Short Stories by Chekhov
him the books he ordered. In the course of four years some six hundred
volumes were procured at his request. It was during this period that the
banker received the following letter from his prisoner:
"My dear Jailer, I write you these lines in six languages. Show them to
people who know the languages. Let them read them. If they find not one
mistake I implore you to fire a shot in the garden. That shot will show
me that my efforts have not been thrown away. The geniuses of all ages
and of all lands speak different languages, but the same flame burns in
them all. Oh, if you only knew what unearthly happiness my soul feels
now from being able to understand them!" The prisoner's desire was
fulfilled. The banker ordered two shots to be fired in the garden.
Then after the tenth year, the prisoner sat immovably at the table and
read nothing but the Gospel. It seemed strange to the banker that a man
who in four years had mastered six hundred learned volumes should waste
nearly a year over one thin book easy of comprehension. Theology and
histories of religion followed the Gospels.
In the last two years of his confinement the prisoner read an immense
quantity of books quite indiscriminately. At one time he was busy with
the natural sciences, then he would ask for Byron or Shakespeare. There
were notes in which he demanded at the same time books on chemistry, and
a manual of medicine, and a novel, and some treatise on philosophy or
theology. His reading suggested a man swimming in the sea among the
wreckage of his ship, and trying to save his life by greedily clutching
first at one spar and then at another.
II
The old banker remembered all this, and thought:
"To-morrow at twelve o'clock he will regain his freedom. By our
agreement I ought to pay him two millions. If I do pay him, it is all
over with me: I shall be utterly ruined."
Fifteen years before, his millions had been beyond his reckoning; now he
was afraid to ask himself which were greater, his debts or his assets.
Desperate gambling on the Stock Exchange, wild speculation and the
excitability which he could not get over even in advancing years, had by
degrees led to the decline of his fortune and the proud, fearless, self-
confident millionaire had become a banker of middling rank, trembling at
every rise and fall in his investments. "Cursed bet!" muttered the old
man, clutching his head in despair. "Why didn't the man die? He is only
forty now. He will take my last penny from me, he will marry, will enjoy
life, will gamble on the Exchange; while I shall look at him with envy
like a beggar, and hear from him every day the same sentence: 'I am
indebted to you for the happiness of my life, let me help you!' No, it
is too much! The one means of being saved from bankruptcy and disgrace
is the death of that man!"
It struck three o'clock, the banker listened; everyone was asleep in the
house and nothing could be heard outside but the rustling of the chilled
trees. Trying to make no noise, he took from a fireproof safe the key of
the door which had not been opened for fifteen years, put on his
overcoat, and went out of the house.
It was dark and cold in the garden. Rain was falling. A damp cutting
wind was racing about the garden, howling and giving the trees no rest.
The banker strained his eyes, but could see neither the earth nor the
white statues, nor the lodge, nor the trees. Going to the spot where the
lodge stood, he twice called the watchman. No answer followed. Evidently
the watchman had sought shelter from the weather, and was now asleep
somewhere either in the kitchen or in the greenhouse.
"If I had the pluck to carry out my intention," thought the old man,
"suspicion would fall first upon the watchman."
He felt in the darkness for the steps and the door, and went into the
entry of the lodge. Then he groped his way into a little passage and
lighted a match. There was not a soul there. There was a bedstead with
no bedding on it, and in the corner there was a dark cast-iron stove.
The seals on the door leading to the prisoner's rooms were intact.
When the match went out the old man, trembling with emotion, peeped
through the little window. A candle was burning dimly in the prisoner's
room. He was sitting at the table. Nothing could be seen but his back,
the hair on his head, and his hands. Open books were lying on the table,
on the two easy-chairs, and on the carpet near the table.
Five minutes passed and the prisoner did not once stir. Fifteen years'
imprisonment had taught him to sit still. The banker tapped at the
window with his finger, and the prisoner made no movement whatever in
response. Then the banker cautiously broke the seals off the door and
put the key in the keyhole. The rusty lock gave a grating sound and the
door creaked. The banker expected to hear at once footsteps and a cry of
astonishment, but three minutes passed and it was as quiet as ever in
the room. He made up his mind to go in.
At the table a man unlike ordinary people was sitting motionless. He was
a skeleton with the skin drawn tight over his bones, with long curls
like a woman's and a shaggy beard. His face was yellow with an earthy
tint in it, his cheeks were hollow, his back long and narrow, and the
hand on which his shaggy head was propped was so thin and delicate that
it was dreadful to look at it. His hair was already streaked with
silver, and seeing his emaciated, aged-looking face, no one would have
believed that he was only forty. He was asleep.... In front of his bowed
head there lay on the table a sheet of paper on which there was
something written in fine handwriting.
"Poor creature!" thought the banker, "he is asleep and most likely
dreaming of the millions. And I have only to take this half-dead man,
throw him on the bed, stifle him a little with the pillow, and the most
conscientious expert would find no sign of a violent death. But let us
first read what he has written here...."
The banker took the page from the table and read as follows:
"To-morrow at twelve o'clock I regain my freedom and the right to
associate with other men, but before I leave this room and see the
sunshine, I think it necessary to say a few words to you. With a clear
conscience I tell you, as before God, who beholds me, that I despise
freedom and life and health, and all that in your books is called the
good things of the world.
"For fifteen years I have been intently studying earthly life. It is
true I have not seen the earth nor men, but in your books I have drunk
fragrant wine, I have sung songs, I have hunted stags and wild boars in
the forests, have loved women.... Beauties as ethereal as clouds,
created by the magic of your poets and geniuses, have visited me at
night, and have whispered in my ears wonderful tales that have set my
brain in a whirl. In your books I have climbed to the peaks of Elburz
and Mont Blanc, and from there I have seen the sun rise and have watched
it at evening flood the sky, the ocean, and the mountain-tops with gold
and crimson. I have watched from there the lightning flashing over my
head and cleaving the storm-clouds. I have seen green forests, fields,
rivers, lakes, towns. I have heard the singing of the sirens, and the
strains of the shepherds' pipes; I have touched the wings of comely
devils who flew down to converse with me of God.... In your books I have
flung myself into the bottomless pit, performed miracles, slain, burned
towns, preached new religions, conquered whole kingdoms....
"Your books have given me wisdom. All that the unresting thought of man
has created in the ages is compressed into a small compass in my brain.
I know that I am wiser than all of you.
"And I despise your books, I despise wisdom and the blessings of this
world. It is all worthless, fleeting, illusory, and deceptive, like a
mirage. You may be proud, wise, and fine, but death will wipe you off
the face of the earth as though you were no more than mice burrowing
under the floor, and your posterity, your history, your immortal
geniuses will burn or freeze together with the earthly globe.
"You have lost your reason and taken the wrong path. You have taken lies
for truth, and hideousness for beauty. You would marvel if, owing to
strange events of some sorts, frogs and lizards suddenly grew on apple
and orange trees instead of fruit, or if roses began to smell like a
sweating horse; so I marvel at you who exchange heaven for earth. I
don't want to understand you.
"To prove to you in action how I despise all that you live by, I
renounce the two millions of which I once dreamed as of paradise and
which now I despise. To deprive myself of the right to the money I shall
go out from here five hours before the time fixed, and so break the
compact...."
When the banker had read this he laid the page on the table, kissed the
strange man on the head, and went out of the lodge, weeping. At no other
time, even when he had lost heavily on the Stock Exchange, had he felt
so great a contempt for himself. When he got home he lay on his bed, but
his tears and emotion kept him for hours from sleeping.
Next morning the watchmen ran in with pale faces, and told him they had
seen the man who lived in the lodge climb out of the window into the
garden, go to the gate, and disappear. The banker went at once with the
servants to the lodge and made sure of the flight of his prisoner. To
avoid arousing unnecessary talk, he took from the table the writing in
which the millions were renounced, and when he got home locked it up in
the fireproof safe.
THE HEAD-GARDENER'S STORY
A SALE of flowers was taking place in Count N.'s greenhouses. The
purchasers were few in number--a landowner who was a neighbor of mine, a
young timber-merchant, and myself. While the workmen were carrying out
our magnificent purchases and packing them into the carts, we sat at the
entry of the greenhouse and chatted about one thing and another. It is
extremely pleasant to sit in a garden on a still April morning,
listening to the birds, and watching the flowers brought out into the
open air and basking in the sunshine.
The head-gardener, Mihail Karlovitch, a venerable old man with a full
shaven face, wearing a fur waistcoat and no coat, superintended the
packing of the plants himself, but at the same time he listened to our
conversation in the hope of hearing something new. He was an
intelligent, very good-hearted man, respected by everyone. He was for
some reason looked upon by everyone as a German, though he was in
reality on his father's side Swedish, on his mother's side Russian, and
attended the Orthodox church. He knew Russian, Swedish, and German. He
had read a good deal in those languages, and nothing one could do gave
him greater pleasure than lending him some new book or talking to him,
for instance, about Ibsen.
He had his weaknesses, but they were innocent ones: he called himself
the head gardener, though there were no under-gardeners; the expression
of his face was unusually dignified and haughty; he could not endure to
be contradicted, and liked to be listened to with respect and attention.
"That young fellow there I can recommend to you as an awful rascal,"
said my neighbor, pointing to a laborer with a swarthy, gipsy face, who
drove by with the water-barrel. "Last week he was tried in the town for
burglary and was acquitted; they pronounced him mentally deranged, and
yet look at him, he is the picture of health. Scoundrels are very often
acquitted nowadays in Russia on grounds of abnormality and aberration,
yet these acquittals, these unmistakable proofs of an indulgent attitude
to crime, lead to no good. They demoralize the masses, the sense of
justice is blunted in all as they become accustomed to seeing vice