Five Great Short Stories

by Anton Chekhov

  “A strange mirage,” Tania 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 interests 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 flower-beds. The sun was already setting. The flowers, perhaps because they had just been watered, exhaled a moist irritating odour. In the house they had again begun to sing, and at that distance 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 down 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 living 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. Kovrin 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 twelve feet, when he looked back at him, nodded 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 consider 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 interesting 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 confused authors are wont to say. At last he gave in.

  “If you must, then first read this article by Gaucher and these Russian notices,” he murmured, turning the pamphlets 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 nonsense . . . 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 exhibitions, 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 famous.’ Query: To what does all this lead? The garden is really beautifut—a model garden. . . . It is not simply 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 without 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 grafting 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 gardener? Workmen? Yes? I tell you, my good friend, the chief enemy in our business is not the hare, not the cockchafer, not the frost, but the stranger.”

  “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 mistress, 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 arrive, 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 cer
tain 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 romance 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 Semenych 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!”

  Left alone, Kovrin lay down more comfortably 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 indifferent subject: it was about the Russian 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 everywhere and in all arenas of human activity intellectual people are nervous and remarkable for their heightened sensitiveness. Apparently this is necessary.”

  He thought of Tania, who was so delighted with her father’s articles. She was small, pale and so thin that her collar-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 accompanied 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 had hallucinations. This reflection alarmed him, but not for long.

  “But I feel very well, and I do nobody any harm; therefore there is nothing bad in my hallucinations,” he thought, and he again felt quite contented.

  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, astounding. Towards morning he undressed and reluctantly lay down in bed: he ought to sleep!

  When he heard Egor Semenych’s footsteps going down to the garden, Kovrin rang the bell and ordered the man-servant to bring him some wine. He drank several glasses of Château-Lafite with 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 looking 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, reply:

  “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, plentiful tears—welled up in her large eyes. “He has worn me quite out!” she continued, 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 whenever 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 insulted 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 . . .”

  “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 persuasively, 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 unhappy 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 childhood, would not have known to his very death what sincere affection was, nor that naïve, 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 position; 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 eating black bread and salt (they were both hungry), as if nothing had happened.

  CHAPTER V

 
; Red Spots

  DELIGHTED THAT the part of peacemaker had been successful, Kovrin went into the park. While sitting on a bench thinking he heard the sound of wheels and of girls’ laughter—visitors had arrived. 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 reminded 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 and bare 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 astonishment; the monk in a kindly and, as on the previous occasion, in a somewhat cunning manner, and with a self-complacent expression.

  “But you are a mirage,” Kovrin exclaimed; “why are you here and sitting in one place too? That is not in accordance with the legend.”

  “That’s all the same,” the monk replied 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 answered with a faint smile. “I exist in your imagination, and your imagination is part of nature, consequently I exist in nature too.”

  “You have a very old, clever and expressive 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?”