The Steppe and Other Stories, 1887-91

by Anton Chekhov

  ‘That may be so,’ Layevsky agreed, too lazy to offer any considered reply. ‘However,’ he said a little later, ‘what exactly is Romeo and Juliet? Beautiful, poetic, divine love is only roses covering up the rottenness beneath. Romeo’s an animal, like anyone else.’

  ‘No matter what anyone tells you, you always turn it into…’

  Von Koren glanced at Katya and did not finish.

  ‘And what do I turn it into?’ Layevsky asked.

  ‘Well, for instance, if someone says, “What a lovely bunch of grapes,” you reply, “Yes, but how ugly when they’ve been chewed and then digested into the stomach.” Why say things like that? It’s nothing very original and it’s really a strange way of expressing yourself.’

  Layevsky knew that von Koren did not like him and therefore was scared of him. When von Koren was around, he thought, people felt very awkward, as if someone were standing guard behind their backs. Ignoring this last remark he walked away and regretted having come.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, quick march! Get some wood for the fire!’ Samoylenko commanded.

  Everyone wandered off at random, leaving only Kirilin, Achmianov and Bityugov behind. Kerbalay brought some chairs, spread a carpet and stood several bottles of wine on the ground. Inspector Kirilin, a tall, distinguished-looking man who wore a raincoat over his tunic in all weathers, put one in mind of those young provincial police chiefs with his proud bearing, solemn walk and deep, rather hoarse voice. He had a sad, sleepy look, as if he had just been woken against his will.

  ‘What’s that you’ve brought, you scum?’ Kirilin asked Kerbalay, slowly enunciating every word. ‘I asked you to serve Kvarel, but what have you brought, you Tatar pig? Eh? What?’

  ‘We have plenty of our own wine, Inspector Kirilin,’ Bityugov observed timidly and politely.

  ‘So what? But I want you to have some of my wine as well. I’m on this picnic and I assume I’ve a perfect right to contribute my share. That’s what I ass-ume! Bring ten bottles of Kvarel.’

  ‘Why so many?’ Bityugov asked in surprise, knowing full well that Kirilin had no money.

  ‘Twenty bottles! Thirty!’ shouted Kirilin.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Achmianov whispered to Bityugov, ‘I’ll pay.’

  Nadezhda was in a gay, playful mood. She felt like skipping, laughing, shouting, teasing, flirting. In her cheap cotton dress with its pattern of blue dots, her little red shoes and that same straw hat, she felt as tiny, natural, light and ethereal as a butterfly. She ran across the rickety bridge and looked down at the water for a minute to make her head go round; then she cried out and ran laughing towards the shed, conscious that all the men – even Kerbalay – were feasting their eyes on her. In the swiftly approaching dusk, when the trees, mountains, horses and carriages had all merged together and a light gleamed in the windows of the inn, she climbed a mountain path that threaded its way up the hillside between boulders and prickly bushes, and sat on a rock. Down below, the bonfire was already burning. With sleeves rolled up, the deacon was walking about and his long black shadow moved in a radius around the fire. He was piling on wood and stirring the pot with a spoon tied to a long stick. Samoylenko, his handsome face coppery-red, was fussing around the fire as though at home in his own kitchen.

  ‘But where’s the salt, gentlemen?’ he shouted fiercely. ‘I bet you’ve forgotten it. And why are you all lounging about like country squires while I’m left to do all the work?’

  Layevsky and Bityugov were sitting side by side on the uprooted tree, gazing pensively at the fire. Marya, Katya and Kostya were taking teacups, saucers and plates out of the baskets. Von Koren stood wondering at the water’s edge, his arms folded and with one foot on a rock. Red patches of light cast by the bonfire wandered with the shadows over the ground near dark human shapes, trembled on the mountains, trees, bridge and drying-room. The steep, hollowed-out far bank was lit up all over and its reflection flickered in the river, to be torn to shreds by the fast-flowing, turbulent water.

  The deacon went to fetch the trout which Kerbalay was cleaning and washing on the bank, but he stopped half-way to look around. ‘Heavens, how beautiful!’ he thought. ‘Just people, rocks, a bonfire, twilight, a twisted tree – nothing more than that, but how beautiful!’

  Near the drying-room on the far bank some strangers came into view. It was impossible to make them all out straight away in the flickering light and bonfire smoke drifting over the river, but one could make out some details – first a shaggy fur cap and a grey beard, then a dark blue shirt, rags hanging from shoulder to knee and a dagger across a stomach, then a swarthy young face with black eyebrows, thick and sharp as if drawn in charcoal. About five of these people were squatting in a circle, while another five or so went into the shed. One of them stood in the doorway, hands thrust behind him, with his back to the fire, and started telling what was undoubtedly a most interesting story because, after Samoylenko had put some more wood on the fire, making it flare up, scattering sparks and brightly illuminating the shed, two calm, deeply attentive faces could be seen looking through the doorway, while others in the circle had turned round to listen as well. Shortly afterwards the men in the circle struck up a slow-moving song, rather like those sung in church during Lent. As he listened the deacon pictured himself ten years from then, after he had returned from the expedition: he is a young monk and missionary, a celebrated writer with a glittering past; he is ordained Archimandrite, then Bishop. He celebrates Mass in the cathedral. With his golden mitre and image hanging round his neck, he steps up into the pulpit and proclaims as he makes the sign of the cross over the congregation with his three- and two-branched candelabrum, ‘Look down from heaven, oh Lord. Behold and visit this vineyard, which Thy right hand hath planted!’ And the children would respond, singing ‘Holy God’ in angelic voices.

  ‘Deacon, where’s that fish?’ he heard Samoylenko say.

  Returning to the bonfire, the deacon imagined a religious procession moving along a dusty road on a hot day in July. Leading the way are men with banners and women and girls carry the icons. They are followed by choirboys and a lay reader with a bandaged cheek and straw in his hair. Then (in the correct order) follow the deacon, then the parish priest with calotte and cross, and after them a crowd of peasant men, women and boys raising clouds of dust. And there in the crowd are the priest’s wife and the deaconess in kerchiefs. Choirboys sing, children howl, quails call and a lark bursts into song. Now they stop to sprinkle the cattle with holy water. They move on and kneel to pray for rain. Then food, conversation…

  ‘All that would be very nice too,’ thought the deacon.

  VII

  Kirilin and Achmianov clambered up the mountain path. Achmianov lagged behind and stopped, while Kirilin went over to Nadezhda.

  ‘Good evening!’ he said, saluting.

  ‘Good evening.’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ Kirilin said, gazing pensively at the sky.

  ‘What does that mean?’ Nadezhda asked after a short silence, noticing that they were both being watched by Achmianov.

  ‘Well now, it means,’ the police officer said, articulating every syllable, ‘our love has withered without having time to blossom, in a manner of speaking. How else can I take it? Is this some special kind of flirtatiousness on your part or do you take me for some ruffian whom you can treat as you like?’

  ‘It was a mistake! Leave me!’ snapped Nadezhda looking at him in terror on that wonderful evening and asking herself in bewilderment if there actually had been a time when this man had attracted her and was close to her.

  ‘Well then!’ Kirilin said. He stood silently pondering for a moment, then he asked, ‘What now? Let’s wait until you’re in a better mood. In the meantime, may I make so bold as to assure you I’m a respectable man and I forbid anyone to doubt it. No one plays games with me! Adieu!’

  He saluted and made off through the bushes. A little later Achmianov hesitantly approached. ‘A fine evening!’ he said with a slight Armenian
accent.

  He was quite good-looking, dressed smartly and had the easy-going manner of a well-bred young man. But Nadezhda did not like him, as she owed his father three hundred roubles. What was more, she did not like the fact that a shopkeeper had been invited to the picnic, and she did not like being approached by him on an evening just when she felt so pure at heart.

  ‘On the whole, the picnic’s been a success,’ he said after a pause.

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed, casually adding as though she had just remembered that debt, ‘yes, tell them in your shop that Ivan Andreich will call soon to pay the three hundred… I don’t remember exactly how much.’

  ‘I’d lend you another three hundred just to stop you reminding me of that debt every single day. Why do you have to be so prosaic?’

  Nadezhda burst out laughing. The funny thought occurred to her, that if she were sufficiently immoral and were so inclined, she could have settled that debt in one minute. What if she were to turn that handsome young idiot’s head? How comical, absurd, how insane that would be! And suddenly she had the urge to make him fall in love with her, to take what she could, drop him and then sit back to see what happened.

  ‘Allow me to give you a piece of advice,’ Achmianov said timidly. ‘I beg you to steer clear of Kirilin. He’s been saying terrible things about you everywhere.’

  ‘I’m not interested in hearing what any fool has to say about me,’ Nadezhda said coldly and she became dreadfully worried; that amusing idea of having a game with young, handsome Achmianov suddenly lost its charm.

  ‘I must go down now,’ she said; ‘they’re calling.’

  Down below the soup was ready. They poured it into the bowls and drank it with that air of ritual solemnity exclusive to picnics. They all found the soup delicious and declared they had never tasted anything so appetizing at home.

  As usually happens on picnics, in all that jumble of napkins, packets, useless scraps of greasy paper floating around in the wind, no one knew where anyone else’s glass or bread was, they spilt wine on carpet and knees, they scattered salt all over the place. All round it was dark now and the bonfire was dying out. Everyone felt too lazy to get up and put more wood on; everyone drank wine and Kostya and Katya were allowed half a glass each. Nadezhda drank one glass after another, became drunk and forgot Kirilin.

  ‘A splendid picnic and an enchanting evening,’ Layevsky said, exhilarated by the wine, ‘but I prefer a good winter to all of this. “His beaver collar sparkles silver with frosty dust.” ’11

  ‘Each to his taste,’ von Koren observed.

  Layevsky felt awkward: his back was hot from the fire, while von Koren’s loathing was directed at his chest and face. This decent, clever man’s hatred of him, which most probably was founded on some sound, underlying reason, humiliated him and made him feel weak. Lacking the strength to combat it he said in a cringing voice, ‘I’m passionately fond of nature and I’m sorry I’m not a scientist. I envy you.’

  ‘Well, I don’t feel envious or sorry,’ Nadezhda said. ‘I don’t understand how anyone can seriously study small beetles and bugs when the common people are suffering.’

  Layevsky shared this opinion. He knew nothing whatsoever about the natural sciences and therefore he could not stand that authoritarian tone of voice and show of erudition and profound wisdom affected by students of ants’ antennae and cockroaches’ legs. It always annoyed him to think that these people presumed to solve questions embracing the origin and life of man on the evidence of these antennae, legs and something called protoplasm – for some reason he always imagined this as an oyster. But he saw that what Nadezhda had said was false and retorted (merely for the sake of contradicting her), ‘It’s not the bugs that are important, but the deductions you make from them!’

  VIII

  It was late – past ten – when they climbed back into the carriages. Everyone was seated, with the exception of Nadezhda and Achmianov, who were chasing each other along the opposite bank and laughing.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, hurry up!’ Samoylenko shouted at them.

  ‘We shouldn’t have served wine to the ladies,’ von Koren said softly.

  Exhausted by the picnic, by von Koren’s hatred of him and by his own thoughts, Layevsky went to meet Nadezhda. She was in high spirits, radiant and she felt as light as a feather; when she seized him by both hands and laid her head on his chest, breathlessly laughing out loud, he took a step backwards and said sternly, ‘You’re behaving like a… tart.’

  This was so very nasty that he even felt sorry for her. On his tired, angry face she read hatred, pity, self-annoyance, and suddenly she lost heart. She realized she had gone too far, had behaved far too irresponsibly, and sadly she climbed into the first empty carriage with Achmianov, feeling ponderous, fat, coarse and drunk. Layevsky got in with Kirilin, the zoologist with Samoylenko, the deacon with the ladies and the convoy moved off.

  ‘That’s typical of macaques,’ von Koren began, wrapping himself in his cape and closing his eyes. ‘You heard her say it, how she wouldn’t want to study bugs and beetles, because the common people are suffering. That’s how all macaques judge people like me. They’re a servile, crafty breed, intimidated by ten generations of the knout and fist; they tremble, show feeling and cringe only when they’re forced to. But just let your macaque loose where he can be free, where there’s no one to grasp him by the scruff of the neck, and he will display himself and make his presence felt. Just look how brazenly he behaves at painting exhibitions, museums, theatres, or when he passes judgement, puffs himself up, gets on his hind legs, lashes out, criticizes… And he never fails to criticize – this shows how much of a slave he is! Just listen: professional people come in for more abuse than crooks and this is because three quarters of society consists of slaves, of these same macaques. You’ll never find one of these slaves holding his hand out and offering you his sincere thanks for working.’

  ‘I don’t know what you expect!’ Samoylenko said, yawning. ‘That poor woman, in her simplicity of mind, wanted to have a serious talk with you and here you are jumping to conclusions. You’re annoyed with him over something or other, so you have to drag her into it as well. But she’s a fine woman!’

  ‘Hey, that’s enough! She’s just an ordinary kept woman, dissolute and vulgar. Listen to me, Alexander, if you met a simple peasant woman who wasn’t living with her husband, who did no work and could only giggle all the time, then you would tell her to go and do some work. So why are you so timid, so frightened of speaking the truth? Just because Nadezhda’s living with a civil servant, not a sailor?’

  ‘So what should I do with her then?’ Samoylenko said angrily. ‘Beat her?’

  ‘Don’t flatter vice. We only condemn vice behind its back, but that’s the same as poking your tongue out when no one’s there. I’m a zoologist or sociologist, which comes to the same thing. You’re a doctor. Society trusts us and it’s our duty to point out the dreadful damage that the existence of women like Nadezhda Ivanovna might inflict on it and generations to come.’

  ‘Fyodorovna,’ corrected Samoylenko. ‘But what must society do?’

  ‘Do? That’s its own affair. In my opinion the most straightforward and the safest way is by force; she should be returned to her husband manu militari12 and if he won’t take her back then she should be sentenced to hard labour or some house of correction.’

  ‘Ugh!’ Samoylenko sighed. He was silent for a moment, then he quietly asked, ‘Only a short time ago you were saying people like Layevsky should be exterminated… Tell me, if the state or society gave you the job, could you do it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t hesitate.’

  IX

  When they arrived home Layevsky and Nadezhda went into their dark, stuffy, dreary rooms. Neither said a word. Layevsky lit a candle while Nadezhda sat down and, without taking off her cloak or hat, looked at him with sad, guilty eyes.

  He realized she was waiting for an explanation. But that would have been so boring and futile,
so exhausting, and he felt depressed at having lost his temper and spoken rudely to her. He happened to touch the letter in his pocket that he had intended reading to her for days now and thought that by showing it to her this would help to distract her attention.

  ‘It’s high time things were sorted out,’ he thought. ‘I’ll give her the letter and what will be, will be.’

  He took the letter out and gave it to her. ‘Read this. It concerns you.’

  Then he went into his study and lay down in the dark on his couch without a cushion. Nadezhda read the letter and felt the ceiling had fallen down, that the walls had closed in on her. Suddenly everything seemed cramped, dark and frightening. Quickly she crossed herself three times and murmured, ‘May he rest in peace… May he rest in peace.’ And she burst into tears.

  ‘Ivan!’ she called. ‘Ivan!’

  There was no reply. Thinking Layevsky had come into the room and was standing behind her chair she sobbed like a child and asked, ‘Why didn’t you tell me before that he’d died? I wouldn’t have gone on the picnic and I wouldn’t have laughed in that dreadful way… The men said such vulgar things to me… What a disgrace, what a disgrace! Save me, Ivan, save me… I’m out of my mind… I’m ruined!’

  Layevsky heard her sobs. He felt he was nearly suffocating and his heart was pounding. In his despair he got up, stood in the middle of the room, groped for the armchair near the table and sat down.

  ‘This is a prison,’ he thought. ‘I must get away… I can’t go on like this.’

  It was too late now for cards and there were no restaurants in the town. He lay down again, stuffed his fingers in his ears to shut out the sobs and suddenly he remembered that he could call on Samoylenko. To avoid Nadezhda, he climbed into the garden through a window, over a fence and went down the street.

  It was dark. A ship had just docked – a large liner judging by her lights. The anchor-chain rattled away. A small red light swiftly moved from shore to ship – this was the Customs boat.