Short Stories by Chekhov
how bitter it would be to her to lose what she was earning.
"I ought to tell you," he muttered, growing more and more confused, and
quavering inwardly; he hurriedly stuffed the envelope into his pocket
and went on: "Excuse me, I . . . I must leave you for ten minutes."
And trying to appear as though he had not in the least meant to get rid
of her, but only to ask her permission to leave her for a short time, he
went into the next room and sat there for ten minutes. And then he
returned more embarrassed than ever: it struck him that she might have
interpreted his brief absence in some way of her own, and he felt
awkward.
The lessons began again. Yorotov felt no interest in them. Realising
that he would gain nothing from the lessons, he gave the French girl
liberty to do as she liked, asking her nothing and not interrupting her.
She translated away as she pleased ten pages during a lesson, and he did
not listen, breathed hard, and having nothing better to do, gazed at her
curly head, or her soft white hands or her neck and sniffed the
fragrance of her clothes. He caught himself thinking very unsuitable
thoughts, and felt ashamed, or he was moved to tenderness, and then he
felt vexed and wounded that she was so cold and business-like with him,
and treated him as a pupil, never smiling and seeming afraid that he
might accidentally touch her. He kept wondering how to inspire her with
confidence and get to know her better, and to help her, to make her
understand how badly she taught, poor thing.
One day Mdlle. Enqu?e came to the lesson in a smart pink dress,
slightly décolleté, and surrounded by such a fragrance that she seemed
to be wrapped in a cloud, and, if one blew upon her, ready to fly away
into the air or melt away like smoke. She apologised and said she could
stay only half an hour for the lesson, as she was going straight from
the lesson to a dance.
He looked at her throat and the back of her bare neck, and thought he
understood why Frenchwomen had the reputation of frivolous creatures
easily seduced; he was carried away by this cloud of fragrance, beauty,
and bare flesh, while she, unconscious of his thoughts and probably not
in the least interested in them, rapidly turned over the pages and
translated at full steam:
"'He was walking the street and meeting a gentleman his friend and
saying, "Where are you striving to seeing your face so pale it makes me
sad."'"
The "Mémoires" had long been finished, and now Alice was translating
some other book. One day she came an hour too early for the lesson,
apologizing and saying that she wanted to leave at seven and go to the
Little Theatre. Seeing her out after the lesson, Vorotov dressed and
went to the theatre himself. He went, and fancied that he was going
simply for change and amusement, and that he was not thinking about
Alice at all. He could not admit that a serious man, preparing for a
learned career, lethargic in his habits, could fling up his work and go
to the theatre simply to meet there a girl he knew very little, who was
unintelligent and utterly unintellectual.
Yet for some reason his heart was beating during the intervals, and
without realizing what he was doing, he raced about the corridors and
foyer like a boy impatiently looking for some one, and he was
disappointed when the interval was over. And when he saw the familiar
pink dress and the handsome shoulders under the tulle, his heart
quivered as though with a foretaste of happiness; he smiled joyfully,
and for the first time in his life experienced the sensation of
jealousy.
Alice was walking with two unattractive-looking students and an officer.
She was laughing, talking loudly, and obviously flirting. Vorotov had
never seen her like that. She was evidently happy, contented, warm,
sincere. What for? Why? Perhaps because these men were her friends and
belonged to her own circle. And Vorotov felt there was a terrible gulf
between himself and that circle. He bowed to his teacher, but she gave
him a chilly nod and walked quickly by; she evidently did not care for
her friends to know that she had pupils, and that she had to give
lessons to earn money.
After the meeting at the theatre Vorotov realised that he was in love. .
. . During the subsequent lessons he feasted his eyes on his elegant
teacher, and without struggling with himself, gave full rein to his
imaginations, pure and impure. Mdlle. Enqu?e's face did not cease to
be cold; precisely at eight o'clock every evening she said coldly, "Au
revoir, monsieur," and he felt she cared nothing about him, and never
would care anything about him, and that his position was hopeless.
Sometimes in the middle of a lesson he would begin dreaming, hoping,
making plans. He inwardly composed declarations of love, remembered that
Frenchwomen were frivolous and easily won, but it was enough for him to
glance at the face of his teacher for his ideas to be extinguished as a
candle is blown out when you bring it into the wind on the verandah.
Once, overcome, forgetting himself as though in delirium, he could not
restrain himself, and barred her way as she was going from the study
into the entry after the lesson, and, gasping for breath and stammering,
began to declare his love:
"You are dear to me! I . . . I love you! Allow me to speak."
And Alice turned pale--probably from dismay, reflecting that after this
declaration she could not come here again and get a rouble a lesson.
With a frightened look in her eyes she said in a loud whisper:
"Ach, you mustn't! Don't speak, I entreat you! You mustn't!"
And Vorotov did not sleep all night afterwards; he was tortured by
shame; he blamed himself and thought intensely. It seemed to him that he
had insulted the girl by his declaration, that she would not come to him
again.
He resolved to find out her address from the address bureau in the
morning, and to write her a letter of apology. But Alice came without a
letter. For the first minute she felt uncomfortable, then she opened a
book and began briskly and rapidly translating as usual:
"'Oh, young gentleman, don't tear those flowers in my garden which I
want to be giving to my ill daughter. . . .'"
She still comes to this day. Four books have already been translated,
but Vorotov knows no French but the word "Mémoires," and when he is
asked about his literary researches, he waves his hand, and without
answering, turns the conversation to the weather.
THE PRINCESS
A CARRIAGE with four fine sleek horses drove in at the big so-called Red
Gate of the N--- Monastery. While it was still at a distance, the priests
and monks who were standing in a group round the part of the hostel
allotted to the gentry, recognised by the coachman and horses that the
lady in the carriage was Princess Vera Gavrilovna, whom they knew very
well.
An old man in livery jumped off the box and helped the princess to get
out of the carriage. She raised her dark veil and moved in a leisurely
way up to the priests to receive their blessing; then she nodded
pleasantly to the rest of the monks and went into the hostel.
"Well, have you missed your princess?" she said to the monk who brought
in her things. "It's a whole month since I've been to see you. But here
I am; behold your princess. And where is the Father Superior? My
goodness, I am burning with impatience! Wonderful, wonderful old man!
You must be proud of having such a Superior."
When the Father Superior came in, the princess uttered a shriek of
delight, crossed her arms over her bosom, and went up to receive his
blessing.
"No, no, let me kiss your hand," she said, snatching it and eagerly
kissing it three times. "How glad I am to see you at last, holy Father!
I'm sure you've forgotten your princess, but my thoughts have been in
your dear monastery every moment. How delightful it is here! This living
for God far from the busy, giddy world has a special charm of its own,
holy Father, which I feel with my whole soul although I cannot express
it!"
The princess's cheeks glowed and tears came into her eyes. She talked
incessantly, fervently, while the Father Superior, a grave, plain, shy
old man of seventy, remained mute or uttered abruptly, like a soldier on
duty, phrases such as:
"Certainly, Your Excellency. . . . Quite so. I understand."
"Has Your Excellency come for a long stay?" he inquired.
"I shall stay the night here, and to-morrow I'm going on to Klavdia
Nikolaevna's--it's a long time since I've seen her--and the day after to-
morrow I'll come back to you and stay three or four days. I want to rest
my soul here among you, holy Father. . . ."
The princess liked being at the monastery at N---. For the last two years
it had been a favourite resort of hers; she used to go there almost
every month in the summer and stay two or three days, even sometimes a
week. The shy novices, the stillness, the low ceilings, the smell of
cypress, the modest fare, the cheap curtains on the windows--all this
touched her, softened her, and disposed her to contemplation and good
thoughts. It was enough for her to be half an hour in the hostel for her
to feel that she, too, was timid and modest, and that she, too, smelt of
cypress-wood. The past retreated into the background, lost its
significance, and the princess began to imagine that in spite of her
twenty-nine years she was very much like the old Father Superior, and
that, like him, she was created not for wealth, not for earthly grandeur
and love, but for a peaceful life secluded from the world, a life in
twilight like the hostel.
It happens that a ray of light gleams in the dark cell of the anchorite
absorbed in prayer, or a bird alights on the window and sings its song;
the stern anchorite will smile in spite of himself, and a gentle,
sinless joy will pierce through the load of grief over his sins, like
water flowing from under a stone. The princess fancied she brought from
the outside world just such comfort as the ray of light or the bird. Her
gay, friendly smile, her gentle eyes, her voice, her jests, her whole
personality in fact, her little graceful figure always dressed in simple
black, must arouse in simple, austere people a feeling of tenderness and
joy. Every one, looking at her, must think: "God has sent us an angel. .
. ." And feeling that no one could help thinking this, she smiled still
more cordially, and tried to look like a bird.
After drinking tea and resting, she went for a walk. The sun was already
setting. From the monastery garden came a moist fragrance of freshly
watered mignonette, and from the church floated the soft singing of
men's voices, which seemed very pleasant and mournful in the distance.
It was the evening service. In the dark windows where the little lamps
glowed gently, in the shadows, in the figure of the old monk sitting at
the church door with a collecting-box, there was such unruffled peace
that the princess felt moved to tears.
Outside the gate, in the walk between the wall and the birch-trees where
there were benches, it was quite evening. The air grew rapidly darker
and darker. The princess went along the walk, sat on a seat, and sank
into thought.
She thought how good it would be to settle down for her whole life in
this monastery where life was as still and unruffled as a summer
evening; how good it would be to forget the ungrateful, dissipated
prince; to forget her immense estates, the creditors who worried her
every day, her misfortunes, her maid Dasha, who had looked at her
impertinently that morning. It would be nice to sit here on the bench
all her life and watch through the trunks of the birch-trees the evening
mist gathering in wreaths in the valley below; the rooks flying home in
a black cloud like a veil far, far away above the forest; two novices,