Short Stories by Chekhov
lived now could only be surmised. People guessed, from seeing her
drinking tea in her garden with the veterinary surgeon, who read the
newspaper aloud to her, and from the fact that, meeting a lady she knew
at the post-office, she said to her:
"There is no proper veterinary inspection in our town, and that's the
cause of all sorts of epidemics. One is always hearing of people's
getting infection from the milk supply, or catching diseases from horses
and cows. The health of domestic animals ought to be as well cared for
as the health of human beings."
She repeated the veterinary surgeon's words, and was of the same opinion
as he about everything. It was evident that she could not live a year
without some attachment, and had found new happiness in the lodge. In
any one else this would have been censured, but no one could think ill
of Olenka; everything she did was so natural. Neither she nor the
veterinary surgeon said anything to other people of the change in their
relations, and tried, indeed, to conceal it, but without success, for
Olenka could not keep a secret. When he had visitors, men serving in his
regiment, and she poured out tea or served the supper, she would begin
talking of the cattle plague, of the foot and mouth disease, and of the
municipal slaughterhouses. He was dreadfully embarrassed, and when the
guests had gone, he would seize her by the hand and hiss angrily:
"I've asked you before not to talk about what you don't understand. When
we veterinary surgeons are talking among ourselves, please don't put
your word in. It's really annoying."
And she would look at him with astonishment and dismay, and ask him in
alarm: "But, Voloditchka, what _am_ I to talk about?"
And with tears in her eyes she would embrace him, begging him not to be
angry, and they were both happy.
But this happiness did not last long. The veterinary surgeon departed,
departed for ever with his regiment, when it was transferred to a
distant place--to Siberia, it may be. And Olenka was left alone.
Now she was absolutely alone. Her father had long been dead, and his
armchair lay in the attic, covered with dust and lame of one leg. She
got thinner and plainer, and when people met her in the street they did
not look at her as they used to, and did not smile to her; evidently her
best years were over and left behind, and now a new sort of life had
begun for her, which did not bear thinking about. In the evening Olenka
sat in the porch, and heard the band playing and the fireworks popping
in the Tivoli, but now the sound stirred no response. She looked into
her yard without interest, thought of nothing, wished for nothing, and
afterwards, when night came on she went to bed and dreamed of her empty
yard. She ate and drank as it were unwillingly.
And what was worst of all, she had no opinions of any sort. She saw the
objects about her and understood what she saw, but could not form any
opinion about them, and did not know what to talk about. And how awful
it is not to have any opinions! One sees a bottle, for instance, or the
rain, or a peasant driving in his cart, but what the bottle is for, or
the rain, or the peasant, and what is the meaning of it, one can't say,
and could not even for a thousand roubles. When she had Kukin, or
Pustovalov, or the veterinary surgeon, Olenka could explain everything,
and give her opinion about anything you like, but now there was the same
emptiness in her brain and in her heart as there was in her yard
outside. And it was as harsh and as bitter as wormwood in the mouth.
Little by little the town grew in all directions. The road became a
street, and where the Tivoli and the timber-yard had been, there were
new turnings and houses. How rapidly time passes! Olenka's house grew
dingy, the roof got rusty, the shed sank on one side, and the whole yard
was overgrown with docks and stinging-nettles. Olenka herself had grown
plain and elderly; in summer she sat in the porch, and her soul, as
before, was empty and dreary and full of bitterness. In winter she sat
at her window and looked at the snow. When she caught the scent of
spring, or heard the chime of the church bells, a sudden rush of
memories from the past came over her, there was a tender ache in her
heart, and her eyes brimmed over with tears; but this was only for a
minute, and then came emptiness again and the sense of the futility of
life. The black kitten, Briska, rubbed against her and purred softly,
but Olenka was not touched by these feline caresses. That was not what
she needed. She wanted a love that would absorb her whole being, her
whole soul and reason--that would give her ideas and an object in life,
and would warm her old blood. And she would shake the kitten off her
skirt and say with vexation:
"Get along; I don't want you!"
And so it was, day after day and year after year, and no joy, and no
opinions. Whatever Mavra, the cook, said she accepted.
One hot July day, towards evening, just as the cattle were being driven
away, and the whole yard was full of dust, some one suddenly knocked at
the gate. Olenka went to open it herself and was dumbfounded when she
looked out: she saw Smirnin, the veterinary surgeon, grey-headed, and
dressed as a civilian. She suddenly remembered everything. She could not
help crying and letting her head fall on his breast without uttering a
word, and in the violence of her feeling she did not notice how they
both walked into the house and sat down to tea.
"My dear Vladimir Platonitch! What fate has brought you?" she muttered,
trembling with joy.
"I want to settle here for good, Olga Semyonovna," he told her. "I have
resigned my post, and have come to settle down and try my luck on my own
account. Besides, it's time for my boy to go to school. He's a big boy.
I am reconciled with my wife, you know."
"Where is she?' asked Olenka.
"She's at the hotel with the boy, and I'm looking for lodgings."
"Good gracious, my dear soul! Lodgings? Why not have my house? Why
shouldn't that suit you? Why, my goodness, I wouldn't take any rent!"
cried Olenka in a flutter, beginning to cry again. "You live here, and
the lodge will do nicely for me. Oh dear! how glad I am!"
Next day the roof was painted and the walls were whitewashed, and
Olenka, with her arms akimbo walked about the yard giving directions.
Her face was beaming with her old smile, and she was brisk and alert as
though she had waked from a long sleep. The veterinary's wife arrived--a
thin, plain lady, with short hair and a peevish expression. With her was
her little Sasha, a boy of ten, small for his age, blue-eyed, chubby,
with dimples in his cheeks. And scarcely had the boy walked into the
yard when he ran after the cat, and at once there was the sound of his
gay, joyous laugh.
"Is that your puss, auntie?" he asked Olenka. "When she has little ones,
do give us a kitten. Mamma is awfully afraid of mice."
Olenka talked to him, and gave him tea. Her heart warmed and there was a
sweet ache in her bosom, as though the boy had been her own child. And
when he sat at the table in the evening, going over his lessons, she
looked at him with deep tenderness and pity as she murmured to herself:
"You pretty pet! . . . my precious! . . . Such a fair little thing, and
so clever."
"'An island is a piece of land which is entirely surrounded by water,'"
he read aloud.
"An island is a piece of land," she repeated, and this was the first
opinion to which she gave utterance with positive conviction after so
many years of silence and dearth of ideas.
Now she had opinions of her own, and at supper she talked to Sasha's
parents, saying how difficult the lessons were at the high schools, but
that yet the high school was better than a commercial one, since with a
high-school education all careers were open to one, such as being a
doctor or an engineer.
Sasha began going to the high school. His mother departed to Harkov to
her sister's and did not return; his father used to go off every day to
inspect cattle, and would often be away from home for three days
together, and it seemed to Olenka as though Sasha was entirely
abandoned, that he was not wanted at home, that he was being starved,
and she carried him off to her lodge and gave him a little room there.
And for six months Sasha had lived in the lodge with her. Every morning
Olenka came into his bedroom and found him fast asleep, sleeping
noiselessly with his hand under his cheek. She was sorry to wake him.
"Sashenka," she would say mournfully, "get up, darling. It's time for
school."
He would get up, dress and say his prayers, and then sit down to
breakfast, drink three glasses of tea, and eat two large cracknels and a
half a buttered roll. All this time he was hardly awake and a little
ill-humoured in consequence.
"You don't quite know your fable, Sashenka," Olenka would say, looking
at him as though he were about to set off on a long journey. "What a lot
of trouble I have with you! You must work and do your best, darling, and
obey your teachers."
"Oh, do leave me alone!" Sasha would say.
Then he would go down the street to school, a little figure, wearing a
big cap and carrying a satchel on his shoulder. Olenka would follow him
noiselessly.
"Sashenka!" she would call after him, and she would pop into his hand a
date or a caramel. When he reached the street where the school was, he
would feel ashamed of being followed by a tall, stout woman, he would
turn round and say:
"You'd better go home, auntie. I can go the rest of the way alone."
She would stand still and look after him fixedly till he had disappeared
at the school-gate.
Ah, how she loved him! Of her former attachments not one had been so
deep; never had her soul surrendered to any feeling so spontaneously, so
disinterestedly, and so joyously as now that her maternal instincts were
aroused. For this little boy with the dimple in his cheek and the big
school cap, she would have given her whole life, she would have given it
with joy and tears of tenderness. Why? Who can tell why?
When she had seen the last of Sasha, she returned home, contented and
serene, brimming over with love; her face, which had grown younger
during the last six months, smiled and beamed; people meeting her looked
at her with pleasure.
"Good-morning, Olga Semyonovna, darling. How are you, darling?"
"The lessons at the high school are very difficult now," she would
relate at the market. "It's too much; in the first class yesterday they
gave him a fable to learn by heart, and a Latin translation and a
problem. You know it's too much for a little chap."
And she would begin talking about the teachers, the lessons, and the
school books, saying just what Sasha said.
At three o'clock they had dinner together: in the evening they learned
their lessons together and cried. When she put him to bed, she would
stay a long time making the Cross over him and murmuring a prayer; then
she would go to bed and dream of that far-away misty future when Sasha
would finish his studies and become a doctor or an engineer, would have
a big house of his own with horses and a carriage, would get married and
have children. . . . She would fall asleep still thinking of the same
thing, and tears would run down her cheeks from her closed eyes, while
the black cat lay purring beside her: "Mrr, mrr, mrr."
Suddenly there would come a loud knock at the gate.
Olenka would wake up breathless with alarm, her heart throbbing. Half a
minute later would come another knock.
"It must be a telegram from Harkov," she would think, beginning to
tremble from head to foot. "Sasha's mother is sending for him from
Harkov. . . . Oh, mercy on us!"
She was in despair. Her head, her hands, and her feet would turn chill,