Short Stories by Chekhov
that it would be hard to disobey. But she did not go up to him and she
did not say it, did not even think it.... The petty selfishness of a
young nature seemed never to have been revealed in her as strongly as
that evening. She admitted that Byin was unhappy and that he sat on the
sofa as if on hot coals. She was sorry for him, but at the same time the
presence of the man who loved her so desperately filled her with a
triumphant sense of her own power. She felt her youth, her beauty, her
inaccessibility, and--since she had decided to go away--she gave herself
full rein this evening. She coquetted, laughed continually, she sang
with singular emotion, and as one inspired. Everything made her gay and
everything seemed funny. It amused her to recall the incident of the
bench, the sentry looking on. The visitors seemed funny to her, Ilyin's
insolent jokes, his tie pin which she had never seen before. The pin was
a little red snake with tiny diamond eyes; the snake seemed so funny
that she was ready to kiss and kiss it.
Sophia Pietrovna, nervously sang romantic songs, with a kind of half-
intoxication, and as if jeering at another's sorrow she chose sad,
melancholy songs that spoke of lost hopes, of the past, of old age....
"And old age is approaching nearer and nearer," she sang. What had she
to do with old age?
"There's something wrong going on in me," she thought now and then
through laughter and singing.
At twelve o'clock the visitors departed. Ilyin was the last to go. She
still felt warm enough about him to go with him to the lower step of the
terrace. She had the idea of telling him that she was going away with
her husband, just to see what effect this news would have upon him.
The moon was hiding behind the clouds, but it was so bright that Sophia
Pietrovna could see the wind playing with the tails of his overcoat and
with the creepers on the terrace. It was also plain how pale Ilyin was,
and how he twisted his upper-lip, trying to smile. "Sonia, Sonichka, my
dear little woman," he murmured, not letting her speak. "My darling, my
pretty one."
In a paroxysm of tenderness with tears in his voice, he showered her
with endearing words each tenderer than the other, and was already
speaking to her as if she were his wife or his mistress. Suddenly and
unexpectedly to her, he put one arm round her and with the other hand he
seized her elbow.
"My dear one, my beauty," he began to whisper, kissing the nape of her
neck; "be sincere, come to me now."
She slipped out of his embrace and lifted her head to break out in
indignation and revolt. But indignation did not come, and of all her
praiseworthy virtue and purity, there was left only enough for her to
say that which all average women say in similar circumstances:
"You must be mad."
"But really let us go," continued Ilyin. "Just now and over there by the
bench I felt convinced that you, Sonia, were as helpless as myself. You
too will be all the worse for it. You love me, and you are making a
useless bargain with your conscience."
Seeing that she was leaving him he seized her by her lace sleeve and
ended quickly:
"If not to-day, then to-morrow; but you will have to give in. What's the
good of putting if off? My dear, my darling Sonia, the verdict has been
pronounced. Why postpone the execution? Why deceive yourself?"
Sophia Pietrovna broke away from him and suddenly disappeared inside the
door. She returned to the drawing-room, shut the piano mechanically,
stared for a long time at the cover of a music book, and sat down. She
could neither stand nor think.... From her agitation and passion
remained only an awful weakness mingled with laziness and tiredness. Her
conscience whispered to her that she had behaved wickedly and foolishly
to-night, like a madwoman; that just now she had been kissed on the
terrace, and even now she had some strange sensation in her waist and in
her elbow. Not a soul was in the drawing-room. Only a single candle was
burning. Madame Loubianzev sat on a little round stool before the piano
without stirring as if waiting for something, and as if taking advantage
of her extreme exhaustion and the dark a heavy unconquerable desire
began to possess her. Like a boa-constrictor, it enchained her limbs and
soul. It grew every second and was no longer threatening, but stood
clear before her in all its nakedness.
She sat thus for half an hour, not moving, and not stopping herself from
thinking of Ilyin. Then she got up lazily and went slowly into the bed-
room. Andrey Ilyitch was in bed already. She sat by the window and gave
herself to her desire. She felt no more "confusion." All her feelings
and thoughts pressed lovingly round some clear purpose. She still had a
mind to struggle, but instantly she waved her hand impotently, realising
the strength and the determination of the foe. To fight him power and
strength were necessary, but her birth, up-bringing and life had given
her nothing on which to lean.
"You're immoral, you're horrible," she tormented herself for her
weakness. "You're a nice sort, you are!"
So indignant was her insulted modesty at this weakness that she called
herself all the bad names that she knew and she related to herself many
insulting, degrading truths. Thus she told herself that she never was
moral, and she had not fallen before only because there was no pretext,
that her day-long struggle had been nothing but a game and a comedy....
"Let us admit that I struggled," she thought, "but what kind of a fight
was it? Even prostitutes struggle before they sell themselves, and still
they do sell themselves. It's a pretty sort of fight. Like milk, turns
in a day." She realised that it was not love that drew her from her home
nor Ilyin's personality, but the sensations which await her.... A little
week-end type like the rest of them.
"When the young bird's mother was killed," a hoarse tenor finished
singing.
If I am going, it's time, thought Sophia Pietrovna. Her heart began to
beat with a frightful force.
"Andrey," she almost cried. "Listen. Shall we go away? Shall we? Yes?"
"Yes.... I've told you already. You go alone."
"But listen," she said, "if you don't come too, you may lose me. I seem
to be in love already."
"Who with?" Andrey Ilyitch asked.
"It must be all the same for you, who with," Sophia Pietrovna cried out.
Andrey Ilyitch got up, dangled his feet over the side of the bed, with a
look of surprise at the dark form of his wife.
"Imagination," he yawned.
He could not believe her, but all the same he was frightened. After
having thought for a while, and asked his wife some unimportant
questions, he gave his views of the family, of infidelity.... He spoke
sleepily for about ten minutes and then lay down again. His remarks had
no success. There are a great many opinions in this world, and more than
half of them belong to people who have never known misery.
In spite of the late hour, the bungalow people were still moving behind
their windows. Sophia Pietrovna put on a long coat and stood for a
while, thinking. She still had force of mind to say to her sleepy
husband:
"Are you asleep? I'm going for a little walk. Would you like to come
with me?"
That was her last hope. Receiving no answer, she walked out. It was
breezy and cool. She did not feel the breeze or the darkness but walked
on and on.... An irresistible power drove her, and it seemed to her that
if she stopped that power would push her in the back. "You're an immoral
woman," she murmured mechanically. "You're horrible."
She was choking for breath, burning with shame, did not feel her feet
under her, for that which drove her along was stronger than her shame,
her reason, her fear.... AFTER THE THEATRE
Nadya Zelenina had just returned with her mother from the theatre, where
they had been to see a performance of "Eugene Oniegin." Entering her
room, she quickly threw off her dress, loosened her hair, and sat down
hurriedly in her petticoat and a white blouse to write a letter in the
style of Tatiana.
"I love you,"--she wrote--"but you don't love me; no, you don't!"
The moment she had written this, she smiled.
She was only sixteen years old, and so far she had not been in love. She
knew that Gorny, the officer, and Gronsdiev, the student, loved her; but
now, after the theatre, she wanted to doubt their love. To be unloved
and unhappy--how interesting. There is something beautiful, affecting,
romantic in the fact that one loves deeply while the other is
indifferent. Oniegin is interesting because he does not love at all, and
Tatiana is delightful because she is very much in love; but if they
loved each other equally and were happy, they would seem boring,
instead.
"Don't go on protesting that you love me," Nadya wrote on, thinking of
Gorny, the officer, "I can't believe you. You're very clever, educated,
serious; you have a great talent, and perhaps, a splendid future
waiting, but I am an uninteresting poor-spirited girl, and you yourself
know quite well that I shall only be a drag upon your life. It's true I
carried you off your feet, and you thought you had met your ideal in me,
but that was a mistake. Already you are asking yourself in despair, 'Why
did I meet this girl?' Only your kindness prevents you from confessing
it."
Nadya pitied herself. She wept and went on.
"If it were not so difficult for me to leave mother and brother I would
put on a nun's gown and go where my eyes direct me. You would then be
free to love another. If I were to die!"
Through her tears she could not make out what she had written. Brief
rainbows trembled on the table, on the floor and the ceiling, as though
Nadya were looking through a prism. Impossible to write. She sank back
in her chair and began to think of Gorny.
Oh, how fascinating, how interesting men are! Nadya remembered the
beautiful expression of Gorny's face, appealing, guilty, and tender,
when someone discussed music with him,--the efforts he made to prevent
the passion from sounding in his voice. Passion must be concealed in a
society where cold reserve and indifference are the signs of good
breeding. And he does try to conceal it, but he does not succeed, and
everybody knows quite well that he has a passion for music. Never-ending
discussions about music, blundering pronouncements by men who do not
understand--keep him in incessant tension. He is scared, timid, silent.
He plays superbly, as an ardent pianist. If he were not an officer, he
would be a famous musician.
The tears dried in her eyes. Nadya remembered how Gorny told her of his
love at a symphony concert, and again downstairs by the cloak-room.
"I am so glad you have at last made the acquaintance of the student
Gronsdiev," she continued to write. "He is a very clever man, and you
are sure to love him. Yesterday he was sitting with us till two o'clock
in the morning. We were all so happy. I was sorry that you hadn't come
to us. He said a lot of remarkable things."
Nadya laid her hands on the table and lowered her head. Her hair covered
the letter. She remembered that Gronsdiev also loved her, and that he
had the same right to her letter as Gorny. Perhaps she had better write
to Gronsdiev? For no cause, a happiness began to quicken in her breast.
At first it was a little one, rolling about in her breast like a rubber
ball. Then it grew broader and bigger, and broke forth like a wave.
Nadya had already forgotten about Gorny and Gronsdiev. Her thoughts
became confused. The happiness grew more and more. From her breast it
ran into her arms and legs, and it seemed that a light fresh breeze blew
over her head, stirring her hair. Her shoulders trembled with quiet
laughter. The table and the lampglass trembled. Tears from her eyes