Short Stories by Chekhov
childhood, without father or mother; my depressing youth, poverty--all
this was a struggle, all this was the path by which I made my way to
happiness. . . ."
In October the school sustained a heavy loss: Ippolit Ippolititch was
taken ill with erysipelas on the head and died. For two days before his
death he was unconscious and delirious, but even in his delirium he said
nothing that was not perfectly well known to every one.
"The Volga flows into the Caspian Sea. . . . Horses eat oats and hay. .
. ."
There were no lessons at the high school on the day of his funeral. His
colleagues and pupils were the coffin-bearers, and the school choir sang
all the way to the grave the anthem "Holy God." Three priests, two
deacons, all his pupils and the staff of the boys' high school, and the
bishop's choir in their best kaftans, took part in the procession. And
passers-by who met the solemn procession, crossed themselves and said:
"God grant us all such a death."
Returning home from the cemetery much moved, Nikitin got out his diary
from the table and wrote:
"We have just consigned to the tomb Ippolit Ippolititch Ryzhitsky. Peace
to your ashes, modest worker! Masha, Varya, and all the women at the
funeral, wept from genuine feeling, perhaps because they knew this
uninteresting, humble man had never been loved by a woman. I wanted to
say a warm word at my colleague's grave, but I was warned that this
might displease the director, as he did not like our poor friend. I
believe that this is the first day since my marriage that my heart has
been heavy."
There was no other event of note in the scholastic year.
The winter was mild, with wet snow and no frost; on Epiphany Eve, for
instance, the wind howled all night as though it were autumn, and water
trickled off the roofs; and in the morning, at the ceremony of the
blessing of the water, the police allowed no one to go on the river,
because they said the ice was swelling up and looked dark. But in spite
of bad weather Nikitin's life was as happy as in summer. And, indeed, he
acquired another source of pleasure; he learned to play vint. Only one
thing troubled him, moved him to anger, and seemed to prevent him from
being perfectly happy: the cats and dogs which formed part of his wife's
dowry. The rooms, especially in the morning, always smelt like a
menagerie, and nothing could destroy the odour; the cats frequently
fought with the dogs. The spiteful beast Mushka was fed a dozen times a
day; she still refused to recognize Nikitin and growled at him: "Rrr . .
. nga-nga-nga!"
One night in Lent he was returning home from the club where he had been
playing cards. It was dark, raining, and muddy. Nikitin had an
unpleasant feeling at the bottom of his heart and could not account for
it. He did not know whether it was because he had lost twelve roubles at
cards, or whether because one of the players, when they were settling
up, had said that of course Nikitin had pots of money, with obvious
reference to his wife's portion. He did not regret the twelve roubles,
and there was nothing offensive in what had been said; but, still, there
was the unpleasant feeling. He did not even feel a desire to go home.
"Foo, how horrid!" he said, standing still at a lamp-post.
It occurred to him that he did not regret the twelve roubles because he
got them for nothing. If he had been a working man he would have known
the value of every farthing, and would not have been so careless whether
he lost or won. And his good-fortune had all, he reflected, come to him
by chance, for nothing, and really was as superfluous for him as
medicine for the healthy. If, like the vast majority of people, he had
been harassed by anxiety for his daily bread, had been struggling for
existence, if his back and chest had ached from work, then supper, a
warm snug home, and domestic happiness, would have been the necessity,
the compensation, the crown of his life; as it was, all this had a
strange, indefinite significance for him.
"Foo, how horrid!" he repeated, knowing perfectly well that these
reflections were in themselves a bad sign.
When he got home Masha was in bed: she was breathing evenly and smiling,
and was evidently sleeping with great enjoyment. Near her the white cat
lay curled up, purring. While Nikitin lit the candle and lighted his
cigarette, Masha woke up and greedily drank a glass of water.
"I ate too many sweets," she said, and laughed. "Have you been home?"
she asked after a pause.
"No."
Nikitin knew already that Captain Polyansky, on whom Varya had been
building great hopes of late, was being transferred to one of the
western provinces, and was already making his farewell visits in the
town, and so it was depressing at his father-in-law's.
"Varya looked in this evening," said Masha, sitting up. "She did not say
anything, but one could see from her face how wretched she is, poor
darling! I can't bear Polyansky. He is fat and bloated, and when he
walks or dances his cheeks shake. . . . He is not a man I would choose.
But, still, I did think he was a decent person."
"I think he is a decent person now," said Nikitin.
"Then why has he treated Varya so badly?"
"Why badly?" asked Nikitin, beginning to feel irritation against the
white cat, who was stretching and arching its back. "As far as I know,
he has made no proposal and has given her no promises."
"Then why was he so often at the house? If he didn't mean to marry her,
he oughtn't to have come."
Nikitin put out the candle and got into bed. But he felt disinclined to
lie down and to sleep. He felt as though his head were immense and empty
as a barn, and that new, peculiar thoughts were wandering about in it
like tall shadows. He thought that, apart from the soft light of the
ikon lamp, that beamed upon their quiet domestic happiness, that apart
from this little world in which he and this cat lived so peacefully and
happily, there was another world. . . . And he had a passionate,
poignant longing to be in that other world, to work himself at some
factory or big workshop, to address big audiences, to write, to publish,
to raise a stir, to exhaust himself, to suffer. . . . He wanted
something that would engross him till he forgot himself, ceased to care
for the personal happiness which yielded him only sensations so
monotonous. And suddenly there rose vividly before his imagination the
figure of Shebaldin with his clean-shaven face, saying to him with
horror: "You haven't even read Lessing! You are quite behind the times!
How you have gone to seed!"
Masha woke up and again drank some water. He glanced at her neck, at her
plump shoulders and throat, and remembered the word the brigadier-
general had used in church--"rose."
"Rose," he muttered, and laughed.
His laugh was answered by a sleepy growl from Mushka under the bed: "Rrr
. . . nga-nga-nga . . . !"
A heavy anger sank like a cold weight on his heart, and he felt tempted
to say something rude to Masha, and even to jump up and hit her; his
heart began throbbing.
"So then," he asked, restraining himself, "since I went to your house, I
was bound in duty to marry you?"
"Of course. You know that very well."
"That's nice." And a minute later he repeated: "That's nice."
To relieve the throbbing of his heart, and to avoid saying too much,
Nikitin went to his study and lay down on the sofa, without a pillow;
then he lay on the floor on the carpet.
"What nonsense it is!" he said to reassure himself. "You are a teacher,
you are working in the noblest of callings. . . . What need have you of
any other world? What rubbish!"
But almost immediately he told himself with conviction that he was not a
real teacher, but simply a government employé, as commonplace and
mediocre as the Czech who taught Greek. He had never had a vocation for
teaching, he knew nothing of the theory of teaching, and never had been
interested in the subject; he did not know how to treat children; he did
not understand the significance of what he taught, and perhaps did not
teach the right things. Poor Ippolit Ippolititch had been frankly
stupid, and all the boys, as well as his colleagues, knew what he was
and what to expect from him; but he, Nikitin, like the Czech, knew how
to conceal his stupidity and cleverly deceived every one by pretending
that, thank God, his teaching was a success. These new ideas frightened
Nikitin; he rejected them, called them stupid, and believed that all
this was due to his nerves, that he would laugh at himself.
And he did, in fact, by the morning laugh at himself and call himself an
old woman; but it was clear to him that his peace of mind was lost,
perhaps, for ever, and that in that little two-story house happiness was
henceforth impossible for him. He realized that the illusion had
evaporated, and that a new life of unrest and clear sight was beginning
which was incompatible with peace and personal happiness.
Next day, which was Sunday, he was at the school chapel, and there met
his colleagues and the director. It seemed to him that they were
entirely preoccupied with concealing their ignorance and discontent with
life, and he, too, to conceal his uneasiness, smiled affably and talked
of trivialities. Then he went to the station and saw the mail train come
in and go out, and it was agreeable to him to be alone and not to have
to talk to any one.
At home he found Varya and his father-in-law, who had come to dinner.
Varya's eyes were red with crying, and she complained of a headache,
while Shelestov ate a great deal, saying that young men nowadays were
unreliable, and that there was very little gentlemanly feeling among
them.
"It's loutishness!" he said. "I shall tell him so to his face: 'It's
loutishness, sir,' I shall say."
Nikitin smiled affably and helped Masha to look after their guests, but
after dinner he went to his study and shut the door.
The March sun was shining brightly in at the windows and shedding its
warm rays on the table. It was only the twentieth of the month, but
already the cabmen were driving with wheels, and the starlings were
noisy in the garden. It was just the weather in which Masha would come
in, put one arm round his neck, tell him the horses were saddled or the
chaise was at the door, and ask him what she should put on to keep warm.
Spring was beginning as exquisitely as last spring, and it promised the
same joys. . . . But Nikitin was thinking that it would be nice to take
a holiday and go to Moscow, and stay at his old lodgings there. In the
next room they were drinking coffee and talking of Captain Polyansky,
while he tried not to listen and wrote in his diary: "Where am I, my
God? I am surrounded by vulgarity and vulgarity. Wearisome,
insignificant people, pots of sour cream, jugs of milk, cockroaches,
stupid women. . . . There is nothing more terrible, mortifying, and
distressing than vulgarity. I must escape from here, I must escape
today, or I shall go out of my mind!"
NOT WANTED
BETWEEN six and seven o'clock on a July evening, a crowd of summer
visitors--mostly fathers of families--burdened with parcels, portfolios,
and ladies' hat-boxes, was trailing along from the little station of
Helkovo, in the direction of the summer villas. They all looked
exhausted, hungry, and ill-humoured, as though the sun were not shining
and the grass were not green for them.
Trudging along among the others was Pavel Matveyitch Zaikin, a member of
the Circuit Court, a tall, stooping man, in a cheap cotton dust-coat and
with a cockade on his faded cap. He was perspiring, red in the face, and
gloomy. . . .
"Do you come out to your holiday home every day?" said a summer visitor,
in ginger-coloured trousers, addressing him.
"No, not every day," Zaikin answered sullenly. "My wife and son are