Short Stories by Chekhov
Pyotr Dmitritch acknowledged himself vanquished, and, not caring to be
towed, jumped from the Penderaklia into the boat which was overful
already, and jumped so carelessly that the boat lurched violently, and
every one cried out in terror.
"He did that to please the ladies," thought Olga Mihalovna; "he knows
it's charming." Her hands and feet began trembling, as she supposed,
from boredom, vexation from the strain of smiling and the discomfort she
felt all over her body. And to conceal this trembling from her guests,
she tried to talk more loudly, to laugh, to move.
"If I suddenly begin to cry," she thought, "I shall say I have
toothache. . . ."
But at last the boats reached the "Island of Good Hope," as they called
the peninsula formed by a bend in the river at an acute angle, covered
with a copse of old birch-trees, oaks, willows, and poplars. The tables
were already laid under the trees; the samovars were smoking, and
Vassily and Grigory, in their swallow-tails and white knitted gloves,
were already busy with the tea-things. On the other bank, opposite the
"Island of Good Hope," there stood the carriages which had come with the
provisions. The baskets and parcels of provisions were carried across to
the island in a little boat like the Penderaklia. The footmen, the
coachmen, and even the peasant who was sitting in the boat, had the
solemn expression befitting a name-day such as one only sees in children
and servants.
While Olga Mihalovna was making the tea and pouring out the first
glasses, the visitors were busy with the liqueurs and sweet things. Then
there was the general commotion usual at picnics over drinking tea, very
wearisome and exhausting for the hostess. Grigory and Vassily had hardly
had time to take the glasses round before hands were being stretched out
to Olga Mihalovna with empty glasses. One asked for no sugar, another
wanted it stronger, another weak, a fourth declined another glass. And
all this Olga Mihalovna had to remember, and then to call, "Ivan
Petrovitch, is it without sugar for you?" or, "Gentlemen, which of you
wanted it weak?" But the guest who had asked for weak tea, or no sugar,
had by now forgotten it, and, absorbed in agreeable conversation, took
the first glass that came. Depressed-looking figures wandered like
shadows at a little distance from the table, pretending to look for
mushrooms in the grass, or reading the labels on the boxes--these were
those for whom there were not glasses enough. "Have you had tea?" Olga
Mihalovna kept asking, and the guest so addressed begged her not to
trouble, and said, "I will wait," though it would have suited her better
for the visitors not to wait but to make haste.
Some, absorbed in conversation, drank their tea slowly, keeping their
glasses for half an hour; others, especially some who had drunk a good
deal at dinner, would not leave the table, and kept on drinking glass
after glass, so that Olga Mihalovna scarcely had time to fill them. One
jocular young man sipped his tea through a lump of sugar, and kept
saying, "Sinful man that I am, I love to indulge myself with the Chinese
herb." He kept asking with a heavy sigh: "Another tiny dish of tea more,
if you please." He drank a great deal, nibbled his sugar, and thought it
all very amusing and original, and imagined that he was doing a clever
imitation of a Russian merchant. None of them understood that these
trifles were agonizing to their hostess, and, indeed, it was hard to
understand it, as Olga Mihalovna went on all the time smiling affably
and talking nonsense.
But she felt ill. . . . She was irritated by the crowd of people, the
laughter, the questions, the jocular young man, the footmen harassed and
run off their legs, the children who hung round the table; she was
irritated at Vata's being like Nata, at Kolya's being like Mitya, so
that one could not tell which of them had had tea and which of them had
not. She felt that her smile of forced affability was passing into an
expression of anger, and she felt every minute as though she would burst
into tears.
"Rain, my friends," cried some one.
Every one looked at the sky.
"Yes, it really is rain . . ." Pyotr Dmitritch assented, and wiped his
cheek.
Only a few drops were falling from the sky--the real rain had not begun
yet; but the company abandoned their tea and made haste to get off. At
first they all wanted to drive home in the carriages, but changed their
minds and made for the boats. On the pretext that she had to hasten home
to give directions about the supper, Olga Mihalovna asked to be excused
for leaving the others, and went home in the carriage.
When she got into the carriage, she first of all let her face rest from
smiling. With an angry face she drove through the village, and with an
angry face acknowledged the bows of the peasants she met. When she got
home, she went to the bedroom by the back way and lay down on her
husband's bed.
"Merciful God!" she whispered. "What is all this hard labour for? Why do
all these people hustle each other here and pretend that they are
enjoying themselves? Why do I smile and lie? I don't understand it."
She heard steps and voices. The visitors had come back.
"Let them come," thought Olga Mihalovna; "I shall lie a little longer."
But a maid-servant came and said:
"Marya Grigoryevna is going, madam."
Olga Mihalovna jumped up, tidied her hair and hurried out of the room.
"Marya Grigoryevna, what is the meaning of this?" she began in an
injured voice, going to meet Marya Grigoryevna. "Why are you in such a
hurry?"
"I can't help it, darling! I've stayed too long as it is; my children
are expecting me home."
"It's too bad of you! Why didn't you bring your children with you?"
"If you will let me, dear, I will bring them on some ordinary day, but
to-day . . ."
"Oh, please do," Olga Mihalovna interrupted; "I shall be delighted! Your
children are so sweet! Kiss them all for me. . . . But, really, I am
offended with you! I don't understand why you are in such a hurry!"
"I really must, I really must. . . . Good-bye, dear. Take care of
yourself. In your condition, you know . . ."
And the ladies kissed each other. After seeing the departing guest to
her carriage, Olga Mihalovna went in to the ladies in the drawing-room.
There the lamps were already lighted and the gentlemen were sitting down
to cards. IV
The party broke up after supper about a quarter past twelve. Seeing her
visitors off, Olga Mihalovna stood at the door and said:
"You really ought to take a shawl! It's turning a little chilly. Please
God, you don't catch cold!"
"Don't trouble, Olga Mihalovna," the ladies answered as they got into
the carriage. "Well, good-bye. Mind now, we are expecting you; don't
play us false!"
"Wo-o-o!" the coachman checked the horses.
"Ready, Denis! Good-bye, Olga Mihalovna!"
"Kiss the children for me!"
The carriage started and immediately disappeared into the darkness. In
the red circle of light cast by the lamp in the road, a fresh pair or
trio of impatient horses, and the silhouette of a coachman with his
hands held out stiffly before him, would come into view. Again there
began kisses, reproaches, and entreaties to come again or to take a
shawl. Pyotr Dmitritch kept running out and helping the ladies into
their carriages.
"You go now by Efremovshtchina," he directed the coachman; "it's nearer
through Mankino, but the road is worse that way. You might have an
upset. . . . Good-bye, my charmer. Mille compliments to your artist!"
"Good-bye, Olga Mihalovna, darling! Go indoors, or you will catch cold!
It's damp!"
"Wo-o-o! you rascal!"
"What horses have you got here?" Pyotr Dmitritch asked.
"They were bought from Haidorov, in Lent," answered the coachman.
"Capital horses. . . ."
And Pyotr Dmitritch patted the trace horse on the haunch.
"Well, you can start! God give you good luck!"
The last visitor was gone at last; the red circle on the road quivered,
moved aside, contracted and went out, as Vassily carried away the lamp
from the entrance. On previous occasions when they had seen off their
visitors, Pyotr Dmitritch and Olga Mihalovna had begun dancing about the
drawing-room, facing each other, clapping their hands and singing:
"They've gone! They've gone!" But now Olga Mihalovna was not equal to
that. She went to her bedroom, undressed, and got into bed.
She fancied she would fall asleep at once and sleep soundly. Her legs
and her shoulders ached painfully, her head was heavy from the strain of
talking, and she was conscious, as before, of discomfort all over her
body. Covering her head over, she lay still for three or four minutes,
then peeped out from under the bed-clothes at the lamp before the ikon,
listened to the silence, and smiled.
"It's nice, it's nice," she whispered, curling up her legs, which felt
as if they had grown longer from so much walking. "Sleep, sleep . . . ."
Her legs would not get into a comfortable position; she felt uneasy all
over, and she turned on the other side. A big fly blew buzzing about the
bedroom and thumped against the ceiling. She could hear, too, Grigory
and Vassily stepping cautiously about the drawing-room, putting the
chairs back in their places; it seemed to Olga Mihalovna that she could
not go to sleep, nor be comfortable till those sounds were hushed. And
again she turned over on the other side impatiently.
She heard her husband's voice in the drawing-room. Some one must be
staying the night, as Pyotr Dmitritch was addressing some one and
speaking loudly:
"I don't say that Count Alexey Petrovitch is an impostor. But he can't
help seeming to be one, because all of you gentlemen attempt to see in
him something different from what he really is. His craziness is looked
upon as originality, his familiar manners as good-nature, and his
complete absence of opinions as Conservatism. Even granted that he is a
Conservative of the stamp of '84, what after all is Conservatism?"
Pyotr Dmitritch, angry with Count Alexey Petrovitch, his visitors, and
himself, was relieving his heart. He abused both the Count and his
visitors, and in his vexation with himself was ready to speak out and to
hold forth upon anything. After seeing his guest to his room, he walked
up and down the drawing-room, walked through the dining-room, down the
corridor, then into his study, then again went into the drawing-room,
and came into the bedroom. Olga Mihalovna was lying on her back, with
the bed-clothes only to her waist (by now she felt hot), and with an
angry face, watched the fly that was thumping against the ceiling.
"Is some one staying the night?" she asked.
"Yegorov."
Pyotr Dmitritch undressed and got into his bed.
Without speaking, he lighted a cigarette, and he, too, fell to watching
the fly. There was an uneasy and forbidding look in his eyes. Olga
Mihalovna looked at his handsome profile for five minutes in silence. It
seemed to her for some reason that if her husband were suddenly to turn
facing her, and to say, "Olga, I am unhappy," she would cry or laugh,
and she would be at ease. She fancied that her legs were aching and her
body was uncomfortable all over because of the strain on her feelings.
"Pyotr, what are you thinking of?" she said.
"Oh, nothing . . ." her husband answered.
"You have taken to having secrets from me of late: that's not right."
"Why is it not right?" answered Pyotr Dmitritch drily and not at once.
"We all have our personal life, every one of us, and we are bound to
have our secrets."
"Personal life, our secrets . . . that's all words! Understand you are
wounding me!" said Olga Mihalovna, sitting up in bed. "If you have a
load on your heart, why do you hide it from me? And why do you find it