The Complete Short Novels

by Chekhov, Anton

  ‘‘It seemed to me that you wanted to kill him . . .’’ he mumbled. ‘‘How contrary it is to human nature! Unnatural to such a degree!’’

  ‘‘How did you get here, though?’’ asked the zoologist.

  ‘‘Don’t ask!’’ the deacon waved his hand. ‘‘The unclean one led me astray: go, yes, go . . . So I went and almost died of fright in the corn. But now, thank God, thank God...I’m quite pleased with you,’’ the deacon went on mumbling. ‘‘And our grandpa tarantula will be pleased...Funny, so funny! Only I beg you insistently not to tell anyone I was here, or else I may get it in the neck from my superiors. They’ll say: the deacon acted as a second.’’

  ‘‘Gentlemen!’’ said von Koren. ‘‘The deacon asks you not to tell anybody you saw him here. He may get in trouble.’’

  ‘‘How contrary it is to human nature!’’ sighed the deacon. ‘‘Forgive me magnanimously, but you had such a look on your face that I thought you were certainly going to kill him.’’

  ‘‘I was strongly tempted to finish the scoundrel off,’’ said von Koren, ‘‘but you shouted right then, and I missed. However, this whole procedure is revolting to someone unaccustomed to it, and it’s made me tired, Deacon. I feel terribly weak. Let’s go . . .’’

  ‘‘No, kindly allow me to go on foot. I’ve got to dry out, I’m all wet and chilly.’’

  ‘‘Well, you know best,’’ the weakened zoologist said in a weary voice, getting into the carriage and closing his eyes. ‘‘You know best . . .’’

  While they were walking around the carriages and getting into them, Kerbalai stood by the road and, holding his stomach with both hands, kept bowing low and showing his teeth; he thought the gentlemen had come to enjoy nature and drink tea, and did not understand why they were getting into the carriages. In the general silence, the train started, and the only one left by the dukhan was the deacon.

  ‘‘Went dukhan, drank tea,’’ he said to Kerbalai. ‘‘Mine wants eat.’’

  Kerbalai spoke Russian well, but the deacon thought the Tartar would understand him better if he spoke to him in broken Russian.

  ‘‘Fried eggs, gave cheese . . .’’

  ‘‘Come in, come in, pope,’’ Kerbalai said, bowing, ‘‘I’ll give you everything . . . There’s cheese, there’s wine . . . Eat whatever you like.’’

  ‘‘What’s God in Tartar?’’ the deacon asked as he went into the dukhan.

  ‘‘Your God and my God are all the same,’’ said Kerbalai, not understanding him. ‘‘God is one for everybody, only people are different. Some are Russian, some are Turks, or some are English—there are many kinds of people, but God is one.’’

  ‘‘Very good, sir. If all people worship one God, why do you Muslims look upon Christians as your eternal enemies?’’

  ‘‘Why get angry?’’ said Kerbalai, clasping his stomach with both hands. ‘‘You’re a pope, I’m a Muslim, you say you want to eat, I give . . . Only the rich man sorts out which God is yours, which is mine, but for a poor man, it’s all the same. Eat, please.’’

  While a theological discussion was going on in the dukhan, Laevsky drove home and remembered how eerie it had been to drive out at dawn, when the road, the cliffs, and the mountains were wet and dark and the unknown future seemed as frightening as an abyss with no bottom to be seen, while now the raindrops hanging on the grass and rocks sparkled in the sun like diamonds, nature smiled joyfully, and the frightening future was left behind. He kept glancing at the sullen, tear-stained face of Sheshkovsky and ahead at the two carriages in which von Koren, his seconds, and the doctor rode, and it seemed to him as though they were all coming back from a cemetery where they had just buried a difficult, unbearable man who had interfered with all their lives.

  ‘‘It’s all over,’’ he thought about his past, carefully stroking his neck with his fingers.

  On the right side of his neck, near the collar, he had a small swelling, as long and thick as a little finger, and he felt pain, as if someone had passed a hot iron over his neck. It was a contusion from a bullet.

  Then, when he got home, a long, strange day, sweet and foggy as oblivion, wore on for him. Like a man released from prison or the hospital, he peered at long-familiar objects and was surprised that the tables, the windows, the chairs, the light and the sea aroused a living, childlike joy in him, such as he had not experienced for a long, long time. Nadezhda Fyodorovna, pale and grown very thin, did not understand his meek voice and strange gait; she hurriedly told him everything that had happened to her... It seemed to her that he probably listened poorly and did not understand her, and that if he learned everything, he would curse and kill her, yet he listened to her, stroked her face and hair, looked into her eyes, and said:

  ‘‘I have no one but you...’’

  Then they sat for a long time in the front garden, pressed to each other, and said nothing, or else, dreaming aloud of their happy future life, they uttered short, abrupt phrases, and it seemed to him that he had never spoken so lengthily and beautifully.

  XXI

  A LITTLE MORE than three months went by.

  The day von Koren had appointed for his departure came. Cold rain had been falling in big drops since early morning, a northeast wind was blowing, and the sea churned itself up in big waves. People said that in such weather the steamer could hardly put into the roads. According to the schedule, it should have come after nine, but von Koren, who went out to the embankment at noon and after dinner, saw nothing through his binoculars but gray waves and rain obscuring the horizon.

  Towards the end of the day, the rain stopped, and the wind began to drop noticeably. Von Koren was already reconciled with the thought that he was not to leave that day, and he sat down to play chess with Samoilenko; but when it grew dark, the orderly reported that lights had appeared on the sea and a rocket had been seen.

  Von Koren began to hurry. He shouldered a bag, kissed Samoilenko and then the deacon, went around all the rooms quite needlessly, said good-bye to the orderly and the cook, and went out feeling as though he had forgotten something at the doctor’s or at his own place. He went down the street side by side with Samoilenko, followed by the deacon with a box, and behind them all came the orderly with two suitcases. Only Samoilenko and the orderly could make out the dim lights on the sea; the others looked into the darkness and saw nothing. The steamer had stopped far from shore.

  ‘‘Quick, quick,’’ von Koren urged. ‘‘I’m afraid it will leave!’’

  Passing by the three-windowed little house Laevsky had moved into soon after the duel, von Koren could not help looking in the window. Laevsky, bent over, was sitting at a desk, his back to the window, and writing.

  ‘‘I’m astonished,’’ the zoologist said softly. ‘‘How he’s put the screws to himself !’’

  ‘‘Yes, it’s worthy of astonishment,’’ sighed Samoilenko. ‘‘He sits like that from morning till evening, sits and works.

  He wants to pay his debts. And brother, he lives worse than a beggar!’’

  Half a minute passed in silence. The zoologist, the doctor, and the deacon stood by the window, and they all looked at Laevsky.

  ‘‘So he never left here, poor fellow,’’ said Samoilenko. ‘‘Remember how he fussed about?’’

  ‘‘Yes, he’s really put the screws to himself,’’ repeated von Koren. ‘‘His marriage, this all-day work for a crust of bread, some new expression in his face, and even his gait—it’s all extraordinary to such a degree that I don’t even know what to call it.’’ The zoologist took Samoilenko by the sleeve and went on with agitation in his voice: ‘‘Tell him and his wife that I was astonished at them as I was leaving, wished them well . . . and ask him, if it’s possible, not to think ill of me. He knows me. He knows that if I could have foreseen this change then, I might have become his best friend.’’

  ‘‘Go in to him, say good-bye.’’

  ‘‘No. It’s awkward.’’

  ‘‘Why? God knows, maybe you’ll
never see him again.’’

  The zoologist thought a little and said:

  ‘‘That’s true.’’

  Samoilenko tapped softly on the window with his finger. Laevsky gave a start and turned to look.

  ‘‘Vanya, Nikolai Vassilyich wishes to say good-bye to you,’’ said Samoilenko. ‘‘He’s just leaving.’’

  Laevsky got up from the desk and went to the front hall to open the door. Samoilenko, von Koren, and the deacon came in.

  ‘‘I’ve come for a moment,’’ the zoologist began, taking off his galoshes in the front hall and already regretting that he had given way to his feelings and come in uninvited. (‘‘As if I’m forcing myself on him,’’ he thought, ‘‘and that’s stupid.’’) ‘‘Forgive me for bothering you,’’ he said, following Laevsky into his room, ‘‘but I’m just leaving, and I felt drawn to you. God knows if we’ll ever see each other again.’’

  ‘‘I’m very glad... I humbly beg you,’’ said Laevsky, and he awkwardly moved chairs for his visitors, as if he wished to bar their way, and stopped in the middle of the room, rubbing his hands.

  ‘‘I should have left the witnesses outside,’’ thought von Koren, and he said firmly:

  ‘‘Don’t think ill of me, Ivan Andreich. To forget the past is, of course, impossible, it is all too sad, and I haven’t come here to apologize or to insist that I’m not to blame. I acted sincerely and have not changed my convictions since . . . True, as I now see, to my great joy, I was mistaken concerning you, but one can stumble even on a smooth road, and such is human fate: if you’re not mistaken in the main thing, you’ll be mistaken in the details. No one knows the real truth.’’

  ‘‘Yes, no one knows the truth . . .’’ said Laevsky.

  ‘‘Well, good-bye . . . God grant you all good things.’’

  Von Koren gave Laevsky his hand; he shook it and bowed.

  ‘‘So don’t think ill of me,’’ said von Koren. ‘‘Give my greetings to your wife, and tell her I was very sorry I couldn’t say good-bye to her.’’

  ‘‘She’s here.’’

  Laevsky went to the door and said into the other room:

  ‘‘Nadya, Nikolai Vassilievich wishes to say good-bye to you.’’

  Nadezhda Fyodorovna came in; she stopped by the door and looked timidly at the visitors. Her face was guilty and frightened, and she held her arms like a schoolgirl who is being reprimanded.

  ‘‘I’m just leaving, Nadezhda Fyodorovna,’’ said von Koren, ‘‘and I’ve come to say good-bye.’’

  She offered him her hand irresolutely, and Laevsky bowed.

  ‘‘How pitiful they both are, though!’’ thought von Koren. ‘‘They don’t come by this life cheaply.’’

  ‘‘I’ll be in Moscow and Petersburg,’’ he asked, ‘‘do you need to have anything sent from there?’’

  ‘‘Need anything?’’ said Nadezhda Fyodorovna, and she exchanged alarmed glances with her husband. ‘‘Nothing, I believe . . .’’

  ‘‘No, nothing . . .’’ said Laevsky, rubbing his hands. ‘‘Say hello for us.’’

  Von Koren did not know what else could or needed to be said, yet earlier, as he was coming in, he thought he would say a great many good, warm, and significant things. He silently shook hands with Laevsky and his wife and went out with a heavy feeling.

  ‘‘What people!’’ the deacon was saying in a low voice, walking behind. ‘‘My God, what people! Truly, the right hand of God planted this vineyard! Lord, Lord! One defeated thousands and the other tens of thousands. 32 Nikolai Vassilyich,’’ he said ecstatically, ‘‘know that today you have defeated the greatest human enemy—pride!’’

  ‘‘Come now, Deacon! What kind of victors are we? Victors look like eagles, but he’s pitiful, timid, downtrodden, he keeps bowing like a Chinese doll, and I ... I feel sad.’’

  There was the sound of footsteps behind them. It was Laevsky catching up to see them off. On the pier stood the orderly with the two suitcases, and a little further off, four oarsmen.

  ‘‘It’s really blowing, though . . . brr!’’ said Samoilenko. ‘‘Must be a whale of a storm out at sea—aie, aie! It’s not a good time to be going, Kolya.’’

  ‘‘I’m not afraid of seasickness.’’

  ‘‘That’s not the point... These fools may capsize you. You ought to have gone in the agent’s skiff. Where’s the agent’s skiff ?’’ he shouted to the oarsmen.

  ‘‘Gone, Your Excellency.’’

  ‘‘And the customs skiff ?’’

  ‘‘Also gone.’’

  ‘‘Why wasn’t it announced?’’ Samoilenko got angry. ‘‘Dunderheads!’’

  ‘‘Never mind, don’t worry . . .’’ said von Koren. ‘‘Well, good-bye. God keep you.’’

  Samoilenko embraced von Koren and crossed him three times.

  ‘‘Don’t forget me, Kolya . . . Write . . . We’ll expect you next spring.’’

  ‘‘Good-bye, Deacon,’’ said von Koren, shaking the deacon’s hand. ‘‘Thanks for the company and the good conversation. Think about the expedition.’’

  ‘‘Lord, yes, even to the ends of the earth!’’ laughed the deacon. ‘‘Am I against it?’’

  Von Koren recognized Laevsky in the darkness and silently gave him his hand. The oarsmen were already standing below, holding the boat, which kept knocking against the pilings, though the pier sheltered it from the big swells. Von Koren went down the ladder, jumped into the boat, and sat by the tiller.

  ‘‘Write!’’ Samoilenko shouted to him. ‘‘Take care of yourself !’’

  ‘‘No one knows the real truth,’’ thought Laevsky, turning up the collar of his coat and tucking his hands into his sleeves.

  The boat briskly rounded the pier and headed into the open. It disappeared among the waves, but shot up at once out of the deep hole onto a high hill, so that it was possible to make out the people and even the oars. The boat went ahead about six yards and was thrown back four.

  ‘‘Write!’’ shouted Samoilenko. ‘‘What the deuce makes you go in such weather!’’

  ‘‘Yes, no one knows the real truth . . .’’ thought Laevsky, looking with anguish at the restless, dark sea.

  ‘‘The boat is thrown back,’’ he thought, ‘‘it makes two steps forward and one step back, but the oarsmen are stubborn, they work the oars tirelessly and do not fear the high waves. The boat goes on and on, now it can no longer be seen, and in half an hour the oarsmen will clearly see the steamer’s lights, and in an hour they’ll already be by the steamer’s ladder. So it is in life... In search of the truth, people make two steps forward and one step back. Sufferings, mistakes, and the tedium of life throw them back, but the thirst for truth and a stubborn will drive them on and on. And who knows? Maybe they’ll row their way to the real truth...’’

  ‘‘Good-by-y-ye!’’ shouted Samoilenko.

  ‘‘No sight or sound of them,’’ said the deacon. ‘‘Safe journey!’’

  It began to drizzle.

  1891

  THE STORY OF AN UNKNOWN MAN

  I

  FOR REASONS OF which now is not the time to speak in detail, I had to go to work as the servant of a certain Petersburg official by the name of Orlov. He was about thirty-five years old and was called Georgiy Ivanych.

  I went to work for this Orlov on account of his father, a well-known statesman whom I regarded as a serious enemy of my cause. I reckoned that, from the conversations I would hear and the papers and notes I might find on the desk while living at the son’s, I could learn the father’s plans and intentions in detail.

  Ordinarily, at around eleven o’clock the electric bell rattled in my servants’ quarters, letting me know that the master had awakened. When I came to the bedroom with brushed clothing and boots, Georgiy Ivanych would be sitting motionless on the bed, not sleepy, but rather worn out from sleep, and staring at a single spot, showing no pleasure on the occasion of his awakening. I would help him to dress, and he would reluctantly submit to
me, silent and not noticing my presence; then, his head wet from washing and smelling of fresh perfume, he would go to the dining room and have coffee. He would sit at the table, drink his coffee, and leaf through the newspapers, while the maid Polya and I stood deferentially by the door and watched him. Two grown-up persons had to watch with the most serious attention as a third drank coffee and nibbled rusks. This is, in all probability, ridiculous and wild, but I did not see anything humiliating to myself in having to stand by the door, though I was as noble and educated a man as Orlov himself.

  At that time I had the beginnings of consumption, and along with it something else perhaps more important than consumption. I don’t know whether it was under the influence of illness or of a beginning change in worldview, which I hadn’t noticed then, but day after day I was overcome by a passionate, nagging thirst for ordinary, humdrum life. I craved inner peace, health, good air, satiety. I was becoming a dreamer and, like a dreamer, did not know what in fact I wanted. One time I wanted to go to a monastery and sit there for whole days at the window, looking out at the trees and fields; then I imagined myself buying some fifteen acres and living like a landowner; then I vowed to take up science and unfailingly become a professor at some provincial university. I’m a retired lieutenant of the navy; I daydreamed of the sea, of our squadron, of the corvette that had taken me around the world. I wanted to experience once again that inexpressible feeling when you’re strolling in a tropical forest or watching the sunset on the Bay of Bengal, swooning with rapture and at the same time longing for your motherland. I dreamed of mountains, women, music, and with curiosity, like a boy, peered into faces, listened to voices. And when I stood by the door and watched Orlov drinking coffee, I felt I was not a servant but a man to whom everything in the world was interesting, even Orlov.

  Orlov had a Petersburg appearance: narrow shoulders, long waist, sunken temples, eyes of an indeterminate color, and a skimpy, drab growth of hair, beard, and mustache. His face was sleek, worn, and unpleasant. It was especially unpleasant when he was deep in thought or asleep. To describe an ordinary appearance is hardly proper; besides, Petersburg is not Spain, a man’s appearance is of no great importance here, even in amorous matters, and is needful only for impressive servants and coachmen. I began speaking of Orlov’s face and hair only because there was something worth mentioning in his appearance, namely: when Orlov took up a newspaper or book, whatever it might be, or met people, whoever they might be, his eyes began to smile ironically, and his whole face acquired an expression of light, unmalicious mockery. Before reading or listening to something, he prepared his irony each time, like a savage his shield. This was habitual irony of an old cast, and lately it had appeared on his face without any participation of his will, most likely, but as if by reflex. But of that later.