Short Stories by Chekhov
the reason of it? I am a poor woman, I earn my bread by taking in
lodgers. I am a weak, defenceless woman . . . I have to put up with ill-
usage from everyone and never hear a kind word. . ."
The petitioner was blinking, and dived into her mantle for her
handkerchief. Kistunov took her petition from her and began reading it.
"Excuse me, what's this?" he asked, shrugging his shoulders. "I can make
nothing of it. Evidently you have come to the wrong place, madam. Your
petition has nothing to do with us at all. You will have to apply to the
department in which your husband was employed."
"Why, my dear sir, I have been to five places already, and they would
not even take the petition anywhere," said Madame Shtchukin. "I'd quite
lost my head, but, thank goodness--God bless him for it--my son-in-law,
Boris Matveyitch, advised me to come to you. 'You go to Mr. Kistunov,
mamma: he is an influential man, he can do anything for you. . . .' Help
me, your Excellency!"
"We can do nothing for you, Madame Shtchukin. You must understand: your
husband served in the Army Medical Department, and our establishment is
a purely private commercial undertaking, a bank. Surely you must
understand that!"
Kistunov shrugged his shoulders again and turned to a gentleman in a
military uniform, with a swollen face.
"Your Excellency," piped Madame Shtchukin in a pitiful voice, "I have
the doctor's certificate that my husband was ill! Here it is, if you
will kindly look at it."
"Very good, I believe you," Kistunov said irritably, "but I repeat it
has nothing to do with us. It's queer and positively absurd! Surely your
husband must know where you are to apply?"
"He knows nothing, your Excellency. He keeps on: 'It's not your
business! Get away!'--that's all I can get out of him. . . . Whose
business is it, then? It's I have to keep them all!"
Kistunov again turned to Madame Shtchukin and began explaining to her
the difference between the Army Medical Department and a private bank.
She listened attentively, nodded in token of assent, and said:
"Yes . . . yes . . . yes . . . I understand, sir. In that case, your
Excellency, tell them to pay me fifteen roubles at least! I agree to
take part on account!"
"Ough!" sighed Kistunov, letting his head drop back. "There's no making
you see reason. Do understand that to apply to us with such a petition
is as strange as to send in a petition concerning divorce, for instance,
to a chemist's or to the Assaying Board. You have not been paid your
due, but what have we to do with it?"
"Your Excellency, make me remember you in my prayers for the rest of my
days, have pity on a lone, lorn woman," wailed Madame Shtchukin; "I am a
weak, defenceless woman. . . . I am worried to death, I've to settle
with the lodgers and see to my husband's affairs and fly round looking
after the house, and I am going to church every day this week, and my
son-in-law is out of a job. . . . I might as well not eat or drink. . .
. I can scarcely keep on my feet. . . . I haven't slept all night. . .
."
Kistunov was conscious of the palpitation of his heart. With a face of
anguish, pressing his hand on his heart, he began explaining to Madame
Shtchukin again, but his voice failed him.
"No, excuse me, I cannot talk to you," he said with a wave of his hand.
"My head's going round. You are hindering us and wasting your time.
Ough! Alexey Nikolaitch," he said, addressing one of his clerks, "please
will you explain to Madame Shtchukin?"
Kistunov, passing by all the petitioners, went to his private room and
signed about a dozen papers while Alexey Nikolaitch was still engaged
with Madame Shtchukin. As he sat in his room Kistunov heard two voices:
the monotonous, restrained bass of Alexey Nikolaitch and the shrill,
wailing voice of Madame Shtchukin.
"I am a weak, defenceless woman, I am a woman in delicate health," said
Madame Shtchukin. "I look strong, but if you were to overhaul me there
is not one healthy fibre in me. I can scarcely keep on my feet, and my
appetite is gone. . . . I drank my cup of coffee this morning without
the slightest relish. . . ."
Alexey Nikolaitch explained to her the difference between the
departments and the complicated system of sending in papers. He was soon
exhausted, and his place was taken by the accountant.
"A wonderfully disagreeable woman!" said Kistunov, revolted, nervously
cracking his fingers and continually going to the decanter of water.
"She's a perfect idiot! She's worn me out and she'll exhaust them, the
nasty creature! Ough! . . . my heart is throbbing."
Half an hour later he rang his bell. Alexey Nikolaitch made his
appearance.
"How are things going?" Kistunov asked languidly.
"We can't make her see anything, Pyotr Alexandritch! We are simply done.
We talk of one thing and she talks of something else."
"I . . . I can't stand the sound of her voice. . . . I am ill . . . . I
can't bear it."
"Send for the porter, Pyotr Alexandritch, let him put her out."
"No, no," cried Kistunov in alarm. "She will set up a squeal, and there
are lots of flats in this building, and goodness knows what they would
think of us. . . . Do try and explain to her, my dear fellow. . . ."
A minute later the deep drone of Alexey Nikolaitch's voice was audible
again. A quarter of an hour passed, and instead of his bass there was
the murmur of the accountant's powerful tenor.
"Re-mark-ably nasty woman," Kistunov thought indignantly, nervously
shrugging his shoulders. "No more brains than a sheep. I believe that's
a twinge of the gout again. . . . My migraine is coming back. . . ."
In the next room Alexey Nikolaitch, at the end of his resources, at last
tapped his finger on the table and then on his own forehead.
"The fact of the matter is you haven't a head on your shoulders," he
said, "but this."
"Come, come," said the old lady, offended. "Talk to your own wife like
that. . . . You screw! . . . Don't be too free with your hands."
And looking at her with fury, with exasperation, as though he would
devour her, Alexey Nikolaitch said in a quiet, stifled voice:
"Clear out."
"Wha-at?" squealed Madame Shtchukin. "How dare you? I am a weak,
defenceless woman; I won't endure it. My husband is a collegiate
assessor. You screw! . . . I will go to Dmitri Karlitch, the lawyer, and
there will be nothing left of you! I've had the law of three lodgers,
and I will make you flop down at my feet for your saucy words! I'll go
to your general. Your Excellency, your Excellency!"
"Be off, you pest," hissed Alexey Nikolaitch.
Kistunov opened his door and looked into the office.
"What is it?" he asked in a tearful voice.
Madame Shtchukin, as red as a crab, was standing in the middle of the
room, rolling her eyes and prodding the air with her fingers. The bank
clerks were standing round red in the face too, and, evidently harassed,
were looking at each other distractedly.
"Your Excellency," cried Madame Shtchukin, pouncing upon Kistunov.
"Here, this man, he here . . . this man . . ." (she pointed to Alexey
Nikolaitch) "tapped himself on the forehead and then tapped the table. .
. . You told him to go into my case, and he's jeering at me! I am a
weak, defenceless woman. . . . My husband is a collegiate assessor, and
I am a major's daughter myself!"
"Very good, madam," moaned Kistunov. "I will go into it . . . I will
take steps. . . . Go away . . . later!"
"And when shall I get the money, your Excellency? I need it to-day!"
Kistunov passed his trembling hand over his forehead, heaved a sigh, and
began explaining again.
"Madam, I have told you already this is a bank, a private commercial
establishment. . . . What do you want of us? And do understand that you
are hindering us."
Madame Shtchukin listened to him and sighed.
"To be sure, to be sure," she assented. "Only, your Excellency, do me
the kindness, make me pray for you for the rest of my life, be a father,
protect me! If a medical certificate is not enough I can produce an
affidavit from the police. . . . Tell them to give me the money."
Everything began swimming before Kistunov's eyes. He breathed out all
the air in his lungs in a prolonged sigh and sank helpless on a chair.
"How much do you want?" he asked in a weak voice.
"Twenty-four roubles and thirty-six kopecks."
Kistunov took his pocket-book out of his pocket, extracted a twenty-five
rouble note and gave it to Madame Shtchukin.
"Take it and . . . and go away!"
Madame Shtchukin wrapped the money up in her handkerchief, put it away,
and pursing up her face into a sweet, mincing, even coquettish smile,
asked:
"Your Excellency, and would it be possible for my husband to get a post
again?"
"I am going . . . I am ill . . ." said Kistunov in a weary voice. "I
have dreadful palpitations."
When he had driven home Alexey Nikolaitch sent Nikita for some laurel
drops, and, after taking twenty drops each, all the clerks set to work,
while Madame Shtchukin stayed another two hours in the vestibule,
talking to the porter and waiting for Kistunov to return. . . .
She came again next day.
AN ENIGMATIC NATURE
ON the red velvet seat of a first-class railway carriage a pretty lady
sits half reclining. An expensive fluffy fan trembles in her tightly
closed fingers, a pince-nez keeps dropping off her pretty little nose,
the brooch heaves and falls on her bosom, like a boat on the ocean. She
is greatly agitated.
On the seat opposite sits the Provincial Secretary of Special
Commissions, a budding young author, who from time to time publishes
long stories of high life, or "Novelli" as he calls them, in the leading
paper of the province. He is gazing into her face, gazing intently, with
the eyes of a connoisseur. He is watching, studying, catching every
shade of this exceptional, enigmatic nature. He understands it, he
fathoms it. Her soul, her whole psychology lies open before him.
"Oh, I understand, I understand you to your inmost depths!" says the
Secretary of Special Commissions, kissing her hand near the bracelet.
"Your sensitive, responsive soul is seeking to escape from the maze of
---- Yes, the struggle is terrific, titanic. But do not lose heart, you
will be triumphant! Yes!"
"Write about me, Voldemar!" says the pretty lady, with a mournful smile.
"My life has been so full, so varied, so chequered. Above all, I am
unhappy. I am a suffering soul in some page of Dostoevsky. Reveal my
soul to the world, Voldemar. Reveal that hapless soul. You are a
psychologist. We have not been in the train an hour together, and you
have already fathomed my heart."
"Tell me! I beseech you, tell me!"
"Listen. My father was a poor clerk in the Service. He had a good heart
and was not without intelligence; but the spirit of the age--of his
environment--vous comprenez?--I do not blame my poor father. He drank,
gambled, took bribes. My mother--but why say more? Poverty, the struggle
for daily bread, the consciousness of insignificance--ah, do not force me
to recall it! I had to make my own way. You know the monstrous education
at a boarding-school, foolish novel-reading, the errors of early youth,
the first timid flutter of love. It was awful! The vacillation! And the
agonies of losing faith in life, in oneself! Ah, you are an author. You
know us women. You will understand. Unhappily I have an intense nature.
I looked for happiness--and what happiness! I longed to set my soul free.
Yes. In that I saw my happiness!"
"Exquisite creature!" murmured the author, kissing her hand close to the
bracelet. "It's not you I am kissing, but the suffering of humanity. Do
you remember Raskolnikov and his kiss?"
"Oh, Voldemar, I longed for glory, renown, success, like every--why