Short Stories by Chekhov
"I don't know," she said. "I never was so very fond of my husband, and
Olga is in reality my first love. You know that I did not marry Alexey
for love. In old days I was foolish and miserable, and thought that I
had ruined my life and his, and now I see that love is not necessary--
that it is all nonsense."
"But if it is not love, what feeling is it that binds you to your
husband? Why do you go on living with him?"
"I don't know. . . . I suppose it must be habit. I respect him, I miss
him when he's away for long, but that's--not love. He is a clever,
honest man, and that's enough to make me happy. He is very kind and
good-hearted. . . ."
"Alyosha's intelligent, Alyosha's good," said Kostya, raising his head
lazily; "but, my dear girl, to find out that he is intelligent, good,
and interesting, you have to eat a hundredweight of salt with him. . . .
And what's the use of his goodness and intelligence? He can fork out
money as much as you want, but when character is needed to resist
insolence or aggressiveness, he is faint-hearted and overcome with
nervousness. People like your amiable Alyosha are splendid people, but
they are no use at all for fighting. In fact, they are no use for
anything."
At last the train came in sight. Coils of perfectly pink smoke from the
funnels floated over the copse, and two windows in the last compartment
flashed so brilliantly in the sun, that it hurt their eyes to look at
it.
"Tea-time!" said Yulia Sergeyevna, getting up.
She had grown somewhat stouter of late, and her movements were already a
little matronly, a little indolent.
"It's bad to be without love though," said Yartsev, walking behind her.
"We talk and read of nothing else but love, but we do very little loving
ourselves, and that's really bad."
"All that's nonsense, Ivan Gavrilitch," said Yulia. "That's not what
gives happiness."
They had tea in the little garden, where mignonette, stocks, and tobacco
plants were in flower, and spikes of early gladiolus were just opening.
Yartsev and Kotchevoy could see from Yulia's face that she was passing
through a happy period of inward peace and serenity, that she wanted
nothing but what she had, and they, too, had a feeling of peace and
comfort in their hearts. Whatever was said sounded apt and clever; the
pines were lovely--the fragrance of them was exquisite as it had never
been before; and the cream was very nice; and Sasha was a good,
intelligent child.
After tea Yartsev sang songs, accompanying himself on the piano, while
Yulia and Kotchevoy sat listening in silence, though Yulia got up from
time to time, and went softly indoors, to take a look at the baby and at
Lida, who had been in bed for the last two days feverish and eating
nothing.
"My friend, my tender friend," sang Yartsev. "No, my friends, I'll be
hanged if I understand why you are all so against love!" he said,
flinging back his head. "If I weren't busy for fifteen hours of the
twenty-four, I should certainly fall in love."
Supper was served on the verandah; it was warm and still, but Yulia
wrapped herself in a shawl and complained of the damp. When it got dark,
she seemed not quite herself; she kept shivering and begging her
visitors to stay a little longer. She regaled them with wine, and after
supper ordered brandy to keep them from going. She didn't want to be
left alone with the children and the servants.
"We summer visitors are getting up a performance for the children," she
said. "We have got everything--a stage and actors; we are only at a loss
for a play. Two dozen plays of different sorts have been sent us, but
there isn't one that is suitable. Now, you are fond of the theatre, and
are so good at history," she said, addressing Yartsev. "Write an
historical play for us."
"Well, I might."
The men drank up all the brandy, and prepared to go.
It was past ten, and for summer-villa people that was late.
"How dark it is! One can't see a bit," said Yulia, as she went with them
to the gate. "I don't know how you'll find your way. But, isn't it
cold?"
She wrapped herself up more closely and walked back to the porch.
"I suppose my Alexey's playing cards somewhere," she called to them.
"Good-night!"
After the lighted rooms nothing could be seen. Yartsev and Kostya groped
their way like blind men to the railway embankment and crossed it.
"One can't see a thing," said Kostya in his bass voice, standing still
and gazing at the sky. "And the stars, the stars, they are like new
three-penny-bits. Gavrilitch!"
"Ah?" Yartsev responded somewhere in the darkness.
"I say, one can't see a thing. Where are you?"
Yartsev went up to him whistling, and took his arm.
"Hi, there, you summer visitors!" Kostya shouted at the top of his
voice. "We've caught a socialist."
When he was exhilarated he was always very rowdy, shouting, wrangling
with policemen and cabdrivers, singing, and laughing violently.
"Nature be damned," he shouted.
"Come, come," said Yartsev, trying to pacify him. "You mustn't. Please
don't."
Soon the friends grew accustomed to the darkness, and were able to
distinguish the outlines of the tall pines and telegraph posts. From
time to time the sound of whistles reached them from the station and the
telegraph wires hummed plaintively. From the copse itself there came no
sound, and there was a feeling of pride, strength, and mystery in its
silence, and on the right it seemed that the tops of the pines were
almost touching the sky. The friends found their path and walked along
it. There it was quite dark, and it was only from the long strip of sky
dotted with stars, and from the firmly trodden earth under their feet,
that they could tell they were walking along a path. They walked along
side by side in silence, and it seemed to both of them that people were
coming to meet them. Their tipsy exhilaration passed off. The fancy came
into Yartsev's mind that perhaps that copse was haunted by the spirits
of the Muscovite Tsars, boyars, and patriarchs, and he was on the point
of telling Kostya about it, but he checked himself.
When they reached the town gate there was a faint light of dawn in the
sky. Still in silence, Yartsev and Kotchevoy walked along the wooden
pavement, by the cheap summer cottages, eating-houses, timber-stacks.
Under the arch of interlacing branches, the damp air was fragrant of
lime-trees, and then a broad, long street opened before them, and on it
not a soul, not a light. . . . When they reached the Red Pond, it was
daylight.
"Moscow--it's a town that will have to suffer a great deal more," said
Yartsev, looking at the Alexyevsky Monastery.
"What put that into your head?"
"I don't know. I love Moscow."
Both Yartsev and Kostya had been born in Moscow, and adored the town,
and felt for some reason antagonistic to every other town. Both were
convinced that Moscow was a remarkable town, and Russia a remarkable
country. In the Crimea, in the Caucasus, and abroad, they felt dull,
uncomfortable, and ill at ease, and they thought their grey Moscow
weather very pleasant and healthy. And when the rain lashed at the
window-panes and it got dark early, and when the walls of the churches
and houses looked a drab, dismal colour, days when one doesn't know what
to put on when one is going out--such days excited them agreeably.
At last near the station they took a cab.
"It really would be nice to write an historical play," said Yartsev,
"but not about the Lyapunovs or the Godunovs, but of the times of
Yaroslav or of Monomach. . . . I hate all historical plays except the
monologue of Pimen. When you have to do with some historical authority
or even read a textbook of Russian history, you feel that every one in
Russia is exceptionally talented, gifted, and interesting; but when I
see an historical play at the theatre, Russian life begins to seem
stupid, morbid, and not original."
Near Dmitrovka the friends separated, and Yartsev went on to his lodging
in Nikitsky Street. He sat half dozing, swaying from side to side, and
pondering on the play. He suddenly imagined a terrible din, a clanging
noise, and shouts in some unknown language, that might have been
Kalmuck, and a village wrapped in flames, and forests near covered with
hoarfrost and soft pink in the glow of the fire, visible for miles
around, and so clearly that every little fir-tree could be
distinguished, and savage men darting about the village on horseback and
on foot, and as red as the glow in the sky.
"The Polovtsy," thought Yartsev.
One of them, a terrible old man with a bloodstained face all scorched
from the fire, binds to his saddle a young girl with a white Russian
face, and the girl looks sorrowful, understanding. Yartsev flung back
his head and woke up.
"My friend, my tender friend . . ." he hummed.
As he paid the cabman and went up his stairs, he could not shake off his
dreaminess; he saw the flames catching the village, and the forest
beginning to crackle and smoke. A huge, wild bear frantic with terror
rushed through the village. . . . And the girl tied to the saddle was
still looking.
When at last he went into his room it was broad daylight. Two candles
were burning by some open music on the piano. On the sofa lay Polina
Razsudin wearing a black dress and a sash, with a newspaper in her hand,
fast asleep. She must have been playing late, waiting for Yartsev to
come home, and, tired of waiting, fell asleep.
"Hullo, she's worn out," he thought.
Carefully taking the newspaper out of her hands, he covered her with a
rug. He put out the candles and went into his bedroom. As he got into
bed, he still thought of his historical play, and the tune of "My
friend, my tender friend" was still ringing in his head. . . .
Two days later Laptev looked in upon him for a moment to tell him that
Lida was ill with diphtheria, and that Yulia Sergeyevna and her baby had
caught it from her, and five days later came the news that Lida and
Yulia were recovering, but the baby was dead, and that the Laptevs had
left their villa at Sokolniki and had hastened back to Moscow.
XIV
It had become distasteful to Laptev to be long at home. His wife was
constantly away in the lodge declaring that she had to look after the
little girls, but he knew that she did not go to the lodge to give them
lessons but to cry in Kostya's room. The ninth day came, then the
twentieth, and then the fortieth, and still he had to go to the cemetery
to listen to the requiem, and then to wear himself out for a whole day
and night thinking of nothing but that unhappy baby, and trying to
comfort his wife with all sorts of commonplace expressions. He went
rarely to the warehouse now, and spent most of his time in charitable
work, seizing upon every pretext requiring his attention, and he was
glad when he had for some trivial reason to be out for the whole day. He
had been intending of late to go abroad, to study night-refuges, and
that idea attracted him now.
It was an autumn day. Yulia had just gone to the lodge to cry, while
Laptev lay on a sofa in the study thinking where he could go. Just at
that moment Pyotr announced Polina Razsudin. Laptev was delighted; he
leapt up and went to meet the unexpected visitor, who had been his
closest friend, though he had almost begun to forget her. She had not
changed in the least since that evening when he had seen her for the
last time, and was just the same as ever.
"Polina," he said, holding out both hands to her. "What ages! If you
only knew how glad I am to see you! Do come in!"
Polina greeted him, jerked him by the hand, and without taking off her
coat and hat, went into the study and sat down.
"I've come to you for one minute," she said. "I haven't time to talk of