Short Stories by Chekhov
And then came as yesterday and every day supper, reading, a sleepless
night, and endless thinking about the same thing. At three o'clock the
sun rose; Alyona was already busy in the corridor, and Vera was not
asleep yet and was trying to read. She heard the creak of the barrow: it
was the new labourer at work in the garden. . . . Vera sat at the open
window with a book, dozed, and watched the soldier making the paths for
her, and that interested her. The paths were as even and level as a
leather strap, and it was pleasant to imagine what they would be like
when they were strewn with yellow sand.
She could see her aunt come out of the house soon after five o'clock, in
a pink wrapper and curl-papers. She stood on the steps for three minutes
without speaking, and then said to the soldier:
"Take your passport and go in peace. I can't have any one illegitimate
in my house."
An oppressive, angry feeling sank like a stone on Vera's heart. She was
indignant with her aunt, she hated her; she was so sick of her aunt that
her heart was full of misery and loathing. But what was she to do? To
stop her mouth? To be rude to her? But what would be the use? Suppose
she struggled with her, got rid of her, made her harmless, prevented her
grandfather from flourishing his stick-- what would be the use of it? It
would be like killing one mouse or one snake in the boundless steppe.
The vast expanse, the long winters, the monotony and dreariness of life,
instil a sense of helplessness; the position seems hopeless, and one
wants to do nothing--everything is useless.
Alyona came in, and bowing low to Vera, began carrying out the arm-
chairs to beat the dust out of them.
"You have chosen a time to clean up," said Vera with annoyance. "Go
away."
Alyona was overwhelmed, and in her terror could not understand what was
wanted of her. She began hurriedly tidying up the dressing-table.
"Go out of the room, I tell you," Vera shouted, turning cold; she had
never had such an oppressive feeling before. "Go away!"
Alyona uttered a sort of moan, like a bird, and dropped Vera's gold
watch on the carpet.
"Go away!" Vera shrieked in a voice not her own, leaping up and
trembling all over. "Send her away; she worries me to death!" she went
on, walking rapidly after Alyona down the passage, stamping her feet.
"Go away! Birch her! Beat her!" Then suddenly she came to herself, and
just as she was, unwashed, uncombed, in her dressing-gown and slippers,
she rushed out of the house. She ran to the familiar ravine and hid
herself there among the sloe-trees, so that she might see no one and be
seen by no one. Lying there motionless on the grass, she did not weep,
she was not horror-stricken, but gazing at the sky open-eyed, she
reflected coldly and clearly that something had happened which she could
never forget and for which she could never forgive herself all her life.
"No, I can't go on like this," she thought. "It's time to take myself in
hand, or there'll be no end to it. . . . I can't go on like this. . . ."
At midday Dr. Neshtchapov drove by the ravine on his way to the house.
She saw him and made up her mind that she would begin a new life, and
that she would make herself begin it, and this decision calmed her. And
following with her eyes the doctor's well-built figure, she said, as
though trying to soften the crudity of her decision:
"He's a nice man. . . . We shall get through life somehow."
She returned home. While she was dressing, Auntie Dasha came into the
room, and said:
"Alyona upset you, darling; I've sent her home to the village. Her
mother's given her a good beating and has come here, crying."
"Auntie," said Vera quickly, "I'm going to marry Dr. Neshtchapov. Only
talk to him yourself . . . I can't."
And again she went out into the fields. And wandering aimlessly about,
she made up her mind that when she was married she would look after the
house, doctor the peasants, teach in the school, that she would do all
the things that other women of her circle did. And this perpetual
dissatisfaction with herself and every one else, this series of crude
mistakes which stand up like a mountain before one whenever one looks
back upon one's past, she would accept as her real life to which she was
fated, and she would expect nothing better. . . . Of course there was
nothing better! Beautiful nature, dreams, music, told one story, but
reality another. Evidently truth and happiness existed somewhere outside
real life. . . . One must give up one's own life and merge oneself into
this luxuriant steppe, boundless and indifferent as eternity, with its
flowers, its ancient barrows, and its distant horizon, and then it would
be well with one. . . .
A month later Vera was living at the works.
EXPENSIVE LESSONS
FOR a cultivated man to be ignorant of foreign languages is a great
inconvenience. Vorotov became acutely conscious of it when, after taking
his degree, he began upon a piece of research work.
"It's awful," he said, breathing hard (although he was only twenty-six
he was fat, heavy, and suffered from shortness of breath).
"It's awful! Without languages I'm like a bird without wings. I might
just as well give up the work."
And he made up his mind at all costs to overcome his innate laziness,
and to learn French and German; and began to look out for a teacher.
One winter noon, as Vorotov was sitting in his study at work, the
servant told him that a young lady was inquiring for him.
"Ask her in," said Vorotov.
And a young lady elaborately dressed in the last fashion walked in. She
introduced herself as a teacher of French, Alice Osipovna Enqu?e, and
told Vorotov that she had been sent to him by one of his friends.
"Delighted! Please sit down," said Vorotov, breathing hard and putting
his hand over the collar of his nightshirt (to breathe more freely he
always wore a nightshirt at work instead of a stiff linen one with
collar). "It was Pyotr Sergeitch sent you? Yes, yes . . . I asked him
about it. Delighted!"
As he talked to Mdlle. Enqu?e he looked at her shyly and with
curiosity. She was a genuine Frenchwoman, very elegant and still quite
young. Judging from her pale, languid face, her short curly hair, and
her unnaturally slim waist, she might have been eighteen; but looking at
her broad, well-developed shoulders, the elegant lines of her back and
her severe eyes, Vorotov thought that she was not less than three-and-
twenty and might be twenty-five; but then again he began to think she
was not more than eighteen. Her face looked as cold and business-like as
the face of a person who has come to speak about money. She did not once
smile or frown, and only once a look of perplexity flitted over her face
when she learnt that she was not required to teach children, but a stout
grown-up man.
"So, Alice Osipovna," said Vorotov, "we'll have a lesson every evening
from seven to eight. As regards your terms--a rouble a lesson--I've
nothing to say against that. By all means let it be a rouble. . . ."
And he asked her if she would not have some tea or coffee, whether it
was a fine day, and with a good-natured smile, stroking the baize of the
table, he inquired in a friendly voice who she was, where she had
studied, and what she lived on.
With a cold, business-like expression, Alice Osipovna answered that she
had completed her studies at a private school and had the diploma of a
private teacher, that her father had died lately of scarlet fever, that
her mother was alive and made artificial flowers; that she, Mdlle.
Enqu?e, taught in a private school till dinnertime, and after dinner
was busy till evening giving lessons in different good families.
She went away leaving behind her the faint fragrance of a woman's
clothes. For a long time afterwards Vorotov could not settle to work,
but, sitting at the table stroking its green baize surface, he
meditated.
"It's very pleasant to see a girl working to earn her own living," he
thought. "On the other hand, it's very unpleasant to think that poverty
should not spare such elegant and pretty girls as Alice Osipovna, and
that she, too, should have to struggle for existence. It's a sad thing!"
Having never seen virtuous Frenchwomen before, he reflected also that
this elegantly dressed young lady with her well-developed shoulders and
exaggeratedly small waist in all probability followed another calling as
well as giving French lessons.
The next evening when the clock pointed to five minutes to seven, Mdlle.
Enqu?e appeared, rosy from the frost. She opened Margot, which she had
brought with her, and without introduction began:
"French grammar has twenty-six letters. The first letter is called A,
the second B . . ."
"Excuse me," Vorotov interrupted, smiling. "I must warn you,
mademoiselle, that you must change your method a little in my case. You
see, I know Russian, Greek, and Latin well. . . . I've studied
comparative philology, and I think we might omit Margot and pass
straight to reading some author."
And he explained to the French girl how grown-up people learn languages.
"A friend of mine," he said, "wanting to learn modern languages, laid
before him the French, German, and Latin gospels, and read them side by
side, carefully analysing each word, and would you believe it, he
attained his object in less than a year. Let us do the same. We'll take
some author and read him."
The French girl looked at him in perplexity. Evidently the suggestion
seemed to her very naïve and ridiculous. If this strange proposal had
been made to her by a child, she would certainly have been angry and
have scolded it, but as he was a grown-up man and very stout and she
could not scold him, she only shrugged her shoulders hardly perceptibly
and said:
"As you please."
Vorotov rummaged in his bookcase and picked out a dog's-eared French
book.
"Will this do?"
"It's all the same," she said.
"In that case let us begin, and good luck to it! Let's begin with the
title . . . 'Mémoires.'"
"Reminiscences," Mdlle. Enqu?e translated.
With a good-natured smile, breathing hard, he spent a quarter of an hour
over the word "Mémoires," and as much over the word de, and this
wearied the young lady. She answered his questions languidly, grew
confused, and evidently did not understand her pupil well, and did not
attempt to understand him. Vorotov asked her questions, and at the same
time kept looking at her fair hair and thinking:
"Her hair isn't naturally curly; she curls it. It's a strange thing! She
works from morning to night, and yet she has time to curl her hair."
At eight o'clock precisely she got up, and saying coldly and dryly, "Au
revoir, monsieur," walked out of the study, leaving behind her the same
tender, delicate, disturbing fragrance. For a long time again her pupil
did nothing; he sat at the table meditating.
During the days that followed he became convinced that his teacher was a
charming, conscientious, and precise young lady, but that she was very
badly educated, and incapable of teaching grown-up people, and he made
up his mind not to waste his time, to get rid of her, and to engage
another teacher. When she came the seventh time he took out of his
pocket an envelope with seven roubles in it, and holding it in his hand,
became very confused and began:
"Excuse me, Alice Osipovna, but I ought to tell you . . . I'm under
painful necessity . . ."
Seeing the envelope, the French girl guessed what was meant, and for the
first time during their lessons her face quivered and her cold,
business-like expression vanished. She coloured a little, and dropping
her eyes, began nervously fingering her slender gold chain. And Vorotov,
seeing her perturbation, realised how much a rouble meant to her, and