The Complete Short Novels

by Chekhov, Anton

  The cook brought the samovar. Polina Nikolaevna made tea and, still trembling—it was cold in the room—began to denounce the singers who had sung in the Ninth Symphony. Her eyes were closing from fatigue. She drank one glass, then another, then a third.

  ‘‘And so you got married,’’ she said. ‘‘But don’t worry, I won’t pine away, I’ll be able to tear you out of my heart. It’s only annoying and bitter that you’re the same trash as everybody else, that what you need in a woman is not the mind, the intellect, but the body, beauty, youth...Youth!’ she pronounced through her nose, as if imitating someone, and laughed. ‘‘Youth! You need purity, Reinheit! Reinheit!’’ she laughed loudly, throwing herself back in the armchair. ‘‘Reinheit!’’

  When she finished laughing, there were tears in her eyes. ‘‘Are you happy, at least?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘No.’’

  ‘‘Does she love you?’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  Laptev, agitated, feeling unhappy, got up and began pacing the room.

  ‘‘No,’’ he repeated. ‘‘If you want to know, Polina, I’m very unhappy. What to do? I did a stupid thing, there’s no putting it right now. I have to deal with it philosophically. She married without love, stupidly, maybe out of calculation, but without reasoning, and now, obviously, is aware of her mistake and suffers. I can see it. At night we sleep, but in the daytime she’s afraid to stay alone with me even for five minutes and seeks diversion, company. She’s ashamed and afraid with me.’’

  ‘‘And yet she takes money from you?’’

  ‘‘That’s stupid, Polina!’’ cried Laptev. ‘‘She takes money from me because it makes decidedly no difference to her whether she has it or not. She’s an honest, pure person. She married me simply because she wanted to get away from her father, that’s all.’’

  ‘‘And you’re sure she would have married you if you weren’t rich?’’ asked Rassudina.

  ‘‘I’m not sure of anything,’’ Laptev said in anguish. ‘‘Not of anything. For God’s sake, Polina, let’s not talk about it.’’

  ‘‘You love her?’’

  ‘‘Madly.’’

  Then silence ensued. She was drinking her fourth glass of tea, and he was pacing and thinking that his wife was now most likely having dinner at the Doctors’ Club.

  ‘‘But can one possibly love without knowing why?’’ Rassudina asked and shrugged her shoulders. ‘‘No, it’s animal passion speaking in you! You’re intoxicated! You’re poisoned by that beautiful body, that Reinheit! Get away from me, you’re dirty! Go to her!’’

  She waved her hand at him, then took his hat and flung it at him. He silently put on his fur coat and went out, but she ran to the front hall, clutched his arm convulsively near the shoulder, and burst into sobs.

  ‘‘Stop it, Polina! Enough!’’ he said, and could not unclench her fingers. ‘‘Calm yourself, I beg you!’’

  She closed her eyes and went pale, and her long nose turned an unpleasant waxen color, like a dead person’s, and Laptev still could not unclench her fingers. She was in a swoon. He carefully lifted her up and put her on the bed, and sat beside her for about ten minutes, until she came to. Her hands were cold, her pulse weak and unsteady.

  ‘‘Go home,’’ she said, opening her eyes. ‘‘Go, otherwise I’ll howl again. I must get control of myself.’’

  Having left her, he went not to the Doctors’ Club, where the company was expecting him, but home. All the way there, he asked himself with reproach: why had he not set up a family for himself with this woman who loved him so much and was already in fact his wife and friend? She was the only human being who was attached to him, and besides, would it not have been a gratifying, worthy task to give happiness, shelter, and peace to this intelligent, proud being who was worn out with work? Did they suit him, he kept asking himself, these pretensions to beauty, youth, to that very happiness which could not be and which, as if in punishment or mockery, had kept him for three months now in a gloomy, depressed state? The honeymoon was long over, and he, funny to say, still did not know what sort of person his wife was. She wrote long five-page letters to her boarding-school friends and her father, and she found what to write about, but with him she talked only about the weather or about it being time for dinner or supper. When she said long prayers to God before sleeping and then kissed her little crosses and icons, he looked at her and thought with hatred: ‘‘Here she is praying, but what is she praying for? What?’’ In his thoughts, he insulted her and himself, saying that when he went to bed with her and took her in his arms, he was taking what he had paid for, but it was terrible to think that; if she had been a robust, bold, sinful woman, but here she was all youth, religiosity, meekness, innocent, pure eyes... When she was his fiancée, her religiosity had touched him, but now this conventional definitiveness of views and convictions seemed to him like a screen behind which the real truth could not be seen. Everything had become tormenting in his family life. When his wife, sitting beside him in the theater, sighed or laughed sincerely, he felt bitter that she was enjoying herself alone and did not want to share her delight with him. And remarkably, she made friends with all his friends, and they all knew what kind of person she was, while he knew nothing, and only sulked and was silently jealous.

  On coming home, Laptev put on his dressing gown and slippers and sat down in his study to read a novel. His wife was not at home. But before half an hour went by, the bell rang in the front hall, and the muffled steps of Pyotr were heard, running to open the door. It was Yulia. She came into his study in her fur coat, her cheeks red from frost.

  ‘‘There’s a big fire on Presnya,’’ she said breathlessly. ‘‘The glow is enormous. I’m going there with Konstantin Ivanych.’’

  ‘‘Go with God!’’

  The look of health, freshness, and childish fear in her eyes set Laptev at ease. He read for another half hour and went to bed.

  The next day Polina Nikolaevna sent him at the warehouse two books she had once borrowed from him, all his letters, and his photographs; with it was a note consisting of only one word: ‘Basta!’

  VIII

  BY THE END of October, Nina Fyodorovna’s relapse was clearly marked. She quickly lost weight and changed countenance. Despite severe pains, she imagined she was getting better, and dressed each morning as if she was healthy, and then lay in bed all day dressed. And towards the end she became very talkative. She would lie on her back telling something quietly, with effort, breathing heavily. She died suddenly in the following circumstances.

  It was a bright moonlit evening, outside people went sleigh-riding over the fresh snow, and the noise from outside came into the room. Nina Fyodorovna lay on her back in bed, and Sasha, who no longer had anyone to replace her, sat dozing near her bed.

  ‘‘I don’t remember his patronymic,’’ Nina Fyodorovna was saying softly, ‘‘but he was called Ivan, last name Kochevoy, a poor clerk. He was an awful drunkard, God rest his soul. He used to come to us, and we gave him a pound of sugar and a packet of tea every month. Well, and occasionally money, of course. Yes... Then this is what happened: our Kochevoy went on a bad binge and died, burnt up on vodka. He left a little son, a dear little boy of about seven. An orphan... We took him and hid him with the salesclerks, and he lived a whole year like that, and papa didn’t know. But when papa saw it, he only waved his hand and said nothing. When Kostya, our orphan, that is, was going on nine—and I was about to get married then—I took him to all the schools. We went here and there, and they wouldn’t accept him. He was weeping... ‘Why are you weeping, little fool?’ So I took him to Razgulai, to the Second School, and there, God grant them health, they took him... And the little boy went on foot every day from Pyatnitskaya to Razgulai, and from Razgulai to Pyatnitskaya... Alyosha paid for him... Merciful Lord, the boy began to study, grasped things well, and with good results... Now he’s a lawyer in Moscow, Alyosha’s friend, of the same high learning. We didn’t neglect our fellow man, we took him into o
ur house, and no doubt he prays to God for us now...Yes...’

  Nina Fyodorovna began speaking more and more softly, with long pauses, then, after some silence, suddenly raised herself and sat up.

  ‘‘But I’m not so... as if I’m unwell,’’ she said. ‘‘Lord have mercy. Ah, I can’t breathe!’’

  Sasha knew her mother was soon to die; now, seeing how her face suddenly became pinched, she guessed that this was the end and was frightened.

  ‘‘Mama, you mustn’t!’’ she wept. ‘‘You mustn’t!’’

  ‘‘Run to the kitchen, have them fetch your father. I’m very unwell.’’

  Sasha ran through all the rooms and called, but none of the servants was at home, only Lida was sleeping on a trunk in the dining room, dressed and without a pillow. Just as she was, without galoshes, Sasha ran out to the yard, then to the street. On a bench outside the gate, her nanny sat watching people sleigh-riding. From the river, where the skating rink was, came the sounds of military music.

  ‘‘Nanny, mama’s dying!’’ Sasha said, weeping. ‘‘We must fetch papa!...’

  The nanny went upstairs to the bedroom and, after glancing at the sick woman, gave her a lighted wax candle to hold. Terrified, Sasha fussed and begged, herself not knowing whom, to fetch her papa, then she put on her coat and kerchief and ran outside. She knew from the servants that her father had another wife and two daughters with whom he lived on Bazarnaya Square. She ran left from the gate, crying and afraid of strangers, and soon began to sink into the snow and feel cold.

  She met an empty cab but did not take it: he might drive her out of town, rob her, and abandon her by the cemetery (the maid had told her over tea that there had been such a case). She walked and walked, breathless from fatigue and sobbing. Coming to Bazarnaya, she asked where Mr. Panaurov lived. Some unknown woman explained it to her at length and, seeing that she understood nothing, took her by the hand to a one-story house with a porch. The door was not locked. Sasha ran through the front hall, then a corridor, and finally found herself in a bright, warm room where her father was sitting by the samovar, and with him a lady and two little girls. But she could no longer utter a word and only sobbed. Panaurov understood.

  ‘‘Mama’s probably not well?’’ he asked. ‘‘Tell me, girl: is mama unwell?’’

  He became worried and sent for a cab.

  When they reached home, Nina Fyodorovna was sitting, propped on pillows, with a candle in her hand. Her face had darkened, and her eyes were closed. In the bedroom, crowded by the doorway, stood the nanny, the cook, the maid, the muzhik Prokofy, and some other unknown simple people. The nanny was ordering something in a whisper, and they did not understand her. At the far end of the room, by the window, stood Lida, pale, sleepy, sternly gazing at her mother from there.

  Panaurov took the candle from Nina Fyodorovna’s hands and, wincing squeamishly, flung it onto the chest of drawers.

  ‘‘This is terrible!’’ he said, and his shoulders twitched. ‘‘Nina, you must lie down,’’ he said tenderly. ‘‘Lie down, dear.’’

  She looked and did not recognize him... They lay her on her back.

  When the priest and Dr. Sergei Borisych came, the servants were already crossing themselves piously and commemorating her.

  ‘‘There’s a story for you!’’ the doctor said pensively, coming out to the drawing room. ‘‘And she was still young, not even forty yet.’’

  The loud sobbing of the girls was heard. Panaurov, pale, with moist eyes, went over to the doctor and said in a weak, languid voice:

  ‘‘My dear, do me a favor, send a telegram to Moscow. It’s decidedly beyond me.’’

  The doctor found the ink and wrote the following telegram to his daughter: ‘‘Mrs. Panaurov passed away eight this evening. Tell husband: house on Dvoryanskaya for sale, transfer of mortgage plus nine. Auction twelfth. Advise not let slip.’’

  IX

  LAPTEV LIVED IN one of the lanes off Malaya Dmitrovka, not far from Stary Pimen. Besides the big house on the street, he also rented the two-story wing in the yard for his friend Kochevoy, an assistant attorney whom all the Laptevs simply called Kostya, because he had grown up before their eyes. Facing his wing was another, also two-story, in which there lived a French family, consisting of a husband, a wife, and five daughters.

  It was ten below zero. The windows were covered with frost. Waking up in the morning, Kostya, with a preoccupied look, took fifteen drops of some medicine, then got two dumbbells from the bookcase and began doing exercises. He was tall, very thin, with a big, reddish mustache; but most conspicuous in his appearance were his remarkably long legs. Pyotr, a middle-aged muzhik in a jacket and cotton trousers tucked into high boots, brought the samovar and made tea.

  ‘‘Very nice weather today, Konstantin Ivanych,’’ he said.

  ‘‘Yes, nice, only the pity is, brother, our life here is nothing to shout about.’’

  Pyotr sighed out of politeness.

  ‘‘How are the girls?’’ asked Kochevoy.

  ‘‘The priest hasn’t come, Alexei Fyodorych himself is giving them their lesson.’’

  Kostya found an unfrosted spot on the window and began looking through binoculars at the windows of the French family’s house.

  ‘‘Can’t see,’’ he said.

  Meanwhile, downstairs Alexei Fyodorych was teaching Sasha and Lida their catechism. They had been living in Moscow for a month and a half, on the ground floor of the wing, with their governess. Three times a week, a teacher from the city school and a priest came. Sasha was studying the New Testament, and Lida had recently started the Old. Lida’s homework from the last time was to repeat everything before Abraham.

  ‘‘And so, Adam and Eve had two sons,’’ said Laptev. ‘‘Splendid. But what were their names? Try to remember!’’

  Lida, stern as ever, said nothing, stared at the table, and only moved her lips; and the older Sasha looked into her face and suffered.

  ‘‘You know perfectly well, only don’t be nervous,’’ said Laptev. ‘‘Well, what were the names of Adam’s sons?’’

  ‘‘Abel and Cabel,’’ Lida whispered.

  ‘‘Cain and Abel,’’ Laptev corrected.

  A big tear crept down Lida’s cheek and fell onto the book. Sasha also lowered her eyes and blushed, ready to weep. Laptev could not speak from pity, a lump rose in his throat; he got up from the table and lit a cigarette. Just then Kochevoy came downstairs with a newspaper in his hand. The girls stood up and curtseyed without looking at him.

  ‘‘For God’s sake, Kostya, work with them a little,’’ Laptev turned to him. ‘‘I’m afraid I’ll start crying myself, and I have to get to the warehouse before dinner.’’

  ‘‘All right.’’

  Alexei Fyodorych left. Kostya, with a very serious face, frowning, sat down at the table and drew the Catechism towards him.

  ‘‘Well, missies?’’ he asked. ‘‘How far did you get?’’

  ‘‘She knows about the flood,’’ said Sasha.

  ‘‘About the flood? All right, let’s whiz through the flood. Go ahead.’’ Kostya skimmed through the brief description of the flood in the book and said: ‘‘I must point out to you that such a flood as they describe here never actually happened. And there wasn’t any Noah. Several thousand years before the birth of Christ, there was an unusual flood on earth, and it’s mentioned not only in the Jewish Bible but in the books of other ancient people as well, such as the Greeks, the Chaldeans, the Hindus. But whatever this flood was, it couldn’t have covered the whole earth. Well, the plains were flooded, but not the mountains. You can go ahead and read this book, but don’t believe it especially.’’

  Lida’s tears flowed again; she turned away and suddenly sobbed so loudly that Kostya gave a start and got up from his place in great confusion.

  ‘‘I want to go home,’’ she said. ‘‘To papa and nanny.’’

  Sasha also began to cry. Kostya went upstairs to his rooms and said to Yulia Sergeevna on
the telephone:

  ‘‘Dearest, the girls are crying again. It’s simply impossible.’’

  Yulia Sergeevna came running from the big house in nothing but a dress and a knitted shawl, chilled through, and began comforting the girls.

  ‘‘Believe me, believe me,’’ she said in a pleading voice, pressing one of the girls to her, then the other, ‘‘your papa will come today, he sent a telegram. You’re sorry for your mama, and I’m sorry for her, too, it breaks my heart, but what’s to be done? We can’t go against God!’’

  When they stopped crying, she wrapped them up and took them for a drive. First they went down Malaya Dmitrovka, then past Strastnoy Boulevard to Tverskaya; they stopped at the Iverskaya Chapel,16 lit candles, knelt down, and prayed. On the way back, they stopped at Filippov’s and bought some lenten rolls with poppyseed.

  The Laptevs dined between two and three. Pyotr served the courses. During the day this Pyotr ran to the post office, to the warehouse, to the district court for Kostya, served; in the evenings he rolled cigarettes, during the night he ran to open the door, and by five o’clock in the morning was already stoking the stoves, and nobody knew when he slept. He very much enjoyed uncorking seltzer water, and did it easily, noiselessly, without spilling a drop.

  ‘‘God bless!’’ said Kostya, drinking a glass of vodka before dinner.

  At first Yulia Sergeevna did not like Kostya; his bass voice, his little phrases like ‘‘stood me a bottle,’’ ‘‘socked him in the mug,’’ ‘‘scum,’’ ‘‘portray us the samovar,’’ his habit of clinking and mumbling over the glass seemed trivial to her. But when she got to know him better, she began to feel very easy in his presence. He was frank with her, in the evenings he liked to discuss things with her in a low voice, and he even let her read the novels he wrote, something that so far was a secret even from such friends as Laptev and Yartsev. She read these novels and praised them, so as not to upset him, and he was glad, because he hoped to become a famous writer sooner or later. In his novels he described only the country and landowners’ estates, though he had seen the country very rarely, only when visiting his acquaintances in their dachas, and had been on a landowner’s estate once in his life, when he went to Volokolamsk on a lawsuit. He avoided the amorous element, as if he was ashamed of it, he frequently described nature, and in his descriptions liked to use such expressions as ‘‘the whimsical contours of the mountains,’’ ‘‘the fantastic shapes of the clouds,’’ or ‘‘the accord of mysterious harmonies’...His novels were never published, and he explained that by the conditions of censorship.