Short Stories by Chekhov
plain, and the lot of the men gathered together by the camp fire--all
this was of itself so marvellous and terrible that the fantastic colours
of legend and fairy-tale were pale and blended with life.
All the others ate out of the cauldron, but Panteley sat apart and ate
his porridge out of a wooden bowl. His spoon was not like those the
others had, but was made of cypress wood, with a little cross on it.
Yegorushka, looking at him, thought of the little ikon glass and asked
Styopka softly:
"Why does Grandfather sit apart?"
"He is an Old Believer," Styopka and Vassya answered in a whisper. And
as they said it they looked as though they were speaking of some secret
vice or weakness.
All sat silent, thinking. After the terrible stories there was no
inclination to speak of ordinary things. All at once in the midst of the
silence Vassya drew himself up and, fixing his lustreless eyes on one
point, pricked up his ears.
"What is it?" Dymov asked him.
"Someone is coming," answered Vassya.
"Where do you see him?"
"Yo-on-der! There's something white. . ."
There was nothing to be seen but darkness in the direction in which
Vassya was looking; everyone listened, but they could hear no sound of
steps.
"Is he coming by the highroad?" asked Dymov.
"No, over the open country. . . . He is coming this way."
A minute passed in silence.
"And maybe it's the merchant who was buried here walking over the
steppe," said Dymov.
All looked askance at the cross, exchanged glances and suddenly broke
into a laugh. They felt ashamed of their terror.
"Why should he walk?" asked Panteley. "It's only those walk at night
whom the earth will not take to herself. And the merchants were all
right. . . . The merchants have received the crown of martyrs."
But all at once they heard the sound of steps; someone was coming in
haste.
"He's carrying something," said Vassya.
They could hear the grass rustling and the dry twigs crackling under the
feet of the approaching wayfarer. But from the glare of the camp fire
nothing could be seen. At last the steps sounded close by, and someone
coughed. The flickering light seemed to part; a veil dropped from the
waggoners' eyes, and they saw a man facing them.
Whether it was due to the flickering light or because everyone wanted to
make out the man's face first of all, it happened, strangely enough,
that at the first glance at him they all saw, first of all, not his face
nor his clothes, but his smile. It was an extraordinarily good-natured,
broad, soft smile, like that of a baby on waking, one of those
infectious smiles to which it is difficult not to respond by smiling
too. The stranger, when they did get a good look at him, turned out to
be a man of thirty, ugly and in no way remarkable. He was a tall Little
Russian, with a long nose, long arms and long legs; everything about him
seemed long except his neck, which was so short that it made him seem
stooping. He was wearing a clean white shirt with an embroidered collar,
white trousers, and new high boots, and in comparison with the waggoners
he looked quite a dandy. In his arms he was carrying something big,
white, and at the first glance strange-looking, and the stock of a gun
also peeped out from behind his shoulder.
Coming from the darkness into the circle of light, he stopped short as
though petrified, and for half a minute looked at the waggoners as
though he would have said: "Just look what a smile I have!"
Then he took a step towards the fire, smiled still more radiantly and
said:
"Bread and salt, friends!"
"You are very welcome!" Panteley answered for them all.
The stranger put down by the fire what he was carrying in his arms --it
was a dead bustard--and greeted them once more.
They all went up to the bustard and began examining it.
"A fine big bird; what did you kill it with?" asked Dymov.
"Grape-shot. You can't get him with small shot, he won't let you get
near enough. Buy it, friends! I will let you have it for twenty
kopecks."
"What use would it be to us? It's good roast, but I bet it would be
tough boiled; you could not get your teeth into it. . . ."
"Oh, what a pity! I would take it to the gentry at the farm; they would
give me half a rouble for it. But it's a long way to go-- twelve miles!"
The stranger sat down, took off his gun and laid it beside him.
He seemed sleepy and languid; he sat smiling, and, screwing up his eyes
at the firelight, apparently thinking of something very agreeable. They
gave him a spoon; he began eating.
"Who are you?" Dymov asked him.
The stranger did not hear the question; he made no answer, and did not
even glance at Dymov. Most likely this smiling man did not taste the
flavour of the porridge either, for he seemed to eat it mechanically,
lifting the spoon to his lips sometimes very full and sometimes quite
empty. He was not drunk, but he seemed to have something nonsensical in
his head.
"I ask you who you are?" repeated Dymov.
"I?" said the unknown, starting. "Konstantin Zvonik from Rovno. It's
three miles from here."
And anxious to show straight off that he was not quite an ordinary
peasant, but something better, Konstantin hastened to add:
"We keep bees and fatten pigs."
"Do you live with your father or in a house of your own?"
"No; now I am living in a house of my own. I have parted. This month,
just after St. Peter's Day, I got married. I am a married man now! . . .
It's eighteen days since the wedding."
"That's a good thing," said Panteley. "Marriage is a good thing . . . .
God's blessing is on it."
"His young wife sits at home while he rambles about the steppe," laughed
Kiruha. "Queer chap!"
As though he had been pinched on the tenderest spot, Konstantin started,
laughed and flushed crimson.
"But, Lord, she is not at home!" he said quickly, taking the spoon out
of his mouth and looking round at everyone with an expression of delight
and wonder. "She is not; she has gone to her mother's for three days!
Yes, indeed, she has gone away, and I feel as though I were not married.
. . ."
Konstantin waved his hand and turned his head; he wanted to go on
thinking, but the joy which beamed in his face prevented him. As though
he were not comfortable, he changed his attitude, laughed, and again
waved his hand. He was ashamed to share his happy thoughts with
strangers, but at the same time he had an irresistible longing to
communicate his joy.
"She has gone to Demidovo to see her mother," he said, blushing and
moving his gun. "She'll be back to-morrow. . . . She said she would be
back to dinner."
"And do you miss her?" said Dymov.
"Oh, Lord, yes; I should think so. We have only been married such a
little while, and she has gone away. . . . Eh! Oh, but she is a tricky
one, God strike me dead! She is such a fine, splendid girl, such a one
for laughing and singing, full of life and fire! When she is there your
brain is in a whirl, and now she is away I wander about the steppe like
a fool, as though I had lost something. I have been walking since
dinner."
Konstantin rubbed his eyes, looked at the fire and laughed.
"You love her, then, . . ." said Panteley.
"She is so fine and splendid," Konstantin repeated, not hearing him;
"such a housewife, clever and sensible. You wouldn't find another like
her among simple folk in the whole province. She has gone away. . . .
But she is missing me, I kno-ow! I know the little magpie. She said she
would be back to-morrow by dinner-time. . . . And just think how queer!"
Konstantin almost shouted, speaking a note higher and shifting his
position. "Now she loves me and is sad without me, and yet she would not
marry me."
"But eat," said Kiruha.
"She would not marry me," Konstantin went on, not heeding him. "I have
been struggling with her for three years! I saw her at the Kalatchik
fair; I fell madly in love with her, was ready to hang myself. . . . I
live at Rovno, she at Demidovo, more than twenty miles apart, and there
was nothing I could do. I sent match-makers to her, and all she said
was: 'I won't!' Ah, the magpie! I sent her one thing and another,
earrings and cakes, and twenty pounds of honey--but still she said: 'I
won't!' And there it was. If you come to think of it, I was not a match
for her! She was young and lovely, full of fire, while I am old: I shall
soon be thirty, and a regular beauty, too; a fine beard like a goat's, a
clear complexion all covered with pimples--how could I be compared with
her! The only thing to be said is that we are well off, but then the
Vahramenkys are well off, too. They've six oxen, and they keep a couple
of labourers. I was in love, friends, as though I were plague-stricken.
I couldn't sleep or eat; my brain was full of thoughts, and in such a
maze, Lord preserve us! I longed to see her, and she was in Demidovo.
What do you think? God be my witness, I am not lying, three times a week
I walked over there on foot just to have a look at her. I gave up my
work! I was so frantic that I even wanted to get taken on as a labourer
in Demidovo, so as to be near her. I was in misery! My mother called in
a witch a dozen times; my father tried thrashing me. For three years I
was in this torment, and then I made up my mind. 'Damn my soul!' I said.
'I will go to the town and be a cabman. . . . It seems it is fated not
to be.' At Easter I went to Demidovo to have a last look at her. . . ."
Konstantin threw back his head and went off into a mirthful tinkling
laugh, as though he had just taken someone in very cleverly.
"I saw her by the river with the lads," he went on. "I was overcome with
anger. . . . I called her aside and maybe for a full hour I said all
manner of things to her. She fell in love with me! For three years she
did not like me! she fell in love with me for what I said to her. . . ."
"What did you say to her?" asked Dymov.
"What did I say? I don't remember. . . How could one remember? My words
flowed at the time like water from a tap, without stopping to take
breath. Ta-ta-ta! And now I can't utter a word. . . . Well, so she
married me. . . . She's gone now to her mother's, the magpie, and while
she is away here I wander over the steppe. I can't stay at home. It's
more than I can do!"
Konstantin awkwardly released his feet, on which he was sitting,
stretched himself on the earth, and propped his head in his fists, then
got up and sat down again. Everyone by now thoroughly understood that he
was in love and happy, poignantly happy; his smile, his eyes, and every
movement, expressed fervent happiness. He could not find a place for
himself, and did not know what attitude to take to keep himself from
being overwhelmed by the multitude of his delightful thoughts. Having
poured out his soul before these strangers, he settled down quietly at
last, and, looking at the fire, sank into thought.
At the sight of this happy man everyone felt depressed and longed to be
happy, too. Everyone was dreamy. Dymov got up, walked about softly by
the fire, and from his walk, from the movement of his shoulder-blades,
it could be seen that he was weighed down by depression and yearning. He
stood still for a moment, looked at Konstantin and sat down.
The camp fire had died down by now; there was no flicker, and the patch
of red had grown small and dim. . . . And as the fire went out the
moonlight grew clearer and clearer. Now they could see the full width of
the road, the bales of wool, the shafts of the waggons, the munching
horses; on the further side of the road there was the dim outline of the
second cross. . . .
Dymov leaned his cheek on his hand and softly hummed some plaintive
song. Konstantin smiled drowsily and chimed in with a thin voice. They
sang for half a minute, then sank into silence. Emelyan started, jerked