerated. I was once bitten by an old snake, and as you see, I didn't die. The sting of a man is worse than a snake's!" Urbenin said with a sigh, wishing to point a moral. Indeed, the bailiff had not had time to mount two or three steps before the snake stretched out to its full length, and with the rapidity of lightning van- ished into a crevice between two stones. When we entered the pavilion we saw another living creature. Lying on the torn and faded cloth of the old billiard table there was an elderly man of middle height in a blue jacket, striped trousers, and a jockey cap. He was sleeping sweetly and quietly. Around his tooth- less gaping mouth and on his pointed nose flies were making themselves at home. Thin as a skeleton, with an open mouth, lying there immovable, he looked like a corpse that had only just been brought in from the mortuary to be dissected. "Franz!" said Urbenin, poking him. "Franz!'' After being poked five or six times, Franz shut his mouth, sat up, looked round at us, and lay down again. A minute later his mouth was again open and the flies that were walking about his nose were again disturbed by the slight vibration of his snores. "He's asleep, the lewd swine!" Ur- benin sighed. "Is he not our gardener, Tricher?" the Count asked. "No other. . . . That's how he is every day ... He sleeps like a dead man all day and plays cards all night. I was told he gambled last night till six in the morning." "What do they play?" "Games of hazard. . . . Chiefly stu- kolka." "Well, such gentlemen work badly. They draw their wages for nothing!" "It was not to complain, your Excel- lency," Urbenin hastened to say, "that I told you this, or to express my dis- satisfaction; it was only. ... I am only sorry that so capable a man is a slave to his passions. He really is a hard-working man, capable too. ... He does not receive wages for nothing." We glanced again at the gambler Franz and left the pavilion. We then turned towards the garden gate and went into the fields. There are but few novels in which the garden gate does not play an important part. If you have not noticed this, you have only to inquire of my man Poly- carp, who in his lifetime has swallowed multitudes of terrible and not terrible novels, and he will doubtless confirm this insignificant but characteristic fact. My novel has also not escaped the in- evitable garden gate. But my gate is different from others in this, that my pen will have to lead through it many unfortunate and scarcely any happy peo- ple; and even this in a direction con- trary to the one found in other novels. And what is worse, I had once to de- scribe this gate not as a novel-writer but as an examining magistrate. In my novel more criminals than lovers will pass through it.THE SHOOTING PARTY 179 A quarter of an hour later, support- ing ourselves on our walking sticks, we wound our way up the hill to what is known as the "Stone Grave." In the surrounding villages there is a legend that under this heap of stones there re- poses the body of a Tartar Khan, who, fearing that after his death the enemy would desecrate his ashes, had ordered that a mound of stones was to be made above his body. This legend, however, is scarcely correct. The layers of stone, their size and relative position, exclude the possibility of man's hand having had a part in the formation of this mound. It stands solitary in the midst of fields and has the aspect of an overturned dome. From the top of this mound wTe could see the lake to the whole of its captivat- ing extent and indescribable beauty. The sun, no longer reflected in it, had set, leaving behind a broad purple stripe that illuminated the surroundings with a pleasing rosy-yellow tint. The Count's manor and homestead with their houses, church and gardens, lay at our feet, and on the other side of the lake the little village where it was my fate to live looked grey in the distance. As before, the surface of the lake was without a ripple. Old Mikhey's little boats, sep- arated from one another, were hurrying towards the shore. To the left of my little village the buildings of the railway station stood out dark beneath the smoke from the engines, and behind us at the foot of the Stone Grave the road was bordered on either side by towering old poplars. This road leads to the Count's forest that extends to the very horizon. The Count and I stood on the top of the hill. Urbenin and the Pole being heavy men preferred to wait for us on the road below. "Who's that cove?" I asked the Count, nodding towards the Pole. "Where did you pick him up?" "He's a very nice fellow, Serezha; very nice!" the Count said in an agi- tated voice. "You'll soon be the best of friends." "Oh, that's not likely! Why does he never speak?" "He is silent by nature! But he's very clever!" "But what sort of a man is he?" "I became acquainted with him in Moscow. He is very nice. You'll hear all about it afterwards, Serezha; don't ask now. Let's go down." We descended the hill and went along the road towards the forest. It began to be perceptibly darker. The cry of the cuckoo, and the tired vocal warbles of a possibly youthful nightingale were heard in the forest. "Hollo! Hollo! Catch me!" we heard a high-pitched voice of a child shout as we approached the forest. A little girl of about five with hair as white as flax, dressed in a sky-blue frock, ran out of the wood. When she saw us she laughed aloud, and with a skip and a jump put her arms round Urbenin's knee. Urbenin lifted her up and kissed her cheek. "My daughter Sasha!" he said. "Let me introduce her!" Sasha was pursued out of the wood by a schoolboy of about fifteen, Urbenin's son. When he saw us he pulled off his cap hesitatingly, put it on, and pulled it off again. He was followed quietly by a red spot. This red spot attracted our attention at once. "What a beautiful apparition!" the Count exclaimed, catch-180 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV ing hold of my hand. "Look! How charming! What girl is this? I did not know that my forests were inhabited by such naiads!" I looked round at Urbenin in order to ask him who this girl was, and, strange to say, it was only at that mo- ment I noticed that he was terribly drunk. He was as red as a crawfish, he tottered and, seizing my elbow, he whis- pered into my ear, exhaling the fumes of spirit on me: "Sergey Petrovich, I implore you prevent the Count from making any further remarks about this girl! He may, from habit say too much; she is a most worthy person!" This "most worthy person" was rep- resented by a girl of about nineteen, with beautiful fair hair, kind blue eyes and long curls. She was dressed in a bright red frock, made in a fashion that was neither that of a child nor of a young girl. Her legs, straight as needles, in red stockings, were shod with tiny shoes that were small as a child's. All the time I was admiring her she moved about her well-rounded shoulders coquettishly, as if they were cold or as if my gaze bit her. "Such a young face, and such de- veloped contours!" whispered the Count, who from his earliest youth had lost the capacity of respecting women, and never looked at them otherwise than from the point of view of a spoilt an- imal. I remember that a good feeling was ignited in my breast. I was still a poet, and in the company of the woods, of a May night, and the first twinkling of the evening stars, I could only look at a woman as a poet does. ... I looked at "the girl in red" with the same veneration I was accustomed to look upon the forests, the hills and the blue sky. I still had a certain amount of the sentimentality I had inherited from my German mother. "Who is she?" the Count asked. "She is the daughter of our forester Skvortsov, your Excellency!" Urbenin replied. "Is she the Olenka, the one-eyed muzhik spoke of?" "Yes, he mentioned her name," the bailiff answered, looking at me with large, imploring eyes. The girl in red let us go past her, turning away without taking any notice of us. Her eyes were looking at some- thing at the side, but I, a man who knows women, felt her pupils resting on my face. "Which of them is the Count?" I heard her whisper behind us. "That one with the long moustache," ihe schoolboy answered. And we heard silvery laughter behind us. It was the laughter of disenchant- ment. She had thought that the Count, the owner of these immense forests and the broad lake, was I, and not that pigmy with the worn face and long moustache. I heard a deep sigh issue from Ur- benin's powerful breast. That iron man could scarcely move. "Dismiss the bailiff," I whispered to the Count. "He is ill or—drunk." "Petr Egorych, you seem to be un- well," the Count said, turning to Ur- benin. "I do not require you just now, so I will not detain you any longer." "Your Excellency need not trouble about me. Thank you far your atten- tion, but I am not ill."THE SHOOTING PARTY 181 I looked back. The red spot had not moved, but was looking after us. Poor, fair little head! Did I think on that quiet, peaceful May evening that she would afterwards become the heroine of my troubled romance? Now, while I write these lines, the autumn rain beats fiercely against my warm windows, and the wind howls above me. I gaze at the dark window and on the dark background of night beyond, trying by the strength of my imagination to conjure up again the charming image of my heroine..... I see her with her innocent, childish, naive, kind little face and loving eyes, and I wish to throw down my pen and tear up and burn all that I have already written. But here, next to my inkstand, is her photograph. Here, the fair little head is represented in all the vain majesty of a beautiful but deeply-fallen woman. Her weary eyes, proud of their deprav- ity, are motionless. Here she is just the serpent, the harm of whose bite Urbenin would scarcely have called ex- aggerated. She gave a kiss to the storm, and the storm broke the flower at the very roots. Much was taken, but too dearly was it paid for. The reader will forgive her her sins! CHAPTER IV the woods We walked through the woods. The pines were dull in their silent monotony. They all grow in the same way, one like the others, and at every season of the year they retain the same appearance, knowing neither death nor the renewal of spring. Still, they are attractive in their moroseness: immov- able, soundless they seem to think mournful thoughts. "Hadn't we better turn back?" the Count suggested. This question received no reply. It was all the same to the Pole where he was. Urbenin did not consider his voice decisive, and I was too much de- lighted with the coolness of the forest and its resinous air to wish to turn back. Besides, it was necessary to kill time till night, even by a simple walk. The thoughts of the approaching wild night were accompanied by a sweet sinking of the heart. I am afraid to confess that I thought of it, and had already mentally a foretaste of its en- joyments. Judging by the impatience with which the Count constantly looked at his watch, it was evident that he, too, was tormented by expectations. We felt that we understood each other. Near the forester's house, which nestled between pines on a small square open space, we were met by the loud- sounding bark of two small fiery-yellow dogs, of a breed that was unknown to me; they were as glossy and supple as eels. Recognizing Urbenin, they joyfully wagged their tails and ran towards him, from which one could deduce that the bailiff often visted the forester's house. Here, too, near the house, we were met by a lad without boots or cap, with large freckles on his astonished face. For a moment he looked at us in silence with staring eyes, then, evidently recog- nizing the Count, he gave an exclama- tion and rushed headlong into the house. "I know what he's gone for," the Count said, laughing. "I remember him. . . . It's Mit'ka." The Count was not mistaken. In less182 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV than a minute Mit'ka came out of the house carrying a tray with a glass of vodka and a tumbler half full of water. "For your good health, your Excel- lency!" he said, a broad grin suffusing the whole of his stupid, astonished face. The Count drank off the vodka, washed it down with water in lieu of a snack, but this time he made no wry face. A hundred paces from the house there was an iron seat, as old as the pines above it. We sat down on it and contemplated the May evening in all its tranquil beauty. . . . The frightened crows flew cawing above our heads, the song of nightingales was borne towards us from all sides; these were the only sounds that broke the pervading still- ness. The Count does not know how to be silent, even on such a calm spring even- ing, when the voice of man is the least agreeable sound. "I don't know if you will be satis- fied?" he said to me. "I have ordered a fish-soup and game for supper. With the vodka we shall have cold sturgeon and sucking-pig with horse-radish." As if angered at this prosaic obser- vation, the poetical pines suddenly shook their tops and a gentle rustle passed through the wood. A fresh breeze swept over the glade and played with the grass. "Down, down!" Urbenin cried to the flame-coloured dogs, who were prevent- ing him from lighting his cigarette with their caresses. "I think we shall have rain before night. I feel it in the air. It was so terribly hot today that it does prophesy rain. It will be a good thing for the corn." "What's the use of corn to you," I thought, "if the Count will spend it all on drink? The rain need not trouble about it." Once more a light breeze passed over the forest, but this time it was stronger. The pines and the grass rustled louder. "Let us go home." We rose and strolled lazily back to- wards the little house. "It is better to be this fair-haired Olenka," I said, addressing myself to Urbenin, "and to live here with the beasts than to be a magistrate and live among men. . . . It's more peaceful. Is it not so, Petr Egorych?" "It's all the same what one is, Sergey Petrovich, if only the soul is at peace." "Is pretty Olenka's soul at peace?" "God alone knows the secrets of other people's souls, but I think she has nothing to trouble her. She has not much to worry her, and no more sins than an infant. . . . She's a very good girl! Ah, now the sky is at last begin- ning to talk of rain. . . A rumble was heard, somewhat like the sound of a distant vehicle or the rattle of a game of skittles. Somewhere, far beyond the forest, there was a peal of thunder. Mit'ka, who had been watching us the whole time, shuddered and crossed himself. "A thunderstorm!" the Count ex- claimed with a start. "What a surprise! The rain will overtake us on our way home. . . . How dark it is! I said we ought to have turned back! And you wouldn't, and went on and on." "We might wait in the cottage till the storm is over," I suggested. "Why in the cottage?" Urbenin said hastily, and his eyes blinked in a strange manner. "It will rain all night, so you'll have to remain all night in the cottage! Please, don't trouble. ... Go quietlyTHE SHOOTING PARTY 183 on, and Mit'ka shall run on and order your carriage to come to meet you." "Never mind, perhaps it won't rain all night. . . . Storm clouds usually pass by quickly. . . . Besides, I don't know the new forester as yet, and I'd also like to have a chat with this Olen- ka . . . and find out what sort of a dickey bird she is. . . "I've no objections!" the Count agreed. "How can you go there, if—if the place is not—not in order?" Urbenin mumbled anxiously. "Why should your Excellency sit there in a stuffy room when you could be at home? I don't understand what pleasure that can be! . . . How can you get to know the for- ester if he is ill? . . It was very evident that the bailiff strongly objected to our going into the forester's house. He even spread his arms as if he wanted to bar the way. ... I understood by his face that he had reasons for preventing us from go- ing in. I respect other people's reasons and secrets, but on this occasion my curiosity was greatly excited. I per- sisted, and we entered the house. "Walk into the drawing-room, please," bare-footed Mit'ka spluttered almost choking with delight. Try to imagine the very smallest drawing-room in the world, with un- painted deal walls. These walls are hung all over with oleographs from the "Niva," photographs in frames made of shells, and testimonials. One testi- monial is from a certain baron, express- ing his gratitude for many years of ser- vice; all the others are for horses. Here and there ivy climbs up the wall. . . . In a corner a small lamp, whose tiny blue flame is faintly reflected on the sil- ver mounting, burns peacefully before a little icon. Chairs that have evidently . been only recently bought are pressed close together round the walls. Too many had been purchased, and they had been squeezed together, as there was nowhere else to put them. . . . Here, also, there are armchairs and a sofa in snow-white covers with flounces and laces, crowded up with a polished round table. A tame hare dozes on the sofa. . . . The room is cosy, clean and warm. . . . The presence of a woman can be noticed everywhere. Even the whatnot with books has a look of innocence and womanliness; it appears to be anxious to say that there is nothing on its shelves but wishy-washy novels and mawkish verse. . . . The charm of such warm, cosy rooms is not so much felt in spring as in autumn, when you look for a refuge from the cold and damp- ness. After much loud snivelling, blowing, and noisy striking of matches, Mit'ka lit two candles and placed them on the table as carefully as if they had been milk. We sat down in the arm-chairs, looked at each other, and laughed. "Nikolai Efimych is ill in bed," Ur- benin said, to explain the absence of the master, "and Olga Nikolaevna has prob- ably gone to accompany my chil- dren. . . "Mit'ka, are the doors shut?" we heard a weak tenor voice asking from the next room. "They're all shut, Nikolai Efimych!" Mit'ka shouted hoarsely, and he rushed headlong into the next room. "That's right! See that they are all shut," the same weak voice said again. "And locked—firmly locked. ... If thieves break in, you must tell me. . . .184 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV I'll shoot the villains with my gun . . . the scoundrels!" "Certainly, Nikolai Efimych!" We laughed and looked inquiringly at Urbenin. He grew very red, and in or- der to hide his confusion he began to arrange the curtains of the windows. . . . What does this dream mean? We again looked at each other. We had no time for perplexity. Hasty steps were heard outside, then a noise in the porch and the slamming of doors. And the "girl in red" rushed into the room. "I love the thunder in early May," she sang in a loud, shrill soprano voice, and she cut short her song with a burst of laughter, but when she saw us she suddenly stood still and was silent,— she became embarrassed, and went as quietly as a lamb into the room in which the voice of Nikolai Efimych, her father, had been heard. "She did not expect to see you/' Ur- benin said, laughing. A few minutes later she again came quietly into the room, sat down on the chair nearest the door and began to ex- amine us. She stared at us boldly, not as if we were new people for her, but as if we were animals in the Zoological Gardens. For a minute we too looked at her in silence without moving. . . . I would have agreed to sit still and look at her for a whole hour in this way— she was so lovely that evening. As fresh as the air, rosy, breathing rapidly, her bosom rising and falling, her curls scattered wildly on her forehead, on her shoulders, and on her right hand that was raised to arrange her collar; with large, sparkling eyes. . . . And all this was found on one little body that a single glance could envelop. If you glanced for a moment at this small ob- ject you saw more than you would if you looked for a whole century at the endless horizon. . . . She looked at me seriously, from my feet upwards, in- quiringly; when her eyes left me and passed to the Court or to the Pole I began to read in them the contrary: a glance that passed from the head to the feet, and laughter. . . . I was the first to speak. "Allow me to introduce myself," I said, rising and going up to her. "Zin- ov'ev. . . . And let me introduce my friend, Count Karneev. . . . We beg you to pardon us for breaking into your nice little house without an invitation. . . . We would, of course, never have done so if the storm had not driven us in. . . "But that won't cause our little house to tumble down!" she said, laughing and giving me her hand. She displayed her splendid white teeth. I sat down on a chair next to her, and told her how quite unexpectedly the storm had overtaken us on our walk. Our conversation began with the weather —the beginning of all beginnings. While we were talking, Mit'ka had had time to offer the Count two glasses of vodka with the inseparable tumbler of water. Thinking that I was not looking at him, the Count made a sweet grimace and shook his head after each glass. "Perhaps you would like some re- freshments?" Olenka asked me, and, not waiting for an answer, she left the room. The first drops of rain rattled against the panes. ... I went up to the win- dows. ... It was now quite dark, and through the glass I could see noth- ing but the raindrops creeping downTHE SHOOTING PARTY 185 and the reflection of my own nose. There was a flash of lightning, which illuminated some of the nearest pines. "Are the doors shut?" I heard the same tenor voice ask again. "Mit'ka, come here, you vile-spirited scoundrel! Shut the doors! Oh, Lord, what tor- ments !" A peasant woman with an enormous, tightly tied-in stomach and a stupid, troubled face came into the room, and, having bowed low to the Count, she spread a white table-cloth on the table. Mit'ka followed her carefully carrying a tray with various hors d'ceuvres. A minute later, we had vodka, rum, cheese, and a dish of some sort of roasted bird on the table before us. The Count drank a glass of vodka, but he would not eat anything. The Pole smelt the bird mistrustfully, and then began to carve it. "The rain has begun! Look!" I said to Olenka, who had re-entered the room. "The girl in red" came up to the win- dow where I was standing, and at that very moment we were illuminated by a white flash of light. . . . There was a fearful crash above us, and it appeared to me that something large and heavy had been torn from the sky and had fallen to earth with a terrible racket. . . . The window panes and the wine- glasses that were standing before the Count jingled and emitted their tinkling sound. . . . The thunderclap was a loud one. "Are you afraid of thunder-storms?" I asked Olenka. She only pressed her cheek to her round shoulders and looked at me with childish confidence. "I'm afraid," she whispered after a moment's reflection. "My mother was killed by a storm. . . . The newspapers even wrote about it. . . . My mother was going through the fields, crying. . . . She had a very bitter life in this world. God had compassion on her and killed her with His heavenly electricity." "How do you know that there is elec- tricity there?" "I have learned. ... Do you know? People who have been killed by a storm or in war, or who have died after a dif- ficult confinement go to paradise. . . . This is not written anywhere in books, but it is true. My mother is now in paradise ! I think the thunder will also kill me some day, and I shall go to par- adise too. . . . Are you a cultivated man?" "Yes." "Then you will not laugh. . . . This is how I should like to die: to dress in the most costly fashionable frock, like the one I saw the other day on our rich lady, the land-owner Sheffer; to put bracelets on my arms. . . . Then to go to the very summit of the 'Stone Grave' and allow myself to be killed by the lightning, so that all the people could see it. . . . A terrible peal of thunder, and then, you know, the end!" "What an odd fancy!" I said, laugh- ing and looking into her eyes that were full of holy horror at this terrible but effective death. "Then you don't want to die in an ordinary dress?" "No! . . . Olenka shook her head. "And so that everybody should see me." "The frock you are in is far better than any fashionable and expensive dress. ... It suits you. In it you look like the red flower of the green woods." "No, that is not true!" And Olenka sighed ingenuously. "This frock is a cheap one; it can't be pretty."186 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV The Count came up to our window with the evident intention of talking to pretty Olenka. My friend could speak three European languages, but he did not know how to talk to women. He stood near us awkwardly, smiling in an inane manner; then he lowed,—inartic- ulately, "Er—yes/'—and retraced his steps to the decanter of vodka. "You were singing 'I love the thunder in early May,'" I said to Olenka. "Have those verses been set to music?" "No, I sing all the verses I know to my own melodies." I happened by chance to glance back. Urbenin was looking at us. In his eyes I read hatred and animosity: passions that were not at all in keeping with his kind, meek face. "Can he be jealous?" I thought. The poor fellow caught my inquiring glance, rose from his chair and went into the lobby to look for something. . . . Even by his gait one could see that he was agitated. The peals of thunder became louder and louder, more prolonged, and oftener repeated. . . . The lightning unceasingly illuminated the sky, the pines and the wet earth with its pleasant but blinding light. . . . The rain was not likely to end soon. I left the window and went up to the bookshelves and began to examine Olen- ka's library. "Tell me what you read, and I will tell you what you are," I said. But out of the goods that were so symmetrically ranged on the shelves it was difficult to arrive at any estimate of Olenka's mental capacities or "edu- cational standard." There was a strange medley on those shelves. Three antho- logies, one book of Borne's, Evtushev- sky's arithmetic, the second volume of Lermontov's works, Shklyarevsky, a number of the magazine Work, a cook- ery book, Skladchina ... I might enu- merate other books for you but at the moment I took Skladchina from the shelf and began to turn over the pages. The door leading into the next room opened, and a person entered the draw- ing-room, who at once diverted my at- tention from Olenka's standard of cul- ture. This person was a tall, muscular man in a print dressing-gown and torn slippers, with an original countenance. His face, covered all over with blue veins, was ornamented with a pair of sergeant's moustaches and whiskers, and had in general a strong resemblance to a bird. His whole face seemed to be drawn forwards, as if trying to concen- trate itself in the tip of the nose. Such faces are like the spout of a pitcher. This person's small head was set on a long thin throat, with a large Adam's- apple, and shook about like the nesting- box of a starling in the wind. . . . This strange man looked round on us all with his dim green eyes, and then let them rest on the Count. "Are the doors shut?" he asked in an imploring voice. The Count looked at me and shrugged his shoulders. "Don't trouble, papasha!" Olenka an- swered. "They are all shut. ... Go back to your room!" "Is the barn door shut?" "He's a little queer. ... It takes him sometimes," Urbenin whispered to me as he came in from the lobby. "He's afraid of thieves, and always troubling about the doors, as you see." "Nikolai Efimych," he continued, ad- dressing this strange apparition, "go back to your room and go to bed! Don't trouble, everything is shut up!"THE SHOOTING PARTY 187 "And are the windows shut?" Nikolai Efimych hastily looked to see if the windows were properly bolted, and then without taking any notice of us he shuffled off into his own room. "The poor fellow has these attacks sometimes," Urbenin began to explain as soon as he had left the room. "He's a good, capable man; he has a family, too—such a misfortune! Almost every summer he is a little out of his mind. . . ." I looked at Olenka. She became con- fused and hiding her face from us be- gan to put in order again her books that I had disarranged. She was evidently ashamed of her mad father. "The carriage is there, your Excel- lency! Now you can drive home, if you wish!" "Where has that carriage come from?" I asked. "I sent for it. . . A minute later I was sitting with the Count in the carriage, listening to the peals of thunder and feeling very angry. "We've been nicely turned out of the little house by that Petr Egorych, the devil take him!" I grumbled, getting really angry. "So he's prevented us from examining Olenka properly! I would not have eaten her! . . . The old fool! The whole time he was burst- ing with jealousy. . . . He's in love with that girl. . . "Yes, yes, yes. . . . Would you be- lieve it, I noticed that, too! He would not let us go into the house from jeal- ousy. And he sent for the carriage only from jealousy. . . . Ha, ha, ha!" "The later love comes the more it burns. . . . Besides, brother, it's dif- ficult not to fall in love with this girl in red, if one sees her every day as we saw her to-day! She's devilish pretty! But she's not for his net. . . He ought to understand it and not be jealous of others so egoistically. . . . Why can't he love and not stand in the way of others, all the more as he must know she's not destined for him? . . . What an old blockhead!" "Do you remember how enraged he was when Kuz'ma mentioned her name at tea-time?" the Count sniggered. "I thought he was going to thrash us all. ... A man does not defend the good fame of a woman so hotly if he's indif- ferent to her. . . "Some men will, brother. . . . But this is not the question. . . . What's important is this. ... If he can com- mand us in the way he has done to-day, what does he do with the small people, with those who are at his disposal? Doubtless, the stewards, the butlers, the huntsmen and the rest of the small fry are prevented by him from even ap- proaching her! Love and jealousy make a man unjust, heartless, misanthropi- cal. ... I don't mind betting that for the sake of this Olenka he has worried more than one of the people under his control. It will, therefore, be wise on your part if you put less trust in his complaints of the people in your service and his demands for the dismissal of this or that one. In general, to limit his power for a time. . . . Love will pass —well, and then there will be nothing to fear. He's a kind and honest fel- low. . . "And what do you think of her papa?" the Count asked, laughing. "A madman. ... He ought to be in a madhouse and not looking after for- ests. In general you won't be far from the truth if you put up a signboard:188 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV 'Madhouse' over the gate of your es- tate. ... You have a real Bedlam here! This forester, the Scops-Owl, Franz, who is mad on cards, this old man in love, an excitable girl, a drunken Count. . . . What do you want more?" "Why, this forester receives a salary! How can he do his work if he is mad?" "Urbenin evidently only keeps him for his daughter's sake. . . . Urbenin says that Nikolai Efimych has these at- tacks every summer. . . . That's not likely. . . . This forester is ill, not every summer, but always. ... By good luck, your Petr Egorych seldom lies, and he gives himself away when he does lie about anything. . . ." "Last year Urbenin informed me that our old forester Akhmet'ev was going to become a monk on Mount Atbos, and he recommended me to take the 'ex- perienced, honest and worthy Skvortsov' ... I, of course, agreed as I always do. Letters are not faces: they do not give themselves away when they lie. The carriage drove into the courtyard and stopped at the front door. We alighted. The rain had stopped. The thunder cloud, scintillating with light- ning and emitting angry grumbles, was hurrying towards the north-east and un- covering more and more the dark blue star-spangled sky. It was like a heavily armed power which having ravaged the country and imposed a terrible tribute, was rushing on to new conquests. . . . The small clouds that remained behind were chasing after it as if fearing to be unable to catch it up. . . . Nature had its peace restored to it. And that peace seemed astonished at the calm, aromatic air, so full of soft- ness, of the melodies of nightingales, at the silence of the sleeping gardens and the caressing light of the rising moon. The lake awoke after the day's sleep, and by gentle murmurs brought memo- ries of itself to man's hearing. . . . At such a time it is good to drive through the fields in a comfortable calash or to be rowing on the lake. . . . But we went into the house. . . . There another sort of poetry was awaiting us. CHAPTER V telegram A man who under the influence of mental pain or unbearably oppressive suffering sends a bullet through his own head is called a suicide; but for those who give freedom to their pitiful, soul- debasing passions in the holy days of spring and youth there is no name in man's vocabulary. After the bullet fol- lows the peace of the grave: ruined youth is followed by years of grief and painful recollections. He who has pro- faned his spring will understand the present condition of my soul. I am not yet old, or grey, but I no longer live. Psychiaters tell us that a soldier, who was wounded at Waterloo, went mad, and afterwards assured everybody—and believed it himself—that he had died at Waterloo, and that what was now con- sidered to be him was only his shadow, a reflection of the past. I am now ex- periencing something resembling this semi-death. . . . "I am very glad that you ate nothing at the forester's and haven't spoilt your appetite," the Count said to me as we entered the house. "We shall have an excellent supper. . . . Like old times. . . . Serve supper!" He gave the order to Il'ya who was helping him to take off his coat and put on a dressing gown.THE SHOOTING PARTY 189 We went into the dining-room. Here on the side-table life was already bub- bling over. Bottles of every colour and of every imaginable size were standing in rows as on the shelves of a theatre refreshment-room, reflecting on their sides the light of the lamps while await- ing our attention. All sorts of salted and pickled viands and various hors d'ceuvres stood on another table with a decanter of vodka and another of Eng- lish bitters. Near the wine bottles there were two dishes, one of sucking pig and the other of cold sturgeon. "Well, gentlemen," the Count began as he poured out three glasses of vodka and shivered as if from cold. "To our good health! Kaetan Kazimirovich, take your glass!" I drank mine off, the Pole only shook his head negatively. He moved the dish of sturgeon towards himself, smelt it, and began to eat. I must apologize to the reader. I have now to describe something not at all "romantic." "Well, come on . . . they drank an- other," the Count said, and filled the glasses again. "Fire away, Lecoq!" I took up my wineglass, looked at it and put it down again. "The devil take it, it's long since I drank," I said. "Shouldn't we remem- ber old times?" Without further reflection, I filled five glasses and emptied them one after an- other into my mouth. That was the only way I knew how to drink. Small schoolboys learn how to smoke cig- arettes from big ones: the Count looked at me, poured out five glasses for him- self, and, bending forwards in the form of an arch, frowning and shaking his head, he drank them off. My five glasses appeared to him to be bravado, but I drank them not at all to display my talent for drinking. ... I wanted to get drunk, to get properly, thoroughly drunk. . . . Drunk as I had not been for a long time while living in my vil- lage. Having drunk them, I sat down to table and began to discuss the suck- ing pig. Intoxication was not long in succeed- ing. I soon felt a slight giddiness. There was a pleasant .feeling of coolness in my chest—and a happy, expansive condition set in. Without any visible transition I suddenly became very gay. The feeling of emptiness and dullness gave place to a sensation of thorough joy and gaiety. I smiled. I suddenly wanted chatter, laughter, people around me. As I chewed the sucking pig I be- gan to feel the fullness of life, almost the self-sufficiency of life, almost hap- piness. "Why don't you drink anything?" I asked the Pole. "He never drinks," the Count said. "Don't force him to." "But surely you can drink some- thing!" The Pole put a large bit of sturgeon into his mouth and shook his head neg- atively. His silence incensed me. "I say, Kaeton . . . what's your patronymic? . . . why are you always silent?" I asked him. "I have not had the pleasure of hearing your voice as yet." His two eyebrows that resembled the outstretched wings of a swallow were raised and he gazed at me. "Do you wish me to speak?" he asked with a strong Polish accent. "Very much." "Why do you wish it?"190 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV "Why, indeed! On board steamers at dinner strangers and people who are not acquainted converse together, and here are we, who have known one another for several hours, looking at each other and not exchanging a single word! What does that look like?" The Pole remained silent. "Why are you silent?" I asked again after waiting a moment. "Answer some- thing, can't you?" "I do not wish to answer you. I hear laughter in your voice, and I do not like derision." "He's not laughing at all," the Count interposed in alarm. "Where did you fish up that notion, Kaetan? He's quite friendly. . . "Counts and Princes have never spoken to me in such a tone!" Kaetan said, frowning. "I don't like that tone." "Consequently, you will not honour me with your conversation?" I con- tinued to worry him as I emptied an- other glass and laughed. "Do you know my real reason for coming here?" the Count broke in, de- sirous of changing the conversation. "I haven't told you as yet? In Petersburg I went to the doctor who has always treated me, to consult him about my health. He auscultated, knocked and pressed me everywhere, and said: 'You're not a coward!' Well, you know, though I'm no coward, I grew pale. 'I'm not a coward,' I replied." "Cut it short, brother. . . . That's tiresome." "He told me I should soon die if I did not go away from Petersburg! My liver is quite diseased from too much drink. ... So I decided to come here. It would have been silly to remain there. This estate is so fine—so rich. . . . The climate alone is worth a fortune! . . . Here, at least, I can occupy my- self with my own affairs. Work is the best, the most efficacious medicine. Kaetan, is that not true? I shall look after the estate and chuck drink. . . . The doctor did not allow me a single glass . . .not one!" "Well, then, don't drink." "I don't drink. . . . To-day is the last time, in honour of meeting you again"—the Count stretched towards me and gave me a smacking kiss on the cheek—"my dear, good friend. To- morrow—not a drop! To-day, Bacchus takes leave of me for ever. . . . Ser- ezha, let us have a farewell glass of cog- nac together?" We drank a glass of cognac. "I shall get well, Serezha, golabchik, and I shall look after the estate. . . . Rational agriculture! Urbenin—is good, kind ... he understands everything, but is he the master? He's a routinist! We must send for magazines, read, look into everything, take part in the agri- cultural and dairy exhibitions, but he is not educated for that! Is it possible he can be in love with Olenka? Ha-ha! I shall look into everything and keep him as my assistant. ... I shall take part in the elections; I shall entertain society. ... Eh? Even here one can live happily! What do you think? Now there you are, laughing again! Already laughing! One really can't talk with you about anything!" I was gay, I was amused. The Count amused me; the candles, the bottles amused me; the stucco hares and ducks that ornamented the walls of the dining- room amused me. . . . The only thing that did not amuse me was the soberTHE SHOOTING PARTY 191 face of Kaetan Kazimirovich. The presence of this man irritated me. "Can't you send that Polish noble- man to the devil?" I whispered to the Count. "What? For God's sake! . . the Count murmured, seizing both my hands as if I had been about to beat his Pole. "Let him sit there!" "I can't look at him! I say," I con- tinued, addressing Pshekhotsky, "you refused to talk to me; but forgive me. I have not yet given up hope of being more closely acquainted with your con- versational capacities." "Leave him alone!" the Count said, pulling me by the sleeve. "I implore you!" "I shall not stop worrying you until you answer me," I continued. "Why are you frowning? Is it possible that you still hear laughter in my voice?" "If I had drunk as much as you have, I would talk to you; but as it is we are not a proper pair," the Pole replied. "That we are not a pair is what was to be proved. . . . That is exactly what I wanted to say. A goose and a swine are no comrades; the drunkard and the sober man are no kin; the drunkard disturbs the sober man, the sober man the drunkard. In the ad- joining drawing-room there is a soft and excellent sofa. It's a good thing to lie upon it after sturgeon with horse- radish. My voice will not be heard there. Do you not wish to retire to that room?" The Count clasped his hands and walked about the dining-room with blinking eyes. He is a coward and is always afraid of "big" talk. I, on the contrary, when drunk, am amused by cross-purposes and discontentedness. "I don't understand! I don't under- stand !" the Count groaned, not know- ing what to say or what to do. He knew it was difficult to stop me. "I am only slightly acquainted with you," I continued. "Perhaps you are an excellent man, and therefore I don't wish to quarrel with you too soon. . . . I won't quarrel with you. I only invite you to understand that there is no place for a sober man among drunken ones. . . . The presence of a sober man has an irritating effect on the drunken or- ganism! . . . Take that to heart!" "Say whatever you like!" Pshekhot- sky sighed. "Nothing that you can say will provoke me, young man." "So nothing will provoke you? Will you also not be offended if I call you an obstinate swine?" The Pole grew red in the face—but only that. The Count became pale, he came up to me, looked imploringly at me, and spread his arms. "Well, I beg you! Restrain your tongue!" I had now quite entered into my drunken part, and wanted to go on, but fortunately at that moment the Count and the Pole heard footsteps and Ur- benin entered the dining-room. "I wish you all a good appetite!" he began. "I have come, your Excellency, to find out if you have any orders for me?" "I have no orders so far, but a re- quest," the Count replied. "I am very glad you have come, Petr Egorych. . . . Sit down and have supper with us, and let us talk about the business of the estate. . .192 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV Urbenin sat down. The Count drank off a glass of cognac and began to ex- plain his plans for the future rational management of the estate. He spoke very long and wearisomely, often re- peating himself and changing the sub- ject. Urbenin listened to him lazily and attentively as serious people listen to the prattle of children and women. He ate his fish-soup, and looked sadly at his plate. "I have brought some remarkable plans with me!" the Count said among other things. "Remarkable plans! I will show them to you if you wish it?" Karneev jumped up and ran into his study for the plans. Urbenin took ad- vantage of his absence to pour out half a tumbler of vodka, gulped it down, and did not even take anything to eat after it. "Disgusting stuff this vodka is!" he said, looking with abhorrence at the de- canter. "Why didn't you drink while the Count was here, Petr Egorych?" I asked him. "Is it possible that you were afraid to?" "It is better to dissimulate, Sergei Petrovich, and drink in secret than to drink before the Count. You know what a strange character the Count has. ... If I stole twenty thousand from him and he knew it, he would say nothing owing to his carelessness; but if I forgot to give him an account of ten kopecks that I had spent or drank vodka in his presence, he would begin to lament that his bailiff was a robber. You know him well." Urbenin half-filled the tumbler again and swigged it off. "I think you did not drink formerly, Petr Egorych," I said. "Yes, but now I drink ... I drink terribly!" he whispered. "Terribly, day and night, not giving myself a moment's respite! Even the Count never drank to such an extent as I do now. ... It is dreadfully hard, Sergei Petrovich! God alone knows what a weight I have on my heart! It's just grief that makes me drink. ... I always liked and honoured you, Sergei Petrovich, and I can tell you quite candidly. ... I'd often be glad to hang myself!" "For what reason?" "My own stupidity. . . . Not only children are stupid. . . . There are also fools at fifty. Don't ask the cause." The Count re-entered the room and put a stop to his effusions. "A most excellent liqueur," he said, placing a pot-bellied bottle with the seal of the Benedictine monks on the table instead of "the remarkable plans." "When I passed through Moscow I got it at Depre's. Have a glass, Sergei?" "I thought you had gone to fetch the plans," I said. "I? What plans? Oh, yes! But, brother, the devil himself couldn't find anything in my portmanteaux. . . . I rummaged and rummaged and gave it up as a bad job. . . . The liqueur is very nice. Won't you have some, Serezha?" Urbenin remained a little longer, then he took leave and went away. When he left we began to drink claret. This wine quite finished me. I became intoxicated in the way I had wished while riding to the Count's. I became very bold, active and unusually gay. I wanted to do some extraordinary deed, something ludicrous, something that would aston- ish people. In such moments I thoughtTHE SHOOTING PARTY 193 I could swim across the lake, unravel the most entangled case, conquer any woman. . . . The world and its life made me enthusiastic; I loved it, but at the same time I wanted to pick a quarrel with somebody, to consume him with venomous jests and ridicule. . . . It was necessary to scoff at the comical black-browed Pole and the Count, to attack them with biting sarcasm, to turn them to dust. "Why are you silent?" I began again. "SpeakI I am listening to you! Ha-ha! I am awfully fond of hearing people with serious, sedate faces talk childish drivel! ... It is such mockery, such mockery of the brains of man! . . . The face does not correspond to the brains! In order not to lie, you ought to have the faces of idiots, and you have the countenances of Greek sages!" I had not finished. . . . My tongue was entangled by the thought that I was talking to people who were nullities, who were unworthy of even half a word! I required a hall filled with people, brilliant women, thousands of lights. ... I rose, took my glass and began walking about the rooms. When we indulge in debauchery, we do not limits ourselves to space. We do not restrict ourselves only to the dining- room, but take the whole house and sometimes even the whole estate. I chose a Turkish divan in the "Mosaic hall," lay down on it and gave myself up to the power of my fantasy and to castles in the air. Drunken thoughts, one more grandiose, more limitless than the other, took possession of my young brain. A new world arose before me, full of stupefying delights and indescribable beauty. It only remained for me to talk in rhyme and to see visions. The Count came to me and sat down on a corner of the divan. ... He wanted to say something to me. I had begun to read in his eyes the desire to communicate something special to me shortly after the five glasses of vodka described above. I knew of what he wanted to speak. "What a lot I have drunk today!'' he said to me. "This is more harmful to me than any sort of poison. . . . But to-day it is for the last time. . . . Upon my honour, the very last time. ... I have strength of will. . . "All right, all right. . . "For the last . . . Serezha, my dear friend, for the last time. . . . Shouldn't we send a telegram to town for the last time?" "Why not? Send it. . . ." "Let's have one last spree in the proper way. . . . Well, get up and write it." The Count himself did not know how to write telegrams. They always came out too long and insufficient with him. I rose and wrote: "S- Restaurant London. Karpov, manager of the chorus. Leave every- thing and come instantly by the two o'clock train.—The Count." "It is now a quarter to eleven," the Count said. "The man will take three- quarters of an hour to ride to the sta- tion, maximum an hour. . . . Karpov will receive the telegram before one. . . . Consequently they'll have time to catch the train. ... If they don't catch it, they can come by the goods train. Yes!"194 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV CHAPTER VI nights mad The telegram was dispatched with one-eyed Kuz'ma. Il'ya was ordered to send carriages to the station in about an hour. In order to kill time, I began leisurely to light the lamps and candles in all the rooms, then I opened the piano and passed my fingers over the keys. After that, I remember, I lay down on the same divan and thought of nothing, only waving away with my hand the Count, who came and pes- tered me with his chatter. I was in a state of drowsiness, half-asleep, con- scious only of the brilliant light of the lamps and feeling in a gay and quiet mood. . . . The image of the "girl in red," with her head bent towards her shoulder, and her eyes filled with horror at the thought of that effective death, stood before me and quietly shook its little finger at me. . . . The image of another girl, with a pale, proud face, in a black dress, flitted past. She looked at me half-entreatingly, half-reproach- fully. Later on I heard noise, laughter, run- ning about. . . . Deep, dark eyes ob- scured the light. I saw their brilliancy, their laughter. ... A joyful smile played about the luscious lips. . . . That was how my gipsy Tina smiled. "Is it you?" her voice asked. "You're asleep? Get up, darling. . . . How long is it since I saw you last!" I silently pressed her hand and drew her towards me. . . . "Let us go there. . . . We have all come. . . ." "Stay! . . . I'm all right here, Tina. . . ." "But . . . there's too much light. . . . You're mad! . . . They can come. . . "I'll wring the neck of whoever comes! . . . I'm so happy, Tina. . . . Two years have passed since last we met. . . Somebody began to play the piano in the ballroom. "Akh! Moskva, Moskva, Moskva, white-stoned Moskva!" . . . several voices sang in chorus. "You see, they are all singing there. . . . Nobody will come in. . . "Yes, yes. . . The meeting with Tina took away my drowsiness. . . . Ten minutes later she led me into the ballroom, where the chorus was standing in a semi-circle. . . . The Count, sitting astride on a' chair, was beating time with his hands. . . . Pshekhotsky stood behind his chair, looking with astonished eyes at these singing birds. I tore the balalaika out of Karpov's hands, struck the chords, and— "Down the Volga. . . . Down the mother Volga." "Down the Vo-o-o-lga!" the chorus chimed in. "Ay, burn, speak . . . speak . . ." I waved my hand, and in an instant with the rapidity of lightning there was another transition. . . . "Nights of madness, nights of glad- ness. . . ." Nothing acts more irritatingly, more titillatingly on my nerves than such rapid transitions. I trembled with rap- ture, and embracing Tina with one arm and waving the balalaika in the air with the other hand, I sang "Nights of mad- ness" to the end. . . . The balalaikaTHE SHOOTING PARTY 195 fell noisily on the floor and was shiv- ered into tiny fragments. . . . "Wine!" After that my recollections are con- fused and chaotic. . . . Everything is mixed, confused, entangled; everything is dim, obscure. ... I remember the grey sky of early morning. ... We are in a boat. . . . The lake is slightly agitated, and seems to grumble at our debauchery. ... I am standing up in the middle of the boat, shaking it. . . . Tina tries to convince me I may fall into the water, and implores me to sit down. ... I deplore loudly that there are no waves on the lake as high as the "Stone Grave," and frighten the martins that flit like white spots over the blue surface of the lake with my shouts. . . . Then follows a long, sultry day, with its endless lunches, its ten-year-old liqueurs, its punches, ... its de- bauches. . . . There are only a few moments I can remember of that day. ... I remember swinging with Tina in the garden. I stand on one end of the board, she on the other. I work energetically, with my whole body as much as my strength permits, and I don't exactly know what I want: that Tina should fall from the swing and be killed, or that she should fly to the very clouds! Tina stands there, pale as death, but proud and self-loving; she has pressed her lips tightly together so as not to betray by a single sound the fear she feels. We fly ever higher and higher, and ... I can't remember how it ended. Then there follows a walk with Tina in a distant avenue of the park, with green vaults above that protect it from the sun. A poetical twi- light, black tresses, luscious lips, whis- pers. . . . Then the little contralto is walking beside me, a fair-haired girl with a sharp little nose, childlike eyes and a small waist. I walk about with her until Tina, having followed us, makes a scene. . . . The gipsy is pale and maddened. . . . She calls me "ac- cursed," and, being offended, prepares to return to town. The Count, also pale and with trembling hands, runs along beside us, and, as usual, can't find the proper words to persuade Tina to re- main. ... In the end she boxes my ears. . . . Strange! I, who fly into a rage at the slightest offensive words said by a man, am quite indifferent to a box on the ear given me by a woman. . . . There is again a long "after dinner," again a snake on the steps, again sleep- ing Franz with flies round his mouth, again the gate. . . . "The girl in red" is standing on the "Stone Grave," but perceiving us from afar, she disappears like a lizard. By evening we had made it up with Tina and were again friends. The eve- ning was succeeded by the same sort of stormy night, with music, daring sing- ing, with nerve exciting transitions . . . and not a moment's sleep! "This is self-destruction!" Urbenin whispered to me. He had come in for a moment to listen to our singing. He was certainly right. Further, I remember: the Count and I are stand- ing in the garden face to face, and quarrelling. Black-browed Kaetan is walking about near us all the time, taking no part in our jollifications, nevertheless he had also not slept, but had followed us about like a shadow. . . . The sky is already brightening, and on the very summits of the highest trees the golden rays of the rising sun are beginning to shine. Around us is196 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV the chatter of sparrows, the songs of the starlings, and the rustle and flapping of wings that had become heavy during the night. . . . The lowing of the herds and the cries of the shepherds can be heard. A table with a marble slab stands before us. On the table are candles that give out a faint light. Ends of cigarettes, papers from sweets, broken wineglasses, orange peel. . . . "You must take it!" I say, pressing on the Count a parcel of rouble notes. "I will force you to take it!" "But it was I who sent for them and not you!" the Count insisted, trying to catch hold of one of my buttons. "I am the master here. ... I treated you. Why should you pay? Can't you under- stand you even insult me by offering to do so?" "I also engaged them, so I pay half. You won't take it? I don't understand such favours! Surely you don't think because you are as rich as the devil that you have the right to confer such favours on me? The devil take it! I engaged Karpov, and I will pay him! I want none of your halves! I wrote the telegram!" "In a restaurant, Serezha, you may pay as much as you like, but my house is not a restaurant. . . . Besides, I really don't understand why you are making all this fuss. I can't understand your insistent prodigality. You have but little money, while I am rolling in wealth. . . . Justice itself is on my side!" "Then you will not take it? No? Well, then, you needn't! . . I go up to the faintly burning candles and applying the banknotes to the flame set them on fire and fling them on the ground. Suddenly a groan is torn from Kaetan's breast. He opens his eyes wide, he grows pale, and falling with the whole weight of his heavy body on the ground tries to extinguish the money with the palms of his hands. ... In this he succeeds. "I don't understand!" he says, plac- ing the slightly burnt notes in his pocket. "To burn money? As if it were last year's chaff or love letters! . . . It's better that I should give it to the poor than let it be consumed by the flames." I go into the house. . . . There in every room on the sofas and the carpets the weary gipsies are lying, overcome by fatigue. My Tina is sleeping on the divan in the "mosaic drawing room." She lies stretched out and breathing heavily. Her teeth clenched, her face pale. . . . She is evidently dreaming of the swing. . . . The Scops-Owl is going through all the rooms, looking with her sharp eyes sardonically at the people who had so suddenly broken into the deadly quiet of this forgotten estate. . . . She is not going about and giving her old limbs so much trouble without an object. That is all that my memory retained after two wild nights; all the rest had escaped my drunken brain, or is not appropriate for description. . . . But this is enough! At no other time had Zorka borne me with so much zest as on the morn- ing after the burning of the banknotes. . . . She also wanted to go home. . . . The lake quietly rippled its sparkling waves in which the rising sun was re-* fleeted and prepared for its daily sleep. The woods and the willows that border the lake stood motionless as if in morn-THE SHOOTING PARTY 197 ing prayer. It is difficult to describe the feelings that filled my soul at the time. . . . Without entering into details, I will only say that I was unspeakably glad and at the same time almost con- sumed by shame when, turning out of the Count's homestead, I saw on the bank of the lake the holy old face, all wrinkled by honest work and illness, of venerable Mikhey. In appearance Mikhey resembles the fishermen of the Bible. His hair and beard are white as snow, and he gazes contemplatively at the sky. . . . When he stands motion- less on the bank and his eyes follow the chasing clouds, you can imagine that he sees angels in the sky. ... I like such faces! . . . When I saw him I reined in Zorka and gave him my hand as if I wanted to cleanse myself by the touch of his honest, horny palm. ... He raised his small sagacious eyes on me and smiled. "How do you do, good master!" he said, giving me his hand awkwardly. "So you've ridden over again? Or has that old rake come back?'' "Yes, he's back." "I thought so. ... I can see it by your face. . . . Here I stand and look. . . . The world's the world. Vanity of vanities. . . . Look there! That German ought to die, and he only thinks of vanities. . . . Do you see?" The old man pointed with a stick at the Count's bathing-house. A boat was being rowed away quickly from the bathing-house. A man in a jockey cap and a blue jacket was sitting in the boat. It was Franz, the gardener. "Every morning he takes money to the island and hides it there. The stupid fellow can't understand that for him sand and money have much the same value. When he dies he can't take it with him. Barin, give me a cigar!" I offered him my cigar case. He took three cigarettes and put them into his breast pocket. . . . "That's for my nephew. ... He can smoke them." Zorka moved impatiently, and gal- loped off. I bowed to the old man in gratitude for having been allowed to rest my eyes on his face. For a long time he stood looking after me. At home I was met by Polycarp. With a contemptuous, a crushing glance, he measured my noble body as if he wanted to know whether this time I had bathed again in all my clothes, or not. "Congratulations!" he grumbled. "You've enjoyed yourself." "Hold your tongue, fool!" I said. His stupid face angered me. I un- dressed quickly, covered myself with the bedclothes and closed my eyes. My head became giddy and the world was enveloped in mist. Familiar figures flitted throught the mist. . . . The Count, snakes, Franz, flame-coloured dogs, "the girl in red," mad Nikolai Efimych. "The husband killed his wife! Oh, how stupid you are!" "The girl in red" shook her finger at me, Tina obscured the light with her black eyes, and ... I fell asleep. CHAPTER VII THIEVES SWARMING "How sweetly and tranquilly he sleeps! When one gazes on this pale, tired face, on this childishly innocent smile, and listens to this regular breath-198 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV ing, one might think that it is not a magistrate who is lying here, but the personification of a quiet conscience! One might think that Count Karneev had not yet arrived, that there had been neither drunkenness nor gipsies, nor rows on the lake. . . . Get up, you pernicious man! You are unworthy of enjoying such a blessing as peaceful sleep! Arise!" I opened my eyes and stretched my- self voluptuously. ... A broad sun- beam, in which countless white dust atoms were agitated and chased each other, streamed from the window on to my bed, causing the sunray itself to appear as if tinged with some dull whiteness. . . . The ray disappeared and reappeared before my eyes, as Pavel Ivanovich Voznesensky, our charming district doctor, who was walking about my bedroom, came into or went out of the stream of light. In the long, un- buttoned frockcoat that flapped around him, as if hanging on a clothes rack, with his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his unusually long trousers, the doctor went from corner to corner of my room, from chair to chair, from portrait to portrait, screwing up his short-sighted eyes as he examined what- ever came in his way. In accordance with his habit of sticking his nose and letting his eyes peer into everything, he either stooped down or stretched out, peeped into the washstand, into the folds of the closed blinds, into the chinks of the door, into the lamp . . . he seemed to be looking for something or wishing to assure himself that every- thing was in order. . . . When he looked attentively through his spectacles into a chink, or at a spot on the wall- paper, he frowned, assumed an anxious expression, and smelt it with his long nose. ... All this he did quite mechan- ically, involuntarily, and from habit; but at the same time, as his eyes passed rapidly from one object to another, he had the appearance of a connoisseur making an evaluation. "Get up, don't you hear!" he called to me in his melodious tenor voice, as he looked into the soap-dish and re- moved a hair from the soap with his nail. "Ah, ah, ah! How do you do, Mr. Screw!" I yawned, when I saw him bending over the washstand. "What an age we haven't met!" The whole district knew the doctor by the name of "Screw" from the habit he had of constantly screwing up his eyes. I, too, called him by that nick- name. Seeing that I was awake, Vozne- sensky came and sat down on a corner of my bed and at once took up a box of matches and lifted it close to his screwed-up eyes. "Only lazy people and those with clear consciences sleep in that way," he said, "and as you are neither the one nor the other, it would be more seemly for you, my friend, to get up somewhat earlier. ..." "What o'clock is it?" "Almost eleven." "The devil take you, Screwy! No- body asked you to wake me so early. Do you know, I only got to sleep at past five to-day, and if not for you I would have slept on till evening." "Indeed!" I heard Polycarp's bass voice say in the next room. "He hasn't slept long enough yet! It's the second day he's sleeping, and it's still too little for him. Do you know what day it is?" Polycarp asked, coming into the bed-THE SHOOTING PARTY 199 room and looking at me in the way clever people look at fools. ''Wednesday," I said. "Of course, certainly! It's been spe- cially arranged for you that the week shall have two Wednesdays. ..." "To-day's Thursday!" the doctor said. "So, my good fellow, you've been pleased to sleep through the whole of Wednesday. Fine! Very fine! Allow me to ask you how much you drank?" "For twice twenty-four hours I had not slept, and I drank ... I don't know how much I drank." Having sent Polycarp away, I began to dress and describe to the doctor what I had lately experienced of "Nights of madness, nights of gladness" which are so delightful and sentimental in the songs and so unsightly in reality. In my description I tried not to go beyond the bounds of "light genre," to keep to facts and not to deviate into moral- izing, although all this was contrary to the nature of a man who entertained a passion for inferences and results. . . . I spoke with an air as if I was speak- ing about trifles that did not trouble me in the slightest degree. In order to spare the chaste ears of Pavel Ivanovich, and knowing his dislike of the Count, I sup- pressed much, touched lightly on a great deal but nevertheless, despite the play- fulness of my tone and the style of caricature I gave to my narrative dur- ing the whole course of it, the doctor looked into my face seriously, shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders impatiently from time to time. He never once smiled. It was evident that my "light genre" produced on him far from a light effect. "Why don't you laugh, Screwy?" I asked when I had finished my descrip- tion. "If it had not been you who had told me all this, and if there had not been a certain circumstance, I would not have believed a word of it. It's all too abnormal, my friend!" "Of what circumstance are you speak- ing?" "Last evening the muzhik whom you had belaboured in such an indelicate way with an oar, came to me. . . . Ivan Osipov. . . "Ivan Osipov? ..." I shrugged my shoulders. "It's the first time I hear his name!" "A tall, red-haired man . . . with a freckled face. . . . Try to remem- ber! You struck him on the head with an oar." "I can't remember anything! I don't know an Osipov. ... I struck nobody with an oar. . . . You've dreamed it all, uncle!" "God grant that I dreamed it. . . . He came to me with a report from the Karneev district administration and asked me for a medical certificate. . . . In the report it was stated that the wound was given him by you, and he does not lie. . . . Can you remember now? The wound he had received was above the forehead, just where the hair begins. . . . You got to the bone, my dear sir!" "I can't remember!" I murmured. . . . "Who is he? What's his occupa- tion?" "He's an ordinary muzhik from the Karneev village. He rowed the boat when you wrere having your spree on the lake." "Hm! Perhaps! I can't remember.200 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV ... I was probably drunk, and some- how by chance. . . ." "No, sir, not by chance. ... He said you got angry with him about something, you swore at him for a long time, and then getting furious you rushed at him and struck him before witnesses. . . . Besides, you shouted at him: Til kill you, you rascal!'" "I got very red, and began walking about from corner to corner of the room. "For the life of me, I can't remem- ber!" I said, trying with all my might to recall what had happened. "I can't re- member! You say I 'got furious. . . When drunk I become unpardonably nasty!" "What can you want more!" "The muzhik evidently wants to make a case of it, but that's not the most important. . . . The most important is the fact itself, the blows. . . . Is it possible that I'm capable of fighting? And why should I strike a poor muzhik?" "Yes, sir! Of course, I could not give him a certificate, but I told him to apply to you. . . . You'll manage to arrange the matter with him some- how. . . . The wound is a slight one, but considering the case unofficially a wound in the head that goes as far as the skull is a serious affair. . . . There are often cases when an apparently trifling wound in the head which had been considered a slight one has ended with mortification of the bone of the skull and consequently with a journey ad patres " And, carried away by his subject, "Screw" rose from his seat and, walk- ing about the room along the walls and waving his hands, he began to unload all his knowledge of surgical pathology for my benefit. . . . Mortification of the bones of the skull, inflammation of the brain, death, and other horrors poured from his lips with endless ex- planations, macroscopic and microscopic processes, that accompany this misty and, for me, quite uninteresting terra incognita. "Stop that effusion!" I cried, trying to stop his medical chatter. "Can't you understand how tiresome all this stuff is?" "No matter that it's tiresome. . . . Listen, and punish yourself. . . . Per- haps another time you will be more careful. It may teach you not to do such stupidities. If you don't arrange matters with this scabby Osipov, it may cost you your position! The priest of Themis to be tried for thrashing a man! . . . What a scandal!" Pavel Ivanovich is the only man whose judgments I listen to with a light heart, without frowning, whom I allow to gaze inquiringly into my eyes and to thrust his investigating hand into the depths of my soul. ... We two are friends in the very best sense of the word; we respect each other, although we have between us accounts of the most unpleasant, the most delicate na- ture. . . . Like a black cat, a woman had passed between us. This eternal casus belli had been the cause of reck- onings between us, but did not make us quarrel, and we continued to be at peace. "Screw" is a very nice fellow. I like his simple and far from plastic face, with its large nose, screwed-up eyes and thin, reddish beard. I like his tall, thin, narrow-shouldered figure, on which his frock-coat and paletot hung as on a clothes-horse.THE SHOOTING PARTY 201 His badly made trousers formed ugly creases at the knees; and his boots were terribly trodden down at the heels; his white tie was always in the wrong place. But do not think that he was slovenly. ... You had but to look once at his kind, concentrated face to understand that he had no time to trouble about his own appearance; besides, he did not know how to. . . . He was young, honest, not vain, and loved his medi- cine, and he was always moving about— this in itself is sufficient to explain to his advantage all the defects of his in- elegant toilet. He, like an artist, did not know the value of money, and im- perturbably sacrificed his own comfort and the blessings of life to one of his passions, and thus he gave the impres- sion of being a man without means, who could scarcely make both ends meet. . . . He neither smoked nor drank, he spent no money on women, but nevertheless the two thousand roubles he earned by his appointment at the hospital and by private practice passed through his hands as quickly as my money does when I am out on the spree. Two passions drained him: the passion of lending money, and the pas- sion of ordering things he saw adver- tised in the newspapers. ... He lent money to whoever asked for it, without any demur not uttering a single word about when it was to be returned. It was not possible either by hook or by crook to eradicate in him his heedless trust in people's conscientiousness, and this confidence was even more apparent in his constantly ordering things that were lauded in newspaper advertise- ments. ... He wrote for everything, the necessary and the unnecessary. He wrote for books, telescopes, humorous magazines, dinner services "composed of 100 articles," chronometers. . . And it was not surprising that the pa- tients who came to Pavel Ivanovich mistook his room for an arsenal or for a museum. He had always been cheated, but his trust was as strong and un- shakable as ever. He was a capital fellow, and we shall meet him more than once on the pages of this novel. "Good gracious! What a time I have been sitting here!" he exclaimed sud- denly, looking at the cheap watch with one lid he had ordered from Moscow, and which was "guaranteed for five years," but had already been repaired twice. "I must be off, friend! Good- bye! And mark my words, these sprees of the Count's will lead to no good! To say nothing about your health. . . . Oh, by-the-by! Shall you go to Tenevo to-morrow?" "What's up there to-morrow?" "The fete of the Church! Everybody will be there, so come too! You must positively come! I have promised that you will come. Don't make me a liar!" It was not necessary to ask to whom he had given his word. We understood each other. The doctor then took leave, put on his well-worn overcoat, and went away. I remained alone. ... In order to drown the unpleasant thoughts that began to swarm in my head, I went to my writing-table and trying not to think nor to call myself to account, I began to open my post. The first en- velope that caught my eye contained the following letter: "My Darling Serezha, "Forgive me for troubling you, but I am so surprised that I don't know to202 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV whom to apply. ... It is shameful! Of course, now it will be impossible to get it back, and I'm not sorry, but judge for yourself: if thieves are to enjoy indulgence, a respectable woman cannot feel safe anywhere. After you left I awoke on the divan and found many of my things were missing. Some- body had stolen my bracelet, my gold studs, ten pearls out of my necklace, and had taken about a hundred roubles out of my purse. I wanted to complain to the Count, but he was asleep, so I went away without doing so. This is very wrong! The Count's house—and they steal as in a tavern! Tell the Count. I send you much love and kisses. "Your loving, "Tina." That his Excellency's house was swarming with thieves was nothing new to me; and I added Tina's letter to the information I had already in my mem- ory on this count. Sooner or later I would be obliged to use this intelligence in a case. ... I knew who the thieves were. CHAPTER VIII the church Black-eyed Tina's letter, her large sprawling handwriting, reminded me of the mosaic room and aroused in me desires such as a drunkard has for more drink; but I overcame them, and by the strength of my will I forced myself to work. At first I found it unspeakably dull to decipher the bold handwriting of the various commissaries, but grad- ually my attention became fixed on a burglary, and I began to work with delight. All day long I sat working at my table, and Polycarp passed behind me from time to time and looked sus- piciously at my work. He had no con- fidence in my sobriety, and at any mo- ment he expected to see me rise from the table and order Zorka to be sad- dled; but towards evening, seeing my persistence, he began to give credence to my good intentions, and the expres- sion of moroseness on his face gave place to one of satisfaction. ... He began to walk about on tiptoe and to speak in whispers. . . . When some young fellows passed my house, playing on the accordion, he went into the street and shouted: "What do you young devils mean by making such a row here? Can't you go another way? Don't you know, you Mahommedans, that the master is work- ing?" In the evening when he served the samovar in the dining-room, he quietly opened my door and called me gra- ciously to come to tea. "Will you please come to tea?" he said, sighing gently and smiling respect- fully. And while I was drinking my tea he came up behind me and kissed me on the shoulder. "Now that's better, Sergei Petrovich," he mumbled. "Why don't you let that white-eyebrowed devil be hanged, may he be. . . . Is it possible with your high understanding and your education to occupy yourself with pusillanimous- ness? Your work is noble. . . . Every- body must glorify you, be afraid of you; if you break people's heads with that devil and bathe in the lake in all your clothes, everyone will say: 'He has no sense! He's an empty-headed fellow!' And so that reputation will beTHE SHOOTING PARTY 203 noised about the whole world! Fool- hardiness is suitable for merchants, but not for noblemen. . . . Noblemen re- quire science and office. . . "All right! Enough, enough. . . "Sergey Petrovich, don't keep com- pany with that Count. If you want to have a friend, who could be better than Doctor Pavel Ivanovich? He goes about shabbily dressed, but how clever he is!" I was melted by Polycarp's sincerity. ... I wanted to say an affectionate word to him. . . . "What novel are you reading now?" I asked. " 'The Count of Monte Cristo.' That's a Count for you! That's a real Count! Not like your smut-Count!" After tea I again sat down to work and worked until my eyelids began to droop and close my tired eyes. . . . When I went to bed I ordered Polycarp to wake me at five o'clock. The next morning, before six o'clock, whistling gaily and knocking off the heads of the field flowers, I was walk- ing towards Tenevo, where the fete of the church to which my friend "Screw" had invited me to come was being cele- brated that day. It was a glorious morning. Happiness itself appeared to be hanging above the earth, and re- flected in every dewdrop, enticed the soul of the passer-by to itself. The woods enwrapped in morning light, were quiet and motionless as if listening to my footsteps, and the chirping brother- hood of birds met me with expressions of mistrust and alarm. . . . The air, im- pregnated with the evaporation of the fresh green, caressed my healthy lungs with its softness. I breathed it in, and casting my enraptured eyes over the whole distant prospect, I felt the spring and youth, and it seemed to me that the young birches, the grass at the road- side, and the ceaselessly humming cock- chafers shared these feelings with me. "Why is it that there in the world men crowd together in their miserable hovels, in their narrow and limited ideas," I thought, "while they have here so much space for life and thought? Why do they not come here?" And my poetic imagination refused to be disturbed by thoughts of winter and of bread, those two sorrows that drive poets into cold, prosaic Petersburg and uncleanly Moscow, where fees are paid for verse, but no inspiration can be found. Peasants' carts and landowners' britz- kas hurrying to the liturgy or to market passed me constantly as I trudged along. All the time I had to take off my cap in answer to the courteous bows of the muzhiks and the landowners of my ac- quaintance. They all offered to give me a lift, but to walk was pleasanter than to drive, and I refused all their offers. Among others the Count's gardener, Franz, in a blue jacket and a jockey cap, passed me on a racing droshky. . . . He looked lazily at me with his sleepy, sour eyes and touched his cap in a still more lazy fashion. Behind him a twelve-gallon barrel with iron hoops, evidently for vodka, was tied to the droshky. . . . Franz's disagreeable phiz and his barrel somewhat disturbed my poetical mood, but very soon poetry triumphed again when I heard the sound of wheels behind me, and looking round I saw a heavy wagonette drawn by a pair of bays, and in the heavy wagon- ette, on a leathern cushion on a sort of box seat, was my new acquaintance, "the girl in red," who two days before204 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV had spoken to me about the "electricity that had killed her mother." Olenka's pretty, freshly washed and somewhat sleepy face beamed and blushed slightly when she saw me striding along the footpath that separated the wood from the road. She nodded merrily to me and smiled in the affable manner of an old acquaintance. "Good morning!" I shouted to her. She kissed her hand to me and dis- appeared from my sight, together with her heavy wagonette, without giving me enough time to admire her fresh, pretty face. This day she was not dressed in red. She wore a sort of dark green cos- tume with large buttons and a broad- brimmed straw hat, but even in this garb she pleased me no less than she had done before. I would have talked to her with pleasure, and I would gladly have heard her voice. I wanted to gaze into her deep eyes in the brilliancy of the sun, as I had gazed into them that night by the flashes of lightning. I wanted to take her down from the ugly wagonette and propose that she should walk beside me for the rest of the way, and I certainly would have done so if it had not been for the "rules of so- ciety." For some reason it appeared to me that she would have gladly agreed to this proposal. It was not without some cause that she had twice looked back at me as the wagonette disappeared behind some old alders! . . . It was about six versts from the place of my abode to Tenevo—nothing of a distance for a young man on a fine morning. Shortly after six I was already making my way between loaded carts and the booths of the fair towards the Tenevo church. Notwithstanding the early hour and the fact that the liturgy in the church was not over as yet, the noise of trade was already in the air. The squeaking of cart wheels, the neighing of horses, the lowing of cattle, and the sounds of toy trumpets were intermixed with the cries of gipsy horse- dealers and the songs of muzhiks, who had already found time to get drunk. What numbers of gay, idle faces! What types! What beauty there was in the movements of these masses, bright with brilliant coloured dresses, on which the morning sun poured its light! All this many-thousand-headed crowd swarmed, moved, made a noise in order to finish the business they had to do in a few hours, and to disperse by the evening, leaving after them, on the market place as a sort of remembrance, refuse of hay, oats spilt here and there, and nutshells. . . . The people, in dense crowds, were going to and coming from the church. The cross that surmounts the church emitted golden rays, bright as those of the sun. It glittered and seemed to be aflame with golden fire. Beneath it the cupola of the church was burning with the same fire, and the freshly painted green dome shone in the sun, and be- yond the sparkling cross the clear blue sky stretched out in the far distance. I passed through the crowds in the churchyard and entered the church. The liturgy had only just begun and the Gospel was being read. The silence of the church was only broken by the voice of the reader and the footsteps of the incensing deacon. The people stood silent and immovable, gazing with rev- erence through the wide-open holy gates of the altar and listening to the drawl- ing voice of the reader. Village deco- rum, or, to speak more correctly, village propriety, strictly represses every in-THE SHOOTING PARTY 205 clination to violate the reverend quiet of the church. I always felt ashamed when in a church anything caused me to smile or speak. Unfortunately it is but seldom that I do not meet some of my acquaintances who, I regret to say, are only too numerous, and it generally happens that I have hardly entered the church before I am accosted by one of the "intelligentsia," who, after a long introduction about the weather, begins a conversation on his own trivial affairs. I answer "yes" and "no," but I am too considerate to refuse to give him any attention. My consideration often costs me dear. While I talk I glance bash- fully at my neighbours who are praying, fearing that my idle chatter may wound them. This time, as usual, I did not escape from acquaintances. When I entered the church I saw my heroine standing close to the door—that same "girl in red" whom I had met -on the way to Tenevo. Poor little thing! There she stood, red as a crawfish, and perspiring in the midst of the crowd, casting imploring glances on all those faces in the search for a deliverer. She had stuck fast in the densest crowd and, unable to move either forward or backward, looked like a bird who was being tightly squeezed in a fist. When she saw me she smiled bitterly and began nodding her pretty chin. "For God's sake, escort me to the front!" she said, seizing hold of my sleeve. "It is terribly stuffy here—and so crowded. ... I beg you!" "In front it will be as crowded/3 I replied. "But there, all the people are well dressed and respectable. ... Here are only common people. A place is re- served for us in front. . . , You, too, ought to be there. . . ," Consequently she was red not because it was stuffy and crowded in the church. Her little head was troubled by the ques- tion of precedence. I granted the vain girl's prayer, and by carefully pressing aside the people I was able to conduct her to the very dais near the altar on which the flower of our district beau- mmde was collected. Having placed Olenka in a position that was in accord- ance with her aristocratic desires, I took up a post at the back of the bemi- monde and began an inspection. As usual, the men and women were whispering and giggling. The Justice of the Peace, Kalinin, gesticulating with his hands and shaking his head, was tell- ing the landowner, Deryaev, in an under- tone all about his ailments. Deryaev was abusing the doctors almost aloud and advising the justice of the peace to be treated by a certain Evstrat Ivanych. The ladies, perceiving Olenka, pounced upon her as a good subject for their criticism and began whisper- ing. There was only one girl who evi- dently was praying. . . . She was kneel- ing, with her black eyes fixed in front of her; she was moving her lips. She did not notice a curl of hair that had got loose under her hat and was hang- ing in disorder over her temple. ,. . . She did not notice that Olenka and I had stopped beside her. She was Nadezhda Nikolaevna, Jus- tice Kalinin's daughter. When I spoke above of the woman, who, like a black cat, had run between the doctor and me, I was speaking of her. . . . The doctor loved her as only such noble natures as my dear "Screw's" are able206 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV to love. Now he was standing beside her, as stiff as a pikestaff, with his hands at his sides and his neck stretched out. From time to time his loving eyes glanced inquiringly at her concentrated face. He seemed to be watching her prayer and in his eyes there shone a melancholy, passionate longing to be the object of her prayers. But, to his grief, he knew for whom she was praying. ... It was not for him. . . . I made a sign to Pavel Ivanovich when he looked round at me, and we both left the church. "Let's stroll about the market," I proposed. We lighted our cigarettes and went towards the booths. CHAPTER IX WHY? "How is Nadezhda Nikolaevna?" I asked the doctor as we entered a tent where playthings were sold. "Pretty well. ... I think she's all right. . . the doctor replied, frown- ing at a little soldier with a lilac face and a crimson uniform. "She asked about you. . . "What did she ask about me?" "Things in general. . . . She is angry that you have not been to see them for so long . . . she wants to see you and to inquire the cause of your sudden coldness towards their house. . . . You used to go there nearly every day and then—dropped them! As if cut off. ... You don't even bow." "That's not true, Screw. . . . Want of leisure is really the cause of my ceasing to go to the Kalinins. What's true is true! My connexion with that family is as excellent as formerly. . . . I always bow if I happen to meet any one of them." "However, last Thursday, when you met her father, for some reason you did not return his bow." "I don't like that old blockhead of a Justice," I said, "and I can't look with equanimity at his phiz; but I still have the strength to bow to him and to press the hand he stretches out to me. Per- haps I did not notice him on Thursday, or I did not recognize him. You're not in a good humour to-day, Screwy, and are trying to pick a quarrel." "I love you, my dear boy," Pavel Ivanovich sighed; "but I don't believe you. . . . 'Did not notice, did not recognize!' ... I don't require your justifications nor your evasions. . . . What's the use of them when there's so little truth in them? You're an ex- cellent, a good man, but there's a little bit of a screw sticking in your sick brain that—forgive me for saying it— is capable of any offence." "I'm humbly obliged." "Don't be offended, golubchek. . . . God grant that I may be mistaken, but you appear to me to be somewhat of a psychopath. Sometimes, quite in spite of your will and the dictates of your excellent nature, you have attacks of such desires and commit such acts that all who know you as a respectable man are quite nonplussed. You make one marvel how your highly moral princi- ples, which I have the honour of know- ing, can exist together with your sudden impulses, which, in the end, produce the most screaming abominations! . . . What animal is this?" Pavel Ivanovich asked the salesman abruptly in quite another tone, lifting close to his eyes aTHE SHOOTING PARTY 207 wooden animal with a man's nose, a mane, and a grey stripe down its back. "A lion," the salesman answered, yawning. "Or perhaps some other sort of creature. The deuce only knows!" From the toy booths we went to the shops where textiles were sold and trade was already very brisk. "These toys only mislead children," the doctor said. "They give the falsest ideas of flora and fauna. For example, this lion . . . striped, purple, and squeaking. . . . Whoever heard of a lion that squeaks?" "I say, Screwy," I began, "you evi- dently want to say something to me and you seem not to be able. ... Go ahead! ... I like to hear you, even when you tell me unpleasant things. . . "Whether pleasant or unpleasant, friend, you must listen to me. There is much I want to talk to you about." "Begin. . . . I am transformed into one very large ear." "I have already mentioned to you my supposition that you are a psycho- path. Now have the goodness to listen to the proofs. ... I will speak quite frankly, perhaps sometimes sharply. . . . My words may jar on you, but don't be angry, friend. ... You know my feelings for you. I like you better than anybody else in the district. . . . I speak not to reprove, nor to blame, nor to slay you. Let us both be ob- jective, friend. . . . Let us examine your psyche with an unprejudiced eye, as if it were a liver or a stomach. . . "All right, let's be objective," I agreed. "Excellent! . . . Then let us begin with your connexion with Kalinin. . . . If you consult your memory it will tell you that you began to visit the Kalinins immediately after your arrival in our God-protected district. Your acquain- tance was not sought by them. At first you did not please the Justice of the Peace, owing to your arrogant manner, your sarcastic tone, and your friendship with the dissolute Count, and you would never have been in the Justice's house if you yourself had not paid him a visit. You remember? You became ac- quainted with Nadezhda Nikolaevna, and you began to frequent the Justice's house almost every day. . . . When- ever one came to the house you were sure to be there. ... You were wel- comed in the most cordial manner. You were shown all possible marks of friend- ship—by the father, the mother, and the little sister. . . . They became as much attached to you as if you were a relative. . . . They were enraptured by you . . . you were made much of, they were in fits of laughter over your slightest witticism. ... You were for them the acme of wisdom, nobility, gentle manners. You appeared to under- stand all this, and you reciprocated their attachment with attachment—you went there every day, even on the eve of holidays—the days of cleaning and bustle. Lastly, the unhappy love that you aroused in Nadezhda's heart is no secret to you. ... Is that not so? Well, then, you, knowing she was over head and ears in love with you, con- tinued to go there day after day. . . . And what happened then, friend? A year ago, for no apparent reason, you suddenly ceased visiting the house. You were awaited for a week ... a month. . . . They are still waiting for you. and you still don't appear . . . they write to you . . . you do not reply. ... You end by not even bowing.208 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV . .To you, who set so much store by decorum, such conduct must appear as the height of rudeness! Why did: you break off your connexion with the Kalinins in such a sharp and off-hand manner? Did they offend you? No. . . . Did they bore you? In that case you might have broken off gradually, and not in such a sharp and insult- ing manner, for which there was no cause. . . ." "I stopped visiting a house and there- fore have become a psychopath!" I laughed. "How naive you are, Screwy! What difference is there if you suddenly cease an acquaintance or do so grad- ually? It's even more honest to do so suddenly—there's less hypocrisy in it. But what trifles all these are !" "Let us admit that all this is trilling, or that the cause of your sharp action is a secret that does not concern other people. But how can you explain your further conduct?" "For instance ?" "For instance, you appeared one day at a meeting of our Zemstvo Board—I don't know what your business was there—and in reply to the president, who asked you how it came that you were no longer to be met at Kalinin's, you said. . . . Try to remember what you said \ 'I'm afraid they want to marry me!' That's what fell from your lips I And this you said during the meet- ing in a loud and distinct voice, so that all the hundred men who were present could hear you! Pretty? In reply to your words laughter and various offen- sive witticisms about fishing for hus- bands could be heard on all sides. Your words were caught up by a certain scamp, who went to Kalinin's and re- peated them to Nadenka during dinner. . ... Why such an insult, Sergei Petro- vich?" Pavel Ivanovich barred the way. He stood before me and continued looking at me with imploring, almost tearful eyes. "Why such an insult? Why? Because this charming girl loves you? Let us admit that her father, like all fathers, had intentions on your person. . . . He is like ail fathers, they ail have an eye on you^ on me, on Markuzin. . . . All parents are alike I' . . . There's not the slightest doubt that she is over head and ears in love; perhaps she had hoped she would become your wife. ... Is that a reason to give her such a sound- ing box on the ear? Dyadinka,. dya- dinkat Was it not you yourself who encouraged these intentions on your person? You went there every day; ordinary guests never go so often. In the daytime you went out fishing with her, in the evening you walked about the garden with her, jealously guard- ing your tete-a-tete. . . . You learned that she loved you> and you made not the slightest change in your conduct. . . . Was it possible after that not to suspect you of having good intentions? I was convinced you would marry her! And you—you complained—you laughed! Why! What had she done to you?" "Don't shout,. Screwy, the people are staring at us," I said, getting round Pavel Ivanovich. "Let us change this conversation. It's old women's chatter. I'll explain in a few words,., and that must be enough for you. I went to the Kalinins' house because I was dull and also because Nadenka interested me. She's a very interesting girl. . . . Per- haps I might even have married her,THE SHOOTING PARTY 209 But, finding out that you had preceded me as a candidate for her heart, that you were not indifferent to her, I decided to disappear. ... It would have been cruel on my part to stand in the way of such a good fellow as yourself. . . "Thanks for the favour! I never asked you for this gracious gift, and, as far as I can judge by the expression of your face, you are now not speaking the truth; you are talking nonsense not reflecting on what you say. . . . And besides, the fact of my being a good fellow did not hinder you on one of your last meetings with Nadenka to make her some proposals in the summer- house, which would have brought no good to the excellent young fellow if he had married hex." "O-ho! Screwy, where did you find out about this proposal? It seems that your affairs are not going on badly, if such secrets are confided to you! . . . However, you've grown white with rage and almost look as if you were going to strike me. . . . And just now we agreed to be objective! Screwy, what a funny fellow you are! Well, we've had about enough of all this nonsense. . . . Let's go to the post office. . . ." CHAPTER X the dark figure We went to the post office, which looked out gaily with its three little windows on to the market place. Through the grey paling gleamed the many coloured flower garden of our post- master, Maxim Federovich, who was known in the whole district as a great connoisseur of all that concerned gar- dening and the art of laying out beds, borders, lawns, etc. We found Maxim Fedorovich very pleasantly occupied. Smiling, and red with pleasure, he was seated at his green table, turning over hundred-rouble notes as if they were a book. Evidently even the sight of another man's money had a pleasing effect on his frame of mind. "How do you do, Maxim Fedoro- vich?" I said to him. "Where have you got such a pile of money?" "It's to be sent to St. Petersburg," the postmaster replied, smiling sweetly, and he pointed his chin at the corner of the room where a dark figure was sitting on the only chair in the post office. This dark figure rose when he saw me and came towards us. I recognized my new acquaintance^ my new enemy, whom I had so grievously insulted when I had got drunk at the Count's. "My best greetings!" he said. "How are you, Kaetan Kazimiro- vich?" I answered, pretending not to notice his outstretched hand. "How's the Count?" "Thank God, he's quite well. . . . He's only a little dull. , . . He's ex- pecting you to come every minute." I read on Pshekhotsky's face the de- sire to converse with me. How could that desire have arisen after the "swine" with which I had treated him on that evening, and what caused this change of tone?" "What a lot of money you have!" I said, gazing at the packet of hundred- rouble notes he was sending away. It seemed as if somebody had given a fillip to my brain! I noticed that one of the hundred-rouble notes had charred edges, and one corner had been quite burnt off. ... It was the hundred- rouble note which I had wanted to burn in the flame of a Chandor candle, when210 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV the Count refused to accept it from me as my share of the payment for the gipsies, and which Pshekhotsky had picked up when I flung it on the ground. "It's better that I should give it to the poor, than let it be consumed by the flames," he had said then. To what "poor" was he sending it now? "Seven thousand five hundred rou- bles," Maxim Fedorovich counted in a drawling voice. "Quite right!" It is ill to pry into the secrets of other people, but I wanted terribly to find out whose this money was and to whom this black-browed Pole was sending it to Petersburg. This money was certainly not his, and the Count had nobody to whom he would send it. "He has plundered the drunken Count," I thought. "If deaf and silly Scops-Owl knows how to plunder the Count, what difficulty will this goose have in thrusting his paw into his pockets?" "Oh, by-the-by, I'll also take this op- portunity of sending some money," Pavel Ivanovich said hastily. "Do you know, gentlemen, it's quite incredible! For fifteen roubles you can get five things, carriage free! A telescope, a chronometer, a calendar, and some- thing more. . . . Maxim Fedorovich, kindly let me have a sheet of paper and an envelope!" Screw sent off his fifteen roubles, I received my newspaper and a letter, and we left the post office. We went towards the church. Screwy paced after me, as pale and dismal as an autumn day. The conversation in which he had tried to show himself to be "ob- jective" had excited him quite beyond all expectation. All the church bells were being rung. An apparently endless crowd was slowly descending the steps that led from the church porch. Ancient banners and a dark cross were held high above the crowd, at the head of the procession. The sun played gaily on the vestments of the priests, and the icon of the Holy Virgin emitted blind- ing rays. . . . "Ah, there are our people!" the doc- tor said, pointing to the beau-monde of our district which had separated itself from the crowd and was standing aside. "Your people, but not mine," I said. "That's all the same. . . . Let us join them. . . ." I approached my acquaintances and bowed. The Justice of the Peace, Kal- inin, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a grey beard and crawfish-like eyes, was standing in front of all the others, whis- pering something in his daughter's ear. Trying to appear as if he had not no- ticed me, he made not the slightest movement in answer to my general salute that had been made in his direction. "Good-bye, my angel," he said in a lachrymose voice as he kissed his daugh- ter on the forehead. "Drive home alone. I shall be back by evening. My visits will take but little time." Having kissed his daughter again and smiled sweetly on the beau-mondej he frowned fiercely, and turning sharply round on one heel, towards a muzhik wearing the disc of a foreman, he said hoarsely to him: "When will they allow my carriage to drive up?" The muzhik became excited and waved his arms. "Look out!"THE SHOOTING PARTY 211 The crowd that was following the procession made way and the carriage of the Justice of the Peace drove up with chic and the sound of bells to where Kalinin was standing. He sat down, bowed majestically, and alarm- ing the crowd by his "Look out!" he disappeared from sight without casting a single glance at me. "What a majestic swine!" I whispered in the doctor's ear. "Come along!" "Don't you want to say a word to Nadezhda Nicolaevna?" Pavel Ivanovich asked: "It's time for me to go home. I'm in a hurry." The doctor looked at me angrily, sighed, and turned away. I made a general bow and went towards the booths. As I was making my way through the dense crowd, I turned to look back at the Justice's daughter. She was looking after me and appeared to be trying whether I could bear her pure, searching gaze, so full of bitter injury and reproach. Her eyes said: "Why?" Something stirred in my breast, and I felt remorse and shame for my silly conduct. I suddenly felt a wish to re- turn and caress and fondle with all the strength of my soft, and not yet quite corrupt, soul this girl who loved me passionately, and who had been so grievously wronged by me; and to tell her that it was not I who was in fault, but my accursed pride that prevented me from living, breathing or advancing a step. Silly, conceited, foppish pride, full of vanity. Could I, a frivolous man, stretch out the hand of reconcilia- tion, when I knew and saw that every one of my movements was watched by the eyes of the district gossips and the "ill-omened old women"? Sooner let them laugh her to scorn and cover her with derisive glances and smiles, than undeceive them of the "inflexibility" of my character and the pride, which silly women admired so much in me. Just before, when I had spoken with Pavel Ivanovich about the reasons that had caused me suddenly to cease my visits to the Kalinins, I had not been candid and quite inaccurate. ... I had held back the real reason; I had con- cealed it bccause I was ashamed of its triviality. . . . The cause was as tiny as a grain of dust. ... It was this. On the occasion of my last visit, after I had given up Zorka to the coachman and was entering the Kalinin's house, the following phrase reached my ears: "Nadenka, where are you? . . . Your betrothed has come!" These words were spoken by her father, the Justice of the Peace, who probably did not think that I might hear him. But I heard him, and my self- love was aroused. "I her betrothed?" I thought. "Who allowed you to call me her betrothed? On what basis?" And something snapped in my breast. Pride rebelled within me, and I forgot all I had remembered when riding to Kalinin's. ... I forgot that I had al- lured the young girl, and I myself was being attracted by her to such a degree that I was unable to pass a single even- ing without her company. ... I forgot her lovely eyes that never left my memory either by night or day, her kind smile, her melodious voice. ... I for- got the quiet summer evenings that will never return either for her or me. . . .212 WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV Everything had crumbled away before the pressure of the devilish pride that had been aroused by the silly phrase of her simple-minded father. ... I left the house in a rage, mounted Zorkar and galloped off, vowing to snub Kalinin, who without my permission had dared to consider me as his daughter's be- trothed "Resides, Voznesensky is in love with her," I thought, trying to justify my sudden departure,, as I rode home. "He began to twirl around her before I didT and they were considered to be engaged when I made her acquaintance. I won't interfere with him!" From that day I never put a foot in Kalinin's house, though there were mo- ments when I suffered from longing to see Nadia, and my soul yearned for the renewal of the past. . . . But the whole district knew of the rupture, knew that I had "bolted" from marriage. . . . How could my pride make concessions? Who can tell? If Kalinin had not said those words, and if I had not been so stupidly proud and touchy, perhaps I would not have had to look back, nor she to gaze at me with such eyes. . . . But even those eyes were better, even the feeling of being wronged and of re- proach was better, than what I saw in those eyes a few months after our meet- ing in the Tenevo church! The grief that shone in the depths of those black eyes now was only the beginning of the terrible misfortune that, like the sud- den onrush of a train, swept that girl from the earth. They were like little flowers compared to those berries that were then already ripening in order to pour terrible poison into her frail body and anguished heart. CHAPTER XI MUCH LINEN When I left Tenevo I took the same road by which I had come. The sun showed it was already midday. As in the morning, peasants' carts and land- owners' britzkas beguiled my hearing by their squeaking and the metallic rumble of their bells. Again, the gar- dener, Franz, drove past me with his vodka barrel, but this time it was prob- ably fulL Again his eyes gave me a sour look, and he touched his cap. His nasty face jarred on me, but this time again the disagreeable impression that the meeting with him had made on me was entirely wiped away by the fores- ter's daughter, Olenka, whose heavy wagonette caught me up. "Give me a lift!" I called to-her. She nodded gaily to me and stopped her vehicle, I sat down beside her, and the wagonette rattled on along the road, which like a light stripe cut through the three versts of the Tenevo forest. For about two minutes we looked at each other in silence. "What a pretty girl she really is?" I thought as I looked at her throat and chubby chin. aIf I were told to choose between Madenka and her, I would choose her. . . . She's more natural, fresher, her nature is broader, bolder. ... If she fell into good hands, much could be made of her! . . . The other is morose, visionary . . . clever." Lying at Olenka's feet there were two pieces of linen and several parcels.