Short Stories by Chekhov
are French. They shout at the top of their voices, and drink . . . but
we all know! The French are brought up to be like that! It can't be
helped. . . . The prince," Ivan Petrovitch added, "let me have them
almost for nothing. . . . He said: 'take them, take them. . . .' I must
introduce you to the prince sometime. A man of culture! He's for ever
writing, writing. . . . And do you know what their names are? One is
Fanny, the other Isabella. . . . There's Europe, ha-ha-ha! . . . The
west! Good-bye!"
Ivan Petrovitch left Liza and Groholsky in peace, and devoted himself to
his ladies. All day long sound of talk, laughter, and the clatter of
crockery came from his villa. . . . The lights were not put out till far
into the night. . . . Groholsky was in bliss. . . . At last, after a
prolonged interval of agony, he felt happy and at peace again. Ivan
Petrovitch with his two ladies had no such happiness as he had with one.
But alas, destiny has no heart. She plays with the Groholskys, the
Lizas, the Ivans, and the Mishutkas as with pawns. . . . Groholsky lost
his peace again. . . .
One morning, about ten days afterwards, on waking up late, he went out
on to the verandah and saw a spectacle which shocked him, revolted him,
and moved him to intense indignation. Under the verandah of the villa
opposite stood the French women, and between them Liza. She was talking
and looking askance at her own villa as though to see whether that
tyrant, that despot were awake (so Groholsky interpreted those looks).
Ivan Petrovitch standing on the verandah with his sleeves tucked up,
lifted Isabella into the air, then Fanny, and then Liza. When he was
lifting Liza it seemed to Groholsky that he pressed her to himself. . .
. Liza too flung one leg over the parapet. . . . Oh these women! All
sphinxes, every one of them!
When Liza returned home from her husband's villa and went into the
bedroom on tip-toe, as though nothing had happened, Groholsky, pale,
with hectic flushes on his cheeks, was lying in the attitude of a man at
his last gasp and moaning.
On seeing Liza, he sprang out of bed, and began pacing about the
bedroom.
"So that's what you are like, is it?" he shrieked in a high tenor. "So
that's it! Very much obliged to you! It's revolting, madam! Immoral, in
fact! Let me tell you that!"
Liza turned pale, and of course burst into tears. When women feel that
they are in the right, they scold and shed tears; when they are
conscious of being in fault, they shed tears only.
"On a level with those depraved creatures! It's . . . it's . . . it's .
. . lower than any impropriety! Why, do you know what they are? They are
kept women! Cocottes! And you a respectable woman go rushing off where
they are. . . And he . . . He! What does he want? What more does he want
of me? I don't understand it! I have given him half of my property--I
have given him more! You know it yourself! I have given him what I have
not myself. . . . I have given him almost all. . . . And he! I've put up
with your calling him Vanya, though he has no right whatever to such
intimacy. I have put up with your walks, kisses after dinner. . . . I
have put up with everything, but this I will not put up with. . . .
Either he or I! Let him go away, or I go away! I'm not equal to living
like this any longer, no! You can see that for yourself! . . . Either he
or I. . . . Enough! The cup is brimming over. . . . I have suffered a
great deal as it is. . . . I am going to talk to him at once--this
minute! What is he, after all? What has he to be proud of? No, indeed. .
. . He has no reason to think so much of himself . . . ."
Groholsky said a great many more valiant and stinging things, but did
not "go at once"; he felt timid and abashed. . . . He went to Ivan
Petrovitch three days later.
When he went into his apartment, he gaped with astonishment. He was
amazed at the wealth and luxury with which Bugrov had surrounded
himself. Velvet hangings, fearfully expensive chairs. . . . One was
positively ashamed to step on the carpet. Groholsky had seen many rich
men in his day, but he had never seen such frenzied luxury. . . . And
the higgledy-piggledy muddle he saw when, with an inexplicable tremor,
he walked into the drawing-room--plates with bits of bread on them were
lying about on the grand piano, a glass was standing on a chair, under
the table there was a basket with a filthy rag in it. . . . Nut shells
were strewn about in the windows. Bugrov himself was not quite in his
usual trim when Groholsky walked in . . . . With a red face and uncombed
locks he was pacing about the room in deshabille, talking to himself,
apparently much agitated. Mishutka was sitting on the sofa there in the
drawing-room, and was making the air vibrate with a piercing scream.
"It's awful, Grigory Vassilyevitch!" Bugrov began on seeing Groholsky,
"such disorder . . . such disorder . . . Please sit down. You must
excuse my being in the costume of Adam and Eve. . . . It's of no
consequence. . . . Horrible disorderliness! I don't understand how
people can exist here, I don't understand it! The servants won't do what
they are told, the climate is horrible, everything is expensive. . . .
Stop your noise," Bugrov shouted, suddenly coming to a halt before
Mishutka; "stop it, I tell you! Little beast, won't you stop it?"
And Bugrov pulled Mishutka's ear.
"That's revolting, Ivan Petrovitch," said Groholsky in a tearful voice.
"How can you treat a tiny child like that? You really are. . ."
"Let him stop yelling then. . . . Be quiet--I'll whip you!"
"Don't cry, Misha darling. . . . Papa won't touch you again. Don't beat
him, Ivan Petrovitch; why, he is hardly more than a baby. . . . There,
there. . . . Would you like a little horse? I'll send you a little
horse. . . . You really are hard-hearted. . . ."
Groholsky paused, and then asked:
"And how are your ladies getting on, Ivan Petrovitch?"
"Not at all. I've turned them out without ceremony. I might have gone on
keeping them, but it's awkward. . . . The boy will grow up . . . . A
father's example. . . . If I were alone, then it would be a different
thing. . . . Besides, what's the use of my keeping them? Poof . . . it's
a regular farce! I talk to them in Russian, and they answer me in
French. They don't understand a thing--you can't knock anything into
their heads."
"I've come to you about something, Ivan Petrovitch, to talk things over.
. . . H'm. . . . It's nothing very particular. But just . . . two or
three words. . . . In reality, I have a favour to ask of you."
"What's that?"
"Would you think it possible, Ivan Petrovitch, to go away? We are
delighted that you are here; it's very agreeable for us, but it's
inconvenient, don't you know. . . . You will understand me. It's awkward
in a way. . . . Such indefinite relations, such continual awkwardness in
regard to one another. . . . We must part. . . . It's essential in fact.
Excuse my saying so, but . . . you must see for yourself, of course,
that in such circumstances to be living side by side leads to . . .
reflections . . . that is . . . not to reflections, but there is a
certain awkward feeling. . . ."
"Yes. . . . That is so, I have thought of it myself. Very good, I will
go away."
"We shall be very grateful to you. . . . Believe me, Ivan Petrovitch, we
shall preserve the most flattering memory of you. The sacrifice which
you. . ."
"Very good. . . . Only what am I to do with all this? I say, you buy
this furniture of mine! What do you say? It's not expensive, eight
thousand . . . ten. . . . The furniture, the carriage, the grand piano.
. . ."
"Very good. . . . I will give you ten thousand. . . ."
"Well, that is capital! I will set off to-morrow. I shall go to Moscow.
It's impossible to live here. Everything is so dear! Awfully dear! The
money fairly flies. . . . You can't take a step without spending a
thousand! I can't go on like that. I have a child to bring up. . . .
Well, thank God that you will buy my furniture. . . . That will be a
little more in hand, or I should have been regularly bankrupt. . . ."
Groholsky got up, took leave of Bugrov, and went home rejoicing. In the
evening he sent him ten thousand roubles.
Early next morning Bugrov and Mishutka were already at Feodosia. III
Several months had passed; spring had come. With spring, fine bright
days had come too. Life was not so dull and hateful, and the earth was
more fair to look upon. . . . There was a warm breeze from the sea and
the open country. . . . The earth was covered with fresh grass, fresh
leaves were green upon the trees. Nature had sprung into new life, and
had put on new array.
It might be thought that new hopes and new desires would surge up in man
when everything in nature is renewed, and young and fresh . . . but it
is hard for man to renew life. . . .
Groholsky was still living in the same villa. His hopes and desires,
small and unexacting, were still concentrated on the same Liza, on her
alone, and on nothing else! As before, he could not take his eyes off
her, and gloated over the thought: how happy I am! The poor fellow
really did feel awfully happy. Liza sat as before on the verandah, and
unaccountably stared with bored eyes at the villa opposite and the trees
near it through which there was a peep at the dark blue sea. . . . As
before, she spent her days for the most part in silence, often in tears
and from time to time in putting mustard plasters on Groholsky. She
might be congratulated on one new sensation, however. There was a worm
gnawing at her vitals. . . . That worm was misery. . . . She was
fearfully miserable, pining for her son, for her old, her cheerful
manner of life. Her life in the past had not been particularly cheerful,
but still it was livelier than her present existence. When she lived
with her husband she used from time to time to go to a theatre, to an
entertainment, to visit acquaintances. But here with Groholsky it was
all quietness and emptiness. . . . Besides, here there was one man, and
he with his ailments and his continual mawkish kisses, was like an old
grandfather for ever shedding tears of joy.
It was boring! Here she had not Mihey Sergeyitch who used to be fond of
dancing the mazurka with her. She had not Spiridon Nikolaitch, the son
of the editor of the Provincial News. Spiridon Nikolaitch sang well and
recited poetry. Here she had not a table set with lunch for visitors.
She had not Gerasimovna, the old nurse who used to be continually
grumbling at her for eating too much jam. . . . She had no one! There
was simply nothing for her but to lie down and die of depression.
Groholsky rejoiced in his solitude, but . . . he was wrong to rejoice in
it. All too soon he paid for his egoism. At the beginning of May when
the very air seemed to be in love and faint with happiness, Groholsky
lost everything; the woman he loved and. . .
That year Bugrov, too, visited the Crimea. He did not take the villa
opposite, but pottered about, going from one town to another with
Mishutka. He spent his time eating, drinking, sleeping, and playing
cards. He had lost all relish for fishing, shooting and the French
women, who, between ourselves, had robbed him a bit. He had grown thin,
lost his broad and beaming smiles, and had taken to dressing in canvas.
Ivan Petrovitch from time to time visited Groholsky's villa. He brought
Liza jam, sweets, and fruit, and seemed trying to dispel her ennui.
Groholsky was not troubled by these visits, especially as they were
brief and infrequent, and were apparently paid on account of Mishutka,
who could not under any circumstances have been altogether deprived of
the privilege of seeing his mother. Bugrov came, unpacked his presents,
and after saying a few words, departed. And those few words he said not