Short Stories by Chekhov
friend and paced from corner to corner of my room, I was revolted,
exasperated, contemptuous according as he felt. I even believed him
when, with tears in his eyes, he declared to me that I was a great man,
deserving a better fate, and destined in the future to accomplish some
remarkable exploit, from which I might be prevented by my marriage.
"'My dear friend,' he exclaimed, firmly grasping my hand, 'I implore
you, I command you: stop before it is too late. Stop! God save you from
this strange and terrible mistake! My friend, don't ruin your youth.'
"Believe me or not as you will, but finally I sat down at the table and
wrote to my sweetheart breaking off the engagement. I wrote and rejoiced
that there was still time to repair my mistake. When the envelope was
sealed I hurried into the street to put it in a pillar box. The
barrister came with me.
"'Splendid! Superb!' he praised me when my letter to Natasha disappeared
into the darkness of the pillar-box. 'I congratulate you with all my
heart. I'm delighted for your sake.'
"After we had gone about ten steps together, the barrister continued:
"'Of course, marriage has its bright side too. I, for instance, belong
to the kind of men for whom marriage and family life are everything.'
"He was already describing his life: all the ugliness of a lonely
bachelor existence appeared before me.
"He spoke with enthusiasm of his future wife, of the pleasures of an
ordinary family life, and his transports were so beautiful and sincere
that I was in absolute despair by the time we reached his door.
"'What are you doing with me, you damnable man?' I said panting. 'You've
ruined me! Why did you make me write that cursed letter? I love her! I
love her!'
"And I swore that I was in love. I was terrified of my action. It
already seemed wild and absurd to me. Gentlemen, it is quite impossible
to imagine a more overwhelming sensation than mine at that moment! If a
kind man had happened to slip a revolver into my hand I would have put a
bullet through my head gladly.
"'Well, that's enough, enough!' the advocate said, patting my shoulder
and beginning to laugh. 'Stop crying! The letter won't reach your
sweetheart. It was I, not you, wrote the address on the envelope, and I
muddled it up so that they won't be able to make anything of it at the
post-office. But let this be a lesson to you. Don't discuss things you
don't understand.'"
"Now, gentlemen, next, please."
The fifth juryman had settled himself comfortably and already opened his
mouth to begin his story, when we heard the dock striking from Spaisky
Church-tower.
"Twelve...." one of the jurymen counted. "To which class, gentlemen,
would you assign the sensations which our prisoner at the bar is now
feeling? The murderer passes the night here in a prisoner's cell, either
lying or sitting, certainly without sleeping and all through the
sleepless night listens to the striking of the hours. What does he think
of? What dreams visit him?"
And all the jurymen suddenly forgot about overwhelming sensations. The
experience of their friend, who once wrote the letter to his Natasha,
seemed unimportant, and not even amusing. Nobody told any more stories;
but they began to go to bed quietly, in silence. EXPENSIVE LESSONS
It is a great bore for an educated person not to know foreign languages.
Vorotov felt it strongly, when on leaving the university after he had
got his degree he occupied himself with a little scientific research.
"It's awful!" he used to say, losing his breath (for although only
twenty-six he was stout, heavy, and short of breath). "It's awful.
Without knowing languages I'm like a bird without wings. I'll simply
have to chuck the work."
So he decided, come what might, to conquer his natural laziness and to
study French and German, and he began to look out for a teacher.
One winter afternoon, as Vorotov sat working in his study, the servant
announced a lady to see him.
"Show her in," said Vorotov.
And a young lady, exquisitely dressed in the latest fashion, entered the
study. She introduced herself as Alice Ossipovna Enquette, a teacher of
French, and said that a friend of Vorotov's had sent her to him.
"Very glad! Sit down!" said Vorotov, losing his breath, and clutching at
the collar of his night shirt. (He always worked in a night shirt in
order to breathe more easily.) "You were sent to me by Peter
Sergueyevich? Yes.... Yes ... I asked him.... Very glad!"
While he discussed the matter with Mademoiselle Enquette he glanced at
her shyly, with curiosity. She was a genuine Frenchwoman, very elegant,
and still quite young. From her pale and languid face, from her short,
curly hair and unnaturally small waist, you would not think her more
than eighteen, but looking at her broad, well-developed shoulders, her
charming back and severe eyes, Vorotov decided that she was certainly
not less than twenty-three, perhaps even twenty-five; but then again it
seemed to him that she was only eighteen. Her face had the cold,
business-like expression of one who had come to discuss a business
matter. Never once did she smile or frown, and only once a look of
perplexity flashed into her eyes, when she discovered that she was not
asked to teach children but a grown up, stout young man.
"So, Alice Ossipovna," Vorotov said to her, "you will give me a lesson
daily from seven to eight o'clock in the evening. With regard to your
wish to receive a rouble a lesson, I have no objection at all. A
rouble--well, let it be a rouble...."
And he went on asking her if she wanted tea or coffee, if the weather
was fine, and, smiling good naturedly, stroking the tablecloth with the
palm of his hand, he asked her kindly who she was, where she had
completed her education, and how she earned her living.
In a cold, business-like tone Alice Ossipovna answered that she had
completed her education at a private school, and had then qualified as a
domestic teacher, that her father had died recently of scarlet fever,
her mother was alive and made artificial flowers, that she, Mademoiselle
Enquette, gave private lessons at a pension in the morning, and from one
o'clock right until the evening she taught in respectable private
houses.
She went, leaving a slight and almost imperceptible perfume of a woman's
dress behind her. Vorotov did not work for a long time afterwards but
sat at the table stroking the green cloth and thinking.
"It's very pleasant to see girls earning their own living," he thought.
"On the other hand it is very unpleasant to realise that poverty does
not spare even such elegant and pretty girls as Alice Ossipovna; she,
too, must struggle for her existence. Rotten luck!..."
Having never seen virtuous Frenchwomen he also thought that this
exquisitely dressed Alice Ossipovna, with her well-developed shoulders
and unnaturally small waist was in all probability, engaged in something
else besides teaching.
Next evening when the clock pointed to five minutes to seven, Alice
Ossipovna arrived, rosy from the cold; she opened Margot (an elementary
text-book) and began without any preamble:
"The French grammar has twenty-six letters. The first is called A, the
second B...."
"Pardon," interrupted Vorotov, smiling, "I must warn you, Mademoiselle,
that you will have to change your methods somewhat in my case. The fact
is that I know Russian, Latin and Greek very well. I have studied
comparative philology, and it seems to me that we may leave out Margot
and begin straight off to read some author." And he explained to the
Frenchwoman how grown-up people study languages.
"A friend of mine," said he, "who wished to know modern languages put a
French, German and Latin gospel in front of him and then minutely
analysed one word after another. The result--he achieved his purpose in
less than a year. Let us take some author and start reading."
The Frenchwoman gave him a puzzled look. It was evident that Vorotov's
proposal appeared to her naive and absurd. If he had not been grown up
she would certainly have got angry and stormed at him, but as he was a
very stout, adult man at whom she could not storm, she only shrugged her
shoulders half-perceptibly and said:
"Just as you please."
Vorotov ransacked his bookshelves and produced a ragged French book.
"Will this do?" he asked.
"It's all the same."
"In that case let us begin. Let us start from the title, Mémoires."
"Reminiscences...." translated Mademoiselle Enquette.
"Reminiscences...." repeated Vorotov.
Smiling good naturedly and breathing heavily, he passed a quarter of an
hour over the word mémoires and the same with the word de. This tired
Alice Ossipovna out. She answered his questions carelessly, got confused
and evidently neither understood her pupil nor tried to. Vorotov asked
her questions, and at the same time glanced furtively at her fair hair,
thinking:
"The hair is not naturally curly. She waves it. Marvellous! She works
from morning till night and yet she finds time to wave her hair."
At eight o'clock sharp she got up, gave him a dry, cold "Au revoir,
Monsieur," and left the study. After her lingered the same sweet,
subtle, agitating perfume. The pupil again did nothing for a long time,
but sat by the table and thought.
During the following days he became convinced that his teacher was a
charming girl serious and punctual, but very uneducated and incapable of
teaching grown up people; so he decided he would not waste his time, but
part with her and engage someone else. When she came for the seventh
lesson he took an envelope containing seven roubles out of his pocket.
Holding it in his hands and blushing furiously, he began:
"I am sorry, Alice Ossipovna, but I must tell you.... I am placed in an
awkward position...."
The Frenchwoman glanced at the envelope and guessed what was the matter.
For the first time during the lessons a shiver passed over her face and
the cold, business-like expression disappeared. She reddened faintly,
and casting her eyes down, began to play absently with her thin gold
chain. And Vorotov, noticing her confusion, understood how precious this
rouble was to her, how hard it would be for her to lose this money.
"I must tell you," he murmured, getting still more confused. His heart
gave a thump. Quickly he put the envelope back into his pocket and
continued:
"Excuse me. I ... I will leave you for ten minutes...."
And as though he did not want to dismiss her at all, but had only asked
permission to retire for a moment he went into another room and sat
there for ten minutes. Then he returned, more confused than ever; he
thought that his leaving her like that would be explained by her in a
certain way and this made him awkward.
The lessons began again.
Vorotov wanted them no more. Knowing that they would lead to nothing he
gave the Frenchwoman a free hand; he did not question or interrupt her
any more. She translated at her own sweet will, ten pages a lesson, but
he did not listen. He breathed heavily and for want of occupation gazed
now and then at her curly little head, her neck, her soft white hands,
and inhaled the perfume of her dress.
He caught himself thinking about her as he ought not and it shamed him,
or admiring her, and then he felt aggrieved and angry because she
behaved so coldly towards him, in such a businesslike way, never smiling
and as if afraid that he might suddenly touch her. All the while he
thought: How could he inspire her with confidence in him, how could he
get to know her better, to help her, to make her realise how badly she
taught, poor little soul?
Once Alice Ossipovna came to the lesson in a dainty pink dress, a little
décolleté, and such a sweet scent came from her that you might have