Short Stories by Chekhov
thought she was wrapped in a cloud, that you had only to blow on her for
her to fly away or dissolve like smoke. She apologised, saying she could
only stay for half an hour, because she had to go straight from the
lesson to a ball.
He gazed at her neck, at her bare shoulders and he thought he understood
why Frenchwomen were known to be light-minded and easily won; he was
drowned in this cloud of scent, beauty, and nudity, and she, quite
unaware of his thoughts and probably not in the least interested in
them, read over the pages quickly and translated full steam ahead:
"He walked over the street and met the gentleman of his friend and said:
where do you rush? seeing your face so pale it makes me pain."
The Mémoires had been finished long ago; Alice was now translating
another book. Once she came to the lesson an hour earlier, apologising
because she had to go to the Little Theatre at seven o'clock. When the
lesson was over Vorotov dressed and he too went to the theatre. It
seemed to him only for the sake of rest and distraction, and he did not
even think of Alice. He would not admit that a serious man, preparing
for a scientific career, a stay-at-home, should brush aside his book and
rush to the theatre for the sake of meeting an unintellectual, stupid
girl whom he hardly knew.
But somehow, dining the intervals his heart beat, and, without noticing
it, he ran about the foyer and the corridors like a boy, looking
impatiently for someone. Every time the interval was over he was tired,
but when he discovered the familiar pink dress and the lovely shoulders
veiled with tulle his heart jumped as if from a presentiment of
happiness, he smiled joyfully, and for the first time in his life he
felt jealous.
Alice was with two ugly students and an officer. She was laughing,
talking loudly and evidently flirting. Vorotov had never seen her like
that. Apparently she was happy, contented, natural, warm. Why? What was
the reason? Perhaps because these people were dear to her and belonged
to the same class as she. Vorotov felt the huge abyss between him and
that class. He bowed to his teacher, but she nodded coldly and quietly
passed by. It was plain she did not want her cavaliers to know that she
had pupils and gave lessons because she was poor.
After the meeting at the theatre Vorotov knew that he was in love.
During lessons that followed he devoured his elegant teacher with his
eyes, and no longer struggling, he gave full rein to his pure and impure
thoughts. Alice's face was always cold. Exactly at eight o'clock every
evening she said calmly, "Au revoir, Monsieur," and he felt that she was
indifferent to him and would remain indifferent, that--his position was
hopeless.
Sometimes in the middle of a lesson he would begin dreaming, hoping,
building plans; he composed an amorous declaration, remembering that
Frenchwomen were frivolous and complaisant, but he had only to give his
teacher one glance for his thoughts to be blown out like a candle, when
you carry it on to the verandah of a bungalow and the wind is blowing.
Once, overcome, forgetting everything, in a frenzy, he could stand it no
longer. He barred her way when she came from the study into the hall
after the lesson and, losing his breath and stammering, began to declare
his love:
"You are dear to me!... I love you. Please let me speak!"
Alice grew pale: probably she was afraid that after this declaration she
would not be able to come to him any more and receive a rouble a lesson.
She looked at him with terrified eyes and began in a loud whisper:
"Ah, it's impossible! Do not speak, I beg you! Impossible!"
Afterwards Vorotov did not sleep all night; he tortured himself with
shame, abused himself, thinking feverishly. He thought that his
declaration had offended the girl and that she would not come any more.
He made up his mind to find out where she lived from the Address Bureau
and to write her an apology. But Alice came without the letter. For a
moment she felt awkward, and then opened the book and began to translate
quickly, in an animated voice, as always:
"'Oh, young gentleman, do not rend these flowers in my garden which I
want to give to my sick daughter.'"
She still goes. Four books have been translated by now but Vorotov knows
nothing beyond the word mémoires, and when he is asked about his
scientific research work he waves his hand, leaves the question
unanswered, and begins to talk about the weather. A LIVING CALENDAR
State-Councillor Sharamykin's drawing-room is wrapped in a pleasant
half-darkness. The big bronze lamp with the green shade, makes the
walls, the furniture, the faces, all green, couleur "Nuit d'Ukraine"
Occasionally a smouldering log flares up in the dying fire and for a
moment casts a red glow over the faces; but this does not spoil the
general harmony of light. The general tone, as the painters say, is well
sustained.
Sharamykin sits in a chair in front of the fireplace, in the attitude of
a man who has just dined. He is an elderly man with a high official's
grey side whiskers and meek blue eyes. Tenderness is shed over his face,
and his lips are set in a melancholy smile. At his feet, stretched out
lazily, with his legs towards the fire-place, Vice-Governor Lopniev sits
on a little stool. He is a brave-looking man of about forty.
Sharamykin's children are moving about round the piano; Nina, Kolya,
Nadya, and Vanya. The door leading to Madame Sharamykin's room is
slightly open and the light breaks through timidly. There behind the
door sits Sharamykin's wife, Anna Pavlovna, in front of her writing-
table. She is president of the local ladies' committee, a lively,
piquant lady of thirty years and a little bit over. Through her pince-
nez her vivacious black eyes are running over the pages of a French
novel. Beneath the novel lies a tattered copy of the report of the
committee for last year.
"Formerly our town was much better off in these things," says
Sharamykin, screwing up his meek eyes at the glowing coals. "Never a
winter passed but some star would pay us a visit. Famous actors and
singers used to come ... but now, besides acrobats and organ-grinders,
the devil only knows what comes. There's no aesthetic pleasure at
all.... We might be living in a forest. Yes.... And does your Excellency
remember that Italian tragedian?... What's his name?... He was so dark,
and tall.... Let me think.... Oh, yes! Luigi Ernesto di Ruggiero....
Remarkable talent.... And strength. He had only to say one word and the
whole theatre was on the qui vive. My darling Anna used to take a great
interest in his talent. She hired the theatre for him and sold tickets
for the performances in advance.... In return he taught her elocution
and gesture. A first-rate fellow! He came here ... to be quite exact ...
twelve years ago.... No, that's not true.... Less, ten years.... Anna
dear, how old is our Nina?"
"She'll be ten next birthday," calls Anna Pavlovna from her room. "Why?"
"Nothing in particular, my dear. I was just curious.... And good singers
used to come. Do you remember Prilipchin, the tenore di grazia? What a
charming fellow he was! How good looking! Fair ... a very expressive
face, Parisian manners.... And what a voice, your Excellency! Only one
weakness: he would sing some notes with his stomach and would take re
falsetto--otherwise everything was good. Tamberlik, he said, had taught
him.... My dear Anna and I hired a hall for him at the Social Club, and
in gratitude for that he used to sing to us for whole days and
nights.... He taught dear Anna to sing. He came--I remember it as though
it were last night--in Lent, some twelve years ago. No, it's more.... How
bad my memory is getting, Heaven help me! Anna dear, how old is our
darling Nadya?
"Twelve."
"Twelve ... then we've got to add ten months.... That makes it exact ...
thirteen. Somehow there used to be more life in our town then.... Take,
for instance, the charity soirées. What enjoyable soirées we used to
have before! How elegant! There were singing, playing, and
recitation.... After the war, I remember, when the Turkish prisoners
were here, dear Anna arranged a soiree on behalf of the wounded. We
collected eleven hundred roubles. I remember the Turkish officers were
passionately fond of dear Anna's voice, and kissed her hand incessantly.
He-he! Asiatics, but a grateful nation. Would you believe me, the soiree
was such a success that I wrote an account of it in my diary? It was,--I
remember it as though it had only just happened,--in '76,... no, in
'77.... No! Pray, when were the Turks here? Anna dear, how old is our
little Kolya?"
"I'm seven, Papa!" says Kolya, a brat with a swarthy face and coal black
hair.
"Yes, we're old, and we've lost the energy we used to have," Lopniev
agreed with a sigh. "That's the real cause. Old age, my friend. No new
moving spirits arrive, and the old ones grow old.... The old fire is
dull now. When I was younger I did not like company to be bored.... I
was your Anna Pavlovna's first assistant. Whether it was a charity
soirée or a tombola to support a star who was going to arrive, whatever
Anna Pavlovna was arranging, I used to throw over everything and begin
to bustle about. One winter, I remember, I bustled and ran so much that
I even got ill.... I shan't forget that winter.... Do you remember what
a performance we arranged with Anna Pavlovna in aid of the victims of
the fire?"
"What year was it?"
"Not so very long ago.... In '79. No, in '80, I believe! Tell me how old
is your Vanya?"
"Five," Anna Pavlovna calls from the study.
"Well, that means it was six years ago. Yes, my dear friend, that was a
time. It's all over now. The old fire's quite gone."
Lopniev and Sharamykin grew thoughtful. The smouldering log flares up
for the last time, and then is covered in ash. OLD AGE
State-Councillor Usielkov, architect, arrived in his native town, where
he had been summoned to restore the cemetery church. He was born in the
town, he had grown up and been married there, and yet when he got out of
the train he hardly recognised it. Everything was changed. For instance,
eighteen years ago, when he left the town to settle in Petersburg, where
the railway station is now boys used to hunt for marmots: now as you
come into the High Street there is a four storied "Hotel Vienna," with
apartments, where there was of old an ugly grey fence. But not the fence
or the houses, or anything had changed so much as the people.
Questioning the hall-porter, Usielkov discovered that more than half of
the people he remembered were dead or paupers or forgotten.
"Do you remember Usielkov?" he asked the porter. "Usielkov, the
architect, who divorced his wife.... He had a house in Sviribev
Street.... Surely you remember."
"No, I don't remember anyone of the name."
"Why, it's impossible not to remember. It was an exciting case. All the
cabmen knew, even. Try to remember. His divorce was managed by the
attorney, Shapkin, the swindler ... the notorious sharper, the man who
was thrashed at the dub...."
"You mean Ivan Nicolaich?"
"Yes.... Is he alive? dead?"
"Thank heaven, his honour's alive. His honour's a notary now, with an
office. Well-to-do. Two houses in Kirpichny Street. Just lately married
his daughter off."
Usielkov strode from one corner of the room to another. An idea flashed
into his mind. From boredom, he decided to see Shapkin. It was afternoon
when he left the hotel and quietly walked to Kirpichny Street. He found
Shapkin in his office and hardly recognised him. From the well-built,
alert attorney with a quick, impudent, perpetually tipsy expression,
Shapkin had become a modest, grey-haired, shrunken old man.
"You don't recognise me.... You have forgotten ...." Usielkov began.