Short Stories by Chekhov
"But how did you come here?" asked the zoologist.
"Don't ask," said the deacon, waving his hand. "The evil one tempted me,
saying: 'Go, go. . . .' So I went and almost died of fright in the
maize. But now, thank God, thank God. . . . I am awfully pleased with
you," muttered the deacon. "Old Grandad Tarantula will be glad . . . .
It's funny, it's too funny! Only I beg of you most earnestly don't tell
anybody I was there, or I may get into hot water with the authorities.
They will say: 'The deacon was a second.'"
"Gentlemen," said Von Koren, "the deacon asks you not to tell any one
you've seen him here. He might get into trouble."
"How contrary to human nature it is!" sighed the deacon. "Excuse my
saying so, but your face was so dreadful that I thought you were going
to kill him."
"I was very much tempted to put an end to that scoundrel," said Von
Koren, "but you shouted close by, and I missed my aim. The whole
procedure is revolting to any one who is not used to it, and it has
exhausted me, deacon. I feel awfully tired. Come along. . . ."
"No, you must let me walk back. I must get dry, for I am wet and cold."
"Well, as you like," said the zoologist, in a weary tone, feeling
dispirited, and, getting into the carriage, he closed his eyes. "As you
like. . . ."
While they were moving about the carriages and taking their seats,
Kerbalay stood in the road, and, laying his hands on his stomach, he
bowed low, showing his teeth; he imagined that the gentry had come to
enjoy the beauties of nature and drink tea, and could not understand why
they were getting into the carriages. The party set off in complete
silence and only the deacon was left by the duhan.
"Come to the duhan, drink tea," he said to Kerbalay. "Me wants to eat."
Kerbalay spoke good Russian, but the deacon imagined that the Tatar
would understand him better if he talked to him in broken Russian. "Cook
omelette, give cheese. . . ."
"Come, come, father," said Kerbalay, bowing. "I'll give you everything .
. . . I've cheese and wine. . . . Eat what you like."
"What is 'God' in Tatar?" asked the deacon, going into the duhan.
"Your God and my God are the same," said Kerbalay, not understanding
him. "God is the same for all men, only men are different. Some are
Russian, some are Turks, some are English--there are many sorts of men,
but God is one."
"Very good. If all men worship the same God, why do you Mohammedans look
upon Christians as your everlasting enemies?"
"Why are you angry?" said Kerbalay, laying both hands on his stomach.
"You are a priest; I am a Mussulman: you say, 'I want to eat'--I give it
you. . . . Only the rich man distinguishes your God from my God; for the
poor man it is all the same. If you please, it is ready."
While this theological conversation was taking place at the duhan,
Laevsky was driving home thinking how dreadful it had been driving there
at daybreak, when the roads, the rocks, and the mountains were wet and
dark, and the uncertain future seemed like a terrible abyss, of which
one could not see the bottom; while now the raindrops hanging on the
grass and on the stones were sparkling in the sun like diamonds, nature
was smiling joyfully, and the terrible future was left behind. He looked
at Sheshkovsky's sullen, tear-stained face, and at the two carriages
ahead of them in which Von Koren, his seconds, and the doctor were
sitting, and it seemed to him as though they were all coming back from a
graveyard in which a wearisome, insufferable man who was a burden to
others had just been buried.
"Everything is over," he thought of his past, cautiously touching his
neck with his fingers.
On the right side of his neck was a small swelling, of the length and
breadth of his little finger, and he felt a pain, as though some one had
passed a hot iron over his neck. The bullet had bruised it.
Afterwards, when he got home, a strange, long, sweet day began for him,
misty as forgetfulness. Like a man released from prison or from
hospital, he stared at the long-familiar objects and wondered that the
tables, the windows, the chairs, the light, and the sea stirred in him a
keen, childish delight such as he had not known for long, long years.
Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, pale and haggard, could not understand his gentle
voice and strange movements; she made haste to tell him everything that
had happened to her. . . . It seemed to her that very likely he scarcely
heard and did not understand her, and that if he did know everything he
would curse her and kill her, but he listened to her, stroked her face
and hair, looked into her eyes and said:
"I have nobody but you. . . ."
Then they sat a long while in the garden, huddled close together, saying
nothing, or dreaming aloud of their happy life in the future, in brief,
broken sentences, while it seemed to him that he had never spoken at
such length or so eloquently. XXI
More than three months had passed.
The day came that Von Koren had fixed on for his departure. A cold,
heavy rain had been falling from early morning, a north-east wind was
blowing, and the waves were high on the sea. It was said that the
steamer would hardly be able to come into the harbour in such weather.
By the time-table it should have arrived at ten o'clock in the morning,
but Von Koren, who had gone on to the sea-front at midday and again
after dinner, could see nothing through the field-glass but grey waves
and rain covering the horizon.
Towards the end of the day the rain ceased and the wind began to drop
perceptibly. Von Koren had already made up his mind that he would not be
able to get off that day, and had settled down to play chess with
Samoylenko; but after dark the orderly announced that there were lights
on the sea and that a rocket had been seen.
Von Koren made haste. He put his satchel over his shoulder, and kissed
Samoylenko and the deacon. Though there was not the slightest necessity,
he went through the rooms again, said good-bye to the orderly and the
cook, and went out into the street, feeling that he had left something
behind, either at the doctor's or his lodging. In the street he walked
beside Samoylenko, behind them came the deacon with a box, and last of
all the orderly with two portmanteaus. Only Samoylenko and the orderly
could distinguish the dim lights on the sea. The others gazed into the
darkness and saw nothing. The steamer had stopped a long way from the
coast.
"Make haste, make haste," Von Koren hurried them. "I am afraid it will
set off."
As they passed the little house with three windows, into which Laevsky
had moved soon after the duel, Von Koren could not resist peeping in at
the window. Laevsky was sitting, writing, bent over the table, with his
back to the window.
"I wonder at him!" said the zoologist softly. "What a screw he has put
on himself!"
"Yes, one may well wonder," said Samoylenko. "He sits from morning till
night, he's always at work. He works to pay off his debts. And he lives,
brother, worse than a beggar!"
Half a minute of silence followed. The zoologist, the doctor, and the
deacon stood at the window and went on looking at Laevsky.
"So he didn't get away from here, poor fellow," said Samoylenko. "Do you
remember how hard he tried?"
"Yes, he has put a screw on himself," Von Koren repeated. "His marriage,
the way he works all day long for his daily bread, a new expression in
his face, and even in his walk--it's all so extraordinary that I don't
know what to call it."
The zoologist took Samoylenko's sleeve and went on with emotion in his
voice:
"You tell him and his wife that when I went away I was full of
admiration for them and wished them all happiness . . . and I beg him,
if he can, not to remember evil against me. He knows me. He knows that
if I could have foreseen this change, then I might have become his best
friend."
"Go in and say good-bye to him."
"No, that wouldn't do."
"Why? God knows, perhaps you'll never see him again."
The zoologist reflected, and said:
"That's true."
Samoylenko tapped softly at the window. Laevsky started and looked
round.
"Vanya, Nikolay Vassilitch wants to say goodbye to you," said
Samoylenko. "He is just going away."
Laevsky got up from the table, and went into the passage to open the
door. Samoylenko, the zoologist, and the deacon went into the house.
"I can only come for one minute," began the zoologist, taking off his
goloshes in the passage, and already wishing he had not given way to his
feelings and come in, uninvited. "It is as though I were forcing myself
on him," he thought, "and that's stupid."
"Forgive me for disturbing you," he said as he went into the room with
Laevsky, "but I'm just going away, and I had an impulse to see you. God
knows whether we shall ever meet again."
"I am very glad to see you. . . . Please come in," said Laevsky, and he
awkwardly set chairs for his visitors as though he wanted to bar their
way, and stood in the middle of the room, rubbing his hands.
"I should have done better to have left my audience in the street,"
thought Von Koren, and he said firmly: "Don't remember evil against me,
Ivan Andreitch. To forget the past is, of course, impossible --it is too
painful, and I've not come here to apologise or to declare that I was
not to blame. I acted sincerely, and I have not changed my convictions
since then. . . . It is true that I see, to my great delight, that I was
mistaken in regard to you, but it's easy to make a false step even on a
smooth road, and, in fact, it's the natural human lot: if one is not
mistaken in the main, one is mistaken in the details. Nobody knows the
real truth."
"No, no one knows the truth," said Laevsky.
"Well, good-bye. . . . God give you all happiness."
Von Koren gave Laevsky his hand; the latter took it and bowed.
"Don't remember evil against me," said Von Koren. "Give my greetings to
your wife, and say I am very sorry not to say good-bye to her."
"She is at home."
Laevsky went to the door of the next room, and said:
"Nadya, Nikolay Vassilitch wants to say goodbye to you."
Nadyezhda Fyodorovna came in; she stopped near the doorway and looked
shyly at the visitors. There was a look of guilt and dismay on her face,
and she held her hands like a schoolgirl receiving a scolding.
"I'm just going away, Nadyezhda Fyodorovna," said Von Koren, "and have
come to say good-bye."
She held out her hand uncertainly, while Laevsky bowed.
"What pitiful figures they are, though!" thought Von Koren. "The life
they are living does not come easy to them. I shall be in Moscow and
Petersburg; can I send you anything?" he asked.
"Oh!" said Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, and she looked anxiously at her
husband. "I don't think there's anything. . . ."
"No, nothing . . ." said Laevsky, rubbing his hands. "Our greetings."
Von Koren did not know what he could or ought to say, though as he went
in he thought he would say a very great deal that would be warm and good
and important. He shook hands with Laevsky and his wife in silence, and
left them with a depressed feeling.
"What people!" said the deacon in a low voice, as he walked behind them.
"My God, what people! Of a truth, the right hand of God has planted this
vine! Lord! Lord! One man vanquishes thousands and another tens of
thousands. Nikolay Vassilitch," he said ecstatically, "let me tell you
that to-day you have conquered the greatest of man's enemies--pride."
"Hush, deacon! Fine conquerors we are! Conquerors ought to look like
eagles, while he's a pitiful figure, timid, crushed; he bows like a
Chinese idol, and I, I am sad. . . ."
They heard steps behind them. It was Laevsky, hurrying after them to see
him off. The orderly was standing on the quay with the two portmanteaus,
and at a little distance stood four boatmen.