The Complete Short Novels

by Chekhov, Anton

  take a trip in the nearest future, like newlyweds; that is, she wants to be with me constantly on the train and in hotels, and yet I like to read when I travel and can’t bear talking.’’

  ‘‘But you can admonish her,’’ said Pekarsky.

  ‘‘How? Do you think she’d understand me? Mercy, we think so differently! In her opinion, to leave her papa and mama or her husband for the man she loves is the height of civic courage, but in my opinion, it’s childishness. To fall in love, to become intimate with a man, means starting a new life for her, but in my opinion, it doesn’t mean anything. Love and a man constitute the main essence of her life, and maybe in this respect the philosophy of the unconscious17 is at work in her. Try convincing her that love is only a simple need, like food and clothing, that the world is by no means perishing because husbands and wives are bad, that one can be a debauchee, a seducer, and at the same time a man of genius and nobility, and, on the other hand, that one can renounce the pleasures of love and at the same time be a stupid, wicked animal. The contemporary cultured man, even if he stands very low—a French worker, for instance— spends ten sous a day on dinner, five sous on wine to go with dinner, and from five to ten sous on a woman, while giving his mind and nerves entirely to his work. Zinaida Fyodorovna gives not sous but her whole soul to love. I could perhaps admonish her, but in reply, she’ll cry out sincerely that I have ruined her, that she has nothing left in life.’’

  ‘‘Don’t say anything to her,’’ said Pekarsky, ‘‘simply rent a separate apartment for her. That’s all.’’

  ‘‘It’s easy to say . . .’’

  A brief silence ensued.

  ‘‘But she’s sweet,’’ said Kukushkin. ‘‘She’s charming. Such women imagine they’re going to love eternally and give themselves with pathos.’’

  ‘‘But you’ve got to have a head on your shoulders,’’ said Orlov, ‘‘you’ve got to reason. All the experiences known to us from everyday life, and set down in the scrolls of countless novels and plays, unanimously confirm that no adulterous relations and cohabitations among decent people, however great their love is in the beginning, last longer than two years, three at the most. She should know that. And so all these moves, pots and pans, and hopes for eternal love and harmony, are nothing more than a wish to deceive herself and me. She’s sweet and charming—who’s arguing? But she has upset the applecart of my life. What I’ve considered stuff and nonsense till now, she forces me to raise to the degree of a serious question, I serve an idol I’ve never considered a god. She’s sweet and charming, but for some reason now, when I come home from work, I’m uneasy at heart, as if I expect to encounter some discomfort at home, like stove-makers who have dismantled all the stoves and heaped up mountains of bricks. In short, it’s not sous that I give for love now, it’s part of my peace and my nerves. And that’s bad.’’

  ‘‘And what if she could hear this villain!’’ sighed Kukushkin. ‘‘My dear sir,’’ he said theatrically, ‘‘I shall release you from the onerous duty of loving this charming being! I shall woo Zinaida Fyodorovna away from you!’’

  ‘‘Go ahead . . .’’ Orlov said carelessly.

  For half a minute Kukushkin laughed in a thin little voice and shook all over, then he said:

  ‘‘Watch out, I’m not joking! Please don’t play the Othello afterwards!’’

  They all began talking about how indefatigable Kukushkin was in amorous affairs, how irresistible he was for women and dangerous for husbands, and how devils would roast him on hot coals in the other world for his dissolute life. He kept silent and narrowed his eyes, and when ladies of his acquaintance were named, he shook his little finger threateningly—meaning, don’t give away other people’s secrets. Orlov suddenly looked at his watch.

  The guests understood and made ready to leave. I remember Gruzin, drunk on wine, this time was painfully long getting dressed. He put on his coat, which resembled the capotes they used to make for children in unwealthy families, raised his collar, and began telling something lengthy; then, seeing that no one was listening to him, he threw his plaid that smelled of the nursery over his shoulder, and asked me, with a guilty, pleading look, to find his hat.

  ‘‘Georginka, my angel!’’ he said tenderly. ‘‘Listen to me, dearest, let’s take a drive out of town!’’

  ‘‘You go, I can’t. I have the status of a married man now.’’

  ‘‘She’s nice, she won’t be angry. My kindly superior, let’s go! The weather’s splendid, a little blizzard, a little frost . . . Word of honor, you need shaking up, you’re out of sorts, devil knows . . .’’

  Orlov stretched, yawned, and looked at Pekarsky.

  ‘‘Will you go?’’ he asked, reconsidering.

  ‘‘Don’t know. Perhaps.’’

  ‘‘At least get drunk, eh? All right, I’ll go,’’ Orlov decided after some hesitation. ‘‘Wait, I’ll go and get some money.’’

  He went to his study, and Gruzin trudged after him, dragging his plaid behind him. A moment later, they both came back to the front hall. Gruzin, tipsy and very pleased, crumpled a ten-rouble note in his hand.

  ‘‘We’ll settle up tomorrow,’’ he said. ‘‘And she’s kind, she won’t be angry... She’s my Lizochka’s godmother, I love her, poor woman. Ah, my dear man!’’ he suddenly laughed joyfully and pressed his forehead to Pekarsky’s back. ‘‘Ah, Pekarsky, my soul! Attornissimus, dry as a dry rusk, but he sure likes women . . .’’

  ‘‘Add: fat ones,’’ said Orlov, putting on his fur coat. ‘‘However, let’s go, or else we’ll meet her in the doorway.’’

  ‘‘Vieni pensando a me segretamente! ’’ sang Gruzin.

  They finally left. Orlov did not spend the night at home and came back only by dinnertime the next day.

  VI

  ZINAIDA FYODOROVNA’S GOLDEN watch, once given to her by her father, disappeared. This disappearance astonished and frightened her. For half a day she walked through all the rooms, looking in perplexity at the tables and windowsills, but the watch had vanished into thin air.

  Soon after that, about three days later, Zinaida Fyodorovna, having come back from somewhere, forgot her purse in the front hall. Fortunately for me, it was not I who helped her out of her things but Polya. When the purse was found missing, it was no longer in the front hall.

  ‘‘Strange!’’ Zinaida Fyodorovna was puzzled. ‘‘I remember perfectly well taking it out of my pocket to pay the cabby...and then putting it here by the mirror. Wonders!’’

  I hadn’t stolen it, but a feeling came over me as if I had stolen it and had been caught. Tears even came to my eyes. When they sat down to dinner, Zinaida Fyodorovna said to Orlov in French:

  ‘‘We have ghosts here. Today I lost my purse in the front hall, but I looked just now, and it was lying on my desk. But it was not an unmercenary trick the ghosts played. They took a gold piece and twenty roubles for their work.’’

  ‘‘First your watch disappeared, and now it’s money . . .’’ said Orlov. ‘‘Why does nothing like that ever happen with me?’’

  A minute later, Zinaida Fyodorovna no longer remembered the trick the ghosts had played, and was laughingly telling how she had ordered some stationery a week ago but had forgotten to leave her new address in the shop, and the stationery had been sent to her husband at the old apartment, and her husband had had to pay the bill of twelve roubles. And she suddenly rested her gaze on Polya and looked at her intently. With that, she blushed and became confused to such a degree that she started talking about something else.

  When I brought coffee to the study, Orlov was standing by the fireplace with his back to the fire, and she was sitting in an armchair facing him.

  ‘‘I’m not at all in a bad mood,’’ she was saying in French. ‘‘But I’ve started to figure it out now, and it’s all clear to me.

  I can name you the day and even the hour when she stole my watch. And the purse? There can be no doubts here. Oh!’’ she laughed, taking the coffee fro
m me. ‘‘Now I understand why I lose my handkerchiefs and gloves so often. As you like, but tomorrow I’ll let the magpie go and send Stepan for my Sofya. She’s not a thief, and she doesn’t have such a...repugnant look.’’

  ‘‘You’re out of sorts. Tomorrow you’ll be in a different mood, and you’ll understand that it’s impossible to dismiss a person only because you suspect her of something.’’

  ‘‘I don’t suspect, I’m certain,’’ said Zinaida Fyodorovna. ‘‘All the while I suspected that proletarian with the wretched face, your servant, I never said a word. It’s too bad you don’t believe me, Georges.’’

  ‘‘If you and I think differently about something, it doesn’t mean I don’t believe you. You may be right,’’ said Orlov, turning to the fire and throwing his cigarette into it, ‘‘but even so, you oughtn’t to get excited. Generally, I must confess, I didn’t expect that my small household would cause you so many serious cares and worries. A gold piece disappeared—well, God be with it, take a hundred of mine, but to change the order, to bring in a new maid from outside, wait till she gets used to it here—it’s all long, boring, and not in my character. True, our present maid is fat and maybe has a weakness for gloves and handkerchiefs, but to make up for it, she’s quite decent, disciplined, and doesn’t squeal when Kukushkin pinches her.’’

  ‘‘In short, you can’t part with her . . . Just say so.’’

  ‘‘Are you jealous?’’

  ‘‘Yes, I’m jealous!’’ Zinaida Fyodorovna said resolutely.

  ‘‘Thanks.’’

  ‘‘Yes, I’m jealous!’’ she repeated, and tears glistened in her eyes. ‘‘No, it’s not jealousy but something worse . . . I have a hard time naming it.’’ She put her hands to her temples and went on impulsively: ‘‘You men are sometimes so vile! It’s terrible!’’

  ‘‘I see nothing terrible here.’’

  ‘‘I haven’t seen it, I don’t know, but they say still in childhood you men begin with maids and then out of habit don’t feel any disgust at it. I don’t know, I don’t know, but I’ve even read . . . Georges, you’re right, of course,’’ she said, going up to Orlov and changing her tone to a tender and pleading one, ‘‘in fact, I am out of sorts today. But understand that I can’t be otherwise. I find her repugnant, and I’m afraid of her. It’s painful for me to see her.’’

  ‘‘Is it really impossible to rise above this pettiness?’’ said Orlov, shrugging his shoulders in perplexity and stepping away from the fireplace. ‘‘Nothing could be simpler: don’t pay attention to her, and she won’t be repugnant, and there will be no need for you to make a whole drama out of a trifle.’’

  I left the study and do not know what reply Orlov received. Be that as it may, Polya stayed with us. After that, Zinaida Fyodorovna would not address her for anything and obviously tried to do without her services; whenever Polya handed her something, or even merely passed by, jingling her bracelet and rustling her skirts, she shuddered.

  I think that if Gruzin or Pekarsky had asked Orlov to dismiss Polya, he would have done it without the slightest hesitation, not troubling himself with any explanations; he was tractable, like all indifferent people. But in his relations with Zinaida Fyodorovna, for some reason, he showed a stubbornness, even in petty things, which at times went as far as tyranny. I just knew that if Zinaida Fyodorovna liked something, he was bound not to like it. When she came back from shopping and hastened to boast to him of her new purchases, he would glance fleetingly at them and say coldly that the more superfluous things there were in the apartment, the less air there was. It would happen that, having already put on his tailcoat to go out somewhere and having already taken leave of Zinaida Fyodorovna, he would suddenly stay home out of stubbornness. It seemed to me then that he was staying home only to feel miserable.

  ‘‘Why did you stay?’’ Zinaida Fyodorovna would say with affected vexation and at the same time beaming with pleasure. ‘‘Why? You’re used to spending your evenings out, and I don’t want you to change your habits for my sake. Go, please, if you don’t want me to feel guilty.’’

  ‘‘Is anyone blaming you?’’ Orlov would say.

  With a victimized look, he would sprawl on the armchair in his study and, shielding his eyes with his hand, pick up a book. But the book would soon drop from his hands, he would turn heavily on the chair and again shield his eyes as if from the sun. Now he was vexed that he had not gone out.

  ‘‘May I come in?’’ Zinaida Fyodorovna would say, hesitantly coming into the study. ‘‘You’re reading? And I got bored and came for one little minute . . . to have a look.’’

  I remember on one of those evenings she came in that way, hesitantly and inopportunely, and lowered herself onto the rug by Orlov’s feet, and by her timid, soft movements, it was clear that she did not understand his mood and was afraid.

  ‘‘And you keep reading . . .’’ she began ingratiatingly, evidently wishing to flatter him. ‘‘Do you know, Georges, what is another secret of your success? You’re very educated and intelligent. What book have you got there?’’

  Orlov told her. Several minutes of silence passed, which seemed very long to me. I stood in the drawing room, observing them both from there and afraid I might start coughing.

  ‘‘I wanted to say something to you . . .’’ Zinaida Fyodorovna said quietly and laughed. ‘‘Shall I tell you? Perhaps you’ll start laughing and call it self-delusion. You see, I’d like terribly, terribly much to think that you stayed home tonight for my sake...to spend the evening together. Yes? May I think so?’’

  ‘‘Please do,’’ said Orlov, shielding his eyes. ‘‘The truly happy man is the one who thinks not only about what is but even about what is not.’’

  ‘‘You said something long, and I didn’t quite understand it. That is, you want to say that happy people live by imagination? Yes, that’s true. I like to sit in your study in the evening and be carried far, far away in my thoughts... It’s sometimes nice to dream. Let’s dream aloud, Georges!’’

  ‘‘I never went to a girls’ institute, I never learned that science.’’

  ‘‘Are you out of sorts?’’ Zinaida Fyodorovna asked, taking Orlov by the hand. ‘‘Why, tell me? I’m afraid when you’re like this. I can’t tell whether you’ve got a headache or are angry with me . . .’’

  Several more long minutes passed in silence.

  ‘‘Why have you changed?’’ she said softly. ‘‘Why are you no longer cheerful and tender as you were on Znamenskaya? I’ve lived with you for almost a month, but it seems to me we haven’t begun to live yet and have never once talked properly. You answer me each time with little jokes, or else cold and long, like a teacher. And there’s something cold in your jokes . . . Why have you stopped talking seriously with me?’’

  ‘‘I always talk seriously.’’

  ‘‘Well, let’s talk, then. For God’s sake, Georges... let’s talk.’’

  ‘‘Yes, let’s. But about what?’’

  ‘‘Let’s talk about our life, about the future . . .’’ Zinaida Fyodorovna said dreamily. ‘‘I keep making plans for life, I keep making them—and I feel so good! I’ll begin with a question, Georges: when will you leave your service?’’

  ‘‘Why would I do that?’’ asked Orlov, taking his hand away from his forehead.

  ‘‘You can’t be in the service with your views. You’re out of place there.’’

  ‘‘My views?’’ asked Orlov. ‘‘My views? By conviction and by nature, I’m an ordinary official, a Shchedrin hero. You take me for someone else, I daresay.’’

  ‘‘You’re joking again, Georges!’’

  ‘‘Not in the least. The service doesn’t satisfy me, maybe, but still it’s better for me than anything else. I’m used to it, the people there are the same as I am; I’m not superfluous there, in any case, and feel tolerably well.’’

  ‘‘You hate the service, and it sickens you.’’

  ‘‘Does it? If I hand in my resignation, start dr
eaming aloud, and fly off to another world, do you think that world will be less hateful to me than the service?’’

  ‘‘You’re even ready to slander yourself in order to contradict me.’’ Zinaida Fyodorovna was hurt and got up. ‘‘I’m sorry I started this conversation.’’

  ‘‘Why are you angry? I’m not angry that you are not in the service. Each of us lives as he likes.’’

  ‘‘But do you really live as you like? Are you really free? Spending your whole life writing papers that are contrary to your convictions,’’ Zinaida Fyodorovna went on, clasping her hands in despair, ‘‘obeying, wishing your superiors a happy New Year, then cards, cards, cards, and, above all, serving an order that cannot be sympathetic to you—no, Georges, no! Don’t joke so crudely. This is terrible. You’re a man of ideas and should serve only your idea.’’

  ‘‘Truly, you take me for someone else,’’ Orlov sighed.

  ‘‘Tell me simply that you don’t want to talk with me. I’m repulsive to you, that’s all,’’ Zinaida Fyodorovna said through her tears.

  ‘‘Here’s what, my sweet,’’ Orlov said admonishingly, sitting up in his chair. ‘‘You yourself kindly observed that I am an intelligent and educated man, and to instruct the instructed only does harm. I’m well acquainted with all the ideas, great and small, that you have in mind when you call me a man of ideas. Which means that if I prefer the service and cards to those ideas, I probably have reasons for doing so. That’s one thing. Second, as far as I know, you have never served, and your judgment of government service can only be drawn from anecdotes and bad novels. Therefore it will do us no harm to agree once and for all not to talk about what has long been known to us, or about what does not fall within the circle of our competence.’’