Short Stories by Chekhov
imploring, pure expression, which I used to notice only in his eyes, is
now suffused all over his face. He is glad and at the same time he is
ashamed of his gladness, ashamed of his habit of spending every evening
with Katya. And he thinks it necessary to explain his visit by some
obvious absurdity such as: "I was driving by, and I thought I would just
look in for a minute."
We all three go indoors; first we drink tea, then the familiar packs of
cards, the big piece of cheese, the fruit, and the bottle of Crimean
champagne are put upon the table. The subjects of our conversation are
not new; they are just the same as in the winter. We fall foul of the
University, the students, and literature and the theatre; the air grows
thick and stifling with evil speaking, and poisoned by the breath, not
of two toads as in the winter, but of three. Besides the velvety
baritone laugh and the giggle like the gasp of a concertina, the maid
who waits upon us hears an unpleasant cracked "He, he!" like the chuckle
of a general in a vaudeville.
V
There are terrible nights with thunder, lightning, rain, and wind, such
as are called among the people "sparrow nights." There has been one such
night in my personal life.
I woke up after midnight and leaped suddenly out of bed. It seemed to me
for some reason that I was just immediately going to die. Why did it
seem so? I had no sensation in my body that suggested my immediate
death, but my soul was oppressed with terror, as though I had suddenly
seen a vast menacing glow of fire.
I rapidly struck a light, drank some water straight out of the decanter,
then hurried to the open window. The weather outside was magnificent.
There was a smell of hay and some other very sweet scent. I could see
the spikes of the fence, the gaunt, drowsy trees by the window, the
road, the dark streak of woodland, there was a serene, very bright moon
in the sky and not a single cloud, perfect stillness, not one leaf
stirring. I felt that everything was looking at me and waiting for me to
die....
It was uncanny. I closed the window and ran to my bed. I felt for my
pulse, and not finding it in my wrist, tried to find it in my temple,
then in my chin, and again in my wrist, and everything I touched was
cold and clammy with sweat. My breathing came more and more rapidly, my
body was shivering, all my inside was in commotion; I had a sensation on
my face and on my bald head as though they were covered with spiders'
webs.
What should I do? Call my family? No; it would be no use. I could not
imagine what my wife and Liza would do when they came in to me.
I hid my head under the pillow, closed my eyes, and waited and
waited.... My spine was cold; it seemed to be drawn inwards, and I felt
as though death were coming upon me stealthily from behind.
"Kee-vee! kee-vee!" I heard a sudden shriek in the night's stillness,
and did not know where it was--in my breast or in the street--"Kee-vee!
kee-vee!"
"My God, how terrible!" I would have drunk some more water, but by then
it was fearful to open my eyes and I was afraid to raise my head. I was
possessed by unaccountable animal terror, and I cannot understand why I
was so frightened: was it that I wanted to live, or that some new
unknown pain was in store for me?
Upstairs, overhead, some one moaned or laughed. I listened. Soon
afterwards there was a sound of footsteps on the stairs. Some one came
hurriedly down, then went up again. A minute later there was a sound of
steps downstairs again; some one stopped near my door and listened.
"Who is there?" I cried.
The door opened. I boldly opened my eyes, and saw my wife. Her face was
pale and her eyes were tear-stained.
"You are not asleep, Nikolay Stepanovitch?" she asked.
"What is it?"
"For God's sake, go up and have a look at Liza; there is something the
matter with her...."
"Very good, with pleasure," I muttered, greatly relieved at not being
alone. "Very good, this minute...."
I followed my wife, heard what she said to me, and was too agitated to
understand a word. Patches of light from her candle danced about the
stairs, our long shadows trembled. My feet caught in the skirts of my
dressing-gown; I gasped for breath, and felt as though something were
pursuing me and trying to catch me from behind.
"I shall die on the spot, here on the staircase," I thought. "On the
spot...." But we passed the staircase, the dark corridor with the
Italian windows, and went into Liza's room. She was sitting on the bed
in her nightdress, with her bare feet hanging down, and she was moaning.
"Oh, my God! Oh, my God!" she was muttering, screwing up her eyes at our
candle. "I can't bear it."
"Liza, my child," I said, "what is it?"
Seeing me, she began crying out, and flung herself on my neck.
"My kind papa!..." she sobbed--"my dear, good papa... my darling, my pet,
I don't know what is the matter with me.... I am miserable!"
She hugged me, kissed me, and babbled fond words I used to hear from her
when she was a child.
"Calm yourself, my child. God be with you," I said. "There is no need to
cry. I am miserable, too."
I tried to tuck her in; my wife gave her water, and we awkwardly
stumbled by her bedside; my shoulder jostled against her shoulder, and
meanwhile I was thinking how we used to give our children their bath
together.
"Help her! help her!" my wife implored me. "Do something!"
What could I do? I could do nothing. There was some load on the girl's
heart; but I did not understand, I knew nothing about it, and could only
mutter:
"It's nothing, it's nothing; it will pass. Sleep, sleep!"
To make things worse, there was a sudden sound of dogs howling, at first
subdued and uncertain, then loud, two dogs howling together. I had never
attached significance to such omens as the howling of dogs or the
shrieking of owls, but on that occasion it sent a pang to my heart, and
I hastened to explain the howl to myself.
"It's nonsense," I thought, "the influence of one organism on another.
The intensely strained condition of my nerves has infected my wife,
Liza, the dog--that is all.... Such infection explains presentiments,
forebodings...."
When a little later I went back to my room to write a prescription for
Liza, I no longer thought I should die at once, but only had such a
weight, such a feeling of oppression in my soul that I felt actually
sorry that I had not died on the spot. For a long time I stood
motionless in the middle of the room, pondering what to prescribe for
Liza. But the moans overhead ceased, and I decided to prescribe nothing,
and yet I went on standing there....
There was a deathlike stillness, such a stillness, as some author has
expressed it, "it rang in one's ears." Time passed slowly; the streaks
of moonlight on the window-sill did not shift their position, but seemed
as though frozen.... It was still some time before dawn.
But the gate in the fence creaked, some one stole in and, breaking a
twig from one of those scraggy trees, cautiously tapped on the window
with it.
"Nikolay Stepanovitch," I heard a whisper. "Nikolay Stepanovitch."
I opened the window, and fancied I was dreaming: under the window,
huddled against the wall, stood a woman in a black dress, with the
moonlight bright upon her, looking at me with great eyes. Her face was
pale, stern, and weird-looking in the moonlight, like marble, her chin
was quivering.
"It is I," she said--"I... Katya."
In the moonlight all women's eyes look big and black, all people look
taller and paler, and that was probably why I had not recognized her for
the first minute.
"What is it?"
"Forgive me!" she said. "I suddenly felt unbearably miserable... I
couldn't stand it, so came here. There was a light in your window and...
and I ventured to knock.... I beg your pardon. Ah! if you knew how
miserable I am! What are you doing just now?"
"Nothing.... I can't sleep."
"I had a feeling that there was something wrong, but that is nonsense."
Her brows were lifted, her eyes shone with tears, and her whole face was
lighted up with the familiar look of trustfulness which I had not seen
for so long.
"Nikolay Stepanovitch," she said imploringly, stretching out both hands
to me, "my precious friend, I beg you, I implore you.... If you don't
despise my affection and respect for you, consent to what I ask of you."
"What is it?"
"Take my money from me!"
"Come! what an idea! What do I want with your money?"
"You'll go away somewhere for your health.... You ought to go for your
health. Will you take it? Yes? Nikolay Stepanovitch darling, yes?"
She looked greedily into my face and repeated: "Yes, you will take it?"
"No, my dear, I won't take it," I said. "Thank you."
She turned her back upon me and bowed her head. Probably I refused her
in a tone which made further conversation about money impossible.
"Go home to bed," I said. "We will see each other tomorrow."
"So you don't consider me your friend?" she asked dejectedly.
"I don't say that. But your money would be no use to me now."
"I beg your pardon..." she said, dropping her voice a whole octave. "I
understand you... to be indebted to a person like me... a retired
actress.... But, good-bye...."
And she went away so quickly that I had not time even to say good-bye.
VI
I am in Harkov.
As it would be useless to contend against my present mood and, indeed,
beyond my power, I have made up my mind that the last days of my life
shall at least be irreproachable externally. If I am unjust in regard to
my wife and daughter, which I fully recognize, I will try and do as she
wishes; since she wants me to go to Harkov, I go to Harkov. Besides, I
have become of late so indifferent to everything that it is really all
the same to me where I go, to Harkov, or to Paris, or to Berditchev.
I arrived here at midday, and have put up at the hotel not far from the
cathedral. The train was jolting, there were draughts, and now I am
sitting on my bed, holding my head and expecting tic douloureux. I ought
to have gone today to see some professors of my acquaintance, but I have
neither strength nor inclination.
The old corridor attendant comes in and asks whether I have brought my
bed-linen. I detain him for five minutes, and put several questions to
him about Gnekker, on whose account I have come here. The attendant
turns out to be a native of Harkov; he knows the town like the fingers
of his hand, but does not remember any household of the surname of
Gnekker. I question him about the estate--the same answer.
The clock in the corridor strikes one, then two, then three.... These
last months in which I am waiting for death seem much longer than the
whole of my life. And I have never before been so ready to resign myself
to the slowness of time as now. In the old days, when one sat in the
station and waited for a train, or presided in an examination-room, a
quarter of an hour would seem an eternity. Now I can sit all night on my
bed without moving, and quite unconcernedly reflect that tomorrow will
be followed by another night as long and colourless, and the day after
tomorrow.
In the corridor it strikes five, six, seven.... It grows dark.
There is a dull pain in my cheek, the tic beginning. To occupy myself
with thoughts, I go back to my old point of view, when I was not so
indifferent, and ask myself why I, a distinguished man, a privy
councillor, am sitting in this little hotel room, on this bed with the
unfamiliar grey quilt. Why am I looking at that cheap tin washing-stand
and listening to the whirr of the wretched clock in the corridor? Is all
this in keeping with my fame and my lofty position? And I answer these
questions with a jeer. I am amused by the naivete with which I used in