The Tales of Chekhov

by Anton Chekhov

  “Your transformation still seems to me a sort of miracle,” she said. “Forgive me for looking at you with such curiosity. You are an extraordinary man, you know.”

  I told her again who I was, and why I was living at Orlov’s, and I told her at greater length and in more detail than the day before. She listened with great attention, and said without letting me finish:

  “Everything there is over for me. You know, I could not refrain from writing a letter. Here is the answer.”

  On the sheet which she gave there was written in Orlov’s hand:

  “I am not going to justify myself. But you must own that it was your mistake, not mine. I wish you happiness, and beg you to make haste and forget.

  “Yours sincerely,

  “G. O.

  “P. S.—I am sending on your things.”

  The trunks and baskets despatched by Orlov were standing in the passage, and my poor little portmanteau was there beside them.

  “So . . .” Zinaida Fyodorovna began, but she did not finish.

  We were silent. She took the note and held it for a couple of minutes before her eyes, and during that time her face wore the same haughty, contemptuous, proud, and harsh expression as the day before at the beginning of our explanation; tears came into her eyes—not timid, bitter tears, but proud, angry tears.

  “Listen,” she said, getting up abruptly and moving away to the window that I might not see her face. “I have made up my mind to go abroad with you tomorrow.”

  “I am very glad. I am ready to go to-day.”

  “Accept me as a recruit. Have you read Balzac?” she asked suddenly, turning round. “Have you? At the end of his novel ‘Père Goriot’ the hero looks down upon Paris from the top of a hill and threatens the town: ‘Now we shall settle our account,’ and after this he begins a new life. So when I look out of the train window at Petersburg for the last time, I shall say, ‘Now we shall settle our account!’”

  Saying this, she smiled at her jest, and for some reason shuddered all over.

  XV

  At Venice I had an attack of pleurisy. Probably I had caught cold in the evening when we were rowing from the station to the Hotel Bauer. I had to take to my bed and stay there for a fortnight. Every morning while I was ill Zinaida Fyodorovna came from her room to drink coffee with me, and afterwards read aloud to me French and Russian books, of which we had bought a number at Vienna. These books were either long, long familiar to me or else had no interest for me, but I had the sound of a sweet, kind voice beside me, so that the meaning of all of them was summed up for me in the one thing—I was not alone. She would go out for a walk, come back in her light grey dress, her light straw hat, gay, warmed by the spring sun; and sitting by my bed, bending low down over me, would tell me something about Venice or read me those books—and I was happy.

  At night I was cold, ill, and dreary, but by day I revelled in life —I can find no better expression for it. The brilliant warm sunshine beating in at the open windows and at the door upon the balcony, the shouts below, the splash of oars, the tinkle of bells, the prolonged boom of the cannon at midday, and the feeling of perfect, perfect freedom, did wonders with me; I felt as though I were growing strong, broad wings which were bearing me God knows whither. And what charm, what joy at times at the thought that another life was so close to mine! that I was the servant, the guardian, the friend, the indispensable fellow-traveller of a creature, young, beautiful, wealthy, but weak, lonely, and insulted! It is pleasant even to be ill when you know that there are people who are looking forward to your convalescence as to a holiday. One day I heard her whispering behind the door with my doctor, and then she came in to me with tear-stained eyes. It was a bad sign, but I was touched, and there was a wonderful lightness in my heart.

  But at last they allowed me to go out on the balcony. The sunshine and the breeze from the sea caressed and fondled my sick body. I looked down at the familiar gondolas, which glide with feminine grace smoothly and majestically as though they were alive, and felt all the luxury of this original, fascinating civilisation. There was a smell of the sea. Some one was playing a stringed instrument and two voices were singing. How delightful it was! How unlike it was to that Petersburg night when the wet snow was falling and beating so rudely on our faces. If one looks straight across the canal, one sees the sea, and on the wide expanse towards the horizon the sun glittered on the water so dazzlingly that it hurt one’s eyes to look at it. My soul yearned towards that lovely sea, which was so akin to me and to which I had given up my youth. I longed to live—to live—and nothing more.

  A fortnight later I began walking freely. I loved to sit in the sun, and to listen to the gondoliers without understanding them, and for hours together to gaze at the little house where, they said, Desdemona lived—a naïve, mournful little house with a demure expression, as light as lace, so light that it looked as though one could lift it from its place with one hand. I stood for a long time by the tomb of Canova, and could not take my eyes off the melancholy lion. And in the Palace of the Doges I was always drawn to the corner where the portrait of the unhappy Marino Faliero was painted over with black. “It is fine to be an artist, a poet, a dramatist,” I thought, “but since that is not vouchsafed to me, if only I could go in for mysticism! If only I had a grain of some faith to add to the unruffled peace and serenity that fills the soul!”

  In the evening we ate oysters, drank wine, and went out in a gondola. I remember our black gondola swayed softly in the same place while the water faintly gurgled under it. Here and there the reflection of the stars and the lights on the bank quivered and trembled. Not far from us in a gondola, hung with coloured lanterns which were reflected in the water, there were people singing. The sounds of guitars, of violins, of mandolins, of men’s and women’s voices, were audible in the dark. Zinaida Fyodorovna, pale, with a grave, almost stern face, was sitting beside me, compressing her lips and clenching her hands. She was thinking about something; she did not stir an eyelash, nor hear me. Her face, her attitude, and her fixed, expressionless gaze, and her incredibly miserable, dreadful, and icy-cold memories, and around her the gondolas, the lights, the music, the song with its vigorous passionate cry of “Jam-mo! Jam-mo!”—what contrasts in life! When she sat like that, with tightly clasped hands, stony, mournful, I used to feel as though we were both characters in some novel in the old-fashioned style called “The Ill-fated,” “The Abandoned,” or something of the sort. Both of us: she—the ill-fated, the abandoned; and I—the faithful, devoted friend, the dreamer, and, if you like it, a superfluous man, a failure capable of nothing but coughing and dreaming, and perhaps sacrificing myself.

  But who and what needed my sacrifices now? And what had I to sacrifice, indeed?

  When we came in in the evening we always drank tea in her room and talked. We did not shrink from touching on old, unhealed wounds— on the contrary, for some reason I felt a positive pleasure in telling her about my life at Orlov’s, or referring openly to relations which I knew and which could not have been concealed from me.

  “At moments I hated you,” I said to her. “When he was capricious, condescending, told you lies, I marvelled how it was you did not see, did not understand, when it was all so clear! You kissed his hands, you knelt to him, you flattered him. . .”

  “When I . . . kissed his hands and knelt to him, I loved him . . .” she said, blushing crimson.

  “Can it have been so difficult to see through him? A fine sphinx! A sphinx indeed—a kammer-junker! I reproach you for nothing, God forbid,” I went on, feeling I was coarse, that I had not the tact, the delicacy which are so essential when you have to do with a fellow-creature’s soul; in early days before I knew her I had not noticed this defect in myself. “But how could you fail to see what he was,” I went on, speaking more softly and more diffidently, however.

  “You mean to say you despise my past, and you are right,” she said, deeply stirred. “You belong to a special class of men who cannot be judged by or
dinary standards; your moral requirements are exceptionally rigorous, and I understand you can’t forgive things. I understand you, and if sometimes I say the opposite, it doesn’t mean that I look at things differently from you; I speak the same old nonsense simply because I haven’t had time yet to wear out my old clothes and prejudices. I, too, hate and despise my past, and Orlov and my love. . . . What was that love? It’s positively absurd now,” she said, going to the window and looking down at the canal. “All this love only clouds the conscience and confuses the mind. The meaning of life is to be found only in one thing—fighting. To get one’s heel on the vile head of the serpent and to crush it! That’s the meaning of life. In that alone or in nothing.”

  I told her long stories of my past, and described my really astounding adventures. But of the change that had taken place in me I did not say one word. She always listened to me with great attention, and at interesting places she rubbed her hands as though vexed that it had not yet been her lot to experience such adventures, such joys and terrors. Then she would suddenly fall to musing and retreat into herself, and I could see from her face that she was not attending to me.

  I closed the windows that looked out on the canal and asked whether we should not have the fire lighted.

  “No, never mind. I am not cold,” she said, smiling listlessly. “I only feel weak. Do you know, I fancy I have grown much wiser lately. I have extraordinary, original ideas now. When I think of my past, of my life then . . . people in general, in fact, it is all summed up for me in the image of my stepmother. Coarse, insolent, soulless, false, depraved, and a morphia maniac too. My father, who was feeble and weak-willed, married my mother for her money and drove her into consumption; but his second wife, my stepmother, he loved passionately, insanely. . . . What I had to put up with! But what is the use of talking! And so, as I say, it is all summed up in her image. . . . And it vexes me that my stepmother is dead. I should like to meet her now!”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered with a laugh and a graceful movement of her head. “Good-night. You must get well. As soon as you are well, we’ll take up our work. . . It’s time to begin.”

  After I had said good-night and had my hand on the door-handle, she said:

  “What do you think? Is Polya still living there?”

  “Probably.”

  And I went off to my room. So we spent a whole month. One grey morning when we both stood at my window, looking at the clouds which were moving up from the sea, and at the darkening canal, expecting every minute that it would pour with rain, and when a thick, narrow streak of rain covered the sea as though with a muslin veil, we both felt suddenly dreary. The same day we both set off for Florence.

  XVI

  It was autumn, at Nice. One morning when I went into her room she was sitting on a low chair, bent together and huddled up, with her legs crossed and her face hidden in her hands. She was weeping bitterly, with sobs, and her long, unbrushed hair fell on her knees. The impression of the exquisite marvellous sea which I had only just seen and of which I wanted to tell her, left me all at once, and my heart ached.

  “What is it?” I asked; she took one hand from her face and motioned me to go away. “What is it?” I repeated, and for the first time during our acquaintance I kissed her hand.

  “No, it’s nothing, nothing,” she said quickly. “Oh, it’s nothing, nothing. . . . Go away. . . . You see, I am not dressed.”

  I went out overwhelmed. The calm and serene mood in which I had been for so long was poisoned by compassion. I had a passionate longing to fall at her feet, to entreat her not to weep in solitude, but to share her grief with me, and the monotonous murmur of the sea already sounded a gloomy prophecy in my ears, and I foresaw fresh tears, fresh troubles, and fresh losses in the future. “What is she crying about? What is it?” I wondered, recalling her face and her agonised look. I remembered she was with child. She tried to conceal her condition from other people, and also from herself. At home she went about in a loose wrapper or in a blouse with extremely full folds over the bosom, and when she went out anywhere she laced herself in so tightly that on two occasions she fainted when we were out. She never spoke to me of her condition, and when I hinted that it might be as well to see a doctor, she flushed crimson and said not a word.

  When I went to see her next time she was already dressed and had her hair done.

  “There, there,” I said, seeing that she was ready to cry again. “We had better go to the sea and have a talk.”

  “I can’t talk. Forgive me, I am in the mood now when one wants to be alone. And, if you please, Vladimir Ivanitch, another time you want to come into my room, be so good as to give a knock at the door.”

  That “be so good” had a peculiar, unfeminine sound. I went away. My accursed Petersburg mood came back, and all my dreams were crushed and crumpled up like leaves by the heat. I felt I was alone again and there was no nearness between us. I was no more to her than that cobweb to that palm-tree, which hangs on it by chance and which will be torn off and carried away by the wind. I walked about the square where the band was playing, went into the Casino; there I looked at overdressed and heavily perfumed women, and every one of them glanced at me as though she would say: “You are alone; that’s all right.” Then I went out on the terrace and looked for a long time at the sea. There was not one sail on the horizon. On the left bank, in the lilac-coloured mist, there were mountains, gardens, towers, and houses, the sun was sparkling over it all, but it was all alien, indifferent, an incomprehensible tangle.

  XVII

  She used as before to come into my room in the morning to coffee, but we no longer dined together, as she said she was not hungry; and she lived only on coffee, tea, and various trifles such as oranges and caramels.

  And we no longer had conversations in the evening. I don’t know why it was like this. Ever since the day when I had found her in tears she had treated me somehow lightly, at times casually, even ironically, and for some reason called me “My good sir.” What had before seemed to her terrible, heroic, marvellous, and had stirred her envy and enthusiasm, did not touch her now at all, and usually after listening to me, she stretched and said:

  “Yes, ‘great things were done in days of yore,’ my good sir.”

  It sometimes happened even that I did not see her for days together. I would knock timidly and guiltily at her door and get no answer; I would knock again—still silence. . . . I would stand near the door and listen; then the chambermaid would pass and say coldly, “Madame est partie.” Then I would walk about the passages of the hotel, walk and walk. . . . English people, full-bosomed ladies, waiters in swallow-tails. . . . And as I keep gazing at the long striped rug that stretches the whole length of the corridor, the idea occurs to me that I am playing in the life of this woman a strange, probably false part, and that it is beyond my power to alter that part. I run to my room and fall on my bed, and think and think, and can come to no conclusion; and all that is clear to me is that I want to live, and that the plainer and the colder and the harder her face grows, the nearer she is to me, and the more intensely and painfully I feel our kinship. Never mind “My good sir,” never mind her light careless tone, never mind anything you like, only don’t leave me, my treasure. I am afraid to be alone.

  Then I go out into the corridor again, listen in a tremor. . . . I have no dinner; I don’t notice the approach of evening. At last about eleven I hear the familiar footstep, and at the turn near the stairs Zinaida Fyodorovna comes into sight.

  “Are you taking a walk?” she would ask as she passes me. “You had better go out into the air. . . . Good-night!”

  “But shall we not meet again to-day?”

  “I think it’s late. But as you like.”

  “Tell me, where have you been?” I would ask, following her into the room.

  “Where? To Monte Carlo.” She took ten gold coins out of her pocket and said: “Look, my good sir; I have won. That’s at roulette.”

/>   “Nonsense! As though you would gamble.”

  “Why not? I am going again to-morrow.”

  I imagined her with a sick and morbid face, in her condition, tightly laced, standing near the gaming-table in a crowd of cocottes, of old women in their dotage who swarm round the gold like flies round the honey. I remembered she had gone off to Monte Carlo for some reason in secret from me.

  “I don’t believe you,” I said one day. “You wouldn’t go there.”

  “Don’t agitate yourself. I can’t lose much.”

  “It’s not the question of what you lose,” I said with annoyance. “Has it never occurred to you while you were playing there that the glitter of gold, all these women, young and old, the croupiers, all the surroundings—that it is all a vile, loathsome mockery at the toiler’s labour, at his bloody sweat?

  “If one doesn’t play, what is one to do here?” she asked. “The toiler’s labour and his bloody sweat—all that eloquence you can put off till another time; but now, since you have begun, let me go on. Let me ask you bluntly, what is there for me to do here, and what am I to do?”

  “What are you to do?” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “That’s a question that can’t be answered straight off.”

  “I beg you to answer me honestly, Vladimir Ivanitch,” she said, and her face looked angry. “Once I have brought myself to ask you this question, I am not going to listen to stock phrases. I am asking you,” she went on, beating her hand on the table, as though marking time, “what ought I to do here? And not only here at Nice, but in general?”