Short Stories by Chekhov
figure was radiant with happiness. In his hands he held something
wrapped up in newspaper.
"Doctor!" he began breathlessly, "imagine my delight! Happily for you we
have succeeded in picking up the pair to your candelabra! Mamma is so
happy. . . . I am the only son of my mother, you saved my life. . . ."
And Sasha, all of a tremor with gratitude, set the candelabra before the
doctor. The doctor opened his mouth, tried to say something, but said
nothing: he could not speak.
A JOKE
IT was a bright winter midday. . . . There was a sharp snapping frost
and the curls on Nadenka's temples and the down on her upper lip were
covered with silvery frost. She was holding my arm and we were standing
on a high hill. From where we stood to the ground below there stretched
a smooth sloping descent in which the sun was reflected as in a looking-
glass. Beside us was a little sledge lined with bright red cloth.
"Let us go down, Nadyezhda Petrovna!" I besought her. "Only once! I
assure you we shall be all right and not hurt."
But Nadenka was afraid. The slope from her little goloshes to the bottom
of the ice hill seemed to her a terrible, immensely deep abyss. Her
spirit failed her, and she held her breath as she looked down, when I
merely suggested her getting into the sledge, but what would it be if
she were to risk flying into the abyss! She would die, she would go out
of her mind.
"I entreat you!" I said. "You mustn't be afraid! You know it's poor-
spirited, it's cowardly!"
Nadenka gave way at last, and from her face I saw that she gave way in
mortal dread. I sat her in the sledge, pale and trembling, put my arm
round her and with her cast myself down the precipice.
The sledge flew like a bullet. The air cleft by our flight beat in our
faces, roared, whistled in our ears, tore at us, nipped us cruelly in
its anger, tried to tear our heads off our shoulders. We had hardly
strength to breathe from the pressure of the wind. It seemed as though
the devil himself had caught us in his claws and was dragging us with a
roar to hell. Surrounding objects melted into one long furiously racing
streak . . . another moment and it seemed we should perish.
"I love you, Nadya!" I said in a low voice.
The sledge began moving more and more slowly, the roar of the wind and
the whirr of the runners was no longer so terrible, it was easier to
breathe, and at last we were at the bottom. Nadenka was more dead than
alive. She was pale and scarcely breathing. . . . I helped her to get
up.
"Nothing would induce me to go again," she said, looking at me with wide
eyes full of horror. "Nothing in the world! I almost died!"
A little later she recovered herself and looked enquiringly into my
eyes, wondering had I really uttered those four words or had she fancied
them in the roar of the hurricane. And I stood beside her smoking and
looking attentively at my glove.
She took my arm and we spent a long while walking near the ice-hill. The
riddle evidently would not let her rest. . . . Had those words been
uttered or not? . . . Yes or no? Yes or no? It was the question of
pride, or honour, of life--a very important question, the most important
question in the world. Nadenka kept impatiently, sorrowfully looking
into my face with a penetrating glance; she answered at random, waiting
to see whether I would not speak. Oh, the play of feeling on that sweet
face! I saw that she was struggling with herself, that she wanted to say
something, to ask some question, but she could not find the words; she
felt awkward and frightened and troubled by her joy. . . .
"Do you know what," she said without looking at me.
"Well?" I asked.
"Let us . . . slide down again."
We clambered up the ice-hill by the steps again. I sat Nadenka, pale and
trembling, in the sledge; again we flew into the terrible abyss, again
the wind roared and the runners whirred, and again when the flight of
our sledge was at its swiftest and noisiest, I said in a low voice:
"I love you, Nadenka!"
When the sledge stopped, Nadenka flung a glance at the hill down which
we had both slid, then bent a long look upon my face, listened to my
voice which was unconcerned and passionless, and the whole of her little
figure, every bit of it, even her muff and her hood expressed the utmost
bewilderment, and on her face was written: "What does it mean? Who
uttered those words? Did he, or did I only fancy it?"
The uncertainty worried her and drove her out of all patience. The poor
girl did not answer my questions, frowned, and was on the point of
tears.
"Hadn't we better go home?" I asked.
"Well, I . . . I like this tobogganning," she said, flushing. "Shall we
go down once more?"
She "liked" the tobogganning, and yet as she got into the sledge she
was, as both times before, pale, trembling, hardly able to breathe for
terror.
We went down for the third time, and I saw she was looking at my face
and watching my lips. But I put my handkerchief to my lips, coughed, and
when we reached the middle of the hill I succeeded in bringing out:
"I love you, Nadya!"
And the mystery remained a mystery! Nadenka was silent, pondering on
something. . . . I saw her home, she tried to walk slowly, slackened her
pace and kept waiting to see whether I would not say those words to her,
and I saw how her soul was suffering, what effort she was making not to
say to herself:
"It cannot be that the wind said them! And I don't want it to be the
wind that said them!"
Next morning I got a little note:
"If you are tobogganning to-day, come for me.--N."
And from that time I began going every day tobogganning with Nadenka,
and as we flew down in the sledge, every time I pronounced in a low
voice the same words: "I love you, Nadya!"
Soon Nadenka grew used to that phrase as to alcohol or morphia. She
could not live without it. It is true that flying down the ice-hill
terrified her as before, but now the terror and danger gave a peculiar
fascination to words of love--words which as before were a mystery and
tantalized the soul. The same two--the wind and I were still suspected. .
. . Which of the two was making love to her she did not know, but
apparently by now she did not care; from which goblet one drinks matters
little if only the beverage is intoxicating.
It happened I went to the skating-ground alone at midday; mingling with
the crowd I saw Nadenka go up to the ice-hill and look about for me . .
. then she timidly mounted the steps. . . . She was frightened of going
alone--oh, how frightened! She was white as the snow, she was trembling,
she went as though to the scaffold, but she went, she went without
looking back, resolutely. She had evidently determined to put it to the
test at last: would those sweet amazing words be heard when I was not
there? I saw her, pale, her lips parted with horror, get into the
sledge, shut her eyes and saying good-bye for ever to the earth, set
off. . . . "Whrrr!" whirred the runners. Whether Nadenka heard those
words I do not know. I only saw her getting up from the sledge looking
faint and exhausted. And one could tell from her face that she could not
tell herself whether she had heard anything or not. Her terror while she
had been flying down had deprived of her all power of hearing, of
discriminating sounds, of understanding.
But then the month of March arrived . . . the spring sunshine was more
kindly. . . . Our ice-hill turned dark, lost its brilliance and finally
melted. We gave up tobogganning. There was nowhere now where poor
Nadenka could hear those words, and indeed no one to utter them, since
there was no wind and I was going to Petersburg--for long, perhaps for
ever.
It happened two days before my departure I was sitting in the dusk in
the little garden which was separated from the yard of Nadenka's house
by a high fence with nails in it. . . . It was still pretty cold, there
was still snow by the manure heap, the trees looked dead but there was
already the scent of spring and the rooks were cawing loudly as they
settled for their night's rest. I went up to the fence and stood for a
long while peeping through a chink. I saw Nadenka come out into the
porch and fix a mournful yearning gaze on the sky. . . . The spring wind
was blowing straight into her pale dejected face. . . . It reminded her
of the wind which roared at us on the ice-hill when she heard those four
words, and her face became very, very sorrowful, a tear trickled down
her cheek, and the poor child held out both arms as though begging the
wind to bring her those words once more. And waiting for the wind I said
in a low voice:
"I love you, Nadya!"
Mercy! The change that came over Nadenka! She uttered a cry, smiled all
over her face and looking joyful, happy and beautiful, held out her arms
to meet the wind.
And I went off to pack up. . . .
That was long ago. Now Nadenka is married; she married--whether of her
own choice or not does not matter--a secretary of the Nobility Wardenship
and now she has three children. That we once went tobogganning together,
and that the wind brought her the words "I love you, Nadenka," is not
forgotten; it is for her now the happiest, most touching, and beautiful
memory in her life. . . .
But now that I am older I cannot understand why I uttered those words,
what was my motive in that joke. . . .
A COUNTRY COTTAGE
Two young people who had not long been married were walking up and down
the platform of a little country station. His arm was round her waist,
her head was almost on his shoulder, and both were happy.
The moon peeped up from the drifting cloudlets and frowned, as it
seemed, envying their happiness and regretting her tedious and utterly
superfluous virginity. The still air was heavy with the fragrance of
lilac and wild cherry. Somewhere in the distance beyond the line a
corncrake was calling.
"How beautiful it is, Sasha, how beautiful!" murmured the young wife.
"It all seems like a dream. See, how sweet and inviting that little
copse looks! How nice those solid, silent telegraph posts are! They add
a special note to the landscape, suggesting humanity, civilization in
the distance. . . . Don't you think it's lovely when the wind brings the
rushing sound of a train?"
"Yes. . . . But what hot little hands you've got. . . That's because
you're excited, Varya. . . . What have you got for our supper to-night?"
"Chicken and salad. . . . It's a chicken just big enough for two . . . .
Then there is the salmon and sardines that were sent from town."
The moon as though she had taken a pinch of snuff hid her face behind a
cloud. Human happiness reminded her of her own loneliness, of her
solitary couch beyond the hills and dales.
"The train is coming!" said Varya, "how jolly!"
Three eyes of fire could be seen in the distance. The stationmaster came
out on the platform. Signal lights flashed here and there on the line.
"Let's see the train in and go home," said Sasha, yawning. "What a
splendid time we are having together, Varya, it's so splendid, one can
hardly believe it's true!"
The dark monster crept noiselessly alongside the platform and came to a
standstill. They caught glimpses of sleepy faces, of hats and shoulders
at the dimly lighted windows.
"Look! look!" they heard from one of the carriages. "Varya and Sasha
have come to meet us! There they are! . . . Varya! . . . Varya. . . .
Look!"
Two little girls skipped out of the train and hung on Varya's neck. They
were followed by a stout, middle-aged lady, and a tall, lanky gentleman
with grey whiskers; behind them came two schoolboys, laden with bags,
and after the schoolboys, the governess, after the governess the
grandmother.
"Here we are, here we are, dear boy!" began the whiskered gentleman,