Tales of Chekhov

by Anton Chekhov

  “How is it our Sasha’s not back yet?” he kept asking his wife, glancing out of window. “Why, it’s dinner-time!”

  After waiting for the lieutenant till six o’clock, they sat down to dinner. When supper-time came, however, Alexey Ivanovitch was listening to every footstep, to every sound of the door, and kept shrugging his shoulders.

  “Strange!” he said. “The rascally dandy must have stayed on at the tenant’s.”

  As he went to bed after supper, Kryukov made up his mind that the lieutenant was being entertained at the tenant’s, where after a festive evening he was staying the night.

  Alexandr Grigoryevitch only returned next morning. He looked extremely crumpled and confused.

  “I want to speak to you alone . . .” he said mysteriously to his cousin.

  They went into the study. The lieutenant shut the door, and he paced for a long time up and down before he began to speak.

  “Something’s happened, my dear fellow,” he began, “that I don’t know how to tell you about. You wouldn’t believe it . . .”

  And blushing, faltering, not looking at his cousin, he told what had happened with the IOUs. Kryukov, standing with his feet wide apart and his head bent, listened and frowned.

  “Are you joking?” he asked.

  “How the devil could I be joking? It’s no joking matter!”

  “I don’t understand!” muttered Kryukov, turning crimson and flinging up his hands. “It’s positively . . . immoral on your part. Before your very eyes a hussy is up to the devil knows what, a serious crime, plays a nasty trick, and you go and kiss her!”

  “But I can’t understand myself how it happened!” whispered the lieutenant, blinking guiltily. “Upon my honour, I don’t understand it! It’s the first time in my life I’ve come across such a monster! It’s not her beauty that does for you, not her mind, but that . . . you understand . . . insolence, cynicism. . . .”

  “Insolence, cynicism . . . it’s unclean! If you’ve such a longing for insolence and cynicism, you might have picked a sow out of the mire and have devoured her alive. It would have been cheaper, anyway! Instead of two thousand three hundred!”

  “You do express yourself elegantly!” said the lieutenant, frowning. “I’ll pay you back the two thousand three hundred!”

  “I know you’ll pay it back, but it’s not a question of money! Damn the money! What revolts me is your being such a limp rag . . . such filthy feebleness! And engaged! With a fiancée!”

  “Don’t speak of it . . .” said the lieutenant, blushing. “I loathe myself as it is. I should like to sink into the earth. It’s sickening and vexatious that I shall have to bother my aunt for that five thousand. . . .”

  Kryukov continued for some time longer expressing his indignation and grumbling, then, as he grew calmer, he sat down on the sofa and began to jeer at his cousin.

  “You young officers!” he said with contemptuous irony. “Nice bridegrooms.”

  Suddenly he leapt up as though he had been stung, stamped his foot, and ran about the study.

  “No, I’m not going to leave it like that!” he said, shaking his fist. “I will have those IOUs, I will! I’ll give it her! One doesn’t beat women, but I’ll break every bone in her body. . . . I’ll pound her to a jelly! I’m not a lieutenant! You won’t touch me with insolence or cynicism! No-o-o, damn her! Mishka!” he shouted, “run and tell them to get the racing droshky out for me!”

  Kryukov dressed rapidly, and, without heeding the agitated lieutenant, got into the droshky, and with a wave of his hand resolutely raced off to Susanna Moiseyevna. For a long time the lieutenant gazed out of window at the clouds of dust that rolled after his cousin’s droshky, stretched, yawned, and went to his own room. A quarter of an hour later he was sound asleep.

  At six o’clock he was waked up and summoned to dinner.

  “How nice this is of Alexey!” his cousin’s wife greeted him in the dining-room. “He keeps us waiting for dinner.”

  “Do you mean to say he’s not come back yet?” yawned the lieutenant. “H’m! . . . he’s probably gone round to see the tenant.”

  But Alexey Ivanovitch was not back by supper either. His wife and Sokolsky decided that he was playing cards at the tenant’s and would most likely stay the night there. What had happened was not what they had supposed, however.

  Kryukov returned next morning, and without greeting any one, without a word, dashed into his study.

  “Well?” whispered the lieutenant, gazing at him round-eyed.

  Kryukov waved his hand and gave a snort.

  “Why, what’s the matter? What are you laughing at?”

  Kryukov flopped on the sofa, thrust his head in the pillow, and shook with suppressed laughter. A minute later he got up, and looking at the surprised lieutenant, with his eyes full of tears from laughing, said:

  “Close the door. Well . . . she is a fe-e-male, I beg to inform you!”

  “Did you get the IOUs?”

  Kryukov waved his hand and went off into a peal of laughter again.

  “Well! she is a female!” he went on. “Merci for the acquaintance, my boy! She’s a devil in petticoats. I arrived; I walked in like such an avenging Jove, you know, that I felt almost afraid of myself . . . . I frowned, I scowled, even clenched my fists to be more awe-inspiring. . . . ‘Jokes don’t pay with me, madam!’ said I, and more in that style. And I threatened her with the law and with the Governor. To begin with she burst into tears, said she’d been joking with you, and even took me to the cupboard to give me the money. Then she began arguing that the future of Europe lies in the hands of the French, and the Russians, swore at women. . . . Like you, I listened, fascinated, ass that I was. . . . She kept singing the praises of my beauty, patted me on the arm near the shoulder, to see how strong I was, and . . . and as you see, I’ve only just got away from her! Ha, ha! She’s enthusiastic about you!”

  “You’re a nice fellow!” laughed the lieutenant. “A married man! highly respected. . . . Well, aren’t you ashamed? Disgusted? Joking apart though, old man, you’ve got your Queen Tamara in your own neighbourhood. . . .”

  “In my own neighbourhood! Why, you wouldn’t find another such chameleon in the whole of Russia! I’ve never seen anything like it in my life, though I know a good bit about women, too. I have known regular devils in my time, but I never met anything like this. It is, as you say, by insolence and cynicism she gets over you. What is so attractive in her is the diabolical suddenness, the quick transitions, the swift shifting hues. . . . Brrr! And the IOU— phew! Write it off for lost. We are both great sinners, we’ll go halves in our sin. I shall put down to you not two thousand three hundred, but half of it. Mind, tell my wife I was at the tenant’s.”

  Kryukov and the lieutenant buried their heads in the pillows, and broke into laughter; they raised their heads, glanced at one another, and again subsided into their pillows.

  “Engaged! A lieutenant!” Kryukov jeered.

  “Married!” retorted Sokolsky. “Highly respected! Father of a family!”

  At dinner they talked in veiled allusions, winked at one another, and, to the surprise of the others, were continually gushing with laughter into their dinner-napkins. After dinner, still in the best of spirits, they dressed up as Turks, and, running after one another with guns, played at soldiers with the children. In the evening they had a long argument. The lieutenant maintained that it was mean and contemptible to accept a dowry with your wife, even when there was passionate love on both sides. Kryukov thumped the table with his fists and declared that this was absurd, and that a husband who did not like his wife to have property of her own was an egoist and a despot. Both shouted, boiled over, did not understand each other, drank a good deal, and in the end, picking up the skirts of their dressing-gowns, went to their bedrooms. They soon fell asleep and slept soundly.

  Life went on as before, even, sluggish and free from sorrow. The shadows lay on the earth, thunder pealed from the clouds, from time to time the wi
nd moaned plaintively, as though to prove that nature, too, could lament, but nothing troubled the habitual tranquillity of these people. Of Susanna Moiseyevna and the IOUs they said nothing. Both of them felt, somehow, ashamed to speak of the incident aloud. Yet they remembered it and thought of it with pleasure, as of a curious farce, which life had unexpectedly and casually played upon them, and which it would be pleasant to recall in old age.

  On the sixth or seventh day after his visit to the Jewess, Kryukov was sitting in his study in the morning writing a congratulatory letter to his aunt. Alexandr Grigoryevitch was walking to and fro near the table in silence. The lieutenant had slept badly that night; he woke up depressed, and now he felt bored. He paced up and down, thinking of the end of his furlough, of his fiancée, who was expecting him, of how people could live all their lives in the country without feeling bored. Standing at the window, for a long time he stared at the trees, smoked three cigarettes one after another, and suddenly turned to his cousin.

  “I have a favour to ask you, Alyosha,” he said. “Let me have a saddle-horse for the day. . . .”

  Kryukov looked searchingly at him and continued his writing with a frown.

  “You will, then?” asked the lieutenant.

  Kryukov looked at him again, then deliberately drew out a drawer in the table, and taking out a thick roll of notes, gave it to his cousin.

  “Here’s five thousand . . .” he said. “Though it’s not my money, yet, God bless you, it’s all the same. I advise you to send for post-horses at once and go away. Yes, really!”

  The lieutenant in his turn looked searchingly at Kryukov and laughed.

  “You’ve guessed right, Alyosha,” he said, reddening. “It was to her I meant to ride. Yesterday evening when the washerwoman gave me that damned tunic, the one I was wearing then, and it smelt of jasmine, why . . . I felt I must go!”

  “You must go away.”

  “Yes, certainly. And my furlough’s just over. I really will go to-day! Yes, by Jove! However long one stays, one has to go in the end. . . . I’m going!”

  The post-horses were brought after dinner the same day; the lieutenant said good-bye to the Kryukovs and set off, followed by their good wishes.

  Another week passed. It was a dull but hot and heavy day. From early morning Kryukov walked aimlessly about the house, looking out of window, or turning over the leaves of albums, though he was sick of the sight of them already. When he came across his wife or children, he began grumbling crossly. It seemed to him, for some reason that day, that his children’s manners were revolting, that his wife did not know how to look after the servants, that their expenditure was quite disproportionate to their income. All this meant that “the master” was out of humour.

  After dinner, Kryukov, feeling dissatisfied with the soup and the roast meat he had eaten, ordered out his racing droshky. He drove slowly out of the courtyard, drove at a walking pace for a quarter of a mile, and stopped.

  “Shall I . . . drive to her . . . that devil?” he thought, looking at the leaden sky.

  And Kryukov positively laughed, as though it were the first time that day he had asked himself that question. At once the load of boredom was lifted from his heart, and there rose a gleam of pleasure in his lazy eyes. He lashed the horse. . . .

  All the way his imagination was picturing how surprised the Jewess would be to see him, how he would laugh and chat, and come home feeling refreshed. . . .

  “Once a month one needs something to brighten one up . . . something out of the common round,” he thought, “something that would give the stagnant organism a good shaking up, a reaction . . . whether it’s a drinking bout, or . . . Susanna. One can’t get on without it.”

  It was getting dark when he drove into the yard of the vodka distillery. From the open windows of the owner’s house came sounds of laughter and singing:

  “‘Brighter than lightning, more burning than flame. . . .’” sang a powerful, mellow, bass voice.

  “Aha! she has visitors,” thought Kryukov.

  And he was annoyed that she had visitors.

  “Shall I go back?” he thought with his hand on the bell, but he rang all the same, and went up the familiar staircase. From the entry he glanced into the reception hall. There were about five men there—all landowners and officials of his acquaintance; one, a tall, thin gentleman, was sitting at the piano, singing, and striking the keys with his long, thin fingers. The others were listening and grinning with enjoyment. Kryukov looked himself up and down in the looking-glass, and was about to go into the hall, when Susanna Moiseyevna herself darted into the entry, in high spirits and wearing the same black dress. . . . Seeing Kryukov, she was petrified for an instant, then she uttered a little scream and beamed with delight.

  “Is it you?” she said, clutching his hand. “What a surprise!”

  “Here she is!” smiled Kryukov, putting his arm round her waist. “Well! Does the destiny of Europe still lie in the hands of the French and the Russians?”

  “I’m so glad,” laughed the Jewess, cautiously removing his arm. “Come, go into the hall; they’re all friends there. . . . I’ll go and tell them to bring you some tea. Your name’s Alexey, isn’t it? Well, go in, I’ll come directly. . . .”

  She blew him a kiss and ran out of the entry, leaving behind her the same sickly smell of jasmine. Kryukov raised his head and walked into the hall. He was on terms of friendly intimacy with all the men in the room, but scarcely nodded to them; they, too, scarcely responded, as though the places in which they met were not quite decent, and as though they were in tacit agreement with one another that it was more suitable for them not to recognise one another.

  From the hall Kryukov walked into the drawing-room, and from it into a second drawing-room. On the way he met three or four other guests, also men whom he knew, though they barely recognised him. Their faces were flushed with drink and merriment. Alexey Ivanovitch glanced furtively at them and marvelled that these men, respectable heads of families, who had known sorrow and privation, could demean themselves to such pitiful, cheap gaiety! He shrugged his shoulders, smiled, and walked on.

  “There are places,” he reflected, “where a sober man feels sick, and a drunken man rejoices. I remember I never could go to the operetta or the gipsies when I was sober: wine makes a man more good-natured and reconciles him with vice. . . .”

  Suddenly he stood still, petrified, and caught hold of the door-post with both hands. At the writing-table in Susanna’s study was sitting Lieutenant Alexandr Grigoryevitch. He was discussing something in an undertone with a fat, flabby-looking Jew, and seeing his cousin, flushed crimson and looked down at an album.

  The sense of decency was stirred in Kryukov and the blood rushed to his head. Overwhelmed with amazement, shame, and anger, he walked up to the table without a word. Sokolsky’s head sank lower than ever. His face worked with an expression of agonising shame.

  “Ah, it’s you, Alyosha!” he articulated, making a desperate effort to raise his eyes and to smile. “I called here to say good-bye, and, as you see. . . . But to-morrow I am certainly going.”

  “What can I say to him? What?” thought Alexey Ivanovitch. “How can I judge him since I’m here myself?”

  And clearing his throat without uttering a word, he went out slowly.

  “‘Call her not heavenly, and leave her on earth. . . .’”

  The bass was singing in the hall. A little while after, Kryukov’s racing droshky was bumping along the dusty road.

  Neighbours

  P

  yotr Mihalitch Ivashin was very much out of humour: his sister, a young girl, had gone away to live with Vlassitch, a married man. To shake off the despondency and depression which pursued him at home and in the fields, he called to his aid his sense of justice, his genuine and noble ideas—he had always defended free-love! —but this was of no avail, and he always came back to the same conclusion as their foolish old nurse, that his sister had acted wrongly and that Vlassitch had abdu
cted his sister. And that was distressing.

  His mother did not leave her room all day long; the old nurse kept sighing and speaking in whispers; his aunt had been on the point of taking her departure every day, and her trunks were continually being brought down to the hall and carried up again to her room. In the house, in the yard, and in the garden it was as still as though there were some one dead in the house. His aunt, the servants, and even the peasants, so it seemed to Pyotr Mihalitch, looked at him enigmatically and with perplexity, as though they wanted to say “Your sister has been seduced; why are you doing nothing?” And he reproached himself for inactivity, though he did not know precisely what action he ought to have taken.

  So passed six days. On the seventh—it was Sunday afternoon—a messenger on horseback brought a letter. The address was in a familiar feminine handwriting: “Her Excy. Anna Nikolaevna Ivashin.” Pyotr Mihalitch fancied that there was something defiant, provocative, in the handwriting and in the abbreviation “Excy.” And advanced ideas in women are obstinate, ruthless, cruel.

  “She’d rather die than make any concession to her unhappy mother, or beg her forgiveness,” thought Pyotr Mihalitch, as he went to his mother with the letter.