About Love and Other Stories

by Anton Chekhov

  The student began to think about Vasilisa: if she had started crying, it meant that everything that had happened to Peter on that terrible night related to her in some way…

  He looked back. The solitary fire was flickering peacefully in the darkness, and the people by it were no longer visible. The student started thinking again that if Vasilisa had started crying, and her daughter had felt embarrassed, then obviously the events he had just recounted, which had happened nineteen centuries ago, must also relate to the present—to the two women, probably to this deserted village, and to himself and to all people. If the old woman had started crying, it was not because he was able to speak movingly, but because she felt close to Peter, and because she was completely absorbed with what was going on in Peter’s soul.

  And then suddenly there was a frenzy of joy in his soul, and he had to stop for a minute to catch his breath. The past, he realized, was linked to the present by an unbroken chain of events, which flowed from one into another. And it seemed to him that he had just seen both ends of this chain: he had touched one end and the other had moved.

  And when he was crossing the river on the ferry, and then when he was walking up the hill, looking down at his own village and across to the west, where the cold crimson sunset was glowing in a narrow band, he realized that truth and beauty, which had guided human life in that garden and at the high priest’s, had continued to do so without a break until the present day, and had clearly always constituted the most important elements in human life, and on earth in general; and a feeling of youth, health, and strength he was only twenty-two years old–and an inexpressibly sweet expectation of happiness, of unfathomable, mysterious happiness, gradually overcame him, and life seemed entrancing and miraculous to him, and full of sublime meaning.

  THE HOUSE WITH THE MEZZANINE (AN ARTIST’S STORY)

  I

  It all happened about six or seven years ago when I was living in one of the districts of T. province, * on the estate of a landowner called Belokurov—a young man who used to get up very early, go around in traditional Russian dress, * drink beer in the evenings, and complain to me the whole time that no one appreciated anything he did. He lived in the grounds, in one of the annexes, while I was in the old mansion, in a vast ballroom with columns, which had no furniture except the large divan I used to sleep on, and a table at which I played patience. The old pneumatic stoves * always used to moan, even when the weather was calm, but during thunderstorms the entire house would start shaking, as though it was about to break into pieces. It was quite frightening, especially at night, when all ten of the large windows would suddenly be lit up by lightning.

  I was doomed by fate to lead a life of complete idleness, and so I did absolutely nothing with myself. I spent hours on end looking out through my windows at the sky and the birds and at the avenues in the park; I read everything that arrived by post, and I slept. And every now and then I would leave the house and go wandering off somewhere until late in the evening.

  Once when I was returning home, I happened to stray into an estate I had never come across before. The sun was already beginning to disappear, and evening shadows stretched along the flowering rye. Two rows of old and very tall fir trees planted closely together stood like solid walls, forming a dark, beautiful avenue. I climbed over the fence without any difficulty and set off down this avenue, slipping on the needles which lay on the ground several inches thick. It was quiet and dark, except high up at the tops of some of the trees, where there was a glimmer of bright golden light which made rainbows in the spiders’ webs. The scent from the needles was so strong it was almost overpowering. Then I turned down the long linden avenue. Here too there were signs of neglect and old age; last year’s fallen leaves rustled sadly under my feet, and shadows hid in the twilight between the trees. To my right, in an old orchard there was an oriole singing, reluctantly and feebly; it was probably old too. But at this point the lindens came to an end; I walked past a white house with a veranda and a mezzanine, and before me suddenly unfolded a vista of the house’s front courtyard, a large pond with a bathing area and a cluster of green willows, a village on the other side, and a tall, narrow bell-tower, at the top of which was a cross, which looked as if it was on fire as it reflected the rays of the setting sun. For a second I was bewitched by the sensation that all of this was something familiar and cherished—as if I had seen this exact vista at some point in my childhood.

  By the white stone gateposts which led from the courtyard into the fields two girls were standing in front of a pair of sturdy old gates with lions on them. One of them—older, thin, pale, very pretty, with a great mop of chestnut hair on her head and a small, stubborn mouth—had a stern expression and barely cast a glance at me. The other one, who looked quite young still–about seventeen or eighteen, no more than that–was also thin and pale, and had a large mouth and large eyes. She looked at me in surprise as I walked past, said something in English, and then immediately became embarrassed. It seemed that I had known these two lovely faces for a long time too. I returned home feeling I had woken up from a pleasant dream.

  Soon afterwards, at around noon one day, as Belokurov and I were out for a stroll near the house, a sprung carriage suddenly swept into the courtyard, making the grass rustle. In it sat one of those girls I had seen; the elder one. She had come with a subscription list in aid of the victims of a fire. Without looking at us, she told us earnestly and in profuse detail about how many houses had burned down in the village of Siyanovo, how many men, women, and children had been left without a roof over their heads, and what were the immediate steps to be taken by the fire committee, of which she was now a member. After giving us the list to sign, she tucked it away and immediately started saying goodbye.

  ‘You have been neglecting us, Pyotr Petrovich,’ she said to Belokurov, as she held out her hand to him. ‘You should come over. And if Monsieur N. (she pronounced my surname) is interested in seeing how admirers of his work live round here, and would like to pay a visit, then Mama and I would be very glad.’ I bowed.

  When she had gone, Pyotr Petrovich started telling me about her. She was a girl from a good family, according to him, and was called Lidiya Volchaninova. And the estate where she lived with her mother and sister was called Shelkovka, which was also the name of the village on the other side of the pond. Her father had once held a prominent post in Moscow and had attained the rank of privy councillor when he died. Despite their affluence, the Volchaninovs lived in the village all year round, both summer and winter, and Lidiya was a teacher in the local district school in Shelkovka and earned twenty-five roubles a month. This was the only money she spent on herself, and she was proud of being able to live on her wages. ‘They are an interesting family,’ said Belokurov. ‘Maybe we should go and call on them one day. They would be very pleased to see you.’

  After lunch one feast day, we remembered about the Volchaninovs and set off to visit them in Shelkovka. The mother and both her daughters were at home. Yekaterina Pavlovna, the mother, had obviously once been pretty, but now looked older than her years, was short of breath, sad, and absent-minded. She tried to start a conversation about painting with me. Having heard from her daughter that I might visit Shelkovka, she had hurriedly recalled a couple of my landscape paintings that she had seen at exhibitions in Moscow and was now asking me what I had wanted to express in them. Lidiya, or Lida, as they called her at home, spoke more to Belokurov than to me. With an unsmiling and earnest expression she was asking him why he did not serve on the zemstvo, * and why he still had not attended a single meeting.

  ‘It’s not good, Pyotr Petrovich,’ she said. ‘Not good. Shame on you.’

  ‘You’re right Lida,’ her mother said. ‘It’s not good.’

  ‘Our whole district is at the mercy of Balagin,’ Lida continued, turning to me. ‘He runs the office and he has given all the jobs in the district to his nephews and nieces. He does whatever he wants. We’ve got to put up a fight. The young people round
here ought to join forces, but you can see what kind of young people we have round here! Shame on you, Pyotr Petrovich!’

  The younger sister Zhenya was silent while we were talking about the local zemstvo. She did not take part in serious discussions, since she was not considered grown-up. They called her Missius, as if she were a little girl, because that was what she had called her governess, instead of ‘Miss’. She looked at me with curiosity the whole time, and as I looked through a photograph album, she placed her finger on each of the portraits, explaining: ‘That’s my uncle… that’s my godfather…’ Like a child, she leaned her shoulder against me, and I could see up close her delicate young breasts, her narrow shoulders, her plaited hair, and her thin little body, tightly held in by a belt.

  We played croquet and lawn-tennis, walked around the garden, drank tea, then took a long time over dinner. After the huge expanse of the ballroom with its columns, I enjoyed being in this small, comfortable house, where there were no imitation oil paintings on the walls, and where they were polite to the servants. Everything in it seemed young and pure, thanks to the presence of Lida and Missius, and there was an atmosphere of integrity. Lida talked about the zemstvo again to Belokurov at dinner, about Balagin, and about the school libraries. She was a lively, sincere girl with strong convictions, and it was interesting to listen to her, although she talked a great deal and in a loud voice, probably because that was what she was used to doing at her school. Good old Pyotr Petrovich, on the other hand, who had retained from his student years the habit of turning every conversation into an argument, was boring, monotonous, and long-winded when he spoke, but he was obviously intent on appearing clever and forward-thinking. He knocked over the sauce-boat with his sleeve as he was making a gesture, and a large puddle formed on the tablecloth, but no one apart from me appeared to notice.

  It was dark and quiet when we returned home.

  ‘Good breeding is not about whether you spill sauce on the tablecloth or not, but about not noticing someone else doing it,’ said Belokurov with a sigh. ‘Yes, what a fine, cultured family they are! I’ve lost touch with good people, I really have! It’s just work, work, work, all the time!’

  He talked about how hard one had to work in order to become a model farmer. Meanwhile I was thinking what a lazy and tiresome fellow he was! Whenever he talked about anything serious he would drag out his sentences unbearably, and the way he worked was just like the way he talked–slowly, always behind schedule and with scant regard for deadlines. I already had little faith in his ability to get things done, because he would carry around the letters I had asked him to mail for me in his pocket for weeks on end.

  ‘And the hardest thing of all,’ he muttered, as he walked along beside me; ‘the hardest thing is that you do all this work, and no one ever appreciates it! Never any appreciation!’

  II

  I started spending time at the Volchaninovs. I would usually just sit on the bottom step of the veranda, tormented by dissatisfaction with myself, and sad that my life was passing by so fast and so uneventfully. I kept wishing I could just pluck out my heart, because it had become so heavy. And all the while I would hear people talking on the veranda, dresses rustling, and the pages of a book being turned. In the afternoons I soon got used to seeing Lida treat sick people, give out books, and often walk bareheaded into the village with a parasol. Then in the evenings she would usually talk loudly about the zemstvo and the schools. This slim, pretty, and unrelentingly puritanical girl with the small, perfectly formed mouth would always tell me drily, whenever the conversation turned to her work:

  ‘This won’t be interesting to you.’

  I did not appeal to her. She did not like me because I painted landscapes instead of depicting social problems, and because I was indifferent to all the things she so strongly believed in, or so it seemed to her. I remember once when I was travelling along the shores of Lake Baikal, I met a Buryat girl, * dressed in a shirt and blue trousers made of Chinese calico, sitting astride a horse. I asked her if she would sell me her pipe, and while we were talking she looked at my European face and at my hat with complete derision. She was bored with talking to me after less than a minute, and she just gave a whoop and galloped off. Lida despised me as someone alien in just the same way. She never expressed her dislike of me out in the open, but I could sense it, and would become irritated while sitting on the bottom step of the veranda. I said that to treat peasants without being a doctor was to deceive them, and that it was easy to do good works when you owned thousands of acres.

  But her sister Missius had no cares at all and spent her days in complete idleness, just like me. As soon as she got up she would pick up a book and read, sitting on the veranda in a deep armchair, with her feet barely touching the ground, or she would hide away with her book in the linden avenue, or walk through the gates into the field. She read the whole day, with her eyes glued to the page, and it was only because she sometimes looked tired and rather dazed, and her face became extremely pale, that you could tell that all that reading mentally exhausted her. Whenever I appeared, she would blush and put down her book. With her large eyes fixed on me, she would tell me what had been going on, that the chimney had caught fire in the servants’ quarters, for example, or that one of the labourers had caught a big fish in the pond. During the week she would usually wear a light-coloured blouse and a navy skirt. We went for walks together, picked cherries to make jam, and went boating, and when she jumped up to reach a cherry or was pulling on the oars, her thin, frail arms showed underneath her wide sleeves. At other times I would do some sketching, and she would stand nearby and watch with delight.

  One Sunday, at the end of July, I arrived at the Volchaninovs in the morning, at around nine o’clock. Keeping some way off from the house, I walked through the park looking for white mushrooms, which were in abundance that summer, and put markers by them so I could pick them later with Zhenya. There was a warm wind blowing. I saw Zhenya and her mother coming home from church, both wearing smart summer dresses, and Zhenya holding on to her hat because of the wind. Then I heard them having tea on the veranda.

  For me, a person without cares, forever seeking justification for my life of permanent idleness, these summer weekend mornings at our country estates are always extraordinarily pleasant. With the green garden still damp with dew and basking happily in the sunlight, the scent of mignonette and oleander surrounding the house, and the young people drinking tea in the garden, just back from church, everyone in their Sunday best, and in good spirits, and with the knowledge that all these healthy, well-fed, attractive people will do nothing all day long, one cannot help wishing that life would always be like this. And that is precisely what I was thinking as I walked round the garden that day, ready to carry on walking without aim or purpose for the whole day, or the entire summer.

  Zhenya arrived with a basket; she looked as if she knew or had sensed that she would find me in the garden. We picked the mushrooms and talked, and when she asked me about something, she would walk in front of me so she could see my face.

  ‘A miracle took place in our village yesterday,’ she said. ‘Pelageya, the cripple, has been ill the whole year; no doctors or medicines were any help, and yesterday an old woman just whispered something and she got better.’

  ‘That’s nothing,’ I said. ‘You shouldn’t just look for miracles that happen with sick people and old women. Isn’t good health a miracle? And what about life itself? Anything you can’t understand is a miracle.’

  ‘But aren’t you scared of things you don’t understand?’

  ‘No. I have a healthy attitude to things I don’t understand and don’t give in to them. I’m above them. Human beings should acknowledge themselves as being above lions, tigers, stars–above everything in nature, in fact even above things which are incomprehensible and seem miraculous, otherwise we are not human beings but mice, frightened of everything.’

  Zhenya thought that I must know a lot since I was an artist, and that I
could just guess the answer to things I didn’t know. She wanted me to transport her into the realm of the eternal and beautiful, to the higher world where she thought I resided, and she would talk to me about god, about eternal life, and about heaven. Meanwhile, refusing to entertain the thought that I and my imagination would perish forever after my death, I would reply: ‘Yes, people are immortal’, ‘Yes, eternal life does await us.’ And she listened, believed what I said, and needed no proof.

  When we were walking back towards the house, she suddenly stopped and said: ‘Lida is a remarkable person, don’t you think? I love her so much, and would gladly sacrifice my life for her. But tell me,’ Zhenya then asked, touching my sleeve with her finger; ‘why do you argue with her all the time? Why do you get so annoyed?’

  ‘Because she is wrong!’

  Zhenya shook her head and tears appeared in her eyes. ‘I just don’t understand!’ she said.

  Lida had just then returned from somewhere. Standing by the porch with a riding crop in her hands, looking slim and pretty and all bathed in sunlight, she was giving instructions to a workman. After briskly attending to a few people requiring medical attention, to whom she talked in a loud voice, she walked through the house with a businesslike, preoccupied look, opening one cupboard after another, and then disappeared into the mezzanine. It took a long while to find her and call her down to lunch, and by the time she appeared we had already finished our soup. For some reason I have fond memories of all these tiny details, and can recall the day vividly, even though nothing special happened. After lunch, Zhenya read, recumbent in her deep armchair, and I sat on the bottom step of the veranda. We did not talk. The whole sky was now full of clouds, and it began to rain with a fine, light drizzle. It was hot, the wind had long since dropped, and it seemed that the day would never end. Still drowsy, Yekaterina Pavlovna came out onto the veranda with a fan.