Peasants and Other Stories

by Anton Chekhov

  At last the train came in sight. Coils of perfectly pink smoke from the funnels floated over the copse, and two windows in the last compartment flashed so brilliantly in the sun, that it hurt their eyes to look at it.

  “Teatime!” said Yulia Sergeyevna, getting up.

  She had grown somewhat stouter of late, and her movements were already a little matronly, a little indolent.

  “It’s bad to be without love though,” said Yartsev, walking behind her. “We talk and read of nothing else but love, but we do very little loving ourselves, and that’s really bad.”

  “All that’s nonsense, Ivan Gavrilich,” said Yulia. “That’s not what gives happiness.”

  They had tea in the little garden, where mignonette, stocks, and tobacco plants were in flower, and spikes of early gladioli were just opening. Yartsev and Kochevoi could see from Yulia’s face that she was passing through a happy period of inward peace and serenity, that she wanted nothing but what she had, and they, too, had a feeling of peace and comfort in their hearts. Whatever was said sounded apt and clever; the pines were lovely—the fragrance of them was exquisite as it had never been before; and the cream was very nice; and Sasha was a good, intelligent child.

  After tea Yartsev sang songs, accompanying himself on the piano, while Yulia and Kochevoi sat listening in silence, though Yulia got up from time to time, and went softly indoors, to take a look at the baby and at Lida, who had been in bed for the last two days, feverish and eating nothing.

  “My friend, my tender friend,” sang Yartsev. “No, my friends, I’ll be hanged if I understand why you are all so against love!” he said, flinging back his head. “If I weren’t busy for fifteen hours of the twenty-four, I should certainly fall in love.”

  Supper was served on the veranda; it was warm and still, but Yulia wrapped herself in a shawl and complained of the damp. When it got dark, she seemed not quite herself; she kept shivering and begging her visitors to stay a little longer. She regaled them with wine and after supper ordered brandy to keep them from going. She didn’t want to be left alone with the children and the servants.

  “We summer visitors are getting up a performance for the children,” she said. “We have got everything—a stage and actors; we are only at a loss for a play. Two dozen plays of different sorts have been sent us, but there isn’t one that is suitable. Now, you are fond of the theater and are so good at history,” she said, addressing Yartsev. “Write an historical play for us.”

  “Well, I might.”

  The men drank up all the brandy and prepared to go.

  It was past ten, and for summer-villa people that was late.

  “How dark it is! One can’t see a bit,” said Yulia, as she went with them to the gate. “I don’t know how you’ll find your way. But, isn’t it cold?”

  She wrapped herself up more closely and walked back to the porch.

  “I suppose my Alexei’s playing cards somewhere,” she called to them. “Good night!”

  After the lighted rooms nothing could be seen. Yartsev and Kostya groped their way like blind men to the railway embankment and crossed it.

  “One can’t see a thing,” said Kostya in his bass voice, standing still and gazing at the sky. “And the stars, the stars, they are like new threepenny bits. Gavrilich!”

  “Ah?” Yartsev responded somewhere in the darkness.

  “I say, one can’t see a thing. Where are you?”

  Yartsev went up to him whistling and took his arm.

  “Hi, there, you summer visitors!” Kostya shouted at the top of his voice. “We’ve caught a socialist.”

  When he was exhilarated he was always very rowdy, shouting, wrangling with policemen and cabdrivers, singing, and laughing violently.

  “Nature be damned,” he shouted.

  “Come, come,” said Yartsev, trying to pacify him. “You mustn’t. Please don’t.”

  Soon the friends grew accustomed to the darkness and were able to distinguish the outlines of the tall pines and telegraph posts. From time to time the sound of whistles reached them from the station and the telegraph wires hummed plaintively. From the copse itself there came no sound, and there was a feeling of pride, strength, and mystery in its silence, and on the right it seemed that the tops of the pines were almost touching the sky. The friends found their path and walked along it. There it was quite dark, and it was only from the long strip of sky dotted with stars, and from the firmly trodden earth under their feet, that they could tell they were walking along a path. They walked along side by side in silence, and it seemed to both of them that people were coming to meet them. Their tipsy exhilaration passed off. The fancy came into Yartsev’s mind that perhaps that copse was haunted by the spirits of the Muscovite Tsars, boyars, and patriarchs, and he was on the point of telling Kostya about it, but he checked himself.

  When they reached the town gate there was a faint light of dawn in the sky. Still in silence, Yartsev and Kochevoi walked along the wooden pavement, by the cheap summer cottages, eating-houses, timber stacks. Under the arch of interlacing branches, the damp air was fragrant of lime trees, and then a broad, long street opened before them, and on it not a soul, not a light. . . . When they reached the Red Pond, it was daylight.

  “Moscow—it’s a town that will have to suffer a great deal more,” said Yartsev, looking at the Alexyevsky Monastery.

  “What put that into your head?”

  “I don’t know. I love Moscow.”

  Both Yartsev and Kostya had been born in Moscow, and adored the town, and felt for some reason antagonistic to every other town. Both were convinced that Moscow was a remarkable town, and Russia a remarkable country. In the Crimea, in the Caucasus, and abroad, they felt dull, uncomfortable, and ill at ease, and they thought their gray Moscow weather very pleasant and healthy. And when the rain lashed at the windowpanes and it got dark early, and when the walls of the churches and houses looked a drab, dismal color, days when one doesn’t know what to put on when one is going out—such days excited them agreeably.

  At last near the station they took a cab.

  “It really would be nice to write an historical play,” said Yartsev, “but not about the Lyapunovs or the Godunovs, but of the times of Yaroslav or of Monomach. . . . I hate all historical plays except the monologue of Pimen. When you have to do with some historical authority or even read a textbook of Russian history, you feel that everyone in Russia is exceptionally talented, gifted, and interesting; but when I see an historical play at the theater, Russian life begins to seem stupid, morbid, and not original.”

  Near Dmitrovka the friends separated, and Yartsev went on to his lodging in Great Nikitsky Street. He sat half dozing, swaying from side to side, and pondering on the play. He suddenly imagined a terrible din, a clanging noise, and shouts in some unknown language that might have been Kalmuck, and a village wrapped in flames, and forests near covered with hoarfrost and soft pink in the glow of the fire, visible for miles around, and so clearly that every little fir tree could be distinguished, and savage men darting about the village on horseback and on foot, and as red as the glow in the sky.

  “The Polovtsy,” thought Yartsev.

  One of them, a terrible old man with a bloodstained face all scorched from the fire, binds to his saddle a young girl with a White Russian face, and the girl looks sorrowful, understanding. . . . Yartsev flung back his head and woke up.

  “My friend, my tender friend . . .” he hummed.

  As he paid the cabman and went up his stairs, he could not shake off his dreaminess; he saw the flames catching the village, and the forest beginning to crackle and smoke. A huge, wild bear frantic with terror rushed through the village. . . . And the girl tied to the saddle was still looking.

  When at last he went into his room it was broad daylight. Two candles were burning by some open music on the piano. On the sofa lay Polina Razsudin, wearing a black dress and a sash, with a newspaper in her hand, fast asleep. She must have been playing late, waiting for Yartsev t
o come home, and, tired of waiting, fell asleep.

  “Hullo, she’s worn out,” he thought.

  Carefully taking the newspaper out of her hands, he covered her with a rug. He put out the candles and went into his bedroom. As he got into bed, he still thought of his historical play, and the tune of “My friend, my tender friend” was still ringing in his head. . . .

  Two days later Laptev looked in upon him for a moment to tell him that Lida was ill with diphtheria, and that Yulia Sergeyevna and her baby had caught it from her, and five days later came the news that Lida and Yulia were recovering, but the baby was dead, and that the Laptevs had left their villa at Sokolniki and had hastened back to Moscow.

  14.

  It had become distasteful to Laptev to be long at home. His wife was constantly away in the lodge declaring that she had to look after the little girls, but he knew that she did not go to the lodge to give them lessons but to cry in Kostya’s room. The ninth day came, then the twentieth, and then the fortieth, and still he had to go to the cemetery to listen to the requiem, and then to wear himself out for a whole day and night thinking of nothing but that unhappy baby, and trying to comfort his wife with all sorts of commonplace expressions. He went rarely to the warehouse now and spent most of his time in charitable work, seizing upon every pretext requiring his attention, and he was glad when he had for some trivial reason to be out for the whole day. He had been intending of late to go abroad, to study night refuges, and that idea attracted him now.

  It was an autumn day. Yulia had just gone to the lodge to cry, while Laptev lay on a sofa in the study thinking where he could go. Just at that moment Pyotr announced Polina Razsudin. Laptev was delighted; he leaped up and went to meet the unexpected visitor, who had been his closest friend, though he had almost begun to forget her. She had not changed in the least since that evening when he had seen her for the last time and was just the same as ever.

  “Polina,” he said, holding out both hands to her. “What ages! If you only knew how glad I am to see you! Do come in!”

  Polina greeted him, jerked him by the hand, and, without taking off her coat and hat, went into the study and sat down.

  “I’ve come to you for one minute,” she said. “I haven’t time to talk of any nonsense. Sit down and listen. Whether you are glad to see me or not is absolutely nothing to me, for I don’t care a straw for the gracious attentions of you lords of creation. I’ve only come to you because I’ve been to five other places already today, and everywhere I was met with a refusal, and it’s a matter that can’t be put off. Listen,” she went on, looking into his face. “Five students of my acquaintance, stupid, unintelligent people, but certainly poor, have neglected to pay their fees and are being excluded from the university. Your wealth makes it your duty to go straight to the university and pay for them.”

  “With pleasure, Polina.”

  “Here are their names,” she said, giving him a list. “Go this minute; you’ll have plenty of time to enjoy your domestic happiness afterwards.”

  At that moment a rustle was heard through the door that led into the drawing-room; probably the dog was scratching itself. Polina turned crimson and jumped up.

  “Your Dulcinea’s eavesdropping,” she said. “That’s horrid!”

  Laptev was offended at this insult to Yulia.

  “She’s not here; she’s in the lodge,” he said. “And don’t speak of her like that. Our child is dead, and she is in great distress.”

  “You can console her,” Polina scoffed, sitting down again; “she’ll have another dozen. You don’t need much sense to bring children into the world.”

  Laptev remembered that he had heard this, or something very like it, many times in old days, and it brought back a whiff of the romance of the past, of solitary freedom, of his bachelor life, when he was young and thought he could do anything he chose, when he had neither love for his wife nor memory of his baby.

  “Let us go together,” he said, stretching.

  When they reached the university Polina waited at the gate, while Laptev went into the office; he came back soon afterwards and handed Polina five receipts.

  “Where are you going now?” he asked.

  “To Yartsev’s.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “But you’ll prevent him from writing.”

  “No, I assure you I won’t,” he said, and looked at her imploringly.

  She had on a black hat trimmed with crepe, as though she were in mourning, and a short, shabby coat, the pockets of which stuck out. Her nose looked longer than it used to be, and her face looked bloodless in spite of the cold. Laptev liked walking with her, doing what she told him, and listening to her grumbling. He walked along thinking about her, what inward strength there must be in this woman, since, though she was so ugly, so angular, so restless, though she did not know how to dress, and always had untidy hair, and was always somehow out of harmony, she was yet so fascinating.

  They went into Yartsev’s flat by the back way through the kitchen, where they were met by the cook, a clean little old woman with gray curls; she was overcome with embarrassment, and with a honeyed smile which made her little face look like a pie, said:

  “Please walk in.”

  Yartsev was not at home. Polina sat down to the piano, and, beginning upon a tedious, difficult exercise, told Laptev not to hinder her. And without distracting her attention by conversation, he sat on one side and began turning over the pages of a The Messenger of Europe. After practicing for two hours—it was the task she set herself every day—she ate something in the kitchen and went out to her lessons. Laptev read the continuation of a story, then sat for a long time without reading and without being bored, glad to think that he was too late for dinner at home.

  “Ha, ha, ha!” came Yartsev’s laugh, and he walked in with ruddy cheeks, looking strong and healthy, wearing a new coat with bright buttons. “Ha, ha, ha!”

  The friends dined together. Then Laptev lay on the sofa while Yartsev sat near and lighted a cigar. It got dark.

  “I must be getting old,” said Laptev. “Ever since my sister Nina died, I’ve taken to constantly thinking of death.”

  They began talking of death, of the immortality of the soul, of how nice it would be to rise again and fly off somewhere to Mars, to be always idle and happy, and, above all, to think in a new special way, not as on earth.

  “One doesn’t want to die,” said Yartsev softly. “No sort of philosophy can reconcile me to death, and I look on it simply as annihilation. One wants to live.”

  “You love life, Gavrilich?”

  “Yes, I love it.”

  “Do you know, I can never understand myself about that. I’m always in a gloomy mood or else indifferent. I’m timid, without self-confidence; I have a cowardly conscience; I never can adapt myself to life, or become its master. Some people talk nonsense or cheat, and even so enjoy life, while I consciously do good, and feel nothing but uneasiness or complete indifference. I explain all that, Gavrilich, by my being a slave, the grandson of a serf. Before we plebeians fight our way into the true path, many of our sort will perish on the way.”

  “That’s all quite right, my dear fellow,” said Yartsev, and he sighed. “That only proves once again how rich and varied Russian life is. Ah, how rich it is! Do you know, I feel more convinced every day that we are on the eve of the greatest triumph, and I should like to live to take part in it. Whether you like to believe it or not, to my thinking a remarkable generation is growing up. It gives me great enjoyment to teach the children, especially the girls. They are wonderful children!”

  Yartsev went to the piano and struck a chord.

  “I’m a chemist, I think in chemical terms, and I shall die a chemist,” he went on. “But I am greedy, and I am afraid of dying unsatisfied; and chemistry is not enough for me, and I seize upon Russian history, history of art, the science of teaching music. . . . Your wife asked me in the summer to write an historical play, and now I’m longing to
write and write. I feel as though I could sit for three days and three nights without moving, writing all the time. I am worn out with ideas—my brain’s crowded with them, and I feel as though there were a pulse throbbing in my head. I don’t in the least want to become anything special, to create something great. I simply want to live, to dream, to hope, to be in the midst of everything. . . . Life is short, my dear fellow, and one must make the most of everything.”

  After this friendly talk, which was not over till midnight, Laptev took to coming to see Yartsev almost every day. He felt drawn to him. As a rule he came towards evening, lay down on the sofa, and waited patiently for Yartsev to come in, without feeling in the least bored. When Yartsev came back from his work, he had dinner and sat down to work; but Laptev would ask him a question, a conversation would spring up, and there was no more thought of work and at midnight the friends parted very well pleased with one another.

  But this did not last long. Arriving one day at Yartsev’s, Laptev found no one there but Polina, who was sitting at the piano practicing her exercises. She looked at him with a cold, almost hostile expression, and asked, without shaking hands:

  “Tell me, please: how much longer is this going on?”

  “This? What?” asked Laptev, not understanding.

  “You come here every day and hinder Yartsev from working. Yartsev is not a tradesman; he is a scientific man, and every moment of his life is precious. You ought to understand and to have some little delicacy!”

  “If you think that I hinder him,” said Laptev, mildly, disconcerted, “I will give up my visits.”

  “Quite right, too. You had better go, or he may be home in a minute and find you here.”

  The tone in which this was said, and the indifference in Polina’s eyes, completely disconcerted him. She had absolutely no sort of feeling for him now, except the desire that he should go as soon as possible—and what a contrast it was to her old love for him! He went out without shaking hands with her, and he fancied she would call out to him, bring him back, but he heard the scales again, and as he slowly went down the stairs he realized that he had become a stranger to her now.